Chris Nickson - The Broken Token

Nottingham sighed. The deaths had all been so futile. “He’s mad. But he’ll hang soon enough.” He poured himself a mug of ale from the jug on the table and produced a piece of paper from his pocket. “He wouldn’t have hurt Emily. He left a letter for her.”

She took her hands from the bowl and wiped them on an old piece of cloth.

“What does it say?” she asked him.

“That he has to leave her, he’ll never forget her, and he’ll send for her,” he answered with disgust. “All the words to tear a young girl’s heart apart. It’ll be bad enough when I tell her he’s to die, without her seeing this.”

Mary raised an eyebrow.

“Are you going to give it to her?”

He shook his head quietly.

“I can’t. She might believe him.” He walked over to the fire and tossed the paper into the flame, waiting until it all turned to ash. Emily need never know about Crandall’s letter, thank God. And she’d learn all about his evil.

“Richard?” she said softly, reaching out her hands. He took them, rubbing his fingers over the skin of her palms. “She’s going to hate you, but give her time, please. She’s never been in love before and her world’s just been turned upside down.”

He wanted to smile and reassure her, but he couldn’t. Instead he gently kissed the backs of her hands and said, “I need to sleep.”

Crandall was committed to the Quarter Sessions. Nottingham gave his evidence, then sat at the front of the court. He watched the curate’s pale, almost lifeless face throughout, and supervised as he was led away to the secure jail under the Moot Hall. There was no doubt as to the end; Crandall was already a dead man in everything but fact.

On his way back he stopped to see Meg, to tell her that justice had been done, and repeat what he’d heard in Chapel Allerton. It was cold comfort, he knew, but at least now she could begin to understand. As much as anyone could understand lunacy. The logic of it was like dew, Nottingham thought; it evaporated in the light.

Sir Robert Bartlett had sent a note filled with apologies. Such a long time had passed since Pamela left, and although he knew the curate had gone to Leeds, he’d never suspected a man of the cloth of murder. He felt a fool. But he was no more a fool than anyone else, thought the Constable.

After a few days, life began to fall into its old patterns. Crime continued; cutpurses and pickpockets struck, men fought after drinking. It was all simple stuff, nothing his men couldn’t handle. After finishing his work, Nottingham began going next door to the White Swan for a couple of mugs of ale before walking home. His house had become a tense place. Emily, the bruise on her cheek just beginning to fade, wouldn’t speak to him. He wanted to talk to her, but Mary kept counselling him to be patient.

He was ruminating, sipping idly from the cup, when Sedgwick sat down heavily across the table, wearing his first smile in a week.

“Good news?”

“I’ve got James back,” Sedgwick beamed. “Turns out Annie was happy to give him up. Got hersen a soldier and she’s off with him.”

“You’ll see he’s brought up right.” Nottingham raised the mug in a toast.

“Aye, boss, I will.”

“Who’s going to look after him, though?” he wondered. As far as he knew, Sedgwick had no family to call on.

“There’s a lass I know. She’s going to move in.” A faint blush of embarrassment crossed his cheeks.

“Good luck to you.” He felt genuinely happy for the deputy.

“She’s a prostitute,” Sedgwick admitted.

“As long as she’s not one of Worthy’s girls,” Nottingham warned him with a wink.

Sedgwick smiled, glancing around the inn, then brought his head closer to the Constable’s, speaking in a quiet, secretive voice.

“I was wondering, boss…” he began, then drew a breath and continued. “You said I’d need to learn to read and write to get on.”

“You do.”

“And now it’s me and James — ”

“ — and your new girl,” the Constable added, smiling.

“Her, too,” he agreed readily. “Well, would you teach me? You were right, I’ve seen that.”

Nottingham leaned back. For the first time since this business had begun, his heart felt lighter.

“I’d be glad to, John.”

He left Sedgwick to drink to a happier future. Instead of walking over Timble Bridge back to Marsh Lane, he headed down Briggate, past the bellowing laughter and voices from the taverns and the whores touting for business. On Swine Gate he walked into Worthy’s house. The woman sat sleeping in the front room, a glass of gin on the table beside her, but the children had gone.

The pimp was holding court in the kitchen, perched on a high stool close to the blazing fire. Two girls and three of his men stood in the room, off guard until Nottingham entered, when the men began to reach for knives and cudgels. Worthy waved them back casually as he turned to the Constable with a wintery smile.

“I’ll give you this, laddie — you’ve got balls showing yourself here.” He dismissed the others with terse words: “You useless lot have work to do, so you’d better get doing it,” and waited until the room was empty.

“Sit down,” Worthy said, indicating a battered wooden chair across the small, overheated room. “So you think it’s polite to welsh on a deal to give me the curate and still walk into my house, Constable?”

“From what he told me, you had him and he escaped again,” Nottingham answered mildly, watching the other man. “You knew I could never keep the bargain, Amos.”

Worthy gave a curt nod.

“I wanted to know how desperate you were, Mr Nottingham.”

“And you found out.” The Constable sat back.

“That’s not why you’re here, though,” the pimp told him.

“Isn’t it?” Nottingham asked.

Worthy’s face relaxed into a rictus grin.

“Of course not, laddie. You have things you need to ask me.”

Nottingham let the statement hang between them. Finally he said, “Since you seem to know the answers, why don’t you save me the trouble of questions?”

“But it’s your job to ask questions, Mr Nottingham,” the pimp smirked. “I wouldn’t deprive you of that.”

Sod it, Nottingham thought. He wasn’t in the mood to play these games this evening. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to think about why he hadn’t shot Worthy on the river-bank. But the pimp was right, he had questions that needed answers.

“The token, Amos,” he started. “You knew what it meant when you saw Emily wearing it. How? How did you know?”

“Straight to the crux, laddie?” Worthy taunted.

Nottingham nodded. It was the real question, one he’d gone over so many times since Crandall’s arrest. How could Worthy have known about the token?

“And tell me the truth.”

The pimp appraised him warily and raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“I am,” the Constable said decisively.

Worthy shrugged, then gathered his thoughts for a moment. Finally he reached into his deep waistcoat pocket, feeling around before drawing something out and tossing it on the table between them.

“Look at it,” he commanded.

It took Nottingham a few seconds to realise exactly what he was seeing. At first he thought it was the token, that somehow Worthy had picked his pocket. His hand went to his breeches… and then he understood. It was the other half, the metal rubbed shiny by the years, a hole neatly drilled through the metal. When he was younger he’d dreamed of this time. Now the moment left him defenceless. In shock he raised his eyes to Worthy.

“Does that explain anything to you?” the pimp asked coldly.