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.”
23
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.
&nb
sp; “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.
She was too clever for her own good, that was the problem, and trying to grow up too quickly. Another year and she could court and marry, if she wanted. Both he and Mary would be happy with that. And it might drive the ridiculous notion of writing from her head. He’d said little to his wife, but it disturbed him. He wrote because he had to, reports and figures. There wasn’t any pleasure in it, and he didn’t see how anyone could find the act enjoyable. He read the Mercury, but very rarely did he open a book. They reminded him too much of what he’d been long ago, a boy in a house with a library whose shelves reached close to heaven.
Above all it worried him because he understood that if Emily wrote, she’d fail. She wasn’t aristocracy, or even well-connected. No London publisher would look twice at the scribbling of a Constable’s daughter from Leeds. But he had no idea how to dissuade her.
That was the future; more immediately, he had to keep her away from the streets. When he finally had time, tomorrow he hoped, he’d find this boy of hers and he’d make him back away. He knew she was being canny and coy, telling him just enough, but not the information he needed to search for the lad. In that way she was her father’s daughter again; she knew instinctively how to dole out facts.
The only thing he knew for certain was that an answer wouldn’t come easily or quickly – if it even came at all. He wanted the best for her. But he had no idea what the best was in her case.
Nottingham must have drifted into sleep, for when he opened his eyes the first cast of dusk was spreading across the sky, above the chimney smoke of the city. His neck hurt and the muscles in his calves felt cramped from sitting at his desk. He stretched slowly, pushing out his arms and legs and revelling in the luxurious feel. A few more hours and it would all begin. Time to eat a good meal and make sure everything was ready.
By the time Sedgwick woke the smudges of darkness in the sky were thickening. He sat up in bed, shaking his head. The room was chilly and gloomy, deep shadows filling the corners. He realised that Annie and James hadn’t returned while he slept.
He didn’t bother building a fire; a few more minutes and he’d be gone, and there was no knowing when his wife and son might return. They were probably visiting her family so they could be hours yet. He looked around for food, but there was so little on the table that he couldn’t bring himself to take it.
He locked the door as he left. It was going to be a long night.
24
By ten the men were out on the street. As Nottingham circulated, keeping quietly to the shadows, he counted around fifteen. Nowhere near as many as he’d hoped, but he’d remember the names of all those who hadn’t come out, and deal with them later.
It was a good idea using men of dubious reputation, he decided. They knew how to be inconspicuous and quiet – at least the ones who hadn’t drunk too much did. Yet the loud clumsiness of the others could be effective too, acting as a deterrent, funnelling the killer into the darker courts and alleys.
He was worried, but he tried to keep his feelings hidden. Everything hinged on the killer being out tonight, looking for his next victims. The weather was cloudy, an early autumn chill helping the leaves tumble, the moon well hidden. A perfect night for murder, he thought grimly.
Around eleven he found Sedgwick completing a circuit on Lower Briggate. They conferred in a doorway, away from prying eyes, talking in hushed voices.
“Not a wonderful turnout,” the Constable said.
“Could have been better.” Sedgwick shrugged in agreement. “I’ve given them all small areas. If they spot anyone in a dark cloak and hat, they’re to challenge them loudly. Someone should always be close enough to help and raise the alarm.”
“Good,” Nottingham nodded. “We’ll keep walking round.”
“I’m surprised Worthy doesn’t have men out. He must have heard about this.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” the Constable warned. “He’s a sly old sod. If he’s got his best lads out, they could be a dozen paces from here and we’d never know it. But if anyone catches a murderer tonight, it’s going to be us. I want him sentenced in court, not left with his throat cut.”
“And if some of our men are working for him?” queried Sedgwick.
“Some of them probably are,” Nottingham admitted. “But if they fuck this up, they’ll be moving to another city tomorrow, I can guarantee you that.” There was a bitter iciness in his voice that made it a promise.
People were still out and about, visiting, walking, but the voices on the streets began to fade slowly. The slatterns and prostitutes were finishing their trade as men bade farewell to a day of rest and prepared for another week of drudgery. By midnight there’d been nothing to stir excitement and the Constable could tell the men were becoming bored and weary. He slipped between them warily, offering quiet words of encouragement, making sure their attention didn’t lapse. Only one had left, after a short argument, and he’d been warned he’d pay the price for desertion.
Nottingham was nervous, the tension running through his body. The next two hours would be crucial. He brushed back his fringe and ran a hand through his hair, trying to breathe calmly and evenly. So much depended on him being right about the killer prowling tonight. He could feel his heart in his chest, the thick rhythm beating uncomfortably fast. After being alert for every sound for so long, he’d be completely drained by night’s end.
He’d been parading the same streets for hours, until he felt he knew every crack and indentation of the paths. The night had quietened, broken only by the barking of stray dogs and the occasional blare of an argument or singing.
The minutes were passing too slowly, as if time itself was tired. He’d just completed another circuit, finishing at the top of Briggate near the Head Row, when he heard a confused bellow of cries from the yards behind the Shambles. Without thinking he began to run towards the sounds. The voices increased in number, shouting over each other in a babble of sound that grew more frenzied. Dear God, Nottingham prayed as he ran, let it be him. And let him be alive.
For a minute it seemed as if he could get no nearer; he was trapped in a maze of tiny streets. Then suddenly he was
there, watching two men hold a struggling figure in the light of a pair of torches. A body lay on the edge of the shadows. Sedgwick was kneeling over it, then looked up and shook his head.
“What happened?” Nottingham asked breathlessly, and was immediately overwhelmed by several garbled accounts. “You!” He pointed into the crowd at a scrawny youth he didn’t recognise. “Tell me!”
The lad ducked his head briefly.
“We, er, heard him coming, sir.” He glanced around the other faces, seeing expressions ranging from agreement to anger. “We challenged him like you said, but he didn’t want to stop. So Adam, he, er, started to fight with him, to stop him. We were shouting, and then some of the others came.” He paused again. “Then he pulled a knife and started stabbing Adam. I didn’t know what to do. Some of the others grabbed him.”
Nottingham gazed around in horror. An innocent man was dead because of him. He walked up to the culprit, a man of about thirty, thin to the point of starvation, so cowed he didn’t even fight against the men restraining him. He was dressed in tattered old clothes, hose ragged and breeches torn. The Constable had to resist the overwhelming impulse to hit him.
“Why did you kill him?” he asked.
“I thought he were trying to rob me,” the man answered defensively, his eyes full of fear. “Then when t’others started coming, I thought it were a gang going to kill me.”
Nottingham said nothing more. He turned and walked over to the body.
“Who was it?” he asked Sedgwick.
“Adam Suttler.” The deputy sounded sombre. “I only asked him because I saw him going to church this morning.” He kicked at a stone and heard it tumble away. “Who’s that bugger?” He inclined his head at the man who stood with his head bowed.
“Just some poor man who got caught in the middle,” Nottingham told him in sad blankness.
“He’ll hang.” There was satisfaction in his tone.
“Yes.” He would. There was nothing more to say.
The Broken Token Page 17