Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

But in their bed she’d always been passionate, working with her body rather than her mind. Even after twenty years she was still like that, as playful as the young girl he’d courted and tumbled in the woods by the old manor house. Sometimes her urgency astonished him, her need to be touched, to simply be. And it always made him respond and transported him. If the girls or the neighbours heard them, he didn’t care. She was his wife, the woman he loved. He had no apologies to make.

Sedgwick doubted he’d be finished before midnight. It wasn’t a job he’d trust to any of the men; they were fine for keeping the peace, but none of them could use their brains. He’d started south of the river, canvassing the inns to see if Morton had been in any of them the previous night, without any luck. Then he’d crossed back over Leeds Bridge to cast his net wider. The landlord at the Old King’s Head thought he remembered someone in good grey broadcloth, but he wasn’t certain. So far no one else had come up with even an inkling of recognition.

When he was finished he’d return to Queen Charlotte’s Court to question the people he hadn’t seen that morning. It was going be another exhausting day, and he knew that when he finally returned to his room his shrewish wife would accuse him of being out drinking and whoring. She’d been uneasy when he began this job, but in the two years since he’d become deputy it had grown worse; at any excuse she’d begin shouting until her voice was raw. Then things would be fine, at least until the next night, when she’d start all over again.

Even her own father had advised him not to go through with the marriage.

“Her mother were bad enough, God rest her soul,” the man had said miserably as they shared a jug in the Talbot. “But Annie’s ten times bloody worse. Do thisen a favour and steer clear of her, and I say that though she’s me own blood.”

But he had been seventeen, and youth and lust won out over sense; he’d been paying the price ever since. His job meant long hours, some of them spent in taverns with tipsters and criminals. And if he’d been out whoring a couple of times, it was simply because he needed a little warmth. Since the birth of their boy James, two and a half years ago, Annie’s embraces had been cold, her tongue even sharper than before. A man needed something to keep him going, and whatever it was, Sedgwick wasn’t receiving it from his wife.

He slipped into the passageway that led from Briggate to the Ship, hoping they might still have some food he could eat as he asked his questions. Nottingham would be at home by now, sitting with his family, and Sedgwick envied him the calmness of his house. Not only the space, but the serenity that seemed to fill the place, as if the troubles of the world couldn’t touch it.

The food was all gone so he was left hungry, but at least there was a tankard in his hand as he chatted to the landlord, a ramshackle, wiry man in his fifties with muscled arms and wild, dark hair that grew in a bushy mass from his head.

“You heard about the preacher who was killed?” Sedgwick asked.

“Oh aye.” Walter Shipton wiped his hands on his leather apron and spat on the sawdust floor. “Whole town’s heard about that by now, lad. The preacher with his feet of clay and the whore.” He shook his head.

“Was he in here last night?” Sedgwick asked.

“Ee, lad, not that I recall,” he answered slowly. “It were a quiet night, so like as not I’d have noticed him. You found out what he was doing with her, anyway?”

Sedgwick laughed to himself. If the landlord couldn’t imagine what a man did with a whore, it wasn’t his place to educate him.

“Shame about her, though,” Shipton continued, drawing himself a small pot of ale and tasting it appreciatively.

“How do you mean?”

“She were a nice lass,” he said thoughtfully. “Bit strange, but nice, you know.”

“You knew her?” Suddenly Sedgwick was very interested.

“She were in here most nights, did a lot of her business from over there.” He nodded at a corner. “No trouble, mind, she’d just sit, and the men would come to her if they wanted her. They’d go off and, you know, then she’d be back.”

Pleased at finally discovering something useful, Sedgwick drained his mug and pushed it forward for a refill. It wasn’t food, but it was the next best thing.

“How long had she been coming in?”

“A year, mebbe?” Shipton creased his brow, emphasising the drinker’s broken veins in his ruddy cheeks. “Aye, around that, I suppose. Bit less, mebbe.” He leaned forward conspiratorially across the counter and added in a whisper, “She give me a tumble once, in t’back when the wife were gone. Called it my commission.” He chuckled wheezily at the memory. “By Christ, lad, she were a good tup, too, passionate like. I thought she’d be the death of me that day. Made me feel twenty again, she did.”

Sedgwick shared the other man’s smile for a moment before pushing on.

“Was she in last night?”

“Last night? Let me think.” He called over the serving girl, a harried rail of a lass who looked the Constable’s man up and down briefly before giving Shipton her attention. “Was Pamela in last night, do you recall?”

“Early on,” she replied without any hesitation, rolling her eyes when he looked confused. “You remember. You had to throw old George out for shouting the odds like he always does when he’s drunk as a lord. She helped you get him through the door. I didn’t see her later, though.”

“Aye, that’s right.” Shipton brightened. “Must have been about nine. George Carver had had a few too many and he was trying to pick a fight with some ’prentice lads. Always wants a brawl when he’s drunk, does George. I had to get him out for his own safety, else they’d have bloodied up my floor with him. Course, he didn’t want to go, ranting and raving. Pamela started talking to him while I was trying to push him out and he ended up going meek as owt.”

“Did she leave with him?” Sedgwick asked carefully. He was alert now, on the scent.

“’Ee, I don’t know, I weren’t looking by then, once the bother were over.” He glanced at the serving girl who shrugged noncommittally.

“Do you know where she lived?”

“Somewhere close, I reckon, but I couldn’t tell you where. Never asked. It didn’t seem to matter.” He took a long drink and drained the pot. “ ’Appen someone’ll know. I can ask for you, if you like, there’ll be more in later.”

Sedgwick nodded his appreciation.

“Did she have a pimp?” he wondered. The landlord might know.

“Pamela?” Shipton shook his head firmly. “Nay, not one like her. Too old, and not enough business to warrant one bothering with her.”

Sedgwick finished his ale and left, satisfied with the bit of business. He’d found out a little. In the doorway he almost collided with a familiar face trying to slide in for a quiet drink.

Adam Suttler was the most talented forger in Leeds, an educated man with the ability to copy anything faithfully, but no sense of judgement. Twice Nottingham and Sedgwick had stopped him before he became too foolish. Changing a will to favour a younger son could have found him on the gallows. So could his alteration of a merchant’s bill of lading to the continent, allowing thieves to make off with some bales of cloth. On both occasions the paper evidence had handily been destroyed, saving Suttler from capital justice. They’d visited his rooms at the top of a winding stair, surprisingly airy and clean, and put the fear of God into Adam with threats and promises as his wife and daughter had scuttled into the other room.

Sedgwick wasn’t naive enough to think he’d returned to the straight and narrow — apart from working as a clerk or a scrivener, what could Suttler do? — but at least they hadn’t heard much of him in the last year.