Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Mary shook her head.

“You’re going to have to do something about her,” she told him.

“I know,” he agreed, although, apart from beating some sense into the girl, he had no idea what. “As soon as I can.”

“Not soon, Richard.” There was a deep, hurting ache in her voice. “She won’t listen to me.”

“Do you think she’ll take notice of me?” he asked in a fast whisper.

“You have to make her.” Mary’s eyes flashed. “You’re the Constable of this city, you can’t have your daughter running around like a wild girl. Make her.” It was part demand, part plea.

He sighed. She was right. He needed to take Emily in hand, by reason or force. He just wasn’t sure he had the energy or the will to handle her at the moment.

“Please, Richard,” Mary said, reaching out and digging her fingers into his forearm, “wake her up. Find out where she was. We need to know.”

He couldn’t refuse her. He nodded his exhausted consent.

“Do you know what she told me yesterday?” Mary continued in slight amazement.

“What?”

“That if she could, she’d like to be a writer.” She didn’t sound amused or aggrieved; instead she seemed fascinated at the thought.

“A writer? Why?” Nottingham had no time to read. It was pleasant, he supposed, but a frivolous way of spending an evening when there were more important things to be done.

“Like Mrs Haywood, she said.”

“Who’s Mrs Haywood?” He didn’t know the name.

“She writes novels,” Mary explained. “And essays, too. Emily prefers those. She’s married to a Reverend.”

“And he makes no objection to his wife doing this?” the Constable wondered, shaking his head in surprise.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Maybe you’re encouraging her to read too much,” he suggested sourly. “It’s putting ideas in her head.”

After dressing in dry clothes, he crossed into the room the girls shared. There was just one bed; Rose had always slept by the window, and Emily, the restless one, by the door. He watched them for a minute, marvelling that they’d come from him, that he’d helped make such perfect forms. Rose was curled on her side, hair neatly tucked under a cap. Emily lay on her back, hair all over the pillow, arms sprawled at her side. It summed up the difference between the sisters perfectly, he thought with a small smile.

He sat beside Emily, rubbing her shoulder gently until she began to stir. As she opened her eyes he put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Come on downstairs.”

Nottingham had been sitting before the dead hearth for five full minutes before he heard her soft footfalls on the stair. In the half-light he watched her come down, tousled and sleepy. She was ripening all too quickly into a woman, in the unconscious sway of her walk and the shape of her body. She gathered herself quietly on the settle, pulling bare feet under her, and looked at him.

“What time is it?” she asked, blinking slowly.

“Early. Or late, I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Why do you need to talk to me, Papa?” There was an undertone of defiance in her voice and she pushed her hair back in that gesture which reminded him terrifyingly of himself.

“You know the answer to that. Your mother told me you were out long after you should have been at home, and you wouldn’t tell her where you’d been,” he told her firmly.

“Mama thinks I should be just like Rose.”

He was astonished as the withering contempt the girl summoned into such a short sentence, and considered his words before speaking.

“Rose is Rose, and you’re you. We wouldn’t have it any other way. But we do expect you to behave.”

Emily turned her eyes to him.

“I’ve behaved with perfect propriety, father. No man’s touched me yet.” She paused to gauge his reaction, but Nottingham kept his silence, willing his face to remain calm. “Maybe some prudish people might consider some of the situations I’ve been in rather scandalous,” she continued, “but I haven’t been compromised.”

“Fancy words for a young girl,” he said after a while, angered by her attitude but not giving her the satisfaction of showing it.

“It’s simply the truth,” she shrugged sullenly.

“Shall I tell you what I’ve discovered over the years?” he asked, and continued without letting her reply. “Much as we’d like to think there’s one truth, there isn’t really. There’s your truth, my truth, someone else’s, and we each believe our own to be right. There are facts which are indisputable, but all too often they’re not the same as truth.”

He glanced at Emily. She was watching him intently.

“Go on,” she said. “At least you’re talking to me like an adult.”

“When have I ever talked down to you?” Nottingham wondered, and she shook her head in answer.

“Never, Papa.”

“And I never will,” he told her seriously. “Your mother doesn’t talk down to you either.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth. “We treat you with respect, which is more than most daughters get. Especially young ones who seem ungovernable.”

Her face hardened.

“You might disagree, but we do,” he continued before she could speak. “But if you want that from us, you have to give it, too.”

Emily raised her head.

“I do.”

“I thought we’d got somewhere the other night, but obviously I was wrong. Refusing to tell your mother where you’d been half the night doesn’t sound like showing respect to me. I’d say you’re lucky she didn’t beat you.”

“She wouldn’t do that!”

“No,” he agreed, “she wouldn’t, although God knows there have been a few times lately when I’ve been tempted. But I haven’t — yet.” He gave the words as a threat, then smiled to take the sting from them. “We have a right to know where you are, Emily. More importantly, we need to know where you are. Do you really think the streets are safe after dark?”

“You’re the Constable of the city.”

He nodded. “I am, and that’s why I know.” Nottingham leaned forward and took her hand. “Look, do you know what I’ve spent the last few days doing?”

“Trying to find the man who’s committing those murders?”

“Yes. And there were two more tonight. The girl who died a few hours ago was no older than you, maybe a little younger.”

“But she was a…” He was pleased to see she couldn’t bring herself to pronounce the word.

“She was a whore, yes. But she was a girl, a human being. And I got to see her, and the others, broken and dead. I see them and I think of you and your sister. I don’t want you ending up like them.” He looked at her. “I’ll do anything I have to in order to stop it.”

“But we’re not — ” she protested.

“I know. Think on this, though. There but for the grace of God you go. If we didn’t have any money, that might be your lot.”

Emily lowered her eyes.

“Now, where were you last night, love?” he asked softly.

“I…” she started, then faltered before finding the words. “I was out walking with a young man, Papa.”

He cocked his head.

“Oh? Who was he?” Inside, he was furious, wanting to know who would take advantage of his girl this way, but he tried to sound restrained and in control.

“Just someone I’d met at the market on my way home from school.” She shrugged. “He seemed nice.”

“He must have been very nice, if you were willing to stay out in the pouring rain. Does he have a name?”

“Robert.” She spoke it as if it had a strange power. And to her, he thought, it probably did.

“If it’s all so innocent, why couldn’t you tell your mother?”

“Because she’d have made more of it than it was.” Emily smiled. “You know how she wants to get Rosie married. She’d have been making plans for me, wanting to meet him.”