with no more than three or four girls willing to work for him. Sedgwick hadn’t even considered him when he was making his round of the pimps. Winthrop’s cottage, a tiny, half-timbered dwelling by the bridge at the bottom of Lady Lane, was a rundown wreck, with slates missing from the roof and a musty, mildewed smell in its main room.
Cedric himself was a paunchy old man in clothes twenty years out of date, with the beaming face of someone’s kindly grandfather, his blue eyes framed by grimy spectacles. A thick double chin rested on his collar, his skin so pale it was almost pearlescent. His wig sat on the table, leaving just a wisp of thin silver hair on his scalp.
“Morning, Cedric,” Sedgwick said merrily as the pimp opened the door. “A little bird told me you’ve lost one of your girls.” He pushed past Winthrop, ducking to avoid the low lintel.
Sedgwick sat at the table, carelessly wiping a layer of dust with his sleeve. “You ran a lass called Molly?”
“Ran?” Winthrop looked confused, as if he’d never heard the term before.
“Have you seen her in the last few days, Cedric?” he asked patiently.
“No.” Winthrop took a handkerchief from his breeches pocket and wiped his spectacles. “I went looking for her yesterday.”
“Well, she’s in a pauper’s grave now, poor girl.”
“What? She’s dead?” The spectacles tinkled on the bare floorboards. Sedgwick leaned over, picked them up and returned them gently to the man’s hand. He was surprised to see so much emotion in a procurer.
“She was murdered. Her and a farmer.”
“God,” Winthrop said softly, and closed his eyes for a moment before tears could flow.
“What can you tell me about her?” Sedgwick asked him.
The old man half-smiled sadly, shook his head and shrugged.
“You’ve heard her story once, you’ve heard it a hundred times. She was nice enough, in from the country a few months ago. Most of the time I’d bring men from the taverns to her room. She was a bit shy. But I’d been down with a touch of rheum, so she must have gone out to work the streets.”
“And got herself killed,” Sedgwick pointed out. “How long were you in your bed?”
“I started feeling poorly Wednesday morning. Yesterday was the first day I went out,” he answered slowly. “If…”
“
Winthrop nodded absently, not moving as the deputy let himself out.
Nottingham was staring at the corpses once more when he heard the door to the jail open. Wiping his hands on a rag, he left the cell. Amos Worthy, tall and straight in his threadbare coat, stood by the desk, a walking stick clenched in his hand. His face was deadly serious, eyes as cold as the Constable had ever seen them. He had two men flanking the door, muscled thugs who earned their bread being unleashed like dogs at his command.
“You won’t need that pair, Amos,” Nottingham said casually as he sat down. “No one’s going to attack you here. What do you want?”
Worthy gestured at the cell. “You’ve got a girl in there.”
“I’ve got a man in there, too.” He leaned back. The procurer had only been in the jail once before that he could recall, and that was on a charge that had vanished along with the witnesses.
“The lass is mine,” Worthy announced flatly. “A good little earner, as well.” He looked down solemnly. “I don’t like people taking what’s mine.”
“How do you know she’s one of yours?” the Constable asked with contempt.
“She didn’t come back last night. My girls know they’d better have a bloody good reason for not returning,” he said matter-of-factly.
“What did she look like?”
“Little thing, blonde hair, blue eyes. Some daft bastard had given her a dress that was halfway decent and she always wore that,” he spat out quickly, then looked up. “You need anything more?”
“What was her name, Amos?”
“Alice. Alice Fairbanks.” He banged the stick on the stone flag. “These lads’ll take her.”
Nottingham nodded his agreement; he had no further need of the body.
Once they’d left, awkwardly carrying the shroud between them, Worthy rubbed a hand over his freshly- shaved chin.
“Six bodies now, Mr Nottingham.”
“I can count, Amos,” he replied testily, turning a quill in his fingers.
“I look after my own.”
The Constable rose slowly, staring across the desk at Worthy.
“No,” he corrected carefully, “you look after your own when they do what you tell them. I’ve seen what happens when they don’t, remember?” He worked hard to keep his voice under control. “So don’t come in here trying to sound concerned and bereaved, like you’d lost a daughter.”
The pimp’s face remained impassive. “Do you have any suspicion who’s doing this?” he asked finally.
“No,” Nottingham admitted.
Worthy stroked his chin again.
“If you want him, better pray you find him before I do, then.”
“Are you threatening me, Amos?”
“I’m not threatening
“I don’t think it’s wise to make promises like that,” Nottingham told him blandly.
The pimp cocked his head. “Are you threatening me now, Mr Nottingham?”
The Constable smiled, baring his teeth. “Consider it a promise, Amos.”
“I’ll still be looking,” the pimp announced stonily. “I’m not going to let someone kill one of my girls.”
“From what I’ve heard, you prefer to do that yourself.” Nottingham waited as Worthy glared at him, knuckles tightening around the silver handle of the walking stick. “You’re safe enough, I was never able to prove it. But I’ll tell you something for nothing.” He paused. “I wish to God I could have.”
“Rumours have a habit of becoming exaggerated. You ought to know that by now,” Worthy countered, relaxing his grip.
“True enough,” Nottingham agreed with a small nod. “But others have a basis in fact.”
“Maybe,” he conceded grudgingly. “I’m more interested in the man who murdered Alice. I want to get my hands on him.”
“No.” Nottingham brought his hand down sharply on the desk, and the sound rang around the stone walls of the room. “I’m not going to say it again, Amos. This is my business, not yours. If you want to help me, I’ll gladly take that. But so you understand me properly: I won’t have your justice in this.”
Worthy eyed him with no expression for a long time, then turned on his heel and left.
The Constable had no doubt that Worthy would be hunting the killer. He wasn’t a man ever to back down from his words, and once he started, he’d be relentless. Nottingham was limited in what he could do, but the pimp’s men would have no compunction about beating information out of people. He’d heard that Worthy himself had once tried to roast a widow over a fire when he suspected her of sheltering one of his runaway girls. The woman had refused to press charges, insisting it had never happened.
Worthy would also try to bribe information from men who worked for the Constable. He could trust John, he was certain of that, but beyond that, nobody. They’d have to be careful.
Of course, it might not even matter. If Kenion had been persuasive or forceful enough, Leeds might already have a new Constable. He glanced out of the window, hoping to spot Tom Williamson returning with a grin on his face, but all he saw were the heads of people going about their business, some grim, some happy.
It was impossible not to brood and worry. There were places he needed to go, but Nottingham couldn’t stir until he heard the decision. Instead he tried to busy himself with small things, tasks he could finish easily and quickly, without too much concentration. He looked up, starting at every sound, in the end fidgeting between jobs, unable to concentrate on any of them.
Williamson returned when he was finally engrossed in a report. By the time he raised his head, Tom was
