Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Nottingham backed out of the room and climbed the stairs quickly, past the fractious squall of hungry babies and silences as deep as death. Where they ended the solid door looked no cleaner or brighter than the rest of the place. He knocked loudly, hearing shuffling steps on the other side. A moment later the haunted eyes of a very young maid looked at him.

Her dress had been exquisite once, the stitching small, even and fine, but over the years all the colour had been washed from it. Far too big, it hung loosely on her tiny body, trailing dangerously on the ground and covering thin, childlike wrists. The neckline was high, but not high enough to cover the fading bruises.

“I’d like to see your master,” he said.

She curtseyed briefly, then led him into a small, spare parlour where she lit a candle on the mantelpiece. The floor was polished wood, with two uncomfortable chairs on either side of an empty grate which was blackleaded to a shine. No pictures hung on the walls, and there were no windows to let in the day. It was a strange, disquieting room, so different from the life below.

He didn’t have long to wait there. Within two minutes a short man bustled in, an ingratiating smile on his face. Like the maid’s dress, his wig had been quality some twenty years earlier. Now its style, draping down on to his shoulders, looked ridiculous and old-fashioned. The linen shirt had been mended many times, and a bony elbow protruded awkwardly from a fresh rent. His dark breeches flapped against a pair of skinny thighs, and the white stockings had discoloured to ivory.

“Welcome, sir, welcome.” The man gestured at a chair, but Nottingham didn’t move. He stared impassively down at the man, trying to judge his age. Fifty? Sixty? Older? It was impossible to be certain. There were lines on his face, but it was as if he defied time. The flesh around his eyes was puffy, as if he’d just been woken.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do, sir.” The man smiled, showing a mouth almost empty of teeth. Seventy, Nottingham finally decided. “It’d be a poor man who didn’t recognise the city’s Constable.”

“And you are?” the Constable asked.

“Mr King, sir.” He gestured expansively and gave a hearty, toneless laugh. “Welcome to the king’s palace.”

That explained it, Nottingham thought. An old, poor joke. He was surprised he’d never heard of the man before, although the city had many landlords like this.

“You had a whore living in a cellar room, I believe. A girl named Pamela?”

King nodded tentatively. “There was a girl of that name,” he admitted warily, “but I don’t know what she did. As long as they pay the rent, that’s all I care about.”

“You know she was murdered, of course.” Nottingham said.

“How couldn’t I know?” King tried to shrug, but the gesture looked like a tic. “It’s been the talk of the town.”

“And so you let her room.” He let the words fall out like an accusation.

“I’m a landlord.” King answered earnestly. “Empty rooms don’t bring in money, Mr Nottingham, surely you understand that.”

The Constable moved a pace closer. His voice stayed even.“You own a few places, Mr King?”

“Two in this court, two in another,” the man replied with a smile.

“Queen Charlotte’s Court?” Nottingham asked, suddenly curious.

King shook his head seriously. “I like a place where a man can make a living from his rents. There’s nothing for an honest landlord over there.”

There was very little honesty here, either, Nottingham thought. The place felt like a house of the dead. He shivered slightly.

“What about Pamela’s belongings, Mr King? Might I ask what you did with them?”

“I had the girl bring them up here, of course.” He glanced up slyly and lowered his voice. “Mind you, I had to make sure she hadn’t taken anything for herself, thieving little bitch. She’d leave me with nothing if she could.”

“I’d like them, if I may.”

“Of course,” King agreed readily, but the disappointment was apparent in his face. Nottingham knew the man had expected to keep everything for himself, just as he probably stole from most of his tenants. “I’ll have her bring them.” Opening the door, he yelled, “Cissy! Bring that girl’s things from last night.”

They were wrapped in a small parcel, just a few items. He doubted it was everything she’d owned; King would have picked it through and kept anything of the merest value. He tucked it under his arm and the landlord looked on, eyes anxious now. It would be pointless asking him about Pamela. She’d been nothing more than a few coppers each week to him.

“Thank you, Mr King. I’ll leave you in peace now.” Just before he reached the door, Nottingham turned. “I’m surprised we’ve never met before,” he added.

“But I’m an honest man, sir,” King replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “Honesty and the law rarely need each other.”

The Constable nodded for a moment.

“Maybe you’re right,” he agreed. “But I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. I’ll bid you good day.”

At the jail he unwrapped the ancient, musty cloth that held Pamela’s possessions. There was a wooden comb with several of its teeth missing, a crude, smudged drawing of a man Nottingham thought might have been her husband, a clay candle holder and a small doll made of rags that he recalled her bringing when she’d arrived as a servant. It was so little to speak of a life, these things that defined her, that she’d carried around and held dear.

But there was no token, and he was certain now it must have been torn from the ribbon around her neck, although he couldn’t see why. It had no value, and its only significance was to his family. Pamela had sworn to treasure it and keep it safe forever. And maybe she had; it was impossible to know now. Her forever had ended too soon. Whoever killed her had taken the broken token. It was one more thing Nottingham would make him pay for.

Next door to the jail, the White Swan offered good ale and a decent stew for his dinner. He was sopping up the gravy with a piece of bread when Sedgwick flopped noisily on to the bench opposite him and poured a mug of ale.

“Anything?” Nottingham asked.

“Looks like we’ve found where they were killed,” the deputy said, sounding satisfied. “The other side of the workhouse. It’s overgrown there. The weeds have been trampled down and there’s a dark patch that could well be blood.”

But Nottingham found himself troubled by the questions that raised.

“So why move them?” he asked. “If he’d left them, it could have been a while before they were discovered.”

“I was thinking that myself,” Sedgwick answered, and put forward an idea. “He wanted them found, boss. Why else would he go to the trouble of putting them like that? I walked it, and it’d take a fair effort to get two bodies there. He had a reason.”

“And why in Queen Charlotte’s Court?”

Sedgwick offer a straightforward explanation.

“Well, coming from the other side, it’s the first place you get to. And no one there’s going to pay much attention to noise in the middle of the night. They’re used to it. So he wouldn’t be disturbed.”

Nottingham drank, pushed the fringe off his forehead and nodded. It made as much sense as anything in this.

“You’re probably right. Good work, John.”

Sedgwick smiled at the praise.

“What did you find on the preacher?” the Constable asked.

“Bugger all. I tell you, it’s like the man vanished after he left Rawlinson’s house until he ended up dead.” He shook his head. “I’ve asked everywhere, but no one remembers seeing him.”

“We need to find out where he was. People like him don’t just disappear in the city.” Nottingham felt frustrated, as if every turn led to a dead end. “I found where Pamela lived. Her room’s already been rented, so there was nothing there to help. Have you heard of a landlord named King?”