Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Nottingham felt a glow of gratitude inside. He’d never expected support from the Corporation. But here were people who valued him, and who had faith he could find the answer to this.

“Thank you,” he said simply, uncertain what to add. “Thank you.”

Williamson smiled at him.

“I’ll come back when we’ve finished and let you know. But if I have anything to do with it, you’ll be Constable for years to come yet.”

Briggate bustled with Saturday market folk, buyers and sellers crowding the street. At the lower end the cloth sellers were dismantling their stalls, some spending tuppence of their takings on a Brig Shot End breakfast of porridge, boiled meat and ale from one of the taverns.

Outside the King’s Head, Tom Stookes was standing on his box auctioning off livestock the farmers had driven in from the surrounding villages. To Sedgwick, the man’s braying voice, reeling off bids so quickly they became a blur of sound, was all part of the fabric of the city.

He spotted Lizzie, the prostitute, a little farther up the street, leaning dispiritedly against a corner, the fan dangling from her fingers. She saw him approaching, head bobbing above the crowd, smiled slightly and tilted her head before disappearing. Sedgwick followed her into the court, spying her in a deep patch of shadow by a wall.

“Why the secrecy?” he asked her as a greeting. She moved up to him, grinned, and rubbed against him.

“You’ve been in the wars,” she said tenderly, stroking his bandaged arm in its sling lightly.

“I’ll survive,” he told her, enjoying the gentle touch of her fingertips. “Now, why do you need to see me out of the way like this?”

“Thought you might want to reward a girl for getting you some information,” she giggled lightly.

“Oh aye?” In spite of himself, he laughed. “No fee, eh? On the house, is it?”

The whore glanced back over her shoulder at the wall and winked.“More like against the house by the look of it. If you can manage with one arm, that is.” Her laugh was hoarse, and she pulled up her skirts before wrapping her arms around his neck. “You know I’ve always liked you, John Sedgwick.”

He knew it was stupid. He was working, he had a wife and bairn at home. But he was tired, his wife was a bloody shrew, and his pizzle was growing of his own accord. The girl’s breasts were pushing hard against his chest, and she was looking up at him with the first real desire anyone had shown him in months — since the last time he’d been with her, in fact.

He freed himself from his breeches, and with practised ease Lizzie moved herself on to him. Sedgwick pushed his weight on her, rubbing the flesh of her shoulders raw against the stone, but she didn’t care. Neither did he. He wasn’t thinking with his brain now, just thrusting deep into her, feeling the world grow out from his groin. With a grunt and a muttered “Fuck,” he came in her, faster than he’d wanted, but he couldn’t hold back.

Lizzie’s eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and fast. Finally she pushed him away gently and stood up.

“That’s more like it, John.” She laughed, the sound turning into a violent, liquid cough before it subsided, her face flushed. “You know how to pay a lass for talk, any road.”

“Better be worth it, then,” he said with a chuckle.

“That girl you wanted me to find out about?”

“Yes.”

“She were called Molly. Nice girl, by all accounts, liked a laugh. Hardly been here three month.”

“Who was pimping her?” Sedgwick asked her.

“Old Cedric, someone told me, but I don’t know if it’s true.” She ran a hand through his hair, trying vainly to pull out some of the matts, then adjusted her dress over her breasts. She regarded him tenderly. “You’re a good lad, John. Any time you decide to leave that wife of yours, come to me. I mean that.”

For once, he didn’t know what to say. He’d always liked Lizzie; she had a ready wit. They’d shared jokes, a few mugs of ale and a couple of tumbles, but he had no idea she felt that way about him. She’d said things, but he’d never taken them seriously. He tucked his prick, shrunk once more, back into his breeches, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you, luv. I appreciate that. Now I’d better go and see a man about a girl.”

He was back on Briggate before she could say anything, a grin splitting his face. Cedric was lucky; he was going to be in a good mood when he arrived.

The rumour was that Cedric Winthrop had once been rich, controlling most of the prostitutes in Leeds. If it had ever been true, those days were long gone. Now he was a broken old man who hung on by the skin of his teeth, with no more than three or four girls willing to work for him. Sedgwick hadn’t even considered him when he was making his round of the pimps. Winthrop’s cottage, a tiny, half-timbered dwelling by the bridge at the bottom of Lady Lane, was a rundown wreck, with slates missing from the roof and a musty, mildewed smell in its main room.

Cedric himself was a paunchy old man in clothes twenty years out of date, with the beaming face of someone’s kindly grandfather, his blue eyes framed by grimy spectacles. A thick double chin rested on his collar, his skin so pale it was almost pearlescent. His wig sat on the table, leaving just a wisp of thin silver hair on his scalp.

“Morning, Cedric,” Sedgwick said merrily as the pimp opened the door. “A little bird told me you’ve lost one of your girls.” He pushed past Winthrop, ducking to avoid the low lintel.

Sedgwick sat at the table, carelessly wiping a layer of dust with his sleeve. “You ran a lass called Molly?”

“Ran?” Winthrop looked confused, as if he’d never heard the term before.

“Have you seen her in the last few days, Cedric?” he asked patiently.

“No.” Winthrop took a handkerchief from his breeches pocket and wiped his spectacles. “I went looking for her yesterday.”

“Well, she’s in a pauper’s grave now, poor girl.”

“What? She’s dead?” The spectacles tinkled on the bare floorboards. Sedgwick leaned over, picked them up and returned them gently to the man’s hand. He was surprised to see so much emotion in a procurer.

“She was murdered. Her and a farmer.”

“God,” Winthrop said softly, and closed his eyes for a moment before tears could flow.

“What can you tell me about her?” Sedgwick asked him.

The old man half-smiled sadly, shook his head and shrugged.

“You’ve heard her story once, you’ve heard it a hundred times. She was nice enough, in from the country a few months ago. Most of the time I’d bring men from the taverns to her room. She was a bit shy. But I’d been down with a touch of rheum, so she must have gone out to work the streets.”

“And got herself killed,” Sedgwick pointed out. “How long were you in your bed?”

“I started feeling poorly Wednesday morning. Yesterday was the first day I went out,” he answered slowly. “If…”

“ Ifs don’t work in life, Cedric,” Sedgwick told him sympathetically. “You know that by now.” He stood.

Winthrop nodded absently, not moving as the deputy let himself out.

Nottingham was staring at the corpses once more when he heard the door to the jail open. Wiping his hands on a rag, he left the cell. Amos Worthy, tall and straight in his threadbare coat, stood by the desk, a walking stick clenched in his hand. His face was deadly serious, eyes as cold as the Constable had ever seen them. He had two men flanking the door, muscled thugs who earned their bread being unleashed like dogs at his command.

“You won’t need that pair, Amos,” Nottingham said casually as he sat down. “No one’s going to attack you here. What do you want?”