Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Finally, after the dampness of the night air had leeched into his skin, he signalled for them to move. He went one way, Sedgwick the other, moving slowly over the gravel path and into the grass.

But they’d barely taken ten paces when the sound of footsteps and muttered curses filled the air at the top of the hill. The Constable froze, tightening his grip on the pistol.

“Right, you two go down there, see if he’s hiding,” a voice ordered, and Nottingham heard three men push their way down the hill. Worthy’s men. He stood still, safe and invisible in the faint moonlight. As long as John kept out of sight, everything would be fine. The pimp’s thugs could do their work for them.

It was only a couple of minutes before they discovered the man in the undergrowth, pulling him to his feet as he howled and protested. Very likely thought he was going to be robbed and beaten, the Constable imagined, and probably he would be. But he couldn’t stay and stop it; the voice wasn’t Crandall’s. Cautiously, he retraced his steps to the doorway, relieved to see Sedgwick had done exactly the same.

“Looks like they haven’t found him yet,” Sedgwick said in a low voice.

“If he was round here, that’ll have scared him off.” Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead.

“Pushed him deeper, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one came out past me,” Sedgwick explained. “If he’s here, he’s still here. If.” He emphasised the word.

“And if I knew where he was, we’d have him in custody now,” Nottingham retorted sharply. “All we can do is play the odds. The men are out searching, Worthy’s lads are looking. You and I are taking the likeliest places. The bastard’s somewhere.”

Worthy’s men had moved off, crossing the bridge noisily while their victim lay moaning in the grass. To the east, there was the faintest smudge of light on the clouds against the horizon. My God, Nottingham thought in surprise, have we been looking all night?

“You go along the path, I’ll cover the water side.”

It was awkward, laborious going. The banks were sheer and slippery, and he found himself grabbing thick tufts of grass to try and keep his balance as time and again he slid perilously close to the river. The warehouses rose tall, their walls sheer, broken only by doors and pulleys for moving bales on to the barges. A couple of flatboats were tied up, ready for loading, but as he approached the warning growls and bark of a dog kept him away.

Where was Crandall? He climbed back to the path by Dyer’s Garth, where men and women spent their days colouring finished cloth. The stink of the dyes they used hung in the air and he wrinkled his nose, his eyes watering. Maybe they didn’t notice it after a while.

“Boss!” Sedgwick’s loud, hoarse whisper pulled him back.

He ran quickly back along the path to the deputy. Sedgwick was squatting, eyes searching the ground. He held up a large piece of expensive black material in a good, tight weave.

“It could be a cassock,” Nottingham speculated, running his fingers across it, and suddenly the memories clicked in his brain. “Dear God. Do you remember young Forester saying he’d seen a woman the night of the second murders?”

Sedgwick nodded slowly.

“A curate in a cassock,” the Constable explained. “In the dark that would look like a woman in a dress.”

“Looks like he was here, then.”

“Maybe. But where’s he gone?” Nottingham wondered. “And how did the cassock get torn?”

“Do you want me to go and get the men and have them comb down here?” Sedgwick asked.

“No,” he decided after a moment. “He can’t have got inside the warehouses and he’s not down by the river. If he’s still anywhere around here, he’s on the hillside.” He scanned the trees and the undergrowth.

“There could have been a struggle here,” Sedgwick observed marks in the wet dirt. “It’s difficult to tell.”

“Over there, too.” Nottingham pointed at the grass on the hillside. “You see where it looks trampled?”

He waded through the tall stalks, the dew on the cattails soaking his breeches. There was a space, about five yards by three, where the stems were broken in thick patches too rough to be someone’s camp. Two trails ran to it, one from the hill top, another from the path below. Squatting, he ran his fingers lightly over the ground, feeling for anything that might have dropped. It seemed a hopeless task with so much to cover. He tugged at roots and the short young stems of trees poking from the ground, looking for something that might yield to his touch and give a clue. But there was nothing to proclaim beyond doubt that Crandall had been here.

Back on the towpath he joined Sedgwick. It was close to dawn now, and Nottingham could see the signs of strain and weariness on the deputy’s face. They were probably on his own, too, seamed and magnified by age. But they’d have to continue until they found the curate or were certain he’d left Leeds.

“Nothing up there,” he said in a voice edged heavily with frustration.

“You think Worthy’s men got him?” Sedgwick asked, echoing his own thoughts.

“I don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s beginning to look as if they might.” He gave a dark, forbidding frown. “For Mr Crandall’s sake, let’s hope they don’t.”

“So where now, boss?”

He had no idea, he realised. The church had seemed obvious, the riverside an inspiration. But they’d missed him at the first, and Nottingham had a growing fear that they’d also arrived too late at the second. They could go to Worthy’s and tear the place apart, but he had so many rooms and rat’s nests around the city it would be impossible to find and check them all.

“Back to the jail. See if any of the others turned anything up.”

Inside, he was raging, the anger boiling, as if he’d been cheated but unable to prove it. Crandall was around somewhere, he felt it, but in a place just beyond his reach. If Emily had said something immediately, if Bartlett had recalled the curate leaving, if Tom Williamson had found his information sooner… but none of that was worth a damn now.

He knew no one could have put together the threads any earlier; there was too little to make any kind of pattern. But he blamed himself anyway. It was his responsibility; he was the Constable, in charge of the investigation. And if Crandall had found his way out of the city, Nottingham’s career was over. Even a squawking gaggle of aldermen wouldn’t be able to save him.

“Maybe the lads got him and he’s waiting in a cell,” Sedgwick offered with a small, hopeful smile.

It was possible, but he doubted it. Still, maybe one of the men had discovered something useful. He’d keep them looking all day and all night if he had to, but for the moment he simply didn’t know where to send them. And, as if to crown his despair, the first fat drops of rain began to fall from a heavy sky.

He trudged on, his mind churning, eyes on the ground, until Sedgwick nudged him.

“Under the bridge, boss.” The words were a bare whisper.

The tunnel was long, and dark as thick velvet. Water surged along the bank, the sound echoing loud. Nottingham stared into the gloom, his heart thudding loud, until he was slowly able to make out a shape. Gradually the features took form. At last. The figure was cowering, trying hard to stay small, hidden as deep in the blackness as he could burrow. Crouching, he looked lost, too broken to even run any more. It had to be Crandall.

“Let’s take him,” Nottingham hissed, feeling a fast surge of satisfaction in his veins.

They approached patiently, carefully hugging the shadows. It seemed to take an age to draw close, holding their breath with each step in case the man heard them. Nottingham kept his eyes on him; he didn’t move. The Constable edged nearer, so close he could smell the pure terror in the man’s sweat. Behind him Sedgwick’s shoe caught a pebble, kicking it along the path. The figure started suddenly. He began to rise, his eyes panicked. It was Crandall. The Constable leapt, pinning him against the dank stone of the bridge.