Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“My name’s Richard Nottingham. I’m the Constable of Leeds.”

“Oh?” It was apparent that the curate didn’t believe him.

“I’m here on official business,” the Constable stated firmly. “A matter of murder.”

The man pursed his lips, weighing whether the visitor was telling the truth.

“The Reverend isn’t here,” he admitted finally, and Nottingham felt his fuse start to run short.

“And did he happen to confide in you where he was going?” he asked acidly, wanting to humiliate the curate for his assumptions. “Or when he’d be back?”

The other man lowered his eyes for a moment.

“No.” He barely concealed the anger in the word.

“No, I don’t imagine he did,” the Constable said with satisfaction. “Tell him I called, and that I’ll be back tomorrow. I need to see him.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Crandall,” the curate replied haughtily. The door closed silently on well-oiled hinges and Nottingham was left with the empty quiet of the churchyard, broken only by the small twittering of sparrows in an oak tree.

There was little more he could do today. Sedgwick was unlikely to have anything to report before morning, and if he turned up anything important, he’d come to the house. The lad would be a good Constable some day.

He made his way across Timble Bridge; the beck below was not much more than a trickle after the long, dry days of summer. Away from the heart of the city there was stillness in the air, and he relished the absence of noise assaulting his ears. God willing, he’d have peace tonight. But first he had to tell Mary about Pamela, and that wouldn’t be easy.

She emerged from the kitchen, thick smudges of flour on her apron, hands and face, surprised and happy to see him so early, and guiltily Nottingham realised he was rarely home before dark.

He embraced her, closing his eyes to smell her hair and feel her cheek against his shoulder. Only when she started to pull away did he realise he’d been holding her longer than usual.

“You were off with the lark this morning. It must have been important,” Mary said finally, giving him a curious look.

“When isn’t it?” he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

“They expect far too much of you,” she told him seriously as he followed her into the kitchen.

“Well, this time they were right.” He poured a cup of ale from the jug on the table. “A double murder,” he said solemnly.

“Oh God, Richard.”

She was a Constable’s wife, but even after all these years she’d never come to terms with the violence that was part of his work. He rarely told her about the crimes; if she knew even a fraction of the truth she’d be horrified. But this time he knew he had no choice.

“One of the victims was Pamela,” he said softly.

She stopped and turned to stare at him, her eyes suddenly wide in utter disbelief.

“Pamela?” she asked. “Our Pamela? Pamela Watson?”

He nodded, with no idea what else to say.

“Oh, dear Jesus,” Mary cried, and he pulled her close again, stroking the back of her neck beneath the mob cap as if he was comforting a child. Suddenly she pushed him back.

“It can’t be her,” she announced with sudden confidence. “She married that labourer in Chapel Allerton, you remember that. She doesn’t even live in Leeds any more!”

He looked down at her sadly.

“He died, love.” Nottingham spoke in little more than a whisper, watching tenderly as the final shred of hope died in her. “Seems she came back about a year ago and didn’t tell us. It’s her, it’s definitely her.”

The tears came then, flowing silently at first, then she started to wail. He knew Mary had felt especially close to Pamela, spending every day with her. They’d been mistress and servant, but the bond had gone far beyond that. They’d known each other’s lives and secrets. Now all he could do was hold his wife until the crying stopped. He didn’t say anything more.

Finally, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she sat at the table and drank deeply from his untouched cup. The track of a last tear wound its way like a slow river through the flour on her cheek.

“How?” she asked shakily.

He reached over and took her hand. It seemed small in his, and he squeezed it lightly before shaking his head, indicating he wasn’t going to tell her and knowing she’d guess.

“Have you found whoever did it?”

“No,” he admitted. “And right now I don’t even know where to begin. I went to see her grandmother — you remember Meg? I promised her we’d take care of the funeral.”

“Of course we will.” She tightened her grip on his fingers as if she was holding on to life. “You’re going to find her killer, aren’t you?”

He loved the full, simple faith she had in him.

“I hope so,” was the closest he dare come to a promise. “I’ll do everything I can.”

Mary stood slowly and walked to the window, clasping her hands together tightly and looking out to the fields in the distance. For a long time she remained silent, letting her thoughts and memories fly. He watched her, trying to imagine what she was feeling. The minutes seemed to stretch until she eventually wondered, “What are we going to tell the girls? They’ll both remember her, especially Rose. She was seven when Pamela left.”

“Maybe it’s best just to tell them she died,” he suggested. How did you tell the young about murder, he thought. “They don’t need more than that.”

Mary nodded her agreement sadly.

“Where are they, anyway?” he asked.

She turned back to him, trying to cover her sorrow with a wan smile.

“Rose took little Michael from next door down to the river to play so the Earnshaws can finish their cloth.” Their neighbours were weavers, and the clack of their loom could usually be heard for all daylight hours along the street. “She’s good with children. She’ll make a fine mother herself one day soon.”

He understood his wife’s need to talk about everyday things right now, to ground herself in life and run away from death. But her statement caught at him. He’d always thought of his daughters as little girls, but they weren’t any more. They were almost grown. Time was rushing on, not only outside but within himself, too.

“And what about Emily? Where’s she?”

“She announced she was going over to Caroline’s after school.” Like her sister before her, Emily attended the local dame school, at Mary’s insistence. She believed girls needed reading and writing as much as boys. But where Rose had loved to learn, Emily went sullenly, paying little attention to her lessons. She was clever, there was no doubt of that, but she believed herself too advanced and grown up for the basic education the little school provided. Nottingham had seen her reading adult books which he would hesitate to approach himself.

“Announced?” He found his voice rising sharply. “That lass has got far too many airs and graces.”

They both loved the girls, but all too often despaired of their younger daughter. For the last year Mary had insisted Emily would eventually grow out of her moods, but if anything they’d become worse. Punishments had no effect on her. With her sharp tongue and impertinent ways, Nottingham fretted that she’d end up wearing a scold’s bridle one market day, on display outside the Moot Hall.

“I’d better get back to work,” Mary said, to herself as much as to him, seeking something to do. “I still have to finish kneading the dough for tomorrow’s bread.”

Her hands began to move rhythmically in the bowl. Nottingham knew there were more things she wanted to say, but they weren’t going to come out now. That had been her manner for as long as he’d known her. Sometimes it infuriated him, knowing she was keeping words and feelings carefully locked inside. But they’d emerge eventually. It had taken him a few years after their marriage to understand that. Once he did, he knew it was one of the reasons he loved her. She was someone who needed to approach the world in her own time and in her own way, after consideration and thought.