Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

This was the part the Constable hated most.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Winters, but someone killed him.”

“My Noah?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t understand, her eyes widening suddenly as she tried to draw a breath. “But why? He were a good man, he wouldn’t get in a fight or owt like that.”

“We don’t know why yet,” he told her, knowing there was at least a grain of truth in his words.

Her face had a stunned look, mouth hanging slightly open.

“We think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know how else to put it,” he admitted.

“But you’ll find whoever did it and see him swing.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a command.

“I will,” he assured her, although at the moment it seemed as much hope as certainty.

“I want to take my man home and give him a proper burial,” she insisted suddenly.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you have your cart here? I’ll have my men carry his body out.”

She crumpled again at the mention of the word body .

“He’s dead,” she moaned in a voice that was little more than a croak. “He’s dead . He’s dead for a new bloody suit.”

Nottingham helped Mrs Winters back outside, feeling the pull of her weight against his arms. Two farm lads waited by the cart, and he instructed them to look after their mistress, then went to round up two men to carry out the corpse. He couldn’t have allowed her back to see him, not with the whore in the same room. She was a bright woman, that was obvious, and she’d easily have put two and two together; she deserved more dignity and a better memory of her husband than that.

By the time the wagon pulled away the day was well progressed. Nottingham felt the tiredness in his bones, an ache that crept from the inside out. He wanted this man who’d killed four people, wanted him in a way he couldn’t remember wanting to find any criminal in the past. He wanted to see the man’s face. More than that, he wanted to hurt him for what he’d done to Pamela. And if it was Carver, he’d find no mercy.

Before he could consider what to do next, a messenger from the Moot Hall walked in, summoning him to the Mayor’s office. Nottingham drew a deep breath and wondered how to approach the interview. He didn’t want to mention Carver yet, until he was certain, and the last thing his Worship would want to hear was that they had a madman targeting prostitutes and their clients. If that knowledge became public it would send a shock through the entire city. Too many men used whores, many of them gentlemen of influence. He pondered exactly what he might say.

He dusted off his coat, then ran fingers through his hair. It was another vain effort towards making himself presentable, but it would have to do. He had no looking glass in the jail. The man would just have to take him as he found him, exhausted in mind and body.

He was ushered directly into the Mayor’s office without waiting; not a good sign, he decided. Kenion was at his desk, hunched over some papers with a quill in his hand. Absently he gestured Nottingham to a seat, then ignored him for several minutes as he pored over a document before fretfully adding his signature to it. After coming off worse in their last interview, he wanted to establish the pecking order, and make sure it was known before a word was said. Finally Kenion looked up.

“More murders, I hear,” he said accusingly, skipping the pleasantries.

“Another prostitute and her client,” the Constable responded.

“And what are you doing about catching the man responsible?” Kenion folded his hands across his chest, glaring at Nottingham.

“All we can. We know who the victim was, a farmer from Alwoodley, in town to buy a decent suit of clothes.” Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn’t divert Kenion.

“I don’t give a tinker’s cuss who he was.” The Mayor’s voice dripped venom. “It’s whoever killed him that concerns me. We shipped that preacher’s body back to Oxford yesterday. How do you think that sounds for the city? A man comes to Leeds to preach the word of God and he’s murdered. It’s a wonderful advertisement for the good Christian folk of the city, don’t you think, Constable?”

And less than a week ago that preacher was close to causing a riot with his bloody words. You wouldn’t have loved him then, Nottingham thought, but kept his words inside.

“Things happen in every city.”

“Well, I’ll not tolerate them here.” The Mayor’s bluster left his face flushed.

“We’re doing everything we can to find the culprit.” Even as he said it the Constable knew the words sounded weak.

Kenion stood and leaned across the desk, his voice tight.

“Then your everything obviously isn’t enough. You said the same bloody thing after the first murders. Now the man’s been out and done it again, right under your noses and you still don’t have a bloody clue who he is!”

“No, I don’t,” Nottingham let the lie slip off his tongue without guilt.

“So what are you going to do about it?” the Mayor exploded.

The Constable looked up calmly.

“Exactly the same as we’ve been doing,” he responded evenly. “And I’d defy anyone else to be able to do better.” As an attempt to muster his dignity it was hardly convincing, even to his own ears.

“Happen we’ll see about that very soon,” Kenion replied coldly.

“That’s your decision, of course,” the Constable acknowledged.

“It is, Mr Nottingham, and it’s one I’ll not be afraid to make if I don’t see some progress very soon. I suggest you remember that.”

This was where he paid for their last meeting, Nottingham understood. He’d leave with no doubt as to who was in charge. But as long as Kenion restricted himself to words, not actions, the Constable had time. For now the new Mayor had no one who could replace him. Or so he hoped.

“I shall, sir.”

The Constable stood and gave a short nod of his head as a bow before leaving. The Mayor had already returned to his paperwork as an attempt to show how important and busy he was. Busier than he expected to be, Nottingham warranted, and already beginning to wonder if the position was worth the time it took. But there was plenty of truth in his words. They needed progress and they needed it quickly. And right now George Carver was the key.

Sedgwick was always amazed at the way the pimps hid their wealth. If he had even half their money he’d own a good house with four or five hearths and live like a gentleman. Maybe they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves, he thought, although what they did was no worse than the way some merchants and businessmen acted.

They all ran strings of girls. Sometimes one of the lasses would leave without a word, but there was never a shortage of new blood arriving from the country, thinking they might make their fortune in Leeds. But no girl was going to make money on her back for anyone but the man who ran her. Most of them would be lucky to survive to twenty-five.

After years in his job he knew all the pimps and procurers in the city. A few even seemed like decent folk, most treated their girls like objects, and some of the worst ones he could have happily killed — and would have, once or twice, if the Constable hadn’t stopped him.

Whores were a fact of life. There was no more getting rid of them than fleas. But he could try to stop men openly murdering them.

Sedgwick walked down Briggate, beyond Boar Lane, following the gentle slope down to the Aire and across the stone bridge that spanned the river, its parapets old and wide. Someone had told him that at one time they used to hold the cloth market here, long before the Cloth Hall was built, and it had been designed for displaying the wares, bales of cloth spread out over the stone.