Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

The Constable nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin, looking at the shuttered windows around them.

“I want you to talk to everyone in the yard. Go house to house before it gets light. A place like this you’ll probably find them all at home. It’s small enough you should be able to cover it all. There must still have been someone awake at the Turk’s Head. Someone must be able to tell us something.”

“Right.”

He was considering his next course of action when Brogden approached.

“From the look of them, I’d say another whore and a farmer,” he said distastefully after a brief glance, his mouth pursing. Tonight his clothes looked dishevelled, hastily thrown on, and he’d left his wig at home. He bent over to give a rough examination of the corpses. “Killed by a knife, the same as the last two you dragged me out to see,” the coroner described impatiently. “But it can’t have been too long ago, they’re still fairly warm.”

“Anything else?” Nottingham asked.

Brogden rose and shook his head.

“Go ahead and look for yourself. They’re dead, Constable, that’s all you need me to say. And with that, I’m going back to my bed.” He put the hat on his head and walked out of the court.

Nottingham detailed men to carry the bodies to the jail, then examined the ground once they’d gone. There was very little blood. Once again they hadn’t been killed where they were found, although given the place, that didn’t surprise him. Whores and their clients wouldn’t dare use a respectable place like this for tupping.

But they hadn’t been dead long, and it had only been an hour at most since they were discovered. They couldn’t have been murdered far away. At first light he’d send men out combing the area. He realised that even if they found the site it might tell him nothing. Yet it was better than not knowing. Everything, or anything, could be important.

He sat at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to summon up the will to face the corpses in the cold cell. It was barely dawn; a cloudy grey sky promised dull weather after yesterday’s sun.

Finally he sighed and stood to do his duty.

He was almost scared to gaze at their faces in case he saw someone else he knew. But both of these were strangers.

Brogden had been right about the man. He was in his mid-thirties, as far as Nottingham could judge. The clothes were better than any labourer could afford, but still country cut and stitched at home, the seams awkward and uneven, the breeches tight around stout, muscled thighs. Blood had turned the material to a rust colour from a pair of deep stab wounds in the chest. The dead man had a florid face, reddened by exposure to the weather, and his hands were well calloused, nails cracked and short, with dirt ingrained into the skin.

The girl couldn’t have been above eighteen. Even in life no one would have called her pretty; there were extensive pox marks on her cheeks and an old white scar on her chin. She’d been a scrawny reed of a thing with bones poking through her flesh: scarcely a decent meal in her life, he imagined. Her dress was a faded blue, cut low to expose most of her tiny breasts. She’d also received two cuts, one to her stomach and another between her ribs.

Who were they, he wondered. He’d doubtless learn the man’s name soon enough, when a wife came looking for her errant husband. But the girl might remain anonymous forever. The chances of kin, or even someone who cared enough to find out where she’d gone, were small.

It chilled him to know there was someone in Leeds who’d do this to people. Not just once but again — and more, he was certain, if he had the chance. It had to be the work of a lunatic. No sane man would kill a couple in cold blood that way.

Nottingham looked at the bodies again, rubbing his chin as his mind worked through the possibilities. Unless there was some unlikely connection between this unknown farmer and Morton, someone was randomly killing whores and the men with them.

He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed it wasn’t Carver.

The sound of the jail door roused him. Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, shaking his head to keep himself awake.

“What did you find?” the Constable asked.

“You mean besides the fact that hard work for godly souls means an undisturbed night’s sleep?” Sedgwick responded bitterly. “I think they were more offended that people had been killed on their doorsteps than anything else.”

“And were any of the good citizens able to give you information?”

“A couple admitted they heard noises, but ‘the middle of the night’ was as exact as they could be. And since their houses were locked up tight, they didn’t look.”

“What about the inn?”

“Closed early, not much trade. All in their beds and asleep.”

“Whoever’s doing this is either lucky or very canny,” Nottingham pondered. “He picks his spots well, places where no one will care or no one wants to know.”

“It’s definitely the same man, then?”

“Has to be. Killed by a knife, same position.” Could he have predicted and prevented this? he asked himself — although inside he knew he couldn’t.

Sedgwick yawned and stretched slowly.

“It means the killer didn’t single out Morton and Pamela,” Nottingham continued. “He’s murdering prostitutes and the men who’ve bought their services.”

He looked pointedly at his deputy, and Sedgwick’s eyes widened at the implications. “Once the pimps and procurers realise that they’re all going to think the competition’s doing it.”

“Exactly,” the Constable said glumly. “So they’ll be killing each other and the whores will be terrified. And don’t forget our friends on the Corporation,” he added acidly. “They like their regular tumbles, too.”

“What are we going to do?”

Nottingham sighed and shook his head.

“We’d better find him, John. As fast as we can.” He hesitated, grateful Sedgwick hadn’t mentioned the name yet, then said, “I’m going to discover where Carver was last night.”

He’d sent Sedgwick home for a few hours’ sleep, after instructing him to send men out to search for the new killing ground. He needed his deputy, but he wanted his mind fresh and sharp, not raw after too many hours of work. He should have been resting himself, but his brain wouldn’t slow down. His eyes were gritty as he rubbed them. Along with weariness, he felt self-doubt beginning to creep in. What if Carver was the killer, and he’d let him walk away to commit two more murders? He’d told Sedgwick he’d live with the guilt, but words were cheap. He’d been wrong before, and more than once. That had been over petty crimes, though, not murder. Murders, he corrected himself soberly. Murders.

Next door to the jail, the landlord of the White Swan was cleaning off the benches in a lacklustre fashion. The patrons were never too particular, so he didn’t care too much, either. Quiet morning drinkers were scattered around the place as the Constable walked in. A few heads turned to glance at the newcomer, then returned to their mugs of ale or wine. The landlord nodded his head in greeting.

“Early for you, Mr Nottingham.”

The Constable offered a thin, weary smile.

“If only drinking would get rid of all my problems, Michael.”

“But you’ll have something?”

Michael Harding moved behind the bar, wiping his hands on his apron. He was a carefree sort, at least until someone crossed him. Then his tongue and his fists erupted like a sudden storm on anyone who deserved it. As soon as he was done, the mild, easy manner returned. His way kept the tavern quiet and generally peaceful, but Nottingham often wondered just how far below the surface the temper really lurked.