The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

  “The Reverend isn’t here,” he admitted finally, and Nottingham felt his fuse start to run short.

  “And did he happen to confide in you where he was going?” he asked acidly, wanting to humiliate the curate for his assumptions. “Or when he’d be back?”

  The other man lowered his eyes for a moment.

  “No.” He barely concealed the anger in the word.

  “No, I don’t imagine he did,” the Constable said with satisfaction. “Tell him I called, and that I’ll be back tomorrow. I need to see him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Crandall,” the curate replied haughtily. The door closed silently on well-oiled hinges and Nottingham was left with the empty quiet of the churchyard, broken only by the small twittering of sparrows in an oak tree.

  There was little more he could do today. Sedgwick was unlikely to have anything to report before morning, and if he turned up anything important, he’d come to the house. The lad would be a good Constable some day.

  He made his way across Timble Bridge; the beck below was not much more than a trickle after the long, dry days of summer. Away from the heart of the city there was stillness in the air, and he relished the absence of noise assaulting his ears. God willing, he’d have peace tonight. But first he had to tell Mary about Pamela, and that wouldn’t be easy.

  She emerged from the kitchen, thick smudges of flour on her apron, hands and face, surprised and happy to see him so early, and guiltily Nottingham realised he was rarely home before dark.

  He embraced her, closing his eyes to smell her hair and feel her cheek against his shoulder. Only when she started to pull away did he realise he’d been holding her longer than usual.

  “You were off with the lark this morning. It must have been important,” Mary said finally, giving him a curious look.

  “When isn’t it?” he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.

  “They expect far too much of you,” she told him seriously as he followed her into the kitchen.

  “Well, this time they were right.” He poured a cup of ale from the jug on the table. “A double murder,” he said solemnly.

  “Oh God, Richard.”

  She was a Constable’s wife, but even after all these years she’d never come to terms with the violence that was part of his work. He rarely told her about the crimes; if she knew even a fraction of the truth she’d be horrified. But this time he knew he had no choice.

  “One of the victims was Pamela,” he said softly.

  She stopped and turned to stare at him, her eyes suddenly wide in utter disbelief.

  “Pamela?” she asked. “Our Pamela? Pamela Watson?”

  He nodded, with no idea what else to say.

  “Oh, dear Jesus,” Mary cried, and he pulled her close again, stroking the back of her neck beneath the mob cap as if he was comforting a child. Suddenly she pushed him back.

  “It can’t be her,” she announced with sudden confidence. “She married that labourer in Chapel Allerton, you remember that. She doesn’t even live in Leeds any more!”

  He looked down at her sadly.

  “He died, love.” Nottingham spoke in little more than a whisper, watching tenderly as the final shred of hope died in her. “Seems she came back about a year ago and didn’t tell us. It’s her, it’s definitely her.”

  The tears came then, flowing silently at first, then she started to wail. He knew Mary had felt especially close to Pamela, spending every day with her. They’d been mistress and servant, but the bond had gone far beyond that. They’d known each other’s lives and secrets. Now all he could do was hold his wife until the crying stopped. He didn’t say anything more.

  Finally, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she sat at the table and drank deeply from his untouched cup. The track of a last tear wound its way like a slow river through the flour on her cheek.

  “How?” she asked shakily.

  He reached over and took her hand. It seemed small in his, and he squeezed it lightly before shaking his head, indicating he wasn’t going to tell her and knowing she’d guess.

  “Have you found whoever did it?”

  “No,” he admitted. “And right now I don’t even know where to begin. I went to see her grandmother – you remember Meg? I promised her we’d take care of the funeral.”

  “Of course we will.” She tightened her grip on his fingers as if she was holding on to life. “You’re going to find her killer, aren’t you?”

  He loved the full, simple faith she had in him.

  “I hope so,” was the closest he dare come to a promise. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  Mary stood slowly and walked to the window, clasping her hands together tightly and looking out to the fields in the distance. For a long time she remained silent, letting her thoughts and memories fly. He watched her, trying to imagine what she was feeling. The minutes seemed to stretch until she eventually wondered, “What are we going to tell the girls? They’ll both remember her, especially Rose. She was seven when Pamela left.”

  “Maybe it’s best just to tell them she died,” he suggested. How did you tell the young about murder, he thought. “They don’t need more than that.”

  Mary nodded her agreement sadly.

  “Where are they, anyway?” he asked.

  She turned back to him, trying to cover her sorrow with a wan smile.

  “Rose took little Michael from next door down to the river to play so the Earnshaws can finish their cloth.” Their neighbours were weavers, and the clack of their loom could usually be heard for all daylight hours along the street. “She’s good with children. She’ll make a fine mother herself one day soon.”

  He understood his wife’s need to talk about everyday things right now, to ground herself in life and run away from death. But her statement caught at him. He’d always thought of his daughters as little girls, but they weren’t any more. They were almost grown. Time was rushing on, not only outside but within himself, too.

  “And what about Emily? Where’s she?”

  “She announced she was going over to Caroline’s after school.” Like her sister before her, Emily attended the local dame school, at Mary’s insistence. She believed girls needed reading and writing as much as boys. But where Rose had loved to learn, Emily went sullenly, paying little attention to her lessons. She was clever, there was no doubt of that, but she believed herself too advanced and grown up for the basic education the little school provided. Nottingham had seen her reading adult books which he would hesitate to approach himself.

  “Announced?” He found his voice rising sharply. “That lass has got far too many airs and graces.”

  They both loved the girls, but all too often despaired of their younger daughter. For the last year Mary had insisted Emily would eventually grow out of her moods, but if anything they’d become worse. Punishments had no effect on her. With her sharp tongue and impertinent ways, Nottingham fretted that she’d end up wearing a scold’s bridle one market day, on display outside the Moot Hall.

  “I’d better get back to work,” Mary said, to herself as much as to him, seeking something to do. “I still have to finish kneading the dough for tomorrow’s bread.”

  Her hands began to move rhythmically in the bowl. Nottingham knew there were more things she wanted to say, but they weren’t going to come out now. That had been her manner for as long as he’d known her. Sometimes it infuriated him, knowing she was keeping words and feelings carefully locked inside. But they’d emerge eventually. It had taken him a few years after their marriage to understand that. Once he did, he knew it was one of the reasons he loved her. She was someone who needed to approach the world in her own time and in her own way, after consideration and thought.

  But in their bed she’d always been passionate, working with her body rather than her mind. Even after twenty years she was still like that, as playful as the young girl he’d courted and tumbled in the woods by the old manor house
. Sometimes her urgency astonished him, her need to be touched, to simply be. And it always made him respond and transported him. If the girls or the neighbours heard them, he didn’t care. She was his wife, the woman he loved. He had no apologies to make.

  9

  Sedgwick doubted he’d be finished before midnight. It wasn’t a job he’d trust to any of the men; they were fine for keeping the peace, but none of them could use their brains. He’d started south of the river, canvassing the inns to see if Morton had been in any of them the previous night, without any luck. Then he’d crossed back over Leeds Bridge to cast his net wider. The landlord at the Old King’s Head thought he remembered someone in good grey broadcloth, but he wasn’t certain. So far no one else had come up with even an inkling of recognition.

  When he was finished he’d return to Queen Charlotte’s Court to question the people he hadn’t seen that morning. It was going be another exhausting day, and he knew that when he finally returned to his room his shrewish wife would accuse him of being out drinking and whoring. She’d been uneasy when he began this job, but in the two years since he’d become deputy it had grown worse; at any excuse she’d begin shouting until her voice was raw. Then things would be fine, at least until the next night, when she’d start all over again.

  Even her own father had advised him not to go through with the marriage.

  “Her mother were bad enough, God rest her soul,” the man had said miserably as they shared a jug in the Talbot. “But Annie’s ten times bloody worse. Do thisen a favour and steer clear of her, and I say that though she’s me own blood.”

  But he had been seventeen, and youth and lust won out over sense; he’d been paying the price ever since. His job meant long hours, some of them spent in taverns with tipsters and criminals. And if he’d been out whoring a couple of times, it was simply because he needed a little warmth. Since the birth of their boy James, two and a half years ago, Annie’s embraces had been cold, her tongue even sharper than before. A man needed something to keep him going, and whatever it was, Sedgwick wasn’t receiving it from his wife.

  He slipped into the passageway that led from Briggate to the Ship, hoping they might still have some food he could eat as he asked his questions. Nottingham would be at home by now, sitting with his family, and Sedgwick envied him the calmness of his house. Not only the space, but the serenity that seemed to fill the place, as if the troubles of the world couldn’t touch it.

  The food was all gone so he was left hungry, but at least there was a tankard in his hand as he chatted to the landlord, a ramshackle, wiry man in his fifties with muscled arms and wild, dark hair that grew in a bushy mass from his head.

  “You heard about the preacher who was killed?” Sedgwick asked.

  “Oh aye.” Walter Shipton wiped his hands on his leather apron and spat on the sawdust floor. “Whole town’s heard about that by now, lad. The preacher with his feet of clay and the whore.” He shook his head.

  “Was he in here last night?” Sedgwick asked.

  “Ee, lad, not that I recall,” he answered slowly. “It were a quiet night, so like as not I’d have noticed him. You found out what he was doing with her, anyway?”

  Sedgwick laughed to himself. If the landlord couldn’t imagine what a man did with a whore, it wasn’t his place to educate him.

  “Shame about her, though,” Shipton continued, drawing himself a small pot of ale and tasting it appreciatively.

  “How do you mean?”

  “She were a nice lass,” he said thoughtfully. “Bit strange, but nice, you know.”

  “You knew her?” Suddenly Sedgwick was very interested.

  “She were in here most nights, did a lot of her business from over there.” He nodded at a corner. “No trouble, mind, she’d just sit, and the men would come to her if they wanted her. They’d go off and, you know, then she’d be back.”

  Pleased at finally discovering something useful, Sedgwick drained his mug and pushed it forward for a refill. It wasn’t food, but it was the next best thing.

  “How long had she been coming in?”

  “A year, mebbe?” Shipton creased his brow, emphasising the drinker’s broken veins in his ruddy cheeks. “Aye, around that, I suppose. Bit less, mebbe.” He leaned forward conspiratorially across the counter and added in a whisper, “She give me a tumble once, in t’back when the wife were gone. Called it my commission.” He chuckled wheezily at the memory. “By Christ, lad, she were a good tup, too, passionate like. I thought she’d be the death of me that day. Made me feel twenty again, she did.”

  Sedgwick shared the other man’s smile for a moment before pushing on.

  “Was she in last night?”

  “Last night? Let me think.” He called over the serving girl, a harried rail of a lass who looked the Constable’s man up and down briefly before giving Shipton her attention. “Was Pamela in last night, do you recall?”

  “Early on,” she replied without any hesitation, rolling her eyes when he looked confused. “You remember. You had to throw old George out for shouting the odds like he always does when he’s drunk as a lord. She helped you get him through the door. I didn’t see her later, though.”

  “Aye, that’s right.” Shipton brightened. “Must have been about nine. George Carver had had a few too many and he was trying to pick a fight with some ’prentice lads. Always wants a brawl when he’s drunk, does George. I had to get him out for his own safety, else they’d have bloodied up my floor with him. Course, he didn’t want to go, ranting and raving. Pamela started talking to him while I was trying to push him out and he ended up going meek as owt.”

  “Did she leave with him?” Sedgwick asked carefully. He was alert now, on the scent.

  “’Ee, I don’t know, I weren’t looking by then, once the bother were over.” He glanced at the serving girl who shrugged noncommittally.

  “Do you know where she lived?”

  “Somewhere close, I reckon, but I couldn’t tell you where. Never asked. It didn’t seem to matter.” He took a long drink and drained the pot. “ ’Appen someone’ll know. I can ask for you, if you like, there’ll be more in later.”

  Sedgwick nodded his appreciation.

  “Did she have a pimp?” he wondered. The landlord might know.

  “Pamela?” Shipton shook his head firmly. “Nay, not one like her. Too old, and not enough business to warrant one bothering with her.”

  Sedgwick finished his ale and left, satisfied with the bit of business. He’d found out a little. In the doorway he almost collided with a familiar face trying to slide in for a quiet drink.

  Adam Suttler was the most talented forger in Leeds, an educated man with the ability to copy anything faithfully, but no sense of judgement. Twice Nottingham and Sedgwick had stopped him before he became too foolish. Changing a will to favour a younger son could have found him on the gallows. So could his alteration of a merchant’s bill of lading to the continent, allowing thieves to make off with some bales of cloth. On both occasions the paper evidence had handily been destroyed, saving Suttler from capital justice. They’d visited his rooms at the top of a winding stair, surprisingly airy and clean, and put the fear of God into Adam with threats and promises as his wife and daughter had scuttled into the other room.

  Sedgwick wasn’t naïve enough to think he’d returned to the straight and narrow – apart from working as a clerk or a scrivener, what could Suttler do? – but at least they hadn’t heard much of him in the last year.

  “Evening, Adam,” the deputy said breezily. “Staying out of trouble?”

  “Of course, Mr Sedgwick,” Suttler answered uneasily. It was a lie, and they both knew it, but for the moment they accepted it as the truth.

  “You heard about the murders.”

  Suttler shook his head sadly. “A terrible business. I saw him preach on Saturday, very inspiring.”

  He might be a criminal, but the forger was also a thoughtful, religious man, in church without fail every Sunday. Still, the deputy
supposed, what he did was no worse than some of the merchants, and they were always ready to bow their heads piously.

  “A lot of people didn’t like what he said,” Sedgwick pointed out.

  “True,” said Suttler, bobbing his head in agreement. “But perhaps they chose not to hear.”

  “Did you see him at all after Saturday?”

  “I didn’t,” he said with regret. “I’d have liked to talk to him.”

  “You go and enjoy your ale,” Sedgwick told him. “And keep out of trouble, Adam. Next time we might not be able to save you.”

  With a shy, embarrassed smile, Suttler ducked into the tavern.

  Oh well, the deputy thought. Even if there was nothing to be gained from Suttler, the information about Pamela and George Carver was worthwhile. Now all he needed was a little more luck at Queen Charlotte’s Court to make it a good night.

  But it seemed as if fortune had just been teasing him. By ten he’d discovered nothing new. His long legs ached from walking and standing, and his knuckles were sore from rapping on doors. At least he’d been able to find many of the dwellers in the court at home. Yet however much he tried to joke and charm information from them, there was little to be had. A couple believed they might have heard something in the middle of the night, but they weren’t certain. Most, it seemed, had been dead to the world. And perhaps they’d earned that, he thought. Working too many hours for too little money, with hardly any food in their bellies, sleep was their only escape from drudgery, the only place where all things and all people could be equal. When simply living was an act of concentration, how could he blame them for not noticing the deaths of people they didn’t even know?

  Still, he continued to go methodically around the court, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d done everything possible. In the attic of a building that should have been razed twenty years before, its stairs rickety and rotted beyond danger, he found an impossibly young mother, with her husband and tiny baby. She looked barely thirteen, her eyes not yet lost in desperation, wearing a dress that had likely been fourth- or fifth-hand when she found it two or three years earlier. Her man barely seemed older himself, a walking jumble of rags tied to his body with string.