Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

He settled back at his desk, eating a slice of cold, greasy game pie that he’d regret later, and supping from a mug of small beer. He brushed the crumbs off his coat as he swallowed the last mouthful.

He’d done all he could for now; tonight would be the test. In his bones he knew that the killer would be out again, hungry for death. What he was doing to thwart him was extreme, maybe even ridiculous, but what choice did he have? He didn’t have men enough to watch the whole city. So the volunteers were just performing their civic duty. That’s how he’d explain it to the Mayor, if he ever bothered to ask. If their luck was good, they’d catch the murderer and that would be an end to it. But he knew all too well that luck was a capricious bitch.

He drank a little more, then sat back and let his thoughts wander. What was he going to do about Emily? He could beat her, the way most fathers did with errant children, but he knew his daughter; that would only make her more stubborn.

She was too clever for her own good, that was the problem, and trying to grow up too quickly. Another year and she could court and marry, if she wanted. Both he and Mary would be happy with that. And it might drive the ridiculous notion of writing from her head. He’d said little to his wife, but it disturbed him. He wrote because he had to, reports and figures. There wasn’t any pleasure in it, and he didn’t see how anyone could find the act enjoyable. He read the Mercury , but very rarely did he open a book. They reminded him too much of what he’d been long ago, a boy in a house with a library whose shelves reached close to heaven.

Above all it worried him because he understood that if Emily wrote, she’d fail. She wasn’t aristocracy, or even well-connected. No London publisher would look twice at the scribbling of a Constable’s daughter from Leeds. But he had no idea how to dissuade her.

That was the future; more immediately, he had to keep her away from the streets. When he finally had time, tomorrow he hoped, he’d find this boy of hers and he’d make him back away. He knew she was being canny and coy, telling him just enough, but not the information he needed to search for the lad. In that way she was her father’s daughter again; she knew instinctively how to dole out facts.

The only thing he knew for certain was that an answer wouldn’t come easily or quickly — if it even came at all. He wanted the best for her. But he had no idea what the best was in her case.

Nottingham must have drifted into sleep, for when he opened his eyes the first cast of dusk was spreading across the sky, above the chimney smoke of the city. His neck hurt and the muscles in his calves felt cramped from sitting at his desk. He stretched slowly, pushing out his arms and legs and revelling in the luxurious feel. A few more hours and it would all begin. Time to eat a good meal and make sure everything was ready.

By the time Sedgwick woke the smudges of darkness in the sky were thickening. He sat up in bed, shaking his head. The room was chilly and gloomy, deep shadows filling the corners. He realised that Annie and James hadn’t returned while he slept.

He didn’t bother building a fire; a few more minutes and he’d be gone, and there was no knowing when his wife and son might return. They were probably visiting her family so they could be hours yet. He looked around for food, but there was so little on the table that he couldn’t bring himself to take it.

He locked the door as he left. It was going to be a long night.

By ten the men were out on the street. As Nottingham circulated, keeping quietly to the shadows, he counted around fifteen. Nowhere near as many as he’d hoped, but he’d remember the names of all those who hadn’t come out, and deal with them later.

It was a good idea using men of dubious reputation, he decided. They knew how to be inconspicuous and quiet — at least the ones who hadn’t drunk too much did. Yet the loud clumsiness of the others could be effective too, acting as a deterrent, funnelling the killer into the darker courts and alleys.

He was worried, but he tried to keep his feelings hidden. Everything hinged on the killer being out tonight, looking for his next victims. The weather was cloudy, an early autumn chill helping the leaves tumble, the moon well hidden. A perfect night for murder, he thought grimly.

Around eleven he found Sedgwick completing a circuit on Lower Briggate. They conferred in a doorway, away from prying eyes, talking in hushed voices.

“Not a wonderful turnout,” the Constable said.

“Could have been better.” Sedgwick shrugged in agreement. “I’ve given them all small areas. If they spot anyone in a dark cloak and hat, they’re to challenge them loudly. Someone should always be close enough to help and raise the alarm.”

“Good,” Nottingham nodded. “We’ll keep walking round.”

“I’m surprised Worthy doesn’t have men out. He must have heard about this.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” the Constable warned. “He’s a sly old sod. If he’s got his best lads out, they could be a dozen paces from here and we’d never know it. But if anyone catches a murderer tonight, it’s going to be us. I want him sentenced in court, not left with his throat cut.”

“And if some of our men are working for him?” queried Sedgwick.

“Some of them probably are,” Nottingham admitted. “But if they fuck this up, they’ll be moving to another city tomorrow, I can guarantee you that.” There was a bitter iciness in his voice that made it a promise.

People were still out and about, visiting, walking, but the voices on the streets began to fade slowly. The slatterns and prostitutes were finishing their trade as men bade farewell to a day of rest and prepared for another week of drudgery. By midnight there’d been nothing to stir excitement and the Constable could tell the men were becoming bored and weary. He slipped between them warily, offering quiet words of encouragement, making sure their attention didn’t lapse. Only one had left, after a short argument, and he’d been warned he’d pay the price for desertion.

Nottingham was nervous, the tension running through his body. The next two hours would be crucial. He brushed back his fringe and ran a hand through his hair, trying to breathe calmly and evenly. So much depended on him being right about the killer prowling tonight. He could feel his heart in his chest, the thick rhythm beating uncomfortably fast. After being alert for every sound for so long, he’d be completely drained by night’s end.

He’d been parading the same streets for hours, until he felt he knew every crack and indentation of the paths. The night had quietened, broken only by the barking of stray dogs and the occasional blare of an argument or singing.

The minutes were passing too slowly, as if time itself was tired. He’d just completed another circuit, finishing at the top of Briggate near the Head Row, when he heard a confused bellow of cries from the yards behind the Shambles. Without thinking he began to run towards the sounds. The voices increased in number, shouting over each other in a babble of sound that grew more frenzied. Dear God, Nottingham prayed as he ran, let it be him. And let him be alive.

For a minute it seemed as if he could get no nearer; he was trapped in a maze of tiny streets. Then suddenly he was there, watching two men hold a struggling figure in the light of a pair of torches. A body lay on the edge of the shadows. Sedgwick was kneeling over it, then looked up and shook his head.

“What happened?” Nottingham asked breathlessly, and was immediately overwhelmed by several garbled accounts. “You!” He pointed into the crowd at a scrawny youth he didn’t recognise. “Tell me!”