The Broken Token (13 page)

Sedgwick sighed and rolled over. Sleep was a terrible thing when you needed it and you never got enough of it. His head ached and his body felt tight. Finally he admitted to himself that rest
just wasn’t going to happen and got up off the bed.

“I’ve finished your shirt,” Annie said sullenly, handing it to him.

He put it on, thankful there was no longer a gap in the seam between sleeve and body. He wanted to say something to her, but wasn’t sure what. These days every word he uttered seemed to
incite a row, and at the moment he couldn’t take that.

Annie had never been an easy girl to live with. But once, not so long ago, they’d enjoyed a few happy times among the fiery arguments. They’d laughed. Everything had changed after
James was born. She seemed to sink into herself then, finding a little world that only had room for herself and the baby. Now Sedgwick could barely put a foot right by his own hearth. He remembered
when he was twelve or thirteen, imagining how easy life must be for grown-ups, with none of the problems he’d had as a lad. Well, he was wrong there. Now he looked back he felt that childhood
was carefree, full of days spent playing and laughing, even if he knew there were plenty of dark, hungry times in there too.

He looked at Annie, giving all her concentration to James as he sucked greedily on her nipple. He remembered the way she’d looked when they first met, glowing like a banked fire, the way
she’d been willing to enjoy his bad jokes and find enough pleasure in simply being with him. Now James claimed all her time and affection.

He was a grand lad, there was no doubt about that, and Sedgwick was proud of him, strangely happy at what he’d created. From the time he was born, people had said he looked like his
father, although Sedgwick could never see it himself in the chubby cheeks and thick chin. He looked like a baby, nothing more or less. But he’d started to take on some character, and at two
and a half had a very real, cheeky personality. When the nipper was a bit older they’d be able to do lots of things together. He’d teach him how to fish in the Aire, how to kick a ball
and all the other things boys did. And he’d send him to school so he came out with the education, with opportunities ahead of him. James would make something of himself.

Still holding the child to her breast, Annie stood and went to stir the pot that sat over the fire in the grate. A stew again tonight, the leftovers of yesterday’s meal which he
hadn’t been home to eat. God only knew if he’d be back to help finish it. There was work that needed doing, and if he couldn’t sleep he might as well do it.

She’d brushed most of the dirt off his breeches and coat, but they were both still in a sad state of repair. However, those were the only garments he had until he could afford more. Good
clothes would only be wasted in his line of work, anyway. By the end of a day they were always dirty, sometimes torn. These were fine, and, to give Annie her due, she could work magic with a needle
and make things last.

He tugged on his clothes, kissed James and Annie, then left. He was hungry, but there was little food in the house until he was paid and it seemed unfair to take any. He could scrounge a meal
from an inn or a pie seller; it was one of the few perks of the job.

Yesterday’s sun had given way to thick clouds and a feeling of rain. He made his way back to Turk’s Head Yard to look at it in the light. There was little to be seen. With the bodies
gone, everything existed more in his memory than in fact, illuminated by the torchlight of last night. Now there were only some stains on the flagstones of the yard that would fade with time.
Everything else was in its place, exactly what you’d expect from somewhere that strove for respectability the way this did, with the hushed sound of voices from the inn.

He walked on, looking for the two men he’d detailed to search for the murder ground. He found them up Briggate in the Ship, supping ale.

“You’d better have a good reason for being here,” he said sharply to one of them, a haggard, underfed youth named Johnson.

“We wanted somewhere to wait for you, Mr Sedgwick, seeing as you’d gone to get some sleep.” He winked, and his companion, a brawny, older man called Portman, nodded
agreement.

“Did you find the place?”

“Oh, aye, and a right bloody mess it is, too.” Johnson laughed stupidly at his own wit, showing a mouth with most of the teeth missing.

“Then you’d better drink up and show me, hadn’t you?” the deputy said testily.

The pair looked at each other, drained their mugs and stood. Eager to be moving, to find something, Sedgwick followed them.

It was in the old orchard just the other side of Lands Lane, perhaps a hundred yards from where the bodies had been left. The long grass under an ancient, gnarled tree was trodden down, the
earth dark and still a little sticky with blood. Flecks of it were sprayed dully on some of the windfall fruit on the ground.

“Did you find anything else here?” he asked.

Each man shook his head in turn.

“Right. Well done, lads. You go on now.”

Once he was alone, Sedgwick began combing through the undergrowth around the tree. He didn’t expect that Carver would have left anything, but he still needed to search and be sure. After
almost half an hour he gave up. Nothing. No buttons, scraps of cloth. Absolutely nothing that would help put the noose round the old drunk’s neck.

He made his way back to the jail, stopping only for the gift of a warm meat pie from the seller at the corner of Kirkgate and Briggate. Nottingham was at his desk, deep in thought, only looking
up after Sedgwick had collapsed into the other chair. He raised his eyebrows for a report.

“They were killed in that orchard by Lands Lane. Close enough to pull them to the yard easily.”

“Anything there?”

Sedgwick shook his head. “I searched it myself. Was there anything on the bodies?”

“Nothing to tell us who they were,” Nottingham replied in frustration. “I doubt we’ll ever know her name unless some pimp comes to complain about a missing
girl.”

“Oh aye, and it’ll snow in July next year.” Sedgwick pushed the last piece of pie into his mouth and stretched.

“I want you to go out and start talking to the pimps and procurers,” the Constable ordered. “Take a look at her, give them the description. One of them might say something.
After all, someone’s lost income with her gone.”

“Are you going to bring Carver back in?” he asked. It came out as an accusation, but he didn’t apologise.

Nottingham nodded very slowly. Sedgwick’s rebuke was perfectly justified.

“I’ll find him when he goes out this evening. I did some checking; he was next door until about ten. After that none of the inns remember seeing him.”

“Yes, boss.” Although he tried to remain grave, the deputy’s face seemed to light up.

“I daresay I’ll be getting another summons from his Worship today,” the Constable observed. “He’ll doubtless be concerned about the murders of respectable citizens
going unsolved.”

“And what about the whores?”

Nottingham smiled wryly.

“I suspect the Mayor and the corporation will only worry about them when they can’t get one.”

Carver, Nottingham thought when he was alone. Bloody Carver. Could he have been so wrong? Every sinew in his body had said the man wasn’t capable of murder. Even now he
found it hard to believe. So far there was nothing to connect him with these fresh killings. But if Carver had committed them… then perhaps it was time to quit this post, before the Mayor
dismissed him for incompetence. He tried to blink the tiredness from his eyes. He’d love to be away in his bed now, but there wasn’t going to be much sleep until all this was over.

The door of the jail opened tentatively and Nottingham looked up sharply, brought from his thoughts. A woman stepped in, glancing around nervously, as if unsure what evil she’d find inside
and bracing herself to face it. He stood and bowed slightly to her.

“I’m looking for the Constable,” she announced in a quavering voice.

“I’m the Constable,” he said, moving to hold the chair for her. She was about thirty-five but worn by age and work, in a homespun dress of fair quality – her best, he
guessed. She wore a woollen shawl around her shoulders, the fingers of one hand clutching it tightly at her neck. Her skin had the leathery look of someone who’d spent plenty of time out in
the fields, lines radiating from the corners of her eyes and mouth in a plain face, her eyes flickering around the room, frightened. She’d tucked her hair into a cap, but he could see strands
that had freed themselves, a mix of mousy brown and iron grey. He decided his farmer’s wife had found him.

“I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable of Leeds,” he told her formally, settling into his own seat. “Might I ask your name, mistress?”

“Nell Winters.” She blurted it out as her gaze took in the details of the room. He knew how forbidding it could look to innocent eyes: thick walls, the doors to the cells stout and
dark. It was a place for those who’d broken the laws, not those who lived by them. From the Constable’s office, spare and cramped, but at least warmed by a hearth, a corridor ran back
long the building’s single floor, past the heavy, locked oak doors of each of the five cells to the windowless mortuary room with its pair of stone slabs.

“I don’t think you’re a Leeds woman,” Nottingham prodded gently. “I don’t know your face.”

“No.” She tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. “We live in Alwoodley.” He knew the area slightly, four or five miles to the north of the city on the road to
Harrogate, with wooded hills and good grazing.

“You’re looking for your husband, perhaps?”

“Yes,” she admitted, and he saw she was glad at first that he’d understood without her having to explain. Then realisation flooded into her mind, and her hands were covering
her face as she said, “Oh God, no.”

Nottingham knew she needed comfort as tears and sobs racked her, but he didn’t move. Propriety forbade it. Instead, the best he could do was offer his messy kerchief for her to dab her
eyes and hide her face.

“Is he dead?” she asked finally, her eyes rimmed with red.

“How was he dressed when he came to town?”

She gave a brief description.

“I’m sorry,” Nottingham told her gently, and she began to weep again. The minutes passed, until she seemed drained of tears for the present, and he began asking questions. It
wasn’t something he wanted to do, when she was struggling to keep afloat in her grief, but he had no choice.

“What was his name?”

“Noah.” She barely whispered the word and tried to keep her face composed. “His mam called him that ’cause he was born when it had been raining for days and she thought
they’d all end up living on an ark.”

“He was a farmer?”

She nodded.

“Why did he come into Leeds?”

“He wanted a new suit.” She shook her head at the stupidity and waste of it all, and her fingers pulled at the kerchief as if she was trying to tear it apart. “For years
he’d wanted some clothes made in the city. He’d done well, the farm had made money the last few years, and he decided it was time to treat himself, so he could dress a bit more like a
squire.” She offered a faint, wan smile.

“Did he come in yesterday morning?” Nottingham asked, and she nodded in answer.

“Said he’d be home last night. When he wasn’t back by this morning I had one of the lads drive me in on’t cart.” She hesitated, torn between wanting the truth and
not wishing to hear a word. “How did he die?”

This was the part the Constable hated most.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Winters, but someone killed him.”

“My Noah?” She couldn’t believe it, couldn’t understand, her eyes widening suddenly as she tried to draw a breath. “But why? He were a good man, he wouldn’t
get in a fight or owt like that.”

“We don’t know why yet,” he told her, knowing there was at least a grain of truth in his words.

Her face had a stunned look, mouth hanging slightly open.

“We think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know how else to put it,” he admitted.

“But you’ll find whoever did it and see him swing.”

He wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a command.

“I will,” he assured her, although at the moment it seemed as much hope as certainty.

“I want to take my man home and give him a proper burial,” she insisted suddenly.

“Of course,” he said. “Do you have your cart here? I’ll have my men carry his body out.”

She crumpled again at the mention of the word
body
.

“He’s dead,” she moaned in a voice that was little more than a croak. “He’s
dead
. He’s dead for a new bloody suit.”

Nottingham helped Mrs Winters back outside, feeling the pull of her weight against his arms. Two farm lads waited by the cart, and he instructed them to look after their mistress, then went to
round up two men to carry out the corpse. He couldn’t have allowed her back to see him, not with the whore in the same room. She was a bright woman, that was obvious, and she’d easily
have put two and two together; she deserved more dignity and a better memory of her husband than that.

By the time the wagon pulled away the day was well progressed. Nottingham felt the tiredness in his bones, an ache that crept from the inside out. He wanted this man who’d killed four
people, wanted him in a way he couldn’t remember wanting to find any criminal in the past. He wanted to see the man’s face. More than that, he wanted to hurt him for what he’d
done to Pamela. And if it was Carver, he’d find no mercy.

Before he could consider what to do next, a messenger from the Moot Hall walked in, summoning him to the Mayor’s office. Nottingham drew a deep breath and wondered how to approach the
interview. He didn’t want to mention Carver yet, until he was certain, and the last thing his Worship would want to hear was that they had a madman targeting prostitutes and their clients. If
that knowledge became public it would send a shock through the entire city. Too many men used whores, many of them gentlemen of influence. He pondered exactly what he might say.