Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Worthy gestured at the cell. “You’ve got a girl in there.”

“I’ve got a man in there, too.” He leaned back. The procurer had only been in the jail once before that he could recall, and that was on a charge that had vanished along with the witnesses.

“The lass is mine,” Worthy announced flatly. “A good little earner, as well.” He looked down solemnly. “I don’t like people taking what’s mine.”

“How do you know she’s one of yours?” the Constable asked with contempt.

“She didn’t come back last night. My girls know they’d better have a bloody good reason for not returning,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What did she look like?”

“Little thing, blonde hair, blue eyes. Some daft bastard had given her a dress that was halfway decent and she always wore that,” he spat out quickly, then looked up. “You need anything more?”

“What was her name, Amos?”

“Alice. Alice Fairbanks.” He banged the stick on the stone flag. “These lads’ll take her.”

Nottingham nodded his agreement; he had no further need of the body.

Once they’d left, awkwardly carrying the shroud between them, Worthy rubbed a hand over his freshly-shaved chin.

“Six bodies now, Mr Nottingham.”

“I can count, Amos,” he replied testily, turning a quill in his fingers.

“I look after my own.”

The Constable rose slowly, staring across the desk at Worthy.

“No,” he corrected carefully, “you look after your own when they do what you tell them. I’ve seen what happens when they don’t, remember?” He worked hard to keep his voice under control. “So don’t come in here trying to sound concerned and bereaved, like you’d lost a daughter.”

The pimp’s face remained impassive. “Do you have any suspicion who’s doing this?” he asked finally.

“No,” Nottingham admitted.

Worthy stroked his chin again.

“If you want him, better pray you find him before I do, then.”

“Are you threatening me, Amos?”

“I’m not threatening you , laddie,” he answered with a brisk shake of his head. “You should know me by now; I never threaten. Consider it a promise.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to make promises like that,” Nottingham told him blandly.

The pimp cocked his head. “Are you threatening me now, Mr Nottingham?”

The Constable smiled, baring his teeth. “Consider it a promise, Amos.”

“I’ll still be looking,” the pimp announced stonily. “I’m not going to let someone kill one of my girls.”

“From what I’ve heard, you prefer to do that yourself.” Nottingham waited as Worthy glared at him, knuckles tightening around the silver handle of the walking stick. “You’re safe enough, I was never able to prove it. But I’ll tell you something for nothing.” He paused. “I wish to God I could have.”

“Rumours have a habit of becoming exaggerated. You ought to know that by now,” Worthy countered, relaxing his grip.

“True enough,” Nottingham agreed with a small nod. “But others have a basis in fact.”

“Maybe,” he conceded grudgingly. “I’m more interested in the man who murdered Alice. I want to get my hands on him.”

“No.” Nottingham brought his hand down sharply on the desk, and the sound rang around the stone walls of the room. “I’m not going to say it again, Amos. This is my business, not yours. If you want to help me, I’ll gladly take that. But so you understand me properly: I won’t have your justice in this.”

Worthy eyed him with no expression for a long time, then turned on his heel and left.

The Constable had no doubt that Worthy would be hunting the killer. He wasn’t a man ever to back down from his words, and once he started, he’d be relentless. Nottingham was limited in what he could do, but the pimp’s men would have no compunction about beating information out of people. He’d heard that Worthy himself had once tried to roast a widow over a fire when he suspected her of sheltering one of his runaway girls. The woman had refused to press charges, insisting it had never happened.

Worthy would also try to bribe information from men who worked for the Constable. He could trust John, he was certain of that, but beyond that, nobody. They’d have to be careful.

Of course, it might not even matter. If Kenion had been persuasive or forceful enough, Leeds might already have a new Constable. He glanced out of the window, hoping to spot Tom Williamson returning with a grin on his face, but all he saw were the heads of people going about their business, some grim, some happy.

It was impossible not to brood and worry. There were places he needed to go, but Nottingham couldn’t stir until he heard the decision. Instead he tried to busy himself with small things, tasks he could finish easily and quickly, without too much concentration. He looked up, starting at every sound, in the end fidgeting between jobs, unable to concentrate on any of them.

Williamson returned when he was finally engrossed in a report. By the time he raised his head, Tom was already standing by the desk, hat in his hand. Nottingham tried to read the expression on his face.

“Well?” he asked. The word came out in a dry, nervous croak. He realised he didn’t want to leave this job.

Williamson smiled broadly. “We won.”

The Constable drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Tom said merrily. “It was an embarrassment, really. The Mayor tabled his motion to dismiss you, and asked for the ayes. His was the only vote.” He slapped his thigh and laughed. “He was almost purple with fury after the nays had been recorded. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone so humiliated. It was glorious, Richard. I wish you could have seen it.”

“So do I,” Nottingham agreed with conviction. He could imagine the colour rising from Kenion’s neck, and his frustration at being thwarted. But from here the Mayor would be keeping a close watch on everything the Constable did, though, and trying to apply a tight rein. Still, there were ways around that, and after so many years he knew them all.

“The aldermen all believe in you, Richard,” Williamson continued. “If ever a man had a vote of confidence, I’d say this was it.”

“Please give the gentlemen my gratitude,” Nottingham said formally, lost for words to express the relief and joy inside.

“I’ll do that.” The merchant grinned. “Now you can go on and find your killer.”

“Oh, I will.” He was really beginning to believe it. Things were moving. They’d find this bastard.

“What do you think?” Sedgwick asked in the White Swan, washing down the last of his stew with a long swig of ale. There was still the heel of a loaf on the table and he eyed it hungrily.

Nottingham filled their cups from the jug and leaned back against the wall. He’d related everything to his deputy.

“I think we’re going to have to keep looking over our shoulders for Worthy’s lot.”

“Worried, boss?”

He shrugged. He was still feeling a surge of confidence after the decision of the aldermen. “Just be careful, and don’t tell anyone anything.”

“There’s not a lot to tell,” Sedgwick pointed out. He reached for the bread and took a large bite.

“We’ll get there,” the Constable reassured him, “and we’ll do it first.”

“Right, so what do you want me to do now?” Sedgwick asked, his mouth full.

“Question the whores again, see if they’ve seen anyone strange,” Nottingham told him. “I doubt you’ll get anything from Worthy’s girls, but there are plenty more out there. Tell them what you remember about him and see if it rings any bells. Maybe someone’s seen him.”