The Broken Token (23 page)

Johnson and Portman, the two men he’d use, were exactly where he expected, sitting next door in the White Swan. Sedgwick bought a jug of ale and carried it to their table, pouring himself
a cup on the way.

“Got a job for you, boys,” he said as he replenished their drinks. He explained the task, emphasising the fact that they should stay well back and report any contacts to him. They
were good and honest, they’d do the job properly, but they weren’t always the smartest. If there was anyone to talk to, he’d prefer to do it himself. That way he’d be
certain the right questions were asked and he received all the information.

They left when the beer was finished, and Sedgwick sat alone, in no hurry to drain his mug. If he had any sense he’d go home and get more sleep. He knew he was exhausted, and a couple of
hours away wouldn’t matter. Annie would be home with James, and she’d probably have something cooking to warm his stomach. He left the tavern, striding purposefully back to his
room.

The Constable sat back, fingers steepled in front of his face, and wondered if he’d done the right thing. The note had been the last straw. On top of having his family
followed, it had been too much, and he’d let his anger boil over. He knew it was stupid. And yet… nothing else had worked. He’d let it go for a day and see what happened. As
he’d told Sedgwick, at this point they had nothing to lose.

A messenger ducked in, bringing a letter. Nottingham saw the address, from Halifax, and as he opened the seal, his hopes rose. Surely such a quick reply to his request for information meant
something? But as he read, he found nothing helpful; they’d had no similar crimes.

His longing for a link, a connection of any kind, had come to nothing.

The clock on the parish church struck ten. He stood reluctantly, weighed down by a mixture of weariness and frustration, and set off up Kirkgate towards Briggate. Servants and
housewives clogged the street, trying to keeping out of the path of carters and drovers and Nottingham walked gingerly among them. From the corner of his eye he sensed a small, sharp movement; his
arm reacted instinctively, moving out to grab whoever was there.

Looking down, he saw he had hold of a boy of about twelve who was struggling against his hand, a small knife clenched in one fist. Nottingham tightened his grip and pushed the youth against the
rough stone of the wall as a crowd suddenly gathered.

“You might as well put the knife down, laddie,” he said. “It’s not a good idea to rob the city’s Constable.”

The boy wilted, but Nottingham didn’t let him fall.

“We’re going to take a walk to the jail and you can tell me what you were trying to do” he continued, keeping a tight grip. “What’s your name?”

“Joshua.”

Nottingham pushed him harder against the wall.

“Joshua Forester, sir,” he amended.

“Joshua Forester.” The Constable could hear the tremor in the lad’s voice. Glancing down, he saw wide, scared eyes and a pale, grimy face under unruly blond hair.

“I don’t like cutpurses, Joshua Forester,” he said grimly. “Especially not right now.”

At the jail he pushed the lad into a chair and leaned menacingly against the main door.

“How old are you, Joshua Forester?” Nottingham asked.

Forester pursed his lips and concentrated as if he’d never been asked the question before. And, the Constable considered, maybe he hadn’t. None of the other children would really
care.

“Don’t know,” he answered eventually. “Me mam just always said I were her baby.”

“Where’s your mother now?”

He shrugged in a resigned gesture.

“I came home one day and she were gone. Me and me sister waited, but she never come back.”

“What happened to your sister?”

“She died,” the boy answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

“You’ve been making a living as a cutpurse?” Nottingham said.

Forester tried to keep a blank face, but even fear couldn’t control the small smile of pride that crept across his mouth.

“You’ve been a busy lad,” the Constable continued. “You’ve given us a lot of trouble. And you’ve taken a fair bit of money.” His tone hardened.
“What have you done with it all, Joshua?”

“Gave some to my mates.” He cocked his head defiantly. “So we can eat and have somewhere to live.”

The Constable nodded slowly. Scrawny and shaggy, dressed in coat and waistcoat a few sizes too big for his body, the lad looked an unlikely leader of a group of children. But he had quick hands
and a special skill; doubtless there were others, larger and stronger, who would protect him in return for what he could provide. By rights he should have Forester up before the magistrate in the
morning to be tried and off to begin serving his sentence. He eyed the boy, remembering his own youth and the struggle to survive each day.

“How long have you been fending for yourself?” he asked curiously.

“Four year, more or less,” Forester replied in surprise. “Why?”

“Not easy to do,” Nottingham commented. “How many do you look after?”

“Depends,” the lad said warily, suspicious at the Constable’s interest. “Five or six. Why do you want to know?”

“No real reason. I was just curious.” He paused. “You’re good at not being seen. You must be fast.” When the boy didn’t respond, the Constable continued.
“You like being on the wrong side of the law?”

Forester shrugged. “I never really thought about it.”

“You know a judge will probably transport you to America or the West Indies. That’s seven years’ hard labour in places so hot you’ll fry – and that’s if you
even survive the journey there.” He looked sternly at the lad. “You won’t last.”

The boy rounded on him. “Why would you care?”

“Because I think you could be more useful here.” Nottingham paused to let the words sink in. “What would you say if I offered you a job?”

The lad raised his head, confused. “You what?”

“Work for me, be one of the Constable’s men,” Nottingham explained.

Forester stared, wide-eyed. “Are you having a joke before you lock me up?”

“No, I’m serious,” the Constable told him. “Do you know your letters?”

“What do you think?” Forester asked derisively. “Course I don’t. That mean I can’t do it?”

“Not at all.” Nottingham smiled. “But if you work for me, there’s no more stealing purses, or anything else. You’ll have a wage coming in every week. It’s not
a lot,” he admitted, “but it’ll keep body and soul together.”

“What about what I’ve done?” the boy asked, unbelieving. The Constable studied him. He knew the lad was unsure what to make of the offer, whether it was genuine. “What
you going to do about that?”

“The cutpurse will have left Leeds without being caught,” Nottingham said guilelessly, with a wave of his hand. “An unsolved crime. They happen.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’ve no reason to lie to you.” He opened his palms. “Look, Joshua, I could put you in a cell and haul you off to court tomorrow without a word. Do you want to
know why I haven’t?”

The boy nodded dumbly.

“When I was your age I got by the best I could. I worked when there was work available. And when there wasn’t, I stole. I thieved, I cut purses.” He saw Forester’s eyes
widen more, trying to absorb this strange information. “So maybe I don’t think you’re beyond redemption. It’s your choice. But if you turn me down, I can tell you right now
that you probably won’t live to see twenty.”

Forester knitted his fingers together in his lap and bit his lip. Nottingham watched him carefully. He’d handed the boy a lifeline; the question was whether he was clever enough to
recognise it.

“And nothing will happen to me for what I’ve done?” he asked, wanting to be certain on the point.

“Nothing,” Nottingham assured him. “On my honour.”

“I’ll do it, then,” he said after thinking for a long while. “And you promise I won’t be punished?”

“I promise,” the Constable told him. “You have any of that money left?”

The boy nodded tentatively.

“Make sure you eat well tonight, then. Be back here at six tomorrow morning and you can start learning the job. But I’ll tell you this, Joshua – if you’re not here
I’ll find you and you’ll be convicted. Understand?”

Forester nodded vigorously, and Nottingham moved away from the door to let him leave. He ran up the street, as if he needed to put distance between himself and the jail. He’d be there with
the dawn, Nottingham was convinced of that. He’d let Sedgwick teach him the ropes. They needed bright young talent, and who better than a thief to catch other thieves? What the lad lacked in
size he obviously more than made up in cunning.

And it solved the problem of the cutpurse. Maybe no one would go to jail for the offence, but the crimes would mysteriously stop, and they could rule a line under the affair. It was no real
consolation for everything else that had happened, but it was one thing fewer he had to think about – and one more person on the street to help find the killer. He’d managed to retrieve
something from a bleak day.

Nottingham ran a hand through his hair and let out a slow breath. He knew he should send word to Sedgwick to call off his men. He’d do that tomorrow if they hadn’t turned up anything
useful.

For now, though, he was ready for home. Maybe the scare of the other night had jolted Emily; he hoped so, although deep inside he doubted it. He knew her too well; if she wanted something badly
enough she’d find a way. And he was afraid she wanted her first young man.

He paused in front of the door, his fingers poised to turn the knob. The house seemed quiet and normal, a light shining through the shutters as if nothing had ever been wrong
inside its walls. He walked in to see Mary darning hose, Rose embroidering, and Emily in the corner with a book. Inwardly he sighed with relief.

Mary stood gracefully and gave him a small kiss, and Rose smiled at her father. Emily hunkered down behind the pages of her book, never looking up or acknowledging him.

Nottingham sat by the fire as his wife brought him cold meat and bread. As he chewed hungrily, he relished the warmth of the blaze and the weight off his feet. It was as if the family sensed
that he didn’t want to discuss the day. Most likely a lot of the news had already reached them, he mused, laying the plate on the floor.

A hand rubbing his sleeve roused him slowly. Looking around he saw that the girls had gone and Mary was standing by his chair.

“You’ve been asleep for an hour, Richard,” she told him with a soft laugh. “You dropped off almost as soon as you’d finished eating.”

He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“It was bad,” he explained, his voice thick and husky, as he reached for her hand.

“I heard.”

“How’s Emily been?” Nottingham asked.

“Quiet and helpful,” Mary said with relief. “What did you say to her the other night?”

“Not a lot,” he answered truthfully. “Maybe she just got a lesson in life.”

“Why don’t you come to bed? You look like you could sleep for weeks.”

“I feel like it, too,” he agreed, his eyelids like lead. “I just wish I had the time.”

The evening had turned cold with a cruel wind blowing down from the north. Sedgwick listened as the men detailed everything Worthy’s lieutenants had done for the last six
hours. It had been a worthless enterprise, trailing them as they collected money from a number of girls, before vanishing into an inn where they drank and played hazard while the lawmen waited
outside in the growing chill.

Sedgwick sent them home for the night. If there really was anything to be learned, it wouldn’t be here or now. And he needed rest and some warmth himself, even if it was in Annie’s
unloving embrace.

He unlocked the room expecting to find a fire burning in the grate and the sound of voices. Instead it was in darkness, and when he lit the stub of a candle, it looked as if no one had been
there since he’d left. That was strange, he thought, they should have been home hours before; James needed his sleep. Then, almost without thinking, he checked the chest that held their
clothes. Both Annie’s and James’s were gone; his spare hose had been tossed into a corner. The spare money he kept in a tin by the fire had vanished too. It wasn’t much, but
he’d saved it carefully and conscientiously from his wages for emergencies.

Using only his good hand, Sedgwick clumsily built a fire in the hearth and sat quietly on an old joint stool as the flames took, letting the warmth slowly lick over him. His right arm ached
constantly, with bright, shocking flickers of pain whenever he tried to move it. So they’ve gone, he thought dully, watching as light from the blaze shimmered in the empty corners. But in
spite of the evidence, he couldn’t really believe it. Any minute she’d come through the door, James on her arm, a pack on her back, saying she’d made a mistake… he’d
take the boy, then tell her to go and close the door behind her.

Except, of course, he knew it would never happen. If Annie had made up her mind to leave, then she wasn’t returning.

He needed food, something cooked and hot, but it was too late and he was too tired. Searching around he found a carrot that hadn’t gone soft and he chewed it. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d
buy a few things at the market. Better yet, he’d find a smaller, cheaper room since it was just him now.

It was funny, he mused. The only emotion running through him was relief. No hurt, no pain, no anger. If anything he was grateful to her for making the decision. It was a good end to something
that had quite plainly gone bad.

There was old ale in a jug on the table, flat now but still drinkable, and he poured himself a cup. He knew why she’d gone, ultimately: she hated his job and the hours it took. When
he’d been offered the work he’d told her and she’d agreed, yet within a year she was complaining. The baby crying when he was desperate for sleep didn’t help either. It made
both their tempers shorter.

Well, no more of that. He finished the drink and lay on the low straw pallet. He wanted to rest, and he closed his eyes and pulled the rough blanket around himself, but he couldn’t drop
off. Images kept replaying in his mind: Annie’s smile, the throaty way she used to tell him she loved him, the feeling he had when he first saw James.