The Broken Token (8 page)

“There’s Wilkins,” he suggested. “He’s not the sharpest lad, but he’s willing.”

“He’ll do,” Nottingham agreed. “Tell him to spend the day walking around and keeping his eyes open.”

“He’ll be doing it within the hour.”

The Constable sat back in his chair, framing his thoughts.

“We need to find out
why
Pamela and Morton were murdered, John. It looks like it had something to do with sex, but they were both fully dressed.” He shrugged helplessly.
“It could be someone trying to confuse us, or I could have got it all wrong. What do you think?”

Sedgwick chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered his reply.

“It must have something to do with sex,” he agreed with conviction. “It has to. He’d not have gone to all the trouble otherwise, dragging the bodies around like that to
make his point.”

“Go on.” Nottingham was giving his full attention, intrigued by where this might lead.

“Whoever did it can’t be right in t’ head. Laying them out like that, it’s a sick thing to do.”

“True,” the Constable agreed.

“They weren’t robbed,” Sedgwick continued, counting the points on his fingers, “so we can forget that.”

“So how do we find the killer?” Nottingham asked him bluntly.

“If we knew that, he’d be in the cells now, boss.”

A slow silence filled the room.

“I agree the murderer’s probably mad in some way,” Nottingham said finally, “but that just makes him more dangerous.”

The deputy digested the thought.

“We’d better find him soon, John.”

After Sedgwick had left, Nottingham sat quietly. In his head he went through every step he’d taken so far, wondering if he’d missed or ignored anything that could
hint at the murderer’s identity. Most people killed from passion or from drink, quite often the pair of them together. This was something very different, however, coming from the mind, not
the heart. Usually it took no more than a day to find a killer. But this time he could throw all his men into it and still not come up with a result. And the other business of the city – the
cutpurses, the thefts, the violence – wouldn’t stop just because he had to concentrate on this. Finally, exasperated, he shook his head, closed the door behind himself and began walking
back to the parish church.

This time the new curate didn’t ask his name, simply looked at him resentfully and escorted him into the vestry. The Reverend Cookson was at his desk, poring over a Bible and making notes
– doubtless for one of his interminable sermons, Nottingham thought. He glanced up as the Constable entered, laid down his quill, and straightened the expensive powdered wig that was already
perfectly perched on his head.

“I heard you were looking for me yesterday, Constable.”

“I was,” Nottingham confirmed. Unable to resist the dig, he added, “Your curate seemed to doubt my identity.”

Cookson had the grace to offer a slightly embarrassed smile, showing discoloured teeth in a large mouth.

“You’ll have to forgive Mr Crandall. He only arrived a short while ago and doesn’t know Leeds or its people yet. I think he’s more used to parochial ways.”

The Reverend had a rich, mellifluous voice, used to filling the nave with its rolling cadences on a Sunday, its sound almost too big for such a small room. Although he wasn’t a merchant,
Cookson’s position made him one of the most important men in the city, well paid as a shepherd of souls, his influence extending into every walk of life. Tall and thin, he had the
self-satisfied, smug look that Nottingham despised. For all that he was supposedly a man of God, Cookson was also a fighter, always eager to slyly grab a little more power or consolidate what he
already had.

“Now, what can I do for you, Constable?” he asked.

“You’ll have heard what happened to the visiting preacher?”

“I did.” The vicar sat back and crossed his arms. “A terrible business when someone serving God is murdered,” he said, but there was no great sympathy in his tone.
“Do you know who killed him?”

“Not yet, no,” Nottingham replied straightforwardly, his eyes fixed on the other man. “From what I’ve heard, I gather you didn’t approve of what he was
saying.”

Cookson raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to imply I might be a suspect in this death?”

Nottingham weighed his answer carefully.

“I rarely imply things, Reverend. If I have something to say I come right out and say it.”

Cookson examined the words for hidden meanings or barbs, then nodded.

“You’re right, of course. It was impossible to approve of someone who wanted to upset the social order in the name of religion.”

“And what was it he said that was so upsetting?”

“People like the late Mr Morton aim their words like missiles, Constable. They end up making the poor discontent with their lot, and that’s a dangerous thing, as you well
know.” He searched Nottingham’s face for a reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “When you have a man talking like that, it’s sowing the seeds of rebellion and revolution,
and that’s asking for trouble in a place like Leeds. The Jacobins up in Scotland would love to see confusion down here so they could march in.”

“Then perhaps you feel his death was a good thing?”

Cookson shook his head in vigorous denial, but the Constable could see the truth in his eyes.

“I never said that, Mr Nottingham. Every death, particularly one so violent, is a tragedy. But you saw the reaction he provoked on Saturday – and that was from the very people he was
supposed to comfort! We can’t have more scenes like that. It was almost a riot, man!”

And he was right, Nottingham knew. If they hadn’t hustled Morton away quickly, it would have been ugly.

“I’d planned to ask that the Mayor ban Mr Morton from speaking in public, for the safety of Leeds,” Cookson stated. “Then, of course, it became unnecessary.”

“I believe there were several merchants who agreed with you?”

The vicar look astonished at the question. “More than several – the majority, I’d imagine. The idea underlying Morton’s words is one that challenges the entire social
order. We may be equal in the eyes of God, but here on earth we all have our separate roles to fulfil. Some lead, others follow, and that’s the way it’s always been. To suggest to the
followers that maybe the whole idea is wrong is rather like letting a young child play with a lit candle. It’s irresponsible.”

And dangerous to those in power, Nottingham thought cynically. Yet it didn’t fully address Saturday’s events.

“But as you said, the people he came to help didn’t want to hear him, either. Why do you think that was?” he asked.

“The nature of man is essentially conservative, Constable, surely you’ve noticed that in your work?” The Reverend gave a short, broken smile. “People like the familiar,
the routine of the church. The followers are content to follow, it’s what they know, they’re comfortable with it. But if people like Morton repeat their message often enough, at some
point people will start to question things. Once that happens, the future becomes a lot less certain.”

“Mr Morton’s future became very certain,” Nottingham said flatly.

“Just because I didn’t want him preaching, that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.” Anger bristled like lightning across Cookson’s face.

“I never said it did, sir,” the Constable replied softly, defusing the tension. “There’s one other matter I’d like to bring up with you.”

“What’s that?”

“The girl who was with him.”

“A prostitute, from what I’ve heard,” the Reverend dismissed her.

“That’s right. She needs to be buried.”

Cookson looked up questioningly.

“Surely a pauper’s grave is adequate?”

“I’m paying for the funeral,” Nottingham announced without explanation.

The vicar looked as if he was about to say something, then stopped and nodded.

“Very well,” he agreed gracelessly. “Have her brought over and I’ll have someone take care of it.”

He hadn’t expected more from Cookson. The Reverend was a wily man, one who hoarded power, spending it only when absolutely necessary. He relished his position in the
city, so well established that he had no need to flaunt it. Nottingham didn’t care if he delegated Pamela’s funeral as long as she received a decent burial, and he felt no qualms on his
insistence.

The whores were plying their trade outside the taverns on Briggate. With no market, the street seemed almost quiet, the thick trudge of cartwheels on cobbles and the yells of drivers the main
backdrop. The air smelt of dung and smoke and offal, the smell of Leeds that Nottingham had known all his life.

Just past the Ship, where a passage opened like a crack in the wall to a teeming court, he stopped to talk to a prostitute who was idly watching the passing men. Polly had a proud face. At
twenty she’d been doing this for seven years, but there was still a mischievous spark in her eyes. The life hadn’t beaten her down yet.

He stood so that his shadow fell across her face, and she turned, suddenly aware of his presence.

“Mr Nottingham,” she said with a smile that looked surprisingly happy. “Out for some morning fun wi’ a lass?” Her wink was so deliberately outrageous that he
couldn’t help but grin at her.

“Doubt my missus would like that too much, Pol.” His voice became serious. “I’m looking for a little help.”

“Go on, then,” the girl replied. She pulled a threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders as a light breeze began to funnel down from the north.

“You heard about the girl who was murdered the other night?”

Polly’s expression saddened.

“Show me someone who doesn’t know about that by now, poor bloody cow. It’s been all over the place since yesterday morning. What’s so special about her, then?”

“She was our maid once, a long time ago.”

He saw the initial disbelief in her eyes and kept staring at her until her expression softened again.

“Pamela, wasn’t it?” she said, and he nodded. “I used to see her. Quiet girl, you’d hardly know she was there. You’ve got to put yourself forward in this game
if you’re going to make any money.”

“Do you know where she lived?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, luv, I don’t.” She shrugged. “No reason, you see. Do you want me to ask around?”

“Please, yes.” He brought a penny from his breeches pocket. “If you find out, send a boy to find me.” He was about to walk off when her voice stopped him.

“Mr Nottingham? I didn’t know her, but I’m sure your Pamela were a good lass.”

He smiled sadly.

“She was, Polly. She was that.”

He talked to several contacts, whores, touts and con men, before walking back to the jail. He’d have the information soon, he knew. Pamela might have had very few friends, but people knew
her face, and someone would know where she lived. All he needed was a little patience.

Back at his desk he wrote a note to Rawlinson, releasing Morton’s body, and arranged for an undertaker to prepare Pamela’s corpse and carry it to the church.

More than twenty four hours had gone by since the murder and he was no further along than when he’d first seen the bodies. By his calculations he had another day before the Mayor would
demand results. He needed some bloody answers.

It took two full hours before a boy ran breathlessly into the jail to give him Pamela’s address, longer than he’d expected in a city of seven thousand people. He
threw the lad a farthing before striding out up Kirkgate and crossing Briggate in the shadow of the Moot Hall.

The place was a step up from Queen Charlotte’s Court, but only a small one. Unpaved, it stank of night soil the residents had thrown out. Long ago, Nottingham mused, this would have been
part of the garden of a grand house. Now the only thing it grew was people, bunched together like weeds in a neglected, overgrown lot. He’d spent half his childhood living in places like
this.

If anyone had ever cared for these buildings, that time had been far in the past. A couple seemed to be collapsing in on themselves, propped up by scavenged pieces of wood. The others seemed
little better, held together by a mixture of faith and despair.

The boy had told him the front door of the house he wanted was white, but that was a generous term. What remained was a grimy, tired grey, and the wood was so warped that opening it became a
battle.

Downstairs in the cellar, he’d been told, the third door, and he went, the smell of unwashed bodies, illness and hopelessness around him. He knew places like this all too well. You could
leave them but they never left you, sticking inside the body and the mind forever, like an itching burr, and squeezing out hope. Nothing good could ever happen in this kind of place.

He tried the handle of the third door, surprised when it opened; most residents of places like this had precious little but locked up what they had. Anything Pamela had owned would be the
property of others by now.

He came face to face with a burly man nearly as tall as himself. His blue eyes were filled with wildness, and a bushy, uncombed beard cascaded on to his chest.

“Who are you, eh?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation, the words delivered in a long slur as his alcohol breath filled the room. A nearly-empty jug of gin sat on the
floor next to a straw-filled pallet, the room’s only furniture. Nails had been hammered into the walls, and an old coat, worn through at the elbows, hung on one.

The man came closer.

“I said, who the fuck are you?”

Nottingham raised his palms in conciliation and smiled cautiously.

“I think I have the wrong room.”

In the face of an apology the man seemed to deflate.

“Unless the bastard’s let it to you, too.”

“How long have you been here?” the Constable asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Since last night.” He gestured expansively, legs wobbling. “All mine, until next week when I can’t pay his rent.”

“And where’s the man who runs the house?”

“Upstairs.” The man paused, scrambling down to his knees to drink greedily from the gin as if it were nectar. “Top two floors.” He paused again. “The king’s
palace,” he added enigmatically.