Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

They stopped as the door opened, and men brought in the bodies, wrapped in their winding-sheets. Nottingham unlocked the mortuary and guided them in, then uncovered the dead.

The man had the undistinguished look and clothes of a clerk, worn and weary even in death. He was in his forties, as far as Nottingham could judge, cheeks sunk where most of his teeth had been removed. The cloth of his coat and breeches was cheap, third- or fourth-hand, the sewing uneven and ragged. The soles of his shoes had worn through in several places. His fingers were dark-stained with ink, the joints knotted by a lifetime of writing. It was a poor death after a poor life.

The girl was pretty enough, probably fourteen or fifteen, with fine blonde hair and blue eyes, but the bloom had already gone off the rose. Her young features were coarse, her skin reddened across the nose and cheeks. Her homespun dress looked reasonably new, maybe the gift of a pimp or merchant who’d been particularly pleased with her. Her wrists were thin and bony, and her unadorned fingers nearly as small as a child’s.

Once again they’d each been stabbed with two precise strokes, and Nottingham wondered at this murderer. He didn’t just slash, he truly cut to kill, and he knew what he was doing, even when he was rushed.

“John,” he called into the office.

“What is it, boss?”

“Come and take a look at this.”

Sedgwick walked in, his movements slow and a little unsteady.

“You see these wounds?” Nottingham pointed them out.

Sedgwick looked confused. “What about them?”

“If you were trying to kill someone with a knife, would you know where to put the blade to do it properly and efficiently?”

“Well…” he began, then realisation dawned. “So maybe someone with medical knowledge?”

“Maybe,” Nottingham agreed. “Or someone who’s been a soldier, or learned to fence… I don’t know,” he said with a frustrated shrug. “But it’s one more thing we know about him.”

“I should have seen more of him,” the deputy said with embarrassment, and Nottingham shook his head.

“You were lucky, John,” the Constable told him with heartfelt relief. “I’m just glad you’re alive. I’m going to need you to help catch him. Now go home and rest. That’s an order.”

He woke Annie as he tried to undress. Raising his arm was painful and he cried out softly, enough to make James stir and start wailing. Sitting up sleepily, Annie cursed under her breath and reached for the child, starting suddenly as she sensed someone else in the room.

“John?” she whispered and she pulled the baby close.

“Help me,” he said. “I can’t get my bloody clothes off.”

She lit the remains of a candle, gasping as she saw his arm.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he told her quickly, seeing the dried blood on the bandage.

“Work done that?” she asked without a trace of sympathy as she began to ease off the sling and his clothes. “I’ll be up all night mending your coat. And I’ve only just sewn your shirt, now it’s in rags.”

“You don’t care how I am?”

Annie rolled her eyes.

“You’re here and moaning, so you can’t be too bad. Take your son so I can get to work.”

Sedgwick sat on the bed, cradling James in his left arm until the lad fell back to sleep. He lay the boy down tenderly and walked softly over to his wife, watching the needle move swiftly and surely in her hands.

“Is there any food?” he whispered.

She stopped and fixed him with a hard stare.

“No, there’s no food, John.” Before he could speak, she added, “We had the last of it tonight, and you haven’t given me money to buy any more.”

Guiltily, he reached into his pocket and brought out his wages.

“How much of it have you spent on drink and whores?”

“Nothing,” he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. It was like this every time with her accusations and barbs. “I’ve been working.” He felt his anger rising, the way it did whenever they talked. “What do you think I do?” He held out his bandaged arm. “The man who did that could have killed me.”

“And where would I be then?” she retorted, putting down the sewing. “On my own with a babbie and no money. You think more of your Constable than you do of us.”

“He’s given me steady work!” Sedgwick protested. “More than I’d have found elsewhere.”

“Work that keeps you out all hours.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Do you imagine I like it when people tell me they’ve seen you in the inns or talking to prostitutes?”

“I told you what the job involved when I started it.” He’d explained it to her carefully, but she hadn’t believed him. “You didn’t say anything then.”

“And how was I to know what it would really be like?” There was a vicious edge in Annie’s voice. “You didn’t tell me all the hours I’d be on my own, or how little you’d make.” She let the coins fall through her fingers on to the table. “We’re not going to get rich on your earnings. We’re lucky we can eat on them.”

“You don’t mind spending my money — and I know it doesn’t all go on food,” Sedgwick accused, pushing his face close to hers. “You think people don’t tell me things, too?”

“Believe what you want, John,” she told him dully. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

He settled back on the bed, his body tense. That was the truth of it, he thought: it really didn’t matter to her. And maybe it didn’t to him either. Slowly the anger began to seep away, and he left her behind as he drifted into sleep.

There was nothing more to do in the brief hours before daylight. Nottingham needed sleep and to change out of his sodden clothes.

The rain had gone, but water from the deluge still lay everywhere. He skirted huge puddles, kept his senses alert for people throwing night soil from their windows, and soon crossed Timble Bridge. His house was dark, and he could hear the even sound of breathing as he made his way through the rooms. In the kitchen he stropped a razor and ran it over his cheeks and chin before sluicing his face with cold water.

He tried not to wake Mary as he crept into the bedroom, but as he draped his hose over the chair to dry, she stirred.

“Richard?”

“It’s me.”

She sat up, peering in the half-light to find him.

“You look like you’ve had a bad night,” she said anxiously.

“Two more murders, and I’m soaked to the skin,” he began to explain. “Which means Carver’s not guilty, and — ”

“It’s Emily…” she interrupted, and he stopped.

“What about her?” he straightened up, suddenly alarmed. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine now,” Mary assured him. “I looked in on her before I came to bed. But she went out, wouldn’t tell me where, and she didn’t come back until late.”

Nottingham ran a hand over his hair. At this rate, if the job didn’t kill him, that girl would.

“Tell me what happened.” He sat on the end of the bed. There wasn’t a chance of sleep now, he knew.

“After we’d eaten, Emily announced she was going out.” Mary bunched the sheet in her small fingers. “I asked her where she was going, but she wouldn’t tell me. She just ran out into the rain and over the bridge.”

Damn the lass, he thought furiously, breathing hard and trying to contain his temper.

“How long was she gone?” he asked, his face set hard.

“A couple of hours.”

“And when she got back? Did she seem hurt or upset?”

“No.” Mary gave a small smile that was almost wistful. “In fact, she looked quite happy, even if she was all wet and bedraggled.”

“She still wouldn’t say where she’d been?”