Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“If anyone saw him with Morton, we’ll bring him in,” he decided.

Sedgwick nodded, then said, “By the way, the cutpurse hit again last night. Twice.”

Nottingham sighed slowly and pushed a hand through his hair.

“Jesus God, how many times is that? Are you sure it’s the same one?” Anger rippled through him. He didn’t need this on top of the murders.

“Got to be, boss. No one saw or felt anything. One of the victims this time was a merchant.”

Nottingham swore.

“He’ll be complaining to the Mayor. That’s all we need right now.”

“He’s a clever bugger, whoever he is,” Sedgwick said, shaking his head in admiration. “Slick, too.”

The Constable rubbed his face. Already it seemed as if this was going to be a very long day.

“You know it’ll be sheer good luck if we get him, don’t you?” He sighed again. “Still, we’d better show willing and put someone on it. Who can we spare?”

Sedgwick pursed thin lips and thought for a moment. Including the two night walkers, they had a total of six men. It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it. Nottingham kept trying for more money from the Corporation, but they weren’t prepared to pay. Safety was good, as long as it came cheap.

“There’s Wilkins,” he suggested. “He’s not the sharpest lad, but he’s willing.”

“He’ll do,” Nottingham agreed. “Tell him to spend the day walking around and keeping his eyes open.”

“He’ll be doing it within the hour.”

The Constable sat back in his chair, framing his thoughts.

“We need to find out why Pamela and Morton were murdered, John. It looks like it had something to do with sex, but they were both fully dressed.” He shrugged helplessly. “It could be someone trying to confuse us, or I could have got it all wrong. What do you think?”

Sedgwick chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered his reply.

“It must have something to do with sex,” he agreed with conviction. “It has to. He’d not have gone to all the trouble otherwise, dragging the bodies around like that to make his point.”

“Go on.” Nottingham was giving his full attention, intrigued by where this might lead.

“Whoever did it can’t be right in t’ head. Laying them out like that, it’s a sick thing to do.”

“True,” the Constable agreed.

“They weren’t robbed,” Sedgwick continued, counting the points on his fingers, “so we can forget that.”

“So how do we find the killer?” Nottingham asked him bluntly.

“If we knew that, he’d be in the cells now, boss.”

A slow silence filled the room.

“I agree the murderer’s probably mad in some way,” Nottingham said finally, “but that just makes him more dangerous.”

The deputy digested the thought.

“We’d better find him soon, John.”

After Sedgwick had left, Nottingham sat quietly. In his head he went through every step he’d taken so far, wondering if he’d missed or ignored anything that could hint at the murderer’s identity. Most people killed from passion or from drink, quite often the pair of them together. This was something very different, however, coming from the mind, not the heart. Usually it took no more than a day to find a killer. But this time he could throw all his men into it and still not come up with a result. And the other business of the city — the cutpurses, the thefts, the violence — wouldn’t stop just because he had to concentrate on this. Finally, exasperated, he shook his head, closed the door behind himself and began walking back to the parish church.

This time the new curate didn’t ask his name, simply looked at him resentfully and escorted him into the vestry. The Reverend Cookson was at his desk, poring over a Bible and making notes — doubtless for one of his interminable sermons, Nottingham thought. He glanced up as the Constable entered, laid down his quill, and straightened the expensive powdered wig that was already perfectly perched on his head.

“I heard you were looking for me yesterday, Constable.”

“I was,” Nottingham confirmed. Unable to resist the dig, he added, “Your curate seemed to doubt my identity.”

Cookson had the grace to offer a slightly embarrassed smile, showing discoloured teeth in a large mouth.

“You’ll have to forgive Mr Crandall. He only arrived a short while ago and doesn’t know Leeds or its people yet. I think he’s more used to parochial ways.”

The Reverend had a rich, mellifluous voice, used to filling the nave with its rolling cadences on a Sunday, its sound almost too big for such a small room. Although he wasn’t a merchant, Cookson’s position made him one of the most important men in the city, well paid as a shepherd of souls, his influence extending into every walk of life. Tall and thin, he had the self-satisfied, smug look that Nottingham despised. For all that he was supposedly a man of God, Cookson was also a fighter, always eager to slyly grab a little more power or consolidate what he already had.

“Now, what can I do for you, Constable?” he asked.

“You’ll have heard what happened to the visiting preacher?”

“I did.” The vicar sat back and crossed his arms. “A terrible business when someone serving God is murdered,” he said, but there was no great sympathy in his tone. “Do you know who killed him?”

“Not yet, no,” Nottingham replied straightforwardly, his eyes fixed on the other man. “From what I’ve heard, I gather you didn’t approve of what he was saying.”

Cookson raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to imply I might be a suspect in this death?”

Nottingham weighed his answer carefully.

“I rarely imply things, Reverend. If I have something to say I come right out and say it.”

Cookson examined the words for hidden meanings or barbs, then nodded.

“You’re right, of course. It was impossible to approve of someone who wanted to upset the social order in the name of religion.”

“And what was it he said that was so upsetting?”

“People like the late Mr Morton aim their words like missiles, Constable. They end up making the poor discontent with their lot, and that’s a dangerous thing, as you well know.” He searched Nottingham’s face for a reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “When you have a man talking like that, it’s sowing the seeds of rebellion and revolution, and that’s asking for trouble in a place like Leeds. The Jacobins up in Scotland would love to see confusion down here so they could march in.”

“Then perhaps you feel his death was a good thing?”

Cookson shook his head in vigorous denial, but the Constable could see the truth in his eyes.

“I never said that, Mr Nottingham. Every death, particularly one so violent, is a tragedy. But you saw the reaction he provoked on Saturday — and that was from the very people he was supposed to comfort! We can’t have more scenes like that. It was almost a riot, man!”

And he was right, Nottingham knew. If they hadn’t hustled Morton away quickly, it would have been ugly.

“I’d planned to ask that the Mayor ban Mr Morton from speaking in public, for the safety of Leeds,” Cookson stated. “Then, of course, it became unnecessary.”

“I believe there were several merchants who agreed with you?”

The vicar look astonished at the question. “More than several — the majority, I’d imagine. The idea underlying Morton’s words is one that challenges the entire social order. We may be equal in the eyes of God, but here on earth we all have our separate roles to fulfil. Some lead, others follow, and that’s the way it’s always been. To suggest to the followers that maybe the whole idea is wrong is rather like letting a young child play with a lit candle. It’s irresponsible.”