The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

  “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.

  “You’re not bloody going anywhere,” he said through gritted teeth, staring into the curate’s blank eyes.

  There was nothing left of the Crandall’s smugness or elegance. His face was carved with fear, his mouth a thin, pale line. A night of trying to hide in the open had left him filthy, a pathetic figure with a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

  Together, Nottingham and Sedgwick hauled him out into the growing light. He was past resistance, moving like a doll in their grasp. Finally, the Constable thought with relief, finally. Now they could put an end to this.

  But as they started up the track from the riverbank to Briggate, three figures appeared at the top of the hill.

  Worthy was standing there, and next to him the man who’d brought Emily to the jail. He was dressed in fresh clothes, a foppish coat and breeches of pale turquoise silk cut to hide his muscles. The third had a face the Constable recognised, Harwood, who’d come to the jail and confessed to the crime. Nottingham felt Crandall stiffen with terror.

  “Bringing me my prize, Mr Nottingham?” Worthy asked with a slow, vicious smile.

  Sedgwick glanced at the Constable, confused. Nottingham shook his head.

  “He’s mine now, Amos, and I’m keeping him until he hangs.”

  “That wasn’t the bargain you made when you wanted your lass found.” The pimp gazed down on them, his voice flat, his eyes showing nothing at all.

  “That was last night.”

  The Constable pulled the pistol from his coat and let it dangle in his hand.

  “You’d best get out of the way, Amos,” he said slowly, and began to raise his arm.

  For a long moment Worthy stood his ground, challenging the Constable. Then he spat on the grass, and in a quick movement turned away, his men following close behind.

  “Mr. Harwood.”

  The third man halted.

  “I believe I told you to leave Leeds.”

  Harwood tilted his head.

  “Mr. Worthy was good enough to offer me employment.”

  “Don’t consider it a permanent position. What I said still stands.”

  The man saluted, grinned and scrambled after the others. Sometime, somewhere, there’d be trouble with that one, Nottingham thought.

  He let out a long, slow breath. As he’d levelled the pistol he’d realised suddenly that he didn’t want to kill the pimp. The revelation astonished and worried him, but he had no time to think about it now. He replaced the gun and felt his hand shaking; with the other he tightened his grip on the prisoner’s sleeve.

  “Let’s get this bastard to the jail. I want to hear everything he has to say.”

  “What did he mean by bargain, boss?” Sedgwick asked warily.

  “It doesn’t matter any more,” the Constable replied firmly.

  Nottingham stripped the satchel from Crandall and watched as Sedgwick threw him into an empty cell, the door closing with a heavy, final thud. The two men looked at each other across the desk and the Constable said,“Go home and get some sleep, John. You deserve it.”

  “What about him?” Sedgwick inclined his head towards the cell.

  “I’ll deal with him.”

  The deputy hesitated.

  “What was the bargain with Worthy?” he asked again.

  “Just words.” Nottingham sat down heavily and leaned back in the chair, trying to rub the throbbing from his temples. “If he chose to believe me, that’s his misfortune.”

  Once Sedgwick had gone, Nottingham wearily opened the satchel, emptying the contents before him. There was a clean shirt, the linen white and almost new, and a pair of expensive silk hose. Tucked into a corner was a purse full of glistening gold guineas, enough to establish a man in a new place and keep him in comfort for a few months.

  But it was Crandall’s letters that really interested him, however, and he laid them out, pressing the paper down carefully. The first was to his father, written in a smooth, educated hand:

  Sir, I’ve sinned most grievously again, even more than I have in the past. Now I have no choice but to leave this wicked place quickly. Its temptations proved too strong for my weaknesses after my many months of prayer and repentance. I think it best if my destination now is outside the kingdom, where no one knows me, and I have the chance to redeem myself with a more Godly life. I have money for the present, and I shall keep you informed about my progress. Please continue to pay my allowance to the bankers, and I will be in contact with them to draw upon it wherever I might be. I’m sorry to have brought disrepute on a good name, and beg your forgiveness. Your loving son, Robert.

  So, he thought, he’d guessed right; Crandall was running abroad. But the letter also made it plain that the man’s family knew what he’d done in the past, and had colluded to keep it hidden. They might not have wielded the knife, but they were as guilty as he was. He threw it to one side, to send on to the curate’s father later with the hanged body and a few words of his own, then skimmed through the rest of the correspondence. One note was addressed to his banker in London, another to the Bishop, announcing that he was forced to quit his position immediately due to problems within his family. The last was for Emily. He read it with trepidation, knowing he’d be furious after.

  My dearest Emily, although we’ve only known each other a very short time, you’ve given me more joy than any man can expect in this life. Because of that, my heart is heavy as I write this. There are men in Leeds who believe I’ve committed crimes, but they don’t see the world clearly. All I’ve done is to try to cleanse this world, to make it a place for the virtuous, like you. Your father is one of those men, so I have no choice but to leave and go abroad where I can find peace. Leaving this city is easy – it hasn’t been a friendly place to me. But leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Once I’m settled I’ll write again, with enough money for your passage to join me, if you’re willing, and all the words you’ve said still mean something. Please trust in the power of love. Your Robert.

  30

  Crandall looked like a man in torment. He sat on the rough bed, legs drawn up to his chest, displaying a pair of thin, pale calves. His cassock was torn, a piece missing at the hem. The back of his hands, clasped around his knees, were bloodied with cuts. The tracks of tears had cut through the grime on his face. How could Emily have loved a creature like this, Nottingham wondered.

  He’d barely glanced up when the Constable entered. Was he lost in his guilt, Nottingham wondered. Was he penitent? Or was he just fearful of the death that lay ahead?

  “Stand up,” the Constable ordered briskly, but the prisoner didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch as Nottingham reached down and yanked him to his feet, pulling him so close that their faces almost touched.

  “You’re going to talk to me, Mr Crandall,” he said with menacing slowness, the anger of the curate’s words to Emily still boiling within him. “You’re going to make me understand why you ki
lled those people, and you’re going to tell me why you went after my daughter.” Nottingham twisted his hand in the material of the cassock. He could feel the quick hammering of the curate’s heart against his fist. “And if you lie to me, I’ll give you to Amos Worthy.”

  “He had me.” The voice was little more than a dry whisper. Nottingham slackened his grip and the curate raised his head, his eyes slowly focusing. “He had me last night, but I managed to escape.”

  That would explain the fear, the Constable decided. Worthy would have relished telling the man what he planned to do to him, and his justice would be the lingering kind.

  “I thought I might be able to find passage on a barge to the coast.”

  “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.”

  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.”

  31

  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.