Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

A man with a dazed expression, blood flowing from a cut on his cheek, wandered down the other side of the road. Nottingham made no move to stop him. He’d learned long ago that it was best to leave people be wherever possible. He had earned too many scars by trying to help.

Soon the bells would begin ringing for the first of the Sunday services, carillons from St Peter’s, St John’s and Holy Trinity bringing out the pious and the not so holy alike to fill the pews and pray for the redemption of heaven.

Ordinarily he’d have been there himself, wearing his best suit of clothes and leading Mary and the girls into the parish church. But this week he had too much to organise, too many people to contact; heaven would wait for another seven days.

At the jail, Sedgwick was kicking out the wounded drunks who’d been pulled in for their own protection and arranging for the worst offenders to be transferred to the cells under the Moot Hall to await trial. His sling was grubby, discoloured by soot and smeared with food.

“Is your arm any better?”

“It’s not as bad as it was.” He tried to raise it and the Constable saw the pain fly across his face.

“Busy night?”

Sedgwick shrugged casually.“No worse than usual, really. The only problem is the cutpurse. Someone tried to stop him and he pulled a knife.”

The Constable raised an eyebrow, waiting for more information.

“No harm done,” Sedgwick continued. “He just showed it then ran. But at least we know we’re looking for a kid now. About twelve or thirteen, fair hair, grubby.”

“That’s about half the poor lads in Leeds.” Nottingham snorted. “Anything more?”

The deputy shook his head. “The man who reported it was all shaken up, poor old bugger. Still, it’s more than we had. I’ve put the word out.”

“Good.”

The room smelt like morning in a tavern, the sour, raw stench of stale beer and puke hanging in the air. He opened the door to let in some cleaner air and Sedgwick smiled wryly.

“Always like this on a Sunday, boss.”

Nottingham remembered all too well; for many years, before he was Constable, he’d covered this duty himself.

“At least you don’t have to sit through an hour’s sermon,” he pointed out.

“The way some of this lot go on it’s not much better.”

Nottingham rubbed his hands together. “Right, today we find people who owe us,” he said. “You go west of Briggate, I’ll go east. Don’t take no for an answer. I want them out from ten tonight until three. And if anyone complains, remind them it’s a lot better than a day in the stocks or a fine.”

“You want them in the yards?”

“I want them everywhere, John,” Nottingham said with a firmness that surprised himself. “Let’s pray for some luck. If we can get twenty of them out there it should keep things quiet. More would be better.”

“The killer’s going to be on his guard after Friday.” Without thinking, Sedgwick rubbed his arm.

“I know,” Nottingham admitted, “but he still won’t be expecting this. If he’s planning on striking tonight, I want him stopped. Everywhere he turns he’ll see someone. He isn’t going to murder anyone else in Leeds.”

There was a hardness to his tone that made Sedgwick take a long, appraising look at his face. The Constable looked gaunt, with smudged circles under his eyes. The lines around them seemed deeper than usual, but they held no laughter or gentleness. He’d never appeared more determined, or more weary.

“Well,” Nottingham said finally. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

By now Sedgwick knew what to do. With no inns open on the Sabbath, the best time to find villains of any kind on Sunday was early in the morning. They’d be sleeping after a night of thieving or drinking, and the thumps and kicks on the door would rattle them into scared consciousness. He’d used it often before. It served to remind them who wielded the power in the city.

So far it had worked perfectly. Two of them had still been addled on ale, ready to agree to anything as long as they could return to their beds. Martin Grover had looked so guilty that he’d have said yes to carrying the devil around on his shoulders if only the Constable’s man would leave. A couple had taken some persuasion, but reminders of the offences they’d committed, including the ones they thought no one knew about, had quickly convinced them.

He knew Nottingham was out too, using exactly the same methods, pressuring people to join him, with no refusals allowed. This was going to be the biggest thing they’d attempted, and he only hoped it happened. Extracting promises was one thing, getting the people out there tonight would be another matter. There’d be excuses and illnesses, sliding off from their posts and whatever else they could think of. He’d end up being a sheepdog as much as anything else.

But that was fine. Activity would keep the murderer away. He needed quiet places. The whores would grumble at the intrusion and loss of business, but it might keep another one of them alive. And the pimps would complain tomorrow, but they were the least of his worries.

Sedgwick saw Adam Suttler striding briskly up Briggate, a prayer book in his hand as he led his family to St John’s. The little forger was another candidate for tonight; they’d certainly helped him enough in the past. He moved faster, catching up with Suttler by the Moot Hall.

“Morning, Adam.” He nodded at the book. “Off to make amends for the week’s bad deeds?”

Suttler grinned, showing a crooked row of chipped and missing teeth.

“Now, Mr Sedgwick, why would you be thinking that?”

“Happen because I’ve known you far too long.”

“I’m keeping myself out of trouble,” the man insisted, clasping the prayer book against his chest like a talisman. He tilted his head at the spire in the distance. “I go to church every Sunday, and I keep the commandments.”

“Only because there’s not one that says thou shalt not forge, Adam.” He laughed at his own wit. “I’ve got a job for you.”

Suttler raised his eyebrows high into his receding hairline.

“You’re going to be patrolling Leeds tonight.”

He stopped and turned towards the deputy.

“What?” he asked, his voice rising in astonishment. His head barely reached Sedgwick’s shoulders and it would be generous to call his muscles puny.

“We’re putting a load of men out on the streets tonight. We’re trying to catch the man who’s been killing the whores and their johns.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked nervously.

“Just be out there for a few hours. After ten, until about two or three.” Sedgwick relaxed and let an easy smile slide across his face. “That’s it, Adam. Nothing much.” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Look, we’ve saved you twice, haven’t we?”

Suttler nodded warily.

“Well, think of this as your way of saying thank you.” He paused, hardening his voice a little. “And it’s not meant as a choice.”

The man’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’ll be there,” he said. “I promise, Mr Sedgwick. Can I go to service now?”

By mid-afternoon he’d collected promises from fifteen men to do their duty. He wandered home to sleep for a while before returning to work in the evening. The room was empty; Annie and James had gone somewhere, and the fire was burned down to nothing in the grate.

Sedgwick sighed. With the sling and his stiff arm he couldn’t take off his clothes. Instead he settled down, fully dressed, the scratchy blanket pulled up high. He’d wake in plenty of time.

Nottingham had assembled his force, too. He’d persuaded gently where he could, and insisted where he had to. He knew that, at best, only two-thirds of them would appear, but that would be adequate.