The Broken Token (21 page)

The Constable glanced at her, but all she did was stare back defiantly. Relief flooded through him, tempered by a cold fury.

“Thank you,” he said civilly, his gratitude genuine. For the second time that day he was absurdly, stupidly grateful. “I’ll take her from here.” The man nodded
curtly, removed his hand, and faded back into the gloom of the city. Emily tossed her head, saying nothing.

“Do you want to tell me what the bloody hell you were doing?” Nottingham rounded on her, satisfied to see her cower. “Well?”

“I wanted a walk.” She tried to sound haughty, but her voice was tiny, a little girl’s.

Nottingham took her by the shoulders and began to shake her. He was gentle at first, rocking her, then faster and harder until her head swayed wildly, long hair whipping across her face. Emily
didn’t complain and made no move to stop him.

“I should beat you,” he said in a cold voice that made her look up at him fearfully. “I should beat you here and now until people come out to hear your cries. Maybe that would
drive some bloody sense in you.” He waited for her reaction, but she remained deliberately mute, although her eyes were wide. His fingers tightened on her skin until he knew he must be
hurting her. “But I’m not going to,” he told her finally. “The way I feel right now, it would be too easy.” And it was true. If he hit her now, he might not be able to
stop. She shuddered slightly under his hands, and he saw the moisture glistening in her eyes as she blinked to fight back tears. “Where were you? Were you going to meet him?”

Emily nodded, lowering her head.

“Who is he?”

“I told you, I met him at the market.”

“And what does he do?”

“I don’t know,” she told him. But the words came too readily. He knew she was lying.

“He didn’t tell you? You didn’t even think to ask?” He asked the questions harshly, as if she was a suspect at the jail.

“It didn’t matter.” She raised her face to his. “You’ve always told us to judge people by who they are, not what they do.”

“So you went to meet Robert.” Nottingham ignored her statement and rolled the words around slowly, like a pair of dice before a throw. “Did he arrive?”

“No,” she answered quietly, with a trace of disappointed sadness. “I waited and waited, but he didn’t come. Then that man grabbed me and said I shouldn’t be out on
my own at night and that he was going to take me home. He scared me the way he touched me.” She paused a second. “Was he one of your men?”

“No,” he said, and stopped. In all likelihood Worthy had men in the shadows behind Rose and David, too. Returning Emily like that, bringing her home, was a quiet, powerful statement.
Tonight Nottingham thanked God it had happened. Tomorrow he’d be filled with an icy rage towards the pimp.

“Come on,” he said brusquely, grabbing her wrist and pulling her along so hard she almost fell. “We’re going home. And as soon as we get in the door you’re going to
bed. Don’t even think of answering me back or disobeying or I’ll clout you into next week.”

She followed meekly, her silence a tacit, frightened agreement.

Nottingham sat in the dark. The fire had died and the room was cold, but a nip in the air had never bothered him. Mary and the girls were all asleep. Emily had scuttled off to
her room like a mouse, not saying more than two words while he deflected Mary’s questions with vague, noncommittal answers. When he’d checked on her later, she had the blanket pulled up
against her chin, her breathing even, as if the incident had never happened. He’d managed a couple of hours of broken sleep. In bed blankness had come, but it was quickly tormented by dreams
until he was sick of the tossing and constant waking. He rose and dressed, ran cold water round his mouth to flush away the night, and sat down to think.

Now, in the silence, he had time to reflect. He wasn’t surprised Worthy had men behind himself and Sedgwick, but it scared him, too, to know his family was being followed. Tonight
he’d been glad, but the menace in the message was eloquent. He sighed softly. These murders had brought work into his home. Violated it.

Elbows on knees, he put his hands together and rested his chin on them. He needed a shave. He needed rest, a wash. He needed this to be over. When it was done, he’d deal with Amos Worthy
in his own way. He’d also find this Robert, whoever he might be, and teach him a lesson.

The hours passed slowly, but there was no chance of more sleep. His mind was crowded, thoughts pressing on his skull.

How could he solve the murders? He didn’t even have any suspects. The only clues he possessed were faint and didn’t point in any particular direction. At least he could be thankful
that it looked as if the killer hadn’t struck again as the city and its taverns were jammed in the respite of Saturday evening.

But tonight he’d have a small army of men around the city. Maybe the plan would work, and they’d catch this killer. If not, at least it might save a pair of lives. And that would be
more than they’d managed so far.

When his brain finally rebelled against more hopeless thought, he wrapped himself in his greatcoat, closed the door quietly, and walked the silent streets back into Leeds. In the city, the
evidence of people forgetting the working week just past was all around him in the rubbish and pools of vomit on the streets. A drunk had collapsed against a house, his hoarse snores ringing
between the buildings. Saturday night was always a time filled with arguments and fights, something people needed to obliterate the days of work they’d completed for little money and the
vision of the weeks and years that stretched ahead without hope of relief.

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.

He settled back at his desk, eating a slice of cold, greasy game pie that he’d regret later, and supping from a mug of small beer. He brushed the crumbs off his coat as he swallowed the
last mouthful.

He’d done all he could for now; tonight would be the test. In his bones he knew that the killer would be out again, hungry for death. What he was doing to thwart him was extreme, maybe
even ridiculous, but what choice did he have? He didn’t have men enough to watch the whole city. So the volunteers were just performing their civic duty. That’s how he’d explain
it to the Mayor, if he ever bothered to ask. If their luck was good, they’d catch the murderer and that would be an end to it. But he knew all too well that luck was a capricious bitch.

He drank a little more, then sat back and let his thoughts wander. What was he going to do about Emily? He could beat her, the way most fathers did with errant children, but he knew his
daughter; that would only make her more stubborn.