The Broken Token

by Chris Nickson

  “And then I decided you were right,” Nottingham pointed out. “He had the knife. He was seen with both Pamela and Morton on Monday night. There was evidence against him.”

  But he was glad to have Carver’s innocence proved all the same. His faith in himself had been rocked more than he wanted to admit by the old sot’s apparent guilt. At least this meant he could still trust his instincts.

  “So what now?” Sedgwick interrupted, crowding in on his thoughts. “Where do we go?”

  “Back to the beginning.” The Constable sighed, then gave a weak smile. “Well, almost. At least we now know Mr Carver isn’t our murderer.”

  They stopped as the door opened, and men brought in the bodies, wrapped in their winding-sheets. Nottingham unlocked the mortuary and guided them in, then uncovered the dead.

  The man had the undistinguished look and clothes of a clerk, worn and weary even in death. He was in his forties, as far as Nottingham could judge, cheeks sunk where most of his teeth had been removed. The cloth of his coat and breeches was cheap, third- or fourth-hand, the sewing uneven and ragged. The soles of his shoes had worn through in several places. His fingers were dark-stained with ink, the joints knotted by a lifetime of writing. It was a poor death after a poor life.

  The girl was pretty enough, probably fourteen or fifteen, with fine blonde hair and blue eyes, but the bloom had already gone off the rose. Her young features were coarse, her skin reddened across the nose and cheeks. Her homespun dress looked reasonably new, maybe the gift of a pimp or merchant who’d been particularly pleased with her. Her wrists were thin and bony, and her unadorned fingers nearly as small as a child’s.

  Once again they’d each been stabbed with two precise strokes, and Nottingham wondered at this murderer. He didn’t just slash, he truly cut to kill, and he knew what he was doing, even when he was rushed.

  “John,” he called into the office.

  “What is it, boss?”

  “Come and take a look at this.”

  Sedgwick walked in, his movements slow and a little unsteady.

  “You see these wounds?” Nottingham pointed them out.

  Sedgwick looked confused. “What about them?”

  “If you were trying to kill someone with a knife, would you know where to put the blade to do it properly and efficiently?”

  “Well…” he began, then realisation dawned. “So maybe someone with medical knowledge?”

  “Maybe,” Nottingham agreed. “Or someone who’s been a soldier, or learned to fence… I don’t know,” he said with a frustrated shrug. “But it’s one more thing we know about him.”

  “I should have seen more of him,” the deputy said with embarrassment, and Nottingham shook his head.

  “You were lucky, John,” the Constable told him with heartfelt relief. “I’m just glad you’re alive. I’m going to need you to help catch him. Now go home and rest. That’s an order.”

  He woke Annie as he tried to undress. Raising his arm was painful and he cried out softly, enough to make James stir and start wailing. Sitting up sleepily, Annie cursed under her breath and reached for the child, starting suddenly as she sensed someone else in the room.

  “John?” she whispered and she pulled the baby close.

  “Help me,” he said. “I can’t get my bloody clothes off.”

  She lit the remains of a candle, gasping as she saw his arm.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he told her quickly, seeing the dried blood on the bandage.

  “Work done that?” she asked without a trace of sympathy as she began to ease off the sling and his clothes. “I’ll be up all night mending your coat. And I’ve only just sewn your shirt, now it’s in rags.”

  “You don’t care how I am?”

  Annie rolled her eyes.

  “You’re here and moaning, so you can’t be too bad. Take your son so I can get to work.”

  Sedgwick sat on the bed, cradling James in his left arm until the lad fell back to sleep. He lay the boy down tenderly and walked softly over to his wife, watching the needle move swiftly and surely in her hands.

  “Is there any food?” he whispered.

  She stopped and fixed him with a hard stare.

  “No, there’s no food, John.” Before he could speak, she added, “We had the last of it tonight, and you haven’t given me money to buy any more.”

  Guiltily, he reached into his pocket and brought out his wages.

  “How much of it have you spent on drink and whores?”

  “Nothing,” he hissed, careful to keep his voice low. It was like this every time with her accusations and barbs. “I’ve been working.” He felt his anger rising, the way it did whenever they talked. “What do you think I do?” He held out his bandaged arm. “The man who did that could have killed me.”

  “And where would I be then?” she retorted, putting down the sewing. “On my own with a babbie and no money. You think more of your Constable than you do of us.”

  “He’s given me steady work!” Sedgwick protested. “More than I’d have found elsewhere.”

  “Work that keeps you out all hours.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “Do you imagine I like it when people tell me they’ve seen you in the inns or talking to prostitutes?”

  “I told you what the job involved when I started it.” He’d explained it to her carefully, but she hadn’t believed him. “You didn’t say anything then.”

  “And how was I to know what it would really be like?” There was a vicious edge in Annie’s voice. “You didn’t tell me all the hours I’d be on my own, or how little you’d make.” She let the coins fall through her fingers on to the table. “We’re not going to get rich on your earnings. We’re lucky we can eat on them.”

  “You don’t mind spending my money – and I know it doesn’t all go on food,” Sedgwick accused, pushing his face close to hers. “You think people don’t tell me things, too?”

  “Believe what you want, John,” she told him dully. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  He settled back on the bed, his body tense. That was the truth of it, he thought: it really didn’t matter to her. And maybe it didn’t to him either. Slowly the anger began to seep away, and he left her behind as he drifted into sleep.

  There was nothing more to do in the brief hours before daylight. Nottingham needed sleep and to change out of his sodden clothes.

  The rain had gone, but water from the deluge still lay everywhere. He skirted huge puddles, kept his senses alert for people throwing night soil from their windows, and soon crossed Timble Bridge. His house was dark, and he could hear the even sound of breathing as he made his way through the rooms. In the kitchen he stropped a razor and ran it over his cheeks and chin before sluicing his face with cold water.

  He tried not to wake Mary as he crept into the bedroom, but as he draped his hose over the chair to dry, she stirred.

  “Richard?”

  “It’s me.”

  She sat up, peering in the half-light to find him.

  “You look like you’ve had a bad night,” she said anxiously.

  “Two more murders, and I’m soaked to the skin,” he began to explain. “Which means Carver’s not guilty, and – ”

  “It’s Emily…” she interrupted, and he stopped.

  “What about her?” he straightened up, suddenly alarmed. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine now,” Mary assured him. “I looked in on her before I came to bed. But she went out, wouldn’t tell me where, and she didn’t come back until late.”

  Nottingham ran a hand over his hair. At this rate, if the job didn’t kill him, that girl would.

  “Tell me what happened.” He sat on the end of the bed. There wasn’t a chance of sleep now, he knew.

  “After we’d eaten, Emily announced she was going out.” Mary bunched the sheet in her small fingers. “I asked her where she was going, but she wouldn’t tell me. She just ran out into the rain and over the bridge.”

  Damn the lass, he
thought furiously, breathing hard and trying to contain his temper.

  “How long was she gone?” he asked, his face set hard.

  “A couple of hours.”

  “And when she got back? Did she seem hurt or upset?”

  “No.” Mary gave a small smile that was almost wistful. “In fact, she looked quite happy, even if she was all wet and bedraggled.”

  “She still wouldn’t say where she’d been?”

  Mary shook her head.

  “You’re going to have to do something about her,” she told him.

  “I know,” he agreed, although, apart from beating some sense into the girl, he had no idea what. “As soon as I can.”

  “Not soon, Richard.” There was a deep, hurting ache in her voice. “She won’t listen to me.”

  “Do you think she’ll take notice of me?” he asked in a fast whisper.

  “You have to make her.” Mary’s eyes flashed. “You’re the Constable of this city, you can’t have your daughter running around like a wild girl. Make her.” It was part demand, part plea.

  He sighed. She was right. He needed to take Emily in hand, by reason or force. He just wasn’t sure he had the energy or the will to handle her at the moment.

  “Please, Richard,” Mary said, reaching out and digging her fingers into his forearm, “wake her up. Find out where she was. We need to know.”

  He couldn’t refuse her. He nodded his exhausted consent.

  “Do you know what she told me yesterday?” Mary continued in slight amazement.

  “What?”

  “That if she could, she’d like to be a writer.” She didn’t sound amused or aggrieved; instead she seemed fascinated at the thought.

  “A writer? Why?” Nottingham had no time to read. It was pleasant, he supposed, but a frivolous way of spending an evening when there were more important things to be done.

  “Like Mrs Haywood, she said.”

  “Who’s Mrs Haywood?” He didn’t know the name.

  “She writes novels,” Mary explained. “And essays, too. Emily prefers those. She’s married to a Reverend.”

  “And he makes no objection to his wife doing this?” the Constable wondered, shaking his head in surprise.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Maybe you’re encouraging her to read too much,” he suggested sourly. “It’s putting ideas in her head.”

  After dressing in dry clothes, he crossed into the room the girls shared. There was just one bed; Rose had always slept by the window, and Emily, the restless one, by the door. He watched them for a minute, marvelling that they’d come from him, that he’d helped make such perfect forms. Rose was curled on her side, hair neatly tucked under a cap. Emily lay on her back, hair all over the pillow, arms sprawled at her side. It summed up the difference between the sisters perfectly, he thought with a small smile.

  He sat beside Emily, rubbing her shoulder gently until she began to stir. As she opened her eyes he put his finger to his lips and whispered, “Come on downstairs.”

  Nottingham had been sitting before the dead hearth for five full minutes before he heard her soft footfalls on the stair. In the half-light he watched her come down, tousled and sleepy. She was ripening all too quickly into a woman, in the unconscious sway of her walk and the shape of her body. She gathered herself quietly on the settle, pulling bare feet under her, and looked at him.

  “What time is it?” she asked, blinking slowly.

  “Early. Or late, I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Why do you need to talk to me, Papa?” There was an undertone of defiance in her voice and she pushed her hair back in that gesture which reminded him terrifyingly of himself.

  “You know the answer to that. Your mother told me you were out long after you should have been at home, and you wouldn’t tell her where you’d been,” he told her firmly.

  “Mama thinks I should be just like Rose.”

  He was astonished as the withering contempt the girl summoned into such a short sentence, and considered his words before speaking.

  “Rose is Rose, and you’re you. We wouldn’t have it any other way. But we do expect you to behave.”

  Emily turned her eyes to him.

  “I’ve behaved with perfect propriety, father. No man’s touched me yet.” She paused to gauge his reaction, but Nottingham kept his silence, willing his face to remain calm. “Maybe some prudish people might consider some of the situations I’ve been in rather scandalous,” she continued, “but I haven’t been compromised.”

  “Fancy words for a young girl,” he said after a while, angered by her attitude but not giving her the satisfaction of showing it.

  “It’s simply the truth,” she shrugged sullenly.

  “Shall I tell you what I’ve discovered over the years?” he asked, and continued without letting her reply. “Much as we’d like to think there’s one truth, there isn’t really. There’s your truth, my truth, someone else’s, and we each believe our own to be right. There are facts which are indisputable, but all too often they’re not the same as truth.”

  He glanced at Emily. She was watching him intently.

  “Go on,” she said. “At least you’re talking to me like an adult.”

  “When have I ever talked down to you?” Nottingham wondered, and she shook her head in answer.

  “Never, Papa.”

  “And I never will,” he told her seriously. “Your mother doesn’t talk down to you either.” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth. “We treat you with respect, which is more than most daughters get. Especially young ones who seem ungovernable.”

  Her face hardened.

  “You might disagree, but we do,” he continued before she could speak. “But if you want that from us, you have to give it, too.”

  Emily raised her head.

  “I do.”

  “I thought we’d got somewhere the other night, but obviously I was wrong. Refusing to tell your mother where you’d been half the night doesn’t sound like showing respect to me. I’d say you’re lucky she didn’t beat you.”

  “She wouldn’t do that!”

  “No,” he agreed, “she wouldn’t, although God knows there have been a few times lately when I’ve been tempted. But I haven’t – yet.” He gave the words as a threat, then smiled to take the sting from them. “We have a right to know where you are, Emily. More importantly, we need to know where you are. Do you really think the streets are safe after dark?”

  “You’re the Constable of the city.”

  He nodded. “I am, and that’s why I know.” Nottingham leaned forward and took her hand. “Look, do you know what I’ve spent the last few days doing?”

  “Trying to find the man who’s committing those murders?”

  “Yes. And there were two more tonight. The girl who died a few hours ago was no older than you, maybe a little younger.”

  “But she was a…” He was pleased to see she couldn’t bring herself to pronounce the word.

  “She was a whore, yes. But she was a girl, a human being. And I got to see her, and the others, broken and dead. I see them and I think of you and your sister. I don’t want you ending up like them.” He looked at her. “I’ll do anything I have to in order to stop it.”

  “But we’re not – ” she protested.

  “I know. Think on this, though. There but for the grace of God you go. If we didn’t have any money, that might be your lot.”

  Emily lowered her eyes.

  “Now, where were you last night, love?” he asked softly.

  “I…” she started, then faltered before finding the words. “I was out walking with a young man, Papa.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Oh? Who was he?” Inside, he was furious, wanting to know who would take advantage of his girl this way, but he tried to sound restrained and in control.

  “Just someone I’d met at the market on my way home from school.” She shrugged. “He seemed nice.”

  “He must have bee
n very nice, if you were willing to stay out in the pouring rain. Does he have a name?”

  “Robert.” She spoke it as if it had a strange power. And to her, he thought, it probably did.

  “If it’s all so innocent, why couldn’t you tell your mother?”

  “Because she’d have made more of it than it was.” Emily smiled. “You know how she wants to get Rosie married. She’d have been making plans for me, wanting to meet him.”

  “What’s wrong with meeting him?” he wondered.

  “Nothing,” she admitted. “I like him, but he’s not courting me.” Little do you know, he thought. “I just wanted to be with him, and I knew Mama wouldn’t have let me because she’d think it was wrong.”

  There was a finality to her words, and Nottingham realised he’d pushed her as far as he could for now. It was better to stop before the conversation moved from pleasant discussion to argument. He loved Emily dearly, but there was a great deal of his personality in her; when she chose, she could be every bit as stubborn as he was himself. He desperately wanted to know more, but Emily also had to feel he trusted her. Let that come gradually, he decided. Tomorrow or the next day he’d talk to her again. He gave her hand a squeeze.

  “You go back to bed.” She rose, gracefully stretching to her full height, and kissed the top of his head before vanishing up the stairs.

  Nottingham rested his chin on his hand. Had he done the right thing? If it came to that, what exactly was the right thing? All he had to rely on was his feeling, and that was more tuned to questioning criminals than an errant daughter. Mary wouldn’t be satisfied, of course; she’d want chapter and verse on the young man. So did he, but he was willing to draw it out a little at a time. However much she believed herself an adult, wise in the ways of the world, the innocence in his daughter shone through. For now, he believed, he hoped, she’d be fine. God help the young man if she wasn’t. In a few days he’d learn the whole story, and then he could decide what to do.

  He considered waking Mary, but light was coming through the shutters. There were places he needed to be.

  20

  The morning felt crisp, and yesterday’s downpour was a memory, blown away by a brisk and bitter north wind. Nottingham’s breath clouded lightly on the air. He felt as if weariness was tearing rabidly at the edges of his mind, fraying it with problems and questions, as he plodded back into town. His feet were heavy and his shoulders were stooped, but he had to do the work.