Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“What’s wrong with meeting him?” he wondered.

“Nothing,” she admitted. “I like him, but he’s not courting me.” Little do you know, he thought. “I just wanted to be with him, and I knew Mama wouldn’t have let me because she’d think it was wrong.”

There was a finality to her words, and Nottingham realised he’d pushed her as far as he could for now. It was better to stop before the conversation moved from pleasant discussion to argument. He loved Emily dearly, but there was a great deal of his personality in her; when she chose, she could be every bit as stubborn as he was himself. He desperately wanted to know more, but Emily also had to feel he trusted her. Let that come gradually, he decided. Tomorrow or the next day he’d talk to her again. He gave her hand a squeeze.

“You go back to bed.” She rose, gracefully stretching to her full height, and kissed the top of his head before vanishing up the stairs.

Nottingham rested his chin on his hand. Had he done the right thing? If it came to that, what exactly was the right thing? All he had to rely on was his feeling, and that was more tuned to questioning criminals than an errant daughter. Mary wouldn’t be satisfied, of course; she’d want chapter and verse on the young man. So did he, but he was willing to draw it out a little at a time. However much she believed herself an adult, wise in the ways of the world, the innocence in his daughter shone through. For now, he believed, he hoped, she’d be fine. God help the young man if she wasn’t. In a few days he’d learn the whole story, and then he could decide what to do.

He considered waking Mary, but light was coming through the shutters. There were places he needed to be.

The morning felt crisp, and yesterday’s downpour was a memory, blown away by a brisk and bitter north wind. Nottingham’s breath clouded lightly on the air. He felt as if weariness was tearing rabidly at the edges of his mind, fraying it with problems and questions, as he plodded back into town. His feet were heavy and his shoulders were stooped, but he had to do the work.

He didn’t pause at the jail, but walked instead to the court where the couple had been murdered. Two men had been left to guard it and ensure nothing was taken, that the scene remained undisturbed. He dismissed them and they left eagerly for breakfast while he searched.

There was little left of the blood, most of it washed away by the rain, except for a single dark, red-brown pool in the depression of a flagstone. He tried to imagine the bodies as they lay last night, crumpled but still warm to the touch, the souls just departed from life. He walked around, shifting the rubbish with his shoe, looking for anything at all. But as before, there was nothing.

He made his way back, lost in thought, trying to puzzle together the few pieces he had into a coherent picture. But it was impossible. They were scattered fragments that didn’t even form a shadow.

Sedgwick was sitting at the desk, his arm resting awkwardly in the sling. He was eating part of a warm, fragrant loaf and sipping from a cup of ale. Nottingham leaned over, tore off some of the bread and ate it hungrily.

“You should be at home, John. I told you to rest.”

“Boss.” The word, and the look in his eyes, was half-plea, half-explanation. He wanted this. Nottingham nodded slightly and asked,

“How’s the arm?”

“You mean apart from being useless and still hurting?” Sedgwick grimaced.

“It’s going to take a while. The apothecary said so.”

“I can still walk and talk.”

“Just don’t push yourself too far,” the Constable warned, although he knew it was pointless. The man would work hard no matter what he said. “What about our prisoner?”

“I apologised to Mr Carver and let him go.”

“How was he?”

“Asked me for ale money so he could drink his way home.”

Nottingham chuckled. “Give him credit, he has a right. We kept him here.”

“I didn’t have any money, so I told him to see if he could find his room if he wasn’t pissed,” Sedgwick grinned broadly. “It’ll be an adventure for him.” He paused and his eyes became serious. “I’ve thought of something else.”

“Go on.”

“I’m sure the murderer was wearing a hat.”

“A hat?” the Constable asked.

“Yes.” He rubbed some of the bread into pellets between his fingers. “I was thinking about it again this morning, and I remembered feeling the brim against my face.”

“That’s another thing we know about him, then.” The Constable let his features relax into a momentary grin. “Bit by bit, it’s all coming together.” He started to allow himself the hope that they were going to solve this.

Nottingham chewed on a fingernail as he worried around an idea. It had come to him as he delayed writing his daily report, knowing exactly how the Mayor would react to another pair of murders. Was it possible the killer had come to Leeds from somewhere else? He hadn’t fallen from the sky; he might have left bodies elsewhere before moving on. The Constable decided to send out letters to the surrounding areas; there was nothing to lose, and he might learn something useful. It had brought results before, helping to catch a murderer three years earlier. He gathered up paper and quill and began scribbling notes to other Constables in his rough, spidery scrawl.

He was sanding the fifth letter, drying the ink before applying his seal, when the door opened and Tom Williamson entered. The merchant’s jacket was freshly cleaned, metal buttons sparkling, his neck stock a sparkling white, and shoes shining although he’d walked through the mud of the streets for the Saturday cloth market.

“Richard,” he said, dipping his head. His face was grave, his voice dark.

“Morning, Tom,” Nottingham replied. “You’re just the man I need to see.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know anyone in authority in Chapel Allerton? Pamela lived there, and I thought someone might have some information.”

Williamson thought for a moment.

“Try Mr Bartlett,” he suggested. “I’ve met him once or twice. He’s the Justice of the Peace there, I believe.”

“Thank you, I shall.” He paused. “So what brings you here, Tom?”

The merchant looked embarrassed.

“I thought I’d better tell you — the Mayor’s called an urgent meeting of the aldermen. He sent out a message first thing. He wants to dismiss you.”

“Ah.”

Nottingham sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. He’d expected this, but he’d thought it would be done summarily, with Kenion taking the authority into his own hands.

“I’ve been talking to some of the others on the Corporation,” Williamson carried on, his voice still serious and intent. “We’ve decided to oppose him. I know you haven’t caught the murderer yet, but I — well, we — believe you will if you’re given time. You’ve always done an excellent job in the past.”

The Constable looked up in astonishment. He could scarcely credit what he’d just heard. He listened to the words still echoing in his head and blinked. For a moment he didn’t know what to say, then the words tumbled out. “You’re really going to speak for me? Even though I was wrong about Carver and we haven’t caught the killer?”

“Dear God, of course we are, Richard.” The merchant appeared amused at his friend’s confusion. “At least some of us know what you’ve done for this city. Kenion’s a buffoon. He’s champing at the bit to run roughshod over us, and we don’t intend to let him, certainly not over this.” He leant forward, his hands on the desk. “Look, I’m not saying we’ll win. You could be out of a job when the meeting’s over, but we’ll fight for you.”