Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

The lad ducked his head briefly.

“We, er, heard him coming, sir.” He glanced around the other faces, seeing expressions ranging from agreement to anger. “We challenged him like you said, but he didn’t want to stop. So Adam, he, er, started to fight with him, to stop him. We were shouting, and then some of the others came.” He paused again. “Then he pulled a knife and started stabbing Adam. I didn’t know what to do. Some of the others grabbed him.”

Nottingham gazed around in horror. An innocent man was dead because of him. He walked up to the culprit, a man of about thirty, thin to the point of starvation, so cowed he didn’t even fight against the men restraining him. He was dressed in tattered old clothes, hose ragged and breeches torn. The Constable had to resist the overwhelming impulse to hit him.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked.

“I thought he were trying to rob me,” the man answered defensively, his eyes full of fear. “Then when t’others started coming, I thought it were a gang going to kill me.”

Nottingham said nothing more. He turned and walked over to the body.

“Who was it?” he asked Sedgwick.

“Adam Suttler.” The deputy sounded sombre. “I only asked him because I saw him going to church this morning.” He kicked at a stone and heard it tumble away. “Who’s that bugger?” He inclined his head at the man who stood with his head bowed.

“Just some poor man who got caught in the middle,” Nottingham told him in sad blankness.

“He’ll hang.” There was satisfaction in his tone.

“Yes.” He would. There was nothing more to say.

“Meanwhile our man’s still out there,” Sedgwick said passionately.

Nottingham shook his head.

“He’s not a fool, John. He’ll have heard all the noise and gone to his bed. Get Brogden here and the killer down to the jail. He won’t give you any trouble.”

“No, he won’t.” Sedgwick bunched his fist and Nottingham placed a hand lightly on his good arm.

“Don’t take it out on him. He didn’t know what was going on. Look at his face. That’s not someone who killed for pleasure. He knows he’s just waved farewell to his own life.”

“So long as he doesn’t expect any bloody sympathy from me.” He began to issue orders as the Constable wandered away.

It was on his head, and Nottingham knew it. Another little piece of guilt to carry around piled up on all the others he’d accumulated over the years. It would worry at him for a while, itch like a wound, then fade to a scar he’d only notice in certain lights.

But at the moment it was digging deep, clawing raw at his mind and he needed to be alone. It was a mess, a deadly mess. If… that was a word he was going to be thinking often over the next few days.

Sedgwick would go and tell Suttler’s wife. The city would pay for the funeral, he’d make sure of that. And he’d take responsibility for the death. At least the Mayor wouldn’t worry too much about one poor man killing a forger.

He would, though. It was one more death to chalk up to this murderer. Yet he knew in his heart that he’d done the right thing in having so many men out. He had to be the hunter, to act and pursue. Inside, he truly believed the man had been out tonight. If it hadn’t been for an accident…

Nottingham pulled the coat closer around himself and shivered in the air. It wasn’t long until dawn; the sky was just beginning to lighten on the eastern horizon. He’d been walking for too long, his legs ached and his mind was reeling. There was a vicious thirst in his mouth, his head pounding along with his footsteps. He wanted to go home, but he couldn’t face his house or the jail yet. He needed to be outside in the quiet, away from people. It wouldn’t erase the horror he was feeling, but at least he’d have the time to push it down deep and keep his mind where it needed to be.

Down by the warehouses on the Aire the first workers were arriving to start loading cloth on to barges for Hull and the Continent. He stood and watched as the great doors above the river opened, ropes moving up and down over the pulleys, and the day straggled into its rhythm.

Early light spilled on to the water and Nottingham sighed, knowing he had to go back. He stopped at the Old King’s Head for ale and bread; swirling the liquid around his mouth took away the taste of the night.

Finally, when he could put it off no longer, he returned to the jail. Sedgwick was sitting at his desk, his long face ashen, half moons of shadow under his eyes.

“I’m sorry, John,” Nottingham said gently. Sedgwick looked up without expression and shook his head.

“Not your fault, boss. I should never have asked him. Adam wasn’t made for anything physical.”

“Where’s the body?”

“I had it sent home to his widow.”

The Constable gave an inward sigh of relief; he hadn’t wanted to view the corpse and confront his own failure.

“What about his killer?”

Sedgwick jerked his head towards a cell.

“Fast asleep.” His tone softened a little. “I think it’s the closest thing to a bed he’s had in weeks.” He sighed. “We’ve messed it up, and no mistake.” He paused and handed Nottingham a piece of paper. “This came for you.”

The Constable opened the plain seal. The note was terse, written in Worthy’s surprisingly elegant hand: A poor job, Mr Nottingham. Baiting him like a chained bear on market day. He crumpled the paper slowly and tossed it on to the desk.

“Let’s work out how to find our killer,” he said darkly.

“We can’t try the same thing again,” Sedgwick pointed out. “After this, no one would come even if we threatened them with the Assizes.”

“It was still a good idea.” He thought for a moment. “Take two of the men off their usual duties.”

The deputy looked at him quizzically. “What for, boss?”

“Amos Worthy’s top men,” Nottingham began. “You know them?”

“Of course I do.” The deputy was astonished he even needed to ask.

“I want two of our lads on them. Have them try and stay out of sight. If Worthy’s lot talk to someone, find out what they wanted and what the answers were. We know they’re looking for this murderer, too. Maybe they can lead us to something.” And it’ll give Worthy a taste of being followed, he thought.

Sedgwick looked unhappy.

“Are you sure it’s worthwhile?” he asked.

Nottingham pushed his fringe back wearily.

“No,” he admitted with a slow shake of his head. “But what do we have to lose? The rest of us will still be looking. And it’ll annoy Amos to be doing our work for us.”

“I don’t know…” Sedgwick began warily, but the Constable’s dark look silenced him.

“Worthy’s a pimp, he’s a criminal. If half the members of the Corporation didn’t use his whores, he’d have been hanged years ago.” Nottingham slammed his hand down. “He thinks he’s better than us, so let’s use him. And if he knows we’ve done it, that’s all to the good.”

Sedgwick had seen this mood before. It brooked no argument, at least not until it had passed and turned to a brooding silence. Then, perhaps, he could talk some sense into the Constable. This wasn’t going to bring them anything; the only thing it did was squander their precious resources, and all because Nottingham hated Worthy, and had for far too long. It had always been personal, as deep as the sailors said the oceans were, far beyond any desire to see the man simply pay for his crimes.

He left the jail to search for the two men he wanted. He couldn’t read the note, but it was easy enough to guess that Worthy had sent it, a taunt following the night’s failure. Nottingham had responded to the goad, of course. Sedgwick could have predicted it. Now his job was to make sure his men stayed out of danger.