Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

“But I came along.” Nottingham paused. “You’re still going to die, Mr Crandall,” he said with satisfaction.

“I know.” There was resignation in his voice.

The Constable let go of him altogether and the curate remained shakily on his feet.

“Why did you kill them? What had they done to you?”

“I…” he began, then halted and shook his head. “I need something to drink.” When Nottingham made no move, Crandall looked beseechingly at him. “Please,” he asked hoarsely.

Finally the Constable nodded, locking the cell door behind him, and returning a few minutes later with a jug of small beer and two cups. He watched the other man drain his mug eagerly and pour a second before he said softly, “Now, Mr Crandall, I want the truth.”

The curate stared at the corner of the cell for a long time. Just as Nottingham began to believe he’d say nothing more and that the moment had passed, he began to speak.

“I didn’t want to come to Leeds. There’s so much evil here. I’d go walking at night and see them, all the fornicators and drunkards.”

“They’re the people of the city, Mr Crandall.”

“Someone had to stop them,” the curate said plaintively. “Someone had to teach them.”

A lunatic, Nottingham thought. A man with a twisted mind. He brushed the fringe off his forehead in a quick movement.

“Why Morton?” he asked, and a moment later, “Why Pamela?”

“The Reverend had told me all about Mr Morton,” Crandall explained. “I was out one night and I saw him.” He looked up sadly. “I wanted to talk to him and find out what he believed. But before I could get close enough he’d gone off with a whore. He was as weak as all the rest.”

“So you killed them.”

“He was supposed to be a man of God,” the curate said earnestly, his eyes wide. “I followed him. When I saw what they were going to do, I had to kill them. I couldn’t allow him to do that.”

Nottingham closed his eyes briefly.

“What about the girl?”

“She had to die, too,” Crandall said with straightforward honesty. “She tempted him, she made him fall.”

“Did you know who she was?”

“I remembered her,” the curate admitted. “I wanted to arrange them so everyone would know and understand their sin. When I saw her face I thought it had to be God’s judgement on her.”

Nottingham bunched his fists but forced himself to remain calm.

“You’d stabbed her husband in Chapel Allerton. He died because of you. When she was turned out of her house, she came back here and did the only thing she could to survive.”

“They were fornicating in the woods,” Crandall answered plainly, as if it was justification. “I saw them all, rutting everywhere like animals. I had to make them understand they were above that.”

“She was with her husband. She was carrying his baby.” Nottingham stared at the curate.

“Then there was no need for the evil they were doing. It was Godless rutting.” He took a timid sip from the mug.

“And what about the others you murdered here?” the Constable asked.

“They didn’t learn.” He looked up, his eyes sharp and clear. “I tried to teach you, but none of you learnt a thing. So I had to keep on with the lessons.”

“Is that why you left the corpses the way you did?” Nottingham asked suddenly. “ To teach us?”

“ To tell you,” Crandall answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So they could die with their shame and you’d know what they’d been doing.”

“Where did you learn to use a knife like that?”

The question seemed to take the curate by surprise.

“My fencing master,” he answered. “I had lessons when I was younger. He thought I’d have made a good soldier.” Crandall smiled vaguely. “But I felt a calling to serve the Lord instead.”

Nottingham leaned back against the wall. So many dead to feed the battle of good and evil in a madman’s head, the war only a madman could hope to understand. But the God he’d tried to please would judge him soon enough, after man was done with him. How forgiving would He be?

“And what about my daughter? What about Emily?” He tried to keep his voice even and unemotional.

“I met her in the market,” Crandall explained, and Nottingham could hear his small pleasure at the memory. “We talked about life and hope.” He glanced up to face the Constable. “I’d never found anyone like that before. She listened to me. She’s not afraid of life. It felt as if we’d been looking for each other. She talked to me about her dreams.” He seemed to drift away briefly before saying, “I really would have sent for her. And I’d have prayed she’d come.”

“You were leaving,” Nottingham said, pushing ahead. “If you cared so much for her, why didn’t you want to stay?”

“I wanted to.” Crandall gave a weak smile. “But I knew you were close. I saw your men out on Sunday night. I still have work to do. If you won’t let me do it here, there are other cities that need me.”

He sounded so sincere, Nottingham thought. He truly believed all this, God help him.

“Why did you tell Emily to keep your name secret?” he asked.

“Would you have approved of the match?” The curate shook his head to answer his own question before the Constable could respond. “You’d have thought the worst of me. And later…” He shrugged. “She kept faith with me.”

“And you never imagined bedding her?”

“Of course not,” he said dismissively. Nottingham waited for more, but Crandall was quiet.

“Why did you give her the token you took from Pamela?”

The curate replied as if the explanation was obvious.

“Because a whore didn’t deserve the promise of love; Emily does. I knew I’d have to go before you caught me. I wanted to give her a keepsake.”

“That token belonged to my mother,” Nottingham told him coldly. “She was a whore. I gave it to Pamela as a birthday gift when she was our servant.”

The curate was silent for a long time.

“Ask Emily not to think too badly of me,” he said eventually.

“No, Mr Crandall. I’ll keep telling her the truth about you until she believes me.”

Nottingham let the door close loudly and finally, locking the madness behind him.

Nottingham found Mary kneading dough, forearms deep in the big glazed bowl, punching down firmly and continuously. He came up behind her softly, putting his arms around her waist and burying his head against her neck.

“How is she?” he asked softly.

“At school. I took her myself.” She turned and held him at arms’ length. “Did you really have to hit her like that? Her cheek’s all bruised and swollen.”

He was silent for a moment before he spoke.

“Yes,” he answered honestly. He’d thought about it as he walked home. He’d thought about a lot of things, both good and bad, scared of what he might find if he let his thoughts stay anywhere for too long. But he knew he had needed that information from Emily, and he’d needed it immediately. “I had to have that name. She wouldn’t trust me enough to tell me.”

“You terrified her.”

“I had to,” he began. “That young man she was protecting had killed Pamela and five other people. For what’s it’s worth, I didn’t do it out of anger. I’d begged her. It was desperation, the only way to save him from someone who’d have taken delight in killing him very slowly.”

She began working on the dough again, pushing at it hard. He stood and watched in silence. Finally she stopped and asked, “Did you catch him?”

“Yes.”

Mary looked at him, wanting to know more. He tried to explain. “We found him first thing. He seemed to believe he was teaching all of us about sin by killing.”