The Broken Token (12 page)

Then there was another knock in the middle of the night.

The dream had been vivid, although he couldn’t remember it once he was awake. The hammering at the door was like Monday night all over again and immediately he knew what
had happened. He pulled on a pair of breeches, took the cudgel from the bedside, and went to open the door.

Sedgwick was standing there, wild-eyed, hair streaming, his face flushed. “Another one,” he announced.

He was always the one they told first.

Nottingham blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes and force himself to full wakefulness. Another murder. Dear Christ, he thought with sudden panic, had he been wrong about Carver?

“Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit.” His mind was racing. “Where? Who?”

“A man and a girl again,” Sedgwick replied, breathless from running. “In Turk’s Head Yard.”

“Right, you know what to do. Get Brogden and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

He dressed, pulling on waistcoat, stockings, coat and shoes, then set out at a fast walk through the darkness. By the time he’d cleared Timble Bridge his mind was focused. He prayed it
might not be the same killer, a coincidence, but in his bones he knew it couldn’t be anyone else.

Turk’s Head Yard ran off Briggate, just a few yards down from the Moot Hall. Sedgwick had left a man with a torch to watch over the bodies, and he pulled at his forelock as Nottingham
approached.

“Anyone been near them?”

“No one, sir. A few curious, like, but none of them wanted to get that close to the corpses.”

“Right. Start asking around. I want to know if anyone heard anything at all, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was the same scenario as before, the girl sprawled face down, legs apart, with the man on top as if taking her from behind. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could wait until the
coroner had given them his cursory examination.

The Constable paused and looked around him. This yard was a far cleaner place than Queen Charlotte’s Court; its houses were cramped together around the Turk’s Head Inn, but carefully
tended around a path of swept flagstones. It was the kind of place where artisans lived, joiners and masons, families with incomes and aspirations. For them a murder like this would be an affront.
This time, he thought, it was possible that some houseproud folk had seen and heard something. For now, however, although he sensed they were awake, they were keeping behind their locked doors.

Sedgwick arrived with Brodgen. As the coroner bent to examine the bodies, Nottingham took his assistant aside.

“Who found them?”

“Our man there,” Sedgwick answered. “He was doing his rounds and came down here. As soon as he saw them he came to find me at home, and I ran for you.”

The Constable nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin, looking at the shuttered windows around them.

“I want you to talk to everyone in the yard. Go house to house before it gets light. A place like this you’ll probably find them all at home. It’s small enough you should be
able to cover it all. There must still have been someone awake at the Turk’s Head. Someone must be able to tell us something.”

“Right.”

He was considering his next course of action when Brogden approached.

“From the look of them, I’d say another whore and a farmer,” he said distastefully after a brief glance, his mouth pursing. Tonight his clothes looked dishevelled, hastily
thrown on, and he’d left his wig at home. He bent over to give a rough examination of the corpses. “Killed by a knife, the same as the last two you dragged me out to see,” the
coroner described impatiently. “But it can’t have been too long ago, they’re still fairly warm.”

“Anything else?” Nottingham asked.

Brogden rose and shook his head.

“Go ahead and look for yourself. They’re dead, Constable, that’s all you need me to say. And with that, I’m going back to my bed.” He put the hat on his head and
walked out of the court.

Nottingham detailed men to carry the bodies to the jail, then examined the ground once they’d gone. There was very little blood. Once again they hadn’t been killed where they were
found, although given the place, that didn’t surprise him. Whores and their clients wouldn’t dare use a respectable place like this for tupping.

But they hadn’t been dead long, and it had only been an hour at most since they were discovered. They couldn’t have been murdered far away. At first light he’d send men out
combing the area. He realised that even if they found the site it might tell him nothing. Yet it was better than not knowing. Everything, or anything, could be important.

He sat at his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to summon up the will to face the corpses in the cold cell. It was barely dawn; a cloudy grey sky promised dull
weather after yesterday’s sun.

Finally he sighed and stood to do his duty.

He was almost scared to gaze at their faces in case he saw someone else he knew. But both of these were strangers.

Brogden had been right about the man. He was in his mid-thirties, as far as Nottingham could judge. The clothes were better than any labourer could afford, but still country cut and stitched at
home, the seams awkward and uneven, the breeches tight around stout, muscled thighs. Blood had turned the material to a rust colour from a pair of deep stab wounds in the chest. The dead man had a
florid face, reddened by exposure to the weather, and his hands were well calloused, nails cracked and short, with dirt ingrained into the skin.

The girl couldn’t have been above eighteen. Even in life no one would have called her pretty; there were extensive pox marks on her cheeks and an old white scar on her chin. She’d
been a scrawny reed of a thing with bones poking through her flesh: scarcely a decent meal in her life, he imagined. Her dress was a faded blue, cut low to expose most of her tiny breasts.
She’d also received two cuts, one to her stomach and another between her ribs.

Who were they, he wondered. He’d doubtless learn the man’s name soon enough, when a wife came looking for her errant husband. But the girl might remain anonymous forever. The chances
of kin, or even someone who cared enough to find out where she’d gone, were small.

It chilled him to know there was someone in Leeds who’d do this to people. Not just once but again – and more, he was certain, if he had the chance. It had to be the work of a
lunatic. No sane man would kill a couple in cold blood that way.

Nottingham looked at the bodies again, rubbing his chin as his mind worked through the possibilities. Unless there was some unlikely connection between this unknown farmer and Morton, someone
was randomly killing whores and the men with them.

He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed it wasn’t Carver.

The sound of the jail door roused him. Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, shaking his head to keep himself awake.

“What did you find?” the Constable asked.

“You mean besides the fact that hard work for godly souls means an undisturbed night’s sleep?” Sedgwick responded bitterly. “I think they were more offended that people
had been killed on their doorsteps than anything else.”

“And were any of the good citizens able to give you information?”

“A couple admitted they heard noises, but ‘the middle of the night’ was as exact as they could be. And since their houses were locked up tight, they didn’t
look.”

“What about the inn?”

“Closed early, not much trade. All in their beds and asleep.”

“Whoever’s doing this is either lucky or very canny,” Nottingham pondered. “He picks his spots well, places where no one will care or no one wants to know.”

“It’s definitely the same man, then?”

“Has to be. Killed by a knife, same position.” Could he have predicted and prevented this? he asked himself – although inside he knew he couldn’t.

Sedgwick yawned and stretched slowly.

“It means the killer didn’t single out Morton and Pamela,” Nottingham continued. “He’s murdering prostitutes and the men who’ve bought their
services.”

He looked pointedly at his deputy, and Sedgwick’s eyes widened at the implications. “Once the pimps and procurers realise that they’re all going to think the
competition’s doing it.”

“Exactly,” the Constable said glumly. “So they’ll be killing each other and the whores will be terrified. And don’t forget our friends on the Corporation,” he
added acidly. “They like their regular tumbles, too.”

“What are we going to do?”

Nottingham sighed and shook his head.

“We’d better find him, John. As fast as we can.” He hesitated, grateful Sedgwick hadn’t mentioned the name yet, then said, “I’m going to discover where Carver
was last night.”

He’d sent Sedgwick home for a few hours’ sleep, after instructing him to send men out to search for the new killing ground. He needed his deputy, but he wanted his
mind fresh and sharp, not raw after too many hours of work. He should have been resting himself, but his brain wouldn’t slow down. His eyes were gritty as he rubbed them. Along with
weariness, he felt self-doubt beginning to creep in. What if Carver was the killer, and he’d let him walk away to commit two more murders? He’d told Sedgwick he’d live with the
guilt, but words were cheap. He’d been wrong before, and more than once. That had been over petty crimes, though, not murder. Murders, he corrected himself soberly. Murders.

Next door to the jail, the landlord of the White Swan was cleaning off the benches in a lacklustre fashion. The patrons were never too particular, so he didn’t care too
much, either. Quiet morning drinkers were scattered around the place as the Constable walked in. A few heads turned to glance at the newcomer, then returned to their mugs of ale or wine. The
landlord nodded his head in greeting.

“Early for you, Mr Nottingham.”

The Constable offered a thin, weary smile.

“If only drinking would get rid of all my problems, Michael.”

“But you’ll have something?”

Michael Harding moved behind the bar, wiping his hands on his apron. He was a carefree sort, at least until someone crossed him. Then his tongue and his fists erupted like a sudden storm on
anyone who deserved it. As soon as he was done, the mild, easy manner returned. His way kept the tavern quiet and generally peaceful, but Nottingham often wondered just how far below the surface
the temper really lurked.

“I don’t imagine you’ve come in here for a restful hour,” Harding said as the Constable sipped from the tankard.

“I think I last had one of those about twenty years ago, Michael.” Nottingham laughed, but to his ears it sounded forced. “Seen much of George Carver lately?”

“What’s the old bugger been up to now?” Harding drew himself some ale and leaned against the bar. “Heard you had him in yesterday.”

Nottingham smiled again. Gossip spread like seeds on the wind in Leeds.

“We had a chat,” he admitted, trying not to give anything away.

“Aye, he told me all about it. Came in here after you let him go. Said he needed a drink, but when does George not need one?” Harding winked.

“Did he stay long?”

The landlord cocked his head to think.

“Till ten, perhaps. He’d had a fair few by then.”

“How was he?”

Harding shrugged. “Moaning a bit, got a little loud a couple of times. Didn’t cause any trouble, though. You must have scared him.”

“But not sobered him, obviously.”

Harding gave a braying laugh.

“I doubt if God himself could do that, Mr Nottingham.”

“Was he going anywhere else?” Nottingham tossed out the question.

Harding shrugged once more. “Not my business. He’d spent good money here, that’s all I care about.”

To his surprise, Nottingham discovered he’d almost drained the mug. He finished it in one long swallow and brushed back his fringe.

“Well, no rest for the wicked, or for those of us who have to try and stop them. Thank you for the drink, and the information.”

“What’s George done, then?” Harding asked as the Constable walked away.

“I’m not sure he’s done anything. I hope not, anyway,” Nottingham replied truthfully and let the door close behind him.

That accounted for some of Carver’s movements, he thought, stopping on the corner to allow an overloaded farm cart to turn from Vicar Lane into Kirkgate. But he’d have gone on
somewhere else. That was his way, to drink himself into insensibility every night. He assessed the options. There was the Old King’s Head, the Ship, the New King’s Head and even the
Talbot, all within a distance Carver could stagger if necessary. And of course the Turk’s Head. Nottingham sighed; he’d have to check them all.

It was a thankless business. For different reasons, most of the landlords had no great love of the law, and brought varying degrees of co-operation to their talks. But an hour later no one had
admitted to seeing Carver the previous night and he was willing to believe them; it would be such a foolish thing to lie about.

One thing was certain; tonight they’d talk to George Carver again, and Nottingham dreaded the meeting.

John Sedgwick could rarely sleep during the day. He always went hopeful to his bed, but if it was light outside rest rarely came. Today was no different. Instead he watched his
wife and baby across the room from his straw pallet on the floor. James was running across the floorboards, chasing dust motes that glistened in the light while Annie mended his shirt.

He closed his eyes and tried to will his brain to stop thinking, but the questions in it refused to go away. Why had the boss let Carver go? The man had to be guilty. He trusted Nottingham, but
was certain he’d been wrong; the two new bodies proved it. But he couldn’t gloat; he’d seen the Constable’s face when he heard the news, the way it fell as he realised what
it meant. There was no victory in that. At least finding Carver would be easy.

Finally he was able to drift away and doze for a few minutes until James began to cry and Annie swept him on to her lap to feed him from the breast.

They were luckier than many, he thought. Their room was a decent size and they didn’t have to share it. Since he earned regular money they never went hungry. They had clothes that were
more than rags, although he’d love to be able to afford a newer pair of breeches for himself and a better dress for Annie. Still, that would come. This was a long way from running wild on the
streets as he’d been when he was a youngster.