Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“Eh up, Richard,” he greeted him broadly, the smell of ale rising off his breath. “What can I do for tha?”

“I’ve come round for Emily,” Nottingham replied easily. Sudden worry arrived when a frown creased the weaver’s forehead.

“Isn’t she back at your house? She left half an hour since, mebbe a bit less.”

“Left? What do you mean?” He spun his head, looking up and down the empty street and feeling sharp pricks of fear on the back of his neck.

“Said she’d only popped round for a visit, and that she had to go home. What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing,” Nottingham said reflexively, immediately thinking too many things at once as he walked away: she’d done it again, gone off without a word while someone out there was killing girls; wondering what he could tell Mary; and most of all how he was going to find her.

He could feel the fear rising up his spine and a cold, panicked sweat on his forehead. His hands were shaking. Where could he begin to look for her? Unless he called out his men, he realised, he had as much chance as a cow in the Shambles. There were so many places she could have gone — in the city, into the country — that it was hopeless. He’d go and look, scouring the usual dark haunts of young lovers, but he wasn’t hopeful. She had imagination, and a desire not to be found.

For a brief moment he considered going home and telling Mary, but stopped after a couple of paces. She’d be terrified, out of her mind with fear, and tonight, of all nights, she deserved her joy. He’d tell her later if he had to, and face the consequences then. But he prayed to God it wouldn’t be necessary.

Nottingham had just crossed Timble Bridge, his mind racing as images came unbidden, when he spotted a pair of figures coming the other way. He paid them no real attention, just forms in the night. His thoughts were focused on finding Emily; where should he look first? How long before he called out the men to search for her?

It wasn’t until the couple were upon him that he could make out his daughter, a sullen, bitter expression on her face. One of Worthy’s guards was urging her along, a hand placed possessively against the small of her back. Emily moved reluctantly, almost staggering, but she was unable to resist the force propelling her.

“Mr Nottingham,” the man said with a dip of his head that was acknowledgement rather than deference. “Mr Worthy’s compliments. He didn’t think you wanted your lass wandering round alone at night. I was ordered to return her to your house.”

The Constable glanced at her, but all she did was stare back defiantly. Relief flooded through him, tempered by a cold fury.

“Thank you,” he said civilly, his gratitude genuine. For the second time that day he was absurdly, stupidly grateful. “I’ll take her from here.” The man nodded curtly, removed his hand, and faded back into the gloom of the city. Emily tossed her head, saying nothing.

“Do you want to tell me what the bloody hell you were doing?” Nottingham rounded on her, satisfied to see her cower. “Well?”

“I wanted a walk.” She tried to sound haughty, but her voice was tiny, a little girl’s.

Nottingham took her by the shoulders and began to shake her. He was gentle at first, rocking her, then faster and harder until her head swayed wildly, long hair whipping across her face. Emily didn’t complain and made no move to stop him.

“I should beat you,” he said in a cold voice that made her look up at him fearfully. “I should beat you here and now until people come out to hear your cries. Maybe that would drive some bloody sense in you.” He waited for her reaction, but she remained deliberately mute, although her eyes were wide. His fingers tightened on her skin until he knew he must be hurting her. “But I’m not going to,” he told her finally. “The way I feel right now, it would be too easy.” And it was true. If he hit her now, he might not be able to stop. She shuddered slightly under his hands, and he saw the moisture glistening in her eyes as she blinked to fight back tears. “Where were you? Were you going to meet him?”

Emily nodded, lowering her head.

“Who is he?”

“I told you, I met him at the market.”

“And what does he do?”

“I don’t know,” she told him. But the words came too readily. He knew she was lying.

“He didn’t tell you? You didn’t even think to ask?” He asked the questions harshly, as if she was a suspect at the jail.

“It didn’t matter.” She raised her face to his. “You’ve always told us to judge people by who they are, not what they do.”

“So you went to meet Robert.” Nottingham ignored her statement and rolled the words around slowly, like a pair of dice before a throw. “Did he arrive?”

“No,” she answered quietly, with a trace of disappointed sadness. “I waited and waited, but he didn’t come. Then that man grabbed me and said I shouldn’t be out on my own at night and that he was going to take me home. He scared me the way he touched me.” She paused a second. “Was he one of your men?”

“No,” he said, and stopped. In all likelihood Worthy had men in the shadows behind Rose and David, too. Returning Emily like that, bringing her home, was a quiet, powerful statement. Tonight Nottingham thanked God it had happened. Tomorrow he’d be filled with an icy rage towards the pimp.

“Come on,” he said brusquely, grabbing her wrist and pulling her along so hard she almost fell. “We’re going home. And as soon as we get in the door you’re going to bed. Don’t even think of answering me back or disobeying or I’ll clout you into next week.”

She followed meekly, her silence a tacit, frightened agreement.

Nottingham sat in the dark. The fire had died and the room was cold, but a nip in the air had never bothered him. Mary and the girls were all asleep. Emily had scuttled off to her room like a mouse, not saying more than two words while he deflected Mary’s questions with vague, noncommittal answers. When he’d checked on her later, she had the blanket pulled up against her chin, her breathing even, as if the incident had never happened. He’d managed a couple of hours of broken sleep. In bed blankness had come, but it was quickly tormented by dreams until he was sick of the tossing and constant waking. He rose and dressed, ran cold water round his mouth to flush away the night, and sat down to think.

Now, in the silence, he had time to reflect. He wasn’t surprised Worthy had men behind himself and Sedgwick, but it scared him, too, to know his family was being followed. Tonight he’d been glad, but the menace in the message was eloquent. He sighed softly. These murders had brought work into his home. Violated it.

Elbows on knees, he put his hands together and rested his chin on them. He needed a shave. He needed rest, a wash. He needed this to be over. When it was done, he’d deal with Amos Worthy in his own way. He’d also find this Robert, whoever he might be, and teach him a lesson.

The hours passed slowly, but there was no chance of more sleep. His mind was crowded, thoughts pressing on his skull.

How could he solve the murders? He didn’t even have any suspects. The only clues he possessed were faint and didn’t point in any particular direction. At least he could be thankful that it looked as if the killer hadn’t struck again as the city and its taverns were jammed in the respite of Saturday evening.

But tonight he’d have a small army of men around the city. Maybe the plan would work, and they’d catch this killer. If not, at least it might save a pair of lives. And that would be more than they’d managed so far.

When his brain finally rebelled against more hopeless thought, he wrapped himself in his greatcoat, closed the door quietly, and walked the silent streets back into Leeds. In the city, the evidence of people forgetting the working week just past was all around him in the rubbish and pools of vomit on the streets. A drunk had collapsed against a house, his hoarse snores ringing between the buildings. Saturday night was always a time filled with arguments and fights, something people needed to obliterate the days of work they’d completed for little money and the vision of the weeks and years that stretched ahead without hope of relief.