Using only his good hand, Sedgwick clumsily built a fire in the hearth and sat quietly on an old joint stool as the flames took, letting the warmth slowly lick over him. His right arm ached constantly, with bright, shocking flickers of pain whenever he tried to move it. So they’ve gone, he thought dully, watching as light from the blaze shimmered in the empty corners. But in spite of the evidence, he couldn’t really believe it. Any minute she’d come through the door, James on her arm, a pack on her back, saying she’d made a mistake… he’d take the boy, then tell her to go and close the door behind her.
Except, of course, he knew it would never happen. If Annie had made up her mind to leave, then she wasn’t returning.
He needed food, something cooked and hot, but it was too late and he was too tired. Searching around he found a carrot that hadn’t gone soft and he chewed it. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d buy a few things at the market. Better yet, he’d find a smaller, cheaper room since it was just him now.
It was funny, he mused. The only emotion running through him was relief. No hurt, no pain, no anger. If anything he was grateful to her for making the decision. It was a good end to something that had quite plainly gone bad.
There was old ale in a jug on the table, flat now but still drinkable, and he poured himself a cup. He knew why she’d gone, ultimately: she hated his job and the hours it took. When he’d been offered the work he’d told her and she’d agreed, yet within a year she was complaining. The baby crying when he was desperate for sleep didn’t help either. It made both their tempers shorter.
Well, no more of that. He finished the drink and lay on the low straw pallet. He wanted to rest, and he closed his eyes and pulled the rough blanket around himself, but he couldn’t drop off. Images kept replaying in his mind: Annie’s smile, the throaty way she used to tell him she loved him, the feeling he had when he first saw James.
His feelings for her might have changed and died, but James…
He felt a surge of love in his heart for his son. She could go, but he’d be damned if he’d let her take the best part of him. He’d get him back and raise him properly.
He sat up, acknowledging that he was going to remain awake all night. He poured more of the ale, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. Bloody woman, he laughed to himself. Even though she was gone, she still wouldn’t leave him in peace.
26
Sedgwick reached the jail a little after six to discover a boy sitting on the doorstep, looking bitterly cold in his thin clothes but eyes shining and eager.
“So who are you, then?” he asked.
“I’m Joshua Forester.” The lad introduced himself, gazing up high into Sedgwick’s face. “The Constable told me to be here at six today.”
“Oh aye?” The deputy smiled even as he stretched and yawned, his joints aching from lack of sleep. “Taken you on, has he?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sedgwick eyed him with sudden respect. Nottingham rarely hired anyone new; he must have spotted something in Forester.
“Did he tell you what to do here?”
Forester shook his head.
“Probably wants me to train you, then. I tell you what, let’s see if we can find you a coat. You must be perishing like that.”
Inside the jail he rummaged in an old chest filled with tattered clothes taken from dead bodies. Some had mildewed, others had been eaten by moths, but he eventually found a heavy coat that was only a few sizes too big.
“Put that on,” he ordered. “You’re going to be doing a lot of walking and it’s bloody parky out there.”
Forester did as he was told, astonished at first by the weight of the cloth. Sedgwick walked around him.
“That’ll do,” he said approvingly. “Now, what do they call you? Joshua? Josh?”
“Josh.”
“Then we’d better get you earning your pay, Josh.”
They’d been criss-crossing the streets and courts for a full thirty minutes, the boy struggling to keep pace with the deputy’s long legs, before Sedgwick casually asked, “How did the boss come to take you on?”
“He caught me,” Forester answered slowly.
“Caught you?” His eyebrows rose slightly.
The boy wriggled with embarrassment in the coat.
“I tried to steal his purse.”
Sedgwick began to laugh until tears trickled down his cheeks.
“Dear God,” he said finally, gulping in breaths, his cheeks red. “Are you joking? You’re the cutpurse? The one we’ve been after for weeks?”
“I was,” Forester exclaimed in exasperation and with offended pride. “I was a cutpurse, I really was.”
“And he hired you? That’s rich. Still, it means you should do a good job.”
“I’ll try,” Josh promised.
“Aye, I’m sure you will.” He put an arm on the boy’s shoulder. “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you, lad. What alternative did he give you?”
“Prison, maybe transportation.”
“That’d make a Constable’s man of anyone pretty quick,” Sedgwick agreed with a sharp nod.
“Is it true he was once a cutpurse himself?” Forester asked with a kind of wonder.
“Did he tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, maybe he was,” Sedgwick told him. He had no idea if it was true, and realised he didn’t really want to know. Instead he changed the subject. “You’ve heard about the murders?”
“Of the whores, you mean?”
“That’s right. The bastard’s got six people now – seven if you count Adam Suttler who got killed the other night.” His face darkened. “Came close to eight.” He indicated the sling.
“What does he look like?” Forester asked curiously.
“It was too dark to see properly. I know he had a hat and a cloak.” The bell tolled the hour. “Come on, we’d better check the cloth market’s under way properly.”
Lower Briggate was filled with merchants and sellers, their cloth laid on trestles on either side of the street. There were perhaps two hundred people, but by tradition the market was conducted in near-silence. Only the whisper of transactions and muttered comments filled the street. Sedgwick and Forester stood at the top, staring down on the scene.
“That’s Leeds for you,” the deputy told him, waving a hand at the display. “That’s what makes the money around here, and you’d better not forget it. You see him over there?” He pointed at a foppish merchant ambling from table to table.
“Yes.”
“He made thousands last year exporting cloth. Spent a lot at the gaming tables and on whores, too. Probably only got a couple of coppers to rub together right now, but he walks about like he owns the place.”
“You think he could have killed those girls?” Josh asked innocently.
“Him? No.” Sedgwick dismissed the idea. “Not unless there was a profit in it for him. He’s mercenary, that one.”
“You said the killer had a cloak and hat?” the lad asked thoughtfully.
“Yes,” the deputy said.
“What night was it?” Forester persisted.
“Friday.”
“Where?” There was a sudden, alarmed urgency in his tone.
“Lamb’s Yard, just after midnight.” Sedgwick cocked his head. “Why?”
“I saw someone with a hat and cloak near there.”
The deputy stopped walking.
“Go on,” he ordered.
Forester shook his head. “But it was a woman.”
He pushed hard on the door and it flew open. Nottingham started up from his desk as a worried Sedgwick rushed in, nursing his arm, with the boy running breathlessly to keep pace.
“Boss, you’d better hear this,” he said urgently. “Tell him, Josh.”
“Mr Sedgwick said he almost caught the murderer on Friday,” Forester began, glancing nervously between the two men as he spoke hurriedly. “I was out then and I saw someone who looked like that near Lamb’s Yard. But I’m sure it wa
s a woman, sir.”
“A woman?” Nottingham asked in astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” the lad nodded his certainty. “I wasn’t close enough to see her face or anything, but I could hear the swish of her skirts. And I saw them when she passed near a torch.”
The Constable glanced anxiously at Sedgwick.
“What do you think, John? It could have been a different person.”
“But she had a cloak and hat on,” Forester insisted.
“A lot of people wear those at night,” Nottingham answered evenly as his mind pushed through the things he knew about the case and the killer.
“No, you’re right,” the deputy declared flatly after some thought. He turned to Forester “I’m sorry, lad. I got carried away by what you said. But it wasn’t a lass knifed me. And no woman could have killed like that.”
“Are you sure?” the Constable wondered.
“As much as I can be, boss,” Sedgwick said earnestly. “Whoever it was, they weren’t as tall as me, but taller than a woman.”
“I’ve seen tall women,” Forester interrupted, but Nottingham shook his head softly.
“A woman doesn’t cut like that,” the deputy continued.
Nottingham ran a hand through his hair.
“Let’s weigh what we’ve got,” he told them, trying to piece reason from it all. “The boy saw a woman in a cloak and hat in the area. Do you remember how tall she was?”
Forester shook his head.
“And John – you said the murderer wore a cloak and hat.”
“That’s right.”
“There was no shortage of people in cloaks and hats. It was a wet night.” He paused and thought deeply. He didn’t want to take away from the lad’s intelligence, or his initiative in saying what he had, but it seemed impossible. A woman? “I’m inclined to agree with John,” Nottingham announced finally. “It must have been a coincidence. I’ve never known a woman go out and stab in cold blood like this killer.”
Forester looked crestfallen.
“Don’t worry, lad, it was a good thought,” the Constable offered as a consolation. “We need you to use your brain like that.” To Sedgwick, he added, “You did right to come back here. Any luck last night following Worthy’s men?”
“Nothing.”
“Call them off, then,” Nottingham decided, noting the relief in the deputy’s eyes. “No point in wasting time, is there?”
“No, boss.” Sedgwick kept his head lowered to cover his slow smile.
“You’d better get back out there. The cloth market must be nearly over by now. Make sure we’ve got most of the pickpockets out of the way. That’s your job,” he added to Forester. “You should be able to spot a pickpocket from a mile away.”
“Yes sir,” Josh answered, unsure whether the Constable was serious until Sedgwick cuffed him lightly on the head and laughed.
Once they’d gone, Nottingham sat again, slowly scratching his chin with his index finger. The information had left him uneasy. Suppose the killer really was a woman, a very strong, brutal woman. Jesus God, he didn’t want to imagine it. He shook his head to dislodge the thought from his mind. It had to be a man.
He needed to go and check his informers again, and find out if any of them had heard even a faint whisper about this murderer. He didn’t expect it. If there’d been anything, they’d have come forward. This killer was operating completely outside the criminal circle. Either that or he was exceptionally good at keeping quiet. Whoever he was, he was leaving precious few clues, and he was going to strike again soon.
The Constable pulled on his coat and left the jail. The days were beginning to get colder, he thought, turning up the collar against the breeze. Another year falling away with the leaves, although there were fewer trees each year as more and more buildings were erected.
Still, that was how it had to be. People kept pouring into Leeds and they needed places to live. Its shape and character kept growing and changing. When he’d begun working for the Constable, no one could have imagined murders like this. There were killings, but they came from arguments and drink. Most of the crime had been petty, easily solved.
And the penalties had increased. What had once merited a whipping or a day in the stocks now brought time in York jail picking oakum until the fingers bled, or transportation or hanging. Not that it seemed to stop anyone. In the last two years he’d arrested more people than ever before. It wasn’t just the poor buggers, either; too often it was the well off just wanting to be richer. He had no qualms about handing them to the magistrate. For those without work or money – even for those with jobs – Leeds had become an expensive place to live. It scared him sometimes, wondering what he’d do once he retired. If he was lucky, and still had any friends left on the Corporation, there’d be a pension. But it would only be small, certainly not enough to live on. Then again, he told himself, he had to live that long first.
The clutter and clamour of market day on Briggate surrounded him and swept him along. The cries of the hawkers, offering five for threepence and a dozen for sixpence or fresh that morning, two for a penny, sounded like bird calls along the street. The clothes sellers had their wares ranged on tables, from the near-new that had recently graced the backs of the rich to the old rags of the poor. What do you need, what do you lack, they shouted, touting hopefully for trade. Nottingham knew the man he wanted would be along here, his stall set up, yelling for business with the rest.
William Farraday had been a tinker when Nottingham had first met him ten years before. He made a living going door-to-door in the city and surrounding villages mending saucepans and anything metal. It was a precarious trade, but one which took him into all manner of homes. Sometimes he heard things, and for a few coins would pass on information to the Constable.
Now he’d moved up in the world to a market stall, selling old pans he’d patched and working on those women brought him.
He spotted the old, worn canvas and piles of dulled metal. Farraday, with his shock of white hair and back stooped from years of carrying a heavy pack, was in deep conversation with a small woman, trying to sell her some of his wares. Nottingham waited until she’d paid him and walked off, satisfied, before he approached.
“You’re making money then, William.”
“A little here and there, aye,” Farraday agreed. Even after years in Leeds he’d never lost the more rounded vowels of his native Northumberland. “Need a saucepan for the missus, do you?”
“Information this time,” Nottingham answered with a smile.
“If I can, you know me.”
“Have you heard anything at all about this murderer?”
Farraday moved some pans around, trying to show them in their best light, changing the angles until he was happy.
“There’s been nothing to hear, Mr Nottingham.”
“No speculation?”
Farraday gave a hoarse laugh. “Always plenty of that, like. But if you mean is anyone giving names, then no, nowt like that. I’ll tell you this, though – whoever’s doing it is a canny mad bugger.”
“I’d noticed that,” the Constable commented dryly.
“Mr Worthy’s people are asking around, you know.”
“I know,” Nottingham admitted.
“He’s offering ten guineas to anyone who can name the killer and prove it.”
“A sum like that can bring a lot of false accusations.” Nottingham wasn’t surprised by the reward. The pimp had said he wanted the name; the reward was an indication of how much he desired it.
“You know what Mr Worthy’s like, sir,” Farraday said uncomfortably. “I don’t think anyone would dare lie to him. And if they did it once, they wouldn’t again, like.”
Nottingham nodded. Amos Worthy’s sense of summary justice was well known.
“And no one’s given him any names?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
That was something, he thought. Worthy was no further on than he was.
“I’ll let
you get back to business then, William. If you hear anything, and I mean anything at all, let me know. There’s good money in it for you.” But nowhere close to ten guineas, he admitted to himself.
“Aye,” the man acknowledged, turning away towards a new customer.
Sedgwick and Forester were walking back up the Head Row from Burley Bar. To their right the city spread out in a jumble behind the old bulk of the Red House.
“He’s somewhere out there,” Sedgwick said, gazing into Leeds.
“Your murderer?”
“Our murderer now, lad, you’re one of us. I’ll tell you what, though, we’ll get him.”
“How can you be so sure?” the boy wondered.
“It’s what we do, son. It’s what we do, and if I say so myself, we do it bloody well.”
27
A round of the other informers had yielded no more than he already knew, and Nottingham made his way back to the jail. He’d barely been sitting for five minutes before a boy came in, wide-eyed in fear and curiosity about the jail, holding a note.
“For me?” the Constable asked.
“I don’t know, sir.” The high voice trembled a little. “I was just told to give it to someone here.”
He took the letter and gave the child a coin from his pocket before sending him on his way. Sliding a thumb under the wax of the seal, he opened the paper, glancing quickly at the writing.
Constable, it began, in a shaky script that was anything but neat, you wrote wondering if there had been any instances of murder or disturbing incidents hereabouts. We had two such within a short space a little over a year ago. Although neither officially came to my attention as Justice of the Peace, I am familiar with the details. Should you wish to know more, please feel free to call on me at your convenience. Sincerely, Robert Bartlett.
The Broken Token Page 19