Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Why?” He ran a hand through his hair. It was better than hitting her.

“Because he asked me to. He asked me to trust him and I said I would.”

“I need your trust, too. That man who brought you here is employed by someone who also wants to find the killer,” he explained urgently. “I don’t know how, but he knows what this token means.” Nottingham took hold of her shoulders and forced her to look into his face. “He’s not going to arrest the lad who gave this to you. He’s going to make him suffer and then he’s going to make sure he dies very slowly and in a lot of pain.”

“Why should I believe you?” she asked warily, but now he could see fear flicker in her eyes. “You could be lying to me just to get his name. That could have been one of your men.”

“You heard what he said to me. He wasn’t one of mine.” He kept hold of her. “You care about this man. Right now he has one chance of still being alive tomorrow morning, and that chance is me.”

She was torn, he knew it. He wanted to push her harder, but if he did, she might back away. He waited, watching the young emotions conflicting on her face.

“I can’t,” she said finally, with a sad shake of her head. “I promised him I wouldn’t.”

The slap resounded round the small room, lifting her off the chair and sending her sprawling on the flagstones. He saw the sharp redness burn her cheek, hating himself for what he’d done, lashing out at his daughter. He knew he’d had to do it, to jolt her, but he still wanted to gather her close, to apologise, to stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be all right.

“Please, Emily, tell me his name,” he begged softly. Gazing up at him, she pushed herself away quickly on her hands and feet, moving awkwardly like a crab until she was backed against the wall. He walked towards her and she drew her knees up against her chest. The outline of his hand was clear on her pale skin; he saw the tears brimming in her eyes and the agony of fear on her face.

Squatting, Nottingham held out his hand. She watched it as though he was going to hit her again.

“I don’t have the time to fence with you,” he explained sadly. “I have to get his name, luv.”

The door opened and he glanced up hopefully. But it was Mary standing there, hands on her hips.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising sharply.

“Mama…” Emily began, struggling to her feet.

“Dear God, child, what happened to you?” She pulled the girl to her, examining her face and neck. Nottingham rose slowly, feeling the ache in his knees, and a growing sense of something lost.

“What did you do to her, Richard?” Her tone demanded the truth from him. He held up the ribbon with its dangling token, still clenched in his fist.

“She was wearing this,” he told her. “Do you remember it?”

Mary’s mouth widened in astonishment, and her eyes moved to her daughter.

“I believe the man who gave it to her is a killer, and she won’t tell me his name,” he continued.

“Tell your father,” Mary ordered. She held Emily fast as the girl tried to pull away.

Before Nottingham could speak, the door opened once more, and Williamson entered. As soon as he saw the women, he removed his hat and bowed in an automatic gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he said with embarrassment. “Richard, it took me longer than I expected.”

“Do you have the name?”

“Robert Crandall. He’s the new curate at the parish church.”

Nottingham glanced at Emily. Her face had fallen, and he knew he had his man.

“Mary, take her home now,” he said, before turning back to the merchant. “Tom, thank you.”

He dashed past them, out on to Kirkgate and the sprawling Vicar’s Croft where Dr Cookson lived. It was no more than two hundred yards, but he was panting by the time he arrived. He banged hard on the thick front door, and kept knocking until an exasperated servant finally opened it. If only Bartlett had remembered this, he thought.

“Where’s the Reverend?” Nottingham asked, forcing his way past the woman.

“He’s in the library, sir,” she replied, polite but terrified by his manner. The Constable moved quickly down the hall, turning latches as he went until he found the right room.

Cookson was seated comfortably by the fire, a book on his lap, and three more stacked on a small table at his side, next to a half-drunk glass of wine. As he glanced up at the intrusion, Nottingham said, “I need to know where Crandall is.”

Coolly, Cookson closed the book.

“Barging into my house and making demands isn’t the best way to find things out, Constable,” the Reverend announced.

“Where is he… sir?” He spat out the word with deliberate insolence.

“And why do you need to know so urgently?” He crossed one leg over the other, smoothing his breeches over his ample thighs.

“Because he’s murdered six people.” Nottingham kept his eyes on the Reverend’s disbelieving face.

“Another of your wild theories?” Cookson laughed. “It was George Carver last time, wasn’t it? Don’t be so stupid, man. Mr Crandall is from a good family in the county. Why would he do something like that?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve talked to him,” the Constable replied grimly. “But he used to be in Chapel Allerton, didn’t he?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “There were people attacked there. One of them came back to Leeds and was killed just after your curate arrived.”

Cookson pursed his lips.

“Coincidence is hardly damning evidence, is it?”

“I’ll give him the chance to clear himself, if he can.” He chose not to mention the broken token or Worthy. Keep it straightforward, he thought. “But I need to find him, and I need to do it now.”

“He lodges with Widow Cliffe on Briggate. But she’s a good Christian woman. She keeps early hours. I don’t want you disturbing her.”

Nottingham said nothing, just walked past the servant and out of the house. He knew Widow Cliffe all too well, a prissy woman who’d plagued his office for years with ridiculous, petty complaints about her neighbours.

A merchant’s widow, she lived in an old house with a wide frontage, the plaster limewashed a crisp white every year. She spent her days peering out from the small mullioned windows and making carping comments about the people she saw.

He knew of at least five servants she’d turned out for their behaviour, and pitied those who stayed even more. She liked to think of herself as the city’s moral judge, and was constantly disappointed with everything she saw.

No lights showed through the shutters as his fist hit the door, but he didn’t care if he woke the entire street. When no answer came, he hammered on the wood again until a downtrodden girl pulled it open, her eyes puffy with sleep, clothes bundled quickly over her shift.

“Is Mr Crandall here?” Nottingham asked without introduction.

“No, sir,” the girl answered with lazy sleepiness, stifling a yawn. “He left this afternoon. He was all in a hurry. Said his father was ill and he needed to go home for a few days.”

“And where’s his home, do you know?”

“Harrogate, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed quietly. His mind was churning as he strode back to the jail. Maybe Crandall really had run away and gone home. Not this afternoon, though; he’d been with Emily since then. He might have planned to leave, but the curate was still in Leeds; he knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

The jail was crowded with Sedgwick and the other men, all milling around in loud conversation that ended raggedly as he entered.

“They’ve had no luck yet, boss,” Sedgwick told him.