Free The Broken Token by Chris Nickson Page A

the future becomes a lot less certain.”
    “Mr Morton’s future became very certain,” Nottingham said flatly.
    “Just because I didn’t want him preaching, that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.” Anger bristled like lightning across Cookson’s face.
    “I never said it did, sir,” the Constable replied softly, defusing the tension. “There’s one other matter I’d like to bring up with you.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The girl who was with him.”
    “A prostitute, from what I’ve heard,” the Reverend dismissed her.
    “That’s right. She needs to be buried.”
    Cookson looked up questioningly.
    “Surely a pauper’s grave is adequate?”
    “I’m paying for the funeral,” Nottingham announced without explanation.
    The vicar looked as if he was about to say something, then stopped and nodded.
    “Very well,” he agreed gracelessly. “Have her brought over and I’ll have someone take care of it.”
    He hadn’t expected more from Cookson. The Reverend was a wily man, one who hoarded power, spending it only when absolutely necessary. He relished his position in the
city, so well established that he had no need to flaunt it. Nottingham didn’t care if he delegated Pamela’s funeral as long as she received a decent burial, and he felt no qualms on his
insistence.
    The whores were plying their trade outside the taverns on Briggate. With no market, the street seemed almost quiet, the thick trudge of cartwheels on cobbles and the yells of drivers the main
backdrop. The air smelt of dung and smoke and offal, the smell of Leeds that Nottingham had known all his life.
    Just past the Ship, where a passage opened like a crack in the wall to a teeming court, he stopped to talk to a prostitute who was idly watching the passing men. Polly had a proud face. At
twenty she’d been doing this for seven years, but there was still a mischievous spark in her eyes. The life hadn’t beaten her down yet.
    He stood so that his shadow fell across her face, and she turned, suddenly aware of his presence.
    “Mr Nottingham,” she said with a smile that looked surprisingly happy. “Out for some morning fun wi’ a lass?” Her wink was so deliberately outrageous that he
couldn’t help but grin at her.
    “Doubt my missus would like that too much, Pol.” His voice became serious. “I’m looking for a little help.”
    “Go on, then,” the girl replied. She pulled a threadbare shawl tighter around her shoulders as a light breeze began to funnel down from the north.
    “You heard about the girl who was murdered the other night?”
    Polly’s expression saddened.
    “Show me someone who doesn’t know about that by now, poor bloody cow. It’s been all over the place since yesterday morning. What’s so special about her, then?”
    “She was our maid once, a long time ago.”
    He saw the initial disbelief in her eyes and kept staring at her until her expression softened again.
    “Pamela, wasn’t it?” she said, and he nodded. “I used to see her. Quiet girl, you’d hardly know she was there. You’ve got to put yourself forward in this game
if you’re going to make any money.”
    “Do you know where she lived?”
    She shook her head. “I’m sorry, luv, I don’t.” She shrugged. “No reason, you see. Do you want me to ask around?”
    “Please, yes.” He brought a penny from his breeches pocket. “If you find out, send a boy to find me.” He was about to walk off when her voice stopped him.
    “Mr Nottingham? I didn’t know her, but I’m sure your Pamela were a good lass.”
    He smiled sadly.
    “She was, Polly. She was that.”
    He talked to several contacts, whores, touts and con men, before walking back to the jail. He’d have the information soon, he knew. Pamela might have had very few friends, but people knew
her face, and someone would know where she lived. All he needed was a little patience.
    Back at his desk he wrote a note to Rawlinson, releasing Morton’s body, and arranged for an