The Broken Token rn-1 Page 4

  “There’s something you’d better know, John. That whore was once our servant.”

  “Oh?” Sedgwick raised his eyebrows. The gesture tilted a small knife scar beside his mouth and gave him a ghoulish smile. “Did you have to turn her out?”

  Nottingham gazed at him levelly. “She left nine years ago to marry a farm labourer. Evidently she came back to Leeds a year back, after he died.”

  Sedgwick lowered his eyes. That explained a lot, he thought.

  “Sorry, boss,” he apologised hurriedly, “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Do you think she’s important in this?”

  “I don’t know,” the Constable admitted with a baffled shake of his head. For now he knew very little. “But we’re going to find out. She used to be called Pamela Watson, then she was Pamela Malham out in Chapel Allerton. See what you can find about her,” he ordered briskly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I talked to Rawlinson earlier. He said the preacher went out for a walk after supper last night. I want to know who saw him, where and when.” Nottingham paused, looking worried. “The Mayor’s going to want the person who killed the preacher. Leeds has to look respectable and safe. And I want the bastard who killed Pamela.”

  He needed to know more about Daniel Morton. Nothing the preacher had told Rawlinson could be taken at face value; words could be twisted into so many fabulous shapes. So in his best hand Nottingham composed a letter to the Constable of Oxford, asking for any information about Morton’s background and character, then dispatched it to leave with a coach the following morning.

  With the state of the roads it could be a fortnight before he heard anything. Hopefully he’d have the killings solved long before he received word, but it would all contribute to building a picture. With no immediate leads he’d snatch at every scrap of knowledge he could gather.

  Nottingham sat back in his chair, concentrating, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He barely noticed the afternoon tumult of the street outside, the carters cursing at each other as they angled for room on Kirkgate, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the constant bristle of conversation and the cries of vendors as they tried to sell out their wares for the day.

  He was groping in the dark at the moment; he needed a way into the maze of this mystery. All he had were the bodies of two apparently unconnected people who’d been murdered together. He needed something… anything.

  Finally he stood up. He headed down Briggate in firm, concentrated strides. Just before Leeds Bridge he turned on to Swinegate, walking past the King’s Mill with its wheels still loudly and busily grinding corn into flour, then along a row of cramped, dilapidated cottages and artisan dwellings that looked on the verge of toppling over. A cobbler had his goods displayed in the wide front window of a house, the sound of his hammer against the last echoing across the street as he worked. Heat escaped like a thick sheet from the blacksmith’s forge, while next door a stable reeked of horse dung as an ostler’s boy shovelled the steaming mess on to a larger pile against the wall. Servants shopped late for their mistresses, talking and laughing loudly as they passed, enjoying the brief respite from the grind of their chores. Another frontage was piled with chandlers’ goods — coiled ropes, canvas duck, and all manner of items for the barges that plied the Aire. Outside the door, two women, both haggard and old before their time, chatted earnestly as their children played in the dirt, close to the puddles and mud where people had slopped the contents of the chamber pots into the street that morning. Somewhere in an upstairs room a baby was yelling, its cries going unheeded.

  Without stopping to knock or announce himself, Nottingham slipped through a small door into a house that reeked foully of sweat and excrement. Thin light came through a dirty window, showing a pair of boys, neither of them more than five, their faces grimed almost black, playing on the filthy floor. A woman of indeterminate age sat on a chair in the corner, her eyes closed, oblivious to the world, an empty cup of gin on the table beside her.

  He followed the passage through to the kitchen, a tumbledown affair that had been added to the house sometime in the past hundred years and never cleaned since the day it was built. The man he was seeking would be there, enjoying the sun through the window and the heat of the cooking fire.

  Amos Worthy was leaning against a wall, eyeing a girl who stood in the centre of the room. She kept glancing up at him nervously, her face blushing red from his gaze, scarcely a day over thirteen. Seeing her, Nottingham thought of Emily, safe and sheltered at home. This lass had probably just arrived from one of the villages, hungry and in need of the only work she could find in the city.

  Worthy was a procurer, one who ran many of the prostitutes in Leeds. By rights he should have been before the Assizes many times over, convicted and hanged or transported to America. But several of the city’s aldermen used his whores; he provided them with girls and in return they kept him safe from the law. His finger was firm on the pulse of the city’s crime.

  Worthy turned his head, saw the Constable, and casually instructed the girl to come back later that evening, watching as she scuttled away.

  Although he had to be well into his sixties, Worthy still cut a powerful figure. He was an inch or two taller than Nottingham, with a stiff, straight back and a barrel chest. His nose had been broken and badly reset so often that it curved awkwardly and unevenly across his face.

  Two of the Constable’s men had once worked for Worthy, and told with awe how the man always relished a fight, first into the conflict with fists and boots flailing and last to leave, his cheeks flushed with blood and battle lust. His vicious reputation went beyond men; Worthy was also ruthless with his girls. If one didn’t do as she was told, he beat her bloody with his own hands. A repeat offence brought cuts from the razor he kept in his waistcoat pocket. If there was ever a third instance, the girl simply disappeared.

  “Mr Nottingham,” he said lazily. “A pleasure to see you here.”

  There was no trepidation in his eyes, merely a mocking smile. Worthy was a rich man, even if he spent little of his wealth on his clothes or his surroundings, and even less on his girls. Yet no matter how full his coffers or however many favours the people who ran Leeds owed him, his profession and low birth made him socially unacceptable. However important he was, the order of things kept him at arm’s length — but within easy reach.

  “I’m sure you heard about the murders last night,” Nottingham began bluntly.

  “Always unfortunate when people are killed,” Worthy agreed, calmly picking at a tooth with his thumbnail. “Especially when one of them is a guest in our city. But it’s nothing to do with me, Constable.”

  He grinned, holding up a tiny piece of food for inspection before wiping it on his greasy coat.

  “You deal in girls,” Nottingham pointed out. “She was a prostitute.”

  Worthy shrugged carelessly. “Another girl. You know there’s no shortage of them.” He fixed the Constable with a pointed gaze. “If she’d been one of mine you’d have heard about it by now.” He made it sound like a threat.

  “Did you know her?”

  “Of her.” He chose his words carefully. “She came to me last year, but I turned her away. She was too old for the tastes of my customers. They prefer someone… younger.”

  “Like the girl who was just here,” Nottingham said, keeping his tone deliberately even.

  “Exactly, Constable,” Worthy smiled sharply, showing jagged teeth. “Pretty little thing, ain’t she? Still got her youth, and maybe even her maidenhead, too. She’ll be good for three or four years yet… as long she does what I tell her.”

  The Constable let Worthy’s bait dangle between them for a few heartbeats. Then he calmly asked, “Can you tell me anything about the girl who was killed?”

  The procurer considered the question before answering.

  “I used to see her at the Ship sometimes. I don’t think anyone ran her, I’d have heard if they did. But for the little she’d earn, it would be a waste of time. I couldn’t even tell you her name.”

  “Pamela.” The Constable supplied the name firmly.

  Worthy nodded as if he’d learned an interesting new fact.

  “One way or another, they all die.” He paused before adding, “You should know that all too well, Mr Nottingham.”

  The Constable stared hard at Worthy, wondering at the meaning beneath the words. He desperately wanted to smash the smugness from Worthy’s face, but knew better than to do it. He breathed in and out slowly and said, “I’d be interested in knowing if she had any friends, or any regular customers, anyone who knew her.”

  “You know me, always of service.” This time the grin was wolfish. “If I find anyone, I’ll let you know.”

  8

  Nottingham had scarcely returned to the jail before a messenger arrived, summoning him to an audience with the Mayor. He’d expected it, and sooner rather than later, but he’d still hoped for a small reprieve, at least until tomorrow, when he might have known a little more about the murders.

  Edward Kenion had only been sworn into office ten days before, and this would be their first official meeting. Kenion would be eager to establish his authority as Mayor, and that meant he would want a quick solution to the preacher’s murder to gain the confidence of the merchants and the Corporation.

  Grimly, Nottingham ran a hand through his hair, and vainly tried to brush the worst of the dirt off his old coat before walking over to the Moot Hall.

  The elaborate two-storey building stood like an island in the middle of Briggate, forcing traffic to flow around it. In the cellar lay a dank, secure jail for prisoners committed to the Quarter Sessions for serious crimes, a place to pass the days until sentence of transportation or the noose. The ground floor was given over to the Shamble
s, the city’s butchers’ shops. Around them the paving stones were permanently discoloured by blood, and a small pack of salivating dogs circled hungrily all day, fighting as they hunted for offal and scraps.

  Upstairs, however, it was a different world. Everything was quiet and luxurious. The wood was polished to a deep, lustrous brown, and the rooms had thick Turkey carpets to hush the footfalls. The business of the city was carried out and the future of its citizens decided in meetings and unreported conversations. The windows, appropriately, looked down on the bustle of Leeds.

  Kenion was waiting for him, not yet quite at home in the Mayor’s chamber. He’d hold the position until next September, then another alderman would take over for the following twelve months. Nottingham had seen them come and go, some venal, a few good, most just taking it as their reward for faithful service.

  To his eyes Kenion appeared nondescript, a man of average height, with a pale, astonished face and hook nose, neither thin nor fat, a fellow who seemed to disappear into his wig and clothes. But that anonymity only made him all the more dangerous, the Constable decided. He’d want to make his mark if he could. What happened now would set the tone between them for the next year, and they both knew it.

  “Sit down.” Kenion gestured at a chair, and Nottingham folded himself into it. The Mayor remained standing.

  “I’ve had Alderman Rawlinson here,” he began slowly.

  “About Mr Morton’s death, of course,” the Constable said smoothly, hoping he could put the Mayor on the back foot. “A terrible business.”

  “Yes.” Kenion seemed a little nonplussed and Nottingham continued to take the initiative.

  “I understand how devastated he must feel,” Nottingham glided on. “Mr Rawlinson was in shock when I broke the news to him this morning. After all, he invited the man here to perform good works. Then Morton was abused while preaching, and finally murdered.”

  “What are you doing to find the culprit?” Kenion asked briskly, trying to retake control of the discussion.

  “Everything we can.” Nottingham held out his hands, palms up. “We don’t know much yet. But I’ve got men searching for the place where the murders took place, before the bodies were moved to the yard. And I have people trying to trace Mr Morton’s movements last night.”

  The Mayor nodded in approval.

  “Good, good.”

  Nottingham hesitated deliberately before continuing.

  “I understand the vicar and some of the aldermen didn’t approve of Mr Morton, sir.”

  Kenion looked up sharply, a blush rising from his neck.

  “I believe there had been a few words,” he admitted in a quiet voice.

  “I’ll need to find out more about that.” It was an opportunity to press, and he was going to take it.

  “You don’t seriously think they could have had anything to do with it, do you?” Kenion sounded appalled at the mere idea.

  “I don’t know. But if I don’t follow up all the possibilities I’m hardly doing my duty to the city,” Nottingham pointed out.

  “Of course,” the Mayor agreed after a moment’s awkward consideration. “But you realise this is a crime that has to be solved. And I want it solved quickly.”

  “I understand.” The Constable rose from his seat, bowed to the Mayor, and left. “I want it solved too.”

  There’d been no mention of Pamela, he thought without surprise.

  Outside, he breathed deeply. It had gone well, all things considered, and had been mercifully brief. Thank God Kenion was still new and uncertain of his power. That would pass soon enough, and he’d become as demanding as everyone else who’d ever worn the chain of office.

  Nottingham wove his way across the road, between the carts clogging the street, negotiating a path among clumps of stinking horse and cow dung that hadn’t been cleaned up yet, then walked purposefully back down Kirkgate, past the graceful weight of the White Cloth Hall where the Tuesday afternoon buying and selling was already in session, to the parish church.

  He’d known it all his life, but its size still gave him pause, a huge grandeur against the sky, the spire reaching towards heaven. When he was young he’d truly believed it was the house of God, that He lived there, unseen but all-knowing. It had been a good thing for a child to believe, but he’d grown out of it quickly enough. He still loved the building, though, its stone blackened by the city’s soot, and he hoped that the words and hymns there went directly to God’s ears.

  The tall, thick oak doors stood open, but he didn’t enter. Instead he followed a small path around the side of the building and knocked on a smaller door beside the transept.

  It was opened by a man about his own height in a cassock of richly-dyed black wool, a short wig perched squarely atop a head with deep-set, suspicious eyes and strong, handsome features. The new curate, Nottingham surmised. He’d heard one had been appointed, but not that he’d already arrived. He looked to be in his early twenties, and had a haughty scowl on his face. A younger son with money and connections, Nottingham thought, serving a brief apprenticeship here. Soon he’d probably be appointed to his own expansive living.

  “I’d like to see Reverend Cookson.”

  The curate cast a dismissive eye over Nottingham’s clothes, making a swift judgement.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, failing to keep the sneer from his voice. Nottingham looked directly at the man.

  “My name’s Richard Nottingham. I’m the Constable of Leeds.”

  “Oh?” It was apparent that the curate didn’t believe him.

  “I’m here on official business,” the Constable stated firmly. “A matter of murder.”

  The man pursed his lips, weighing whether the visitor was telling the truth.

  “The Reverend isn’t here,” he admitted finally, and Nottingham felt his fuse start to run short.

  “And did he happen to confide in you where he was going?” he asked acidly, wanting to humiliate the curate for his assumptions. “Or when he’d be back?”

  The other man lowered his eyes for a moment.

  “No.” He barely concealed the anger in the word.

  “No, I don’t imagine he did,” the Constable said with satisfaction. “Tell him I called, and that I’ll be back tomorrow. I need to see him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Crandall,” the curate replied haughtily. The door closed silently on well-oiled hinges and Nottingham was left with the empty quiet of the churchyard, broken only by the small twittering of sparrows in an oak tree.

  There was little more he could do today. Sedgwick was unlikely to have anything to report before morning, and if he turned up anything important, he’d come to the house. The lad would be a good Constable some day.

  He made his way across Timble Bridge; the beck below was not much more than a trickle after the long, dry days of summer. Away from the heart of the city there was stillness in the air, and he relished the absence of noise assaulting his ears. God willing, he’d have peace tonight. But first he had to tell Mary about Pamela, and that wouldn’t be easy.

  She emerged from the kitchen, thick smudges of flour on her apron, hands and face, surprised and happy to see him so early, and guiltily Nottingham realised he was rarely home before dark.

  He embraced her, closing his eyes to smell her hair and feel her cheek against his shoulder. Only when she started to pull away did he realise he’d been holding her longer than usual.

  “You were off with the lark this morning. It must have been important,” Mary said finally, giving him a curious look.

  “When isn’t it?” he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

  “They expect far too much of you,” she told him seriously as he followed her into the kitchen.

  “Well, this time they were right.” He poured a cup of ale from the jug on the table. “A double murder,” he said solemnly.

  “Oh God, Richard.”

  She was a Constable’s wife, but even after all these years she’d never come to terms with the violence that was part of his work. He rarely told her about the crimes; if she knew even a fraction of the truth she’d be horrified. But this time he knew he had no choice.