The Broken Token (27 page)

Time ticked away too slowly. He kept expecting something to happen – word from Tom, Sedgwick with information, even his wife – but there was nothing.

It was Emily who arrived first, escorted by a man of Worthy’s that Nottingham had never seen before. He was tall and heavy, but surprisingly well-dressed, wearing a deep brown wig that
appeared almost new. His big hand gripped the girl’s arm tightly and there was a sly, vicious smile on his face. Less than twenty minutes had passed since Worthy had left.

“Sit down,” Nottingham commanded his daughter in a hard voice that dared her to disobedience or hesitation. “Now.” He turned to the man. “Who was she
with?”

“I don’t know,” he answered with a careless shrug. “They just told me to bring her here.” He began to leave, then turned back in the doorway. “Oh, Mr Worthy
said to tell you something. Look at her neck.” The door slammed closed behind him.

He gazed down at Emily, shut in on herself on the chair. With slow tenderness he put a finger under her chin and tilted her head back. Her eyes were wide with fear, and tracks of grimy tears ran
down her cheeks, but he only noticed them in passing.

Instead, his eyes fastened on her throat.

“Oh Christ,” he whispered, the bile rising suddenly. “Christ.”

The broken token that had belonged to his mother, that he’d given to Pamela, lay against Emily’s skin, held in place by a new blue ribbon.

For a long moment he stared at it in horror.

Then, before she could react, before he could even stop himself, he grasped it in his fingers and in a single violent motion tore it off her. She gasped with pain as he held it in front of her
face, the half-token swaying gently.

“Who gave it to you?” Nottingham asked with deceptive softness. The tears were welling over in her wide eyes, hands clutched so tightly together in her lap that her knuckles were
white. She wouldn’t look at him. He tried to keep his voice steady and hide the urgency of the question. “Who gave it to you, Emily? I need his name.”

Emily shook her head mutely. He breathed slowly, trying to calm himself. The token was the key, and Worthy already knew what it meant. Emily knew the answer. He had to find out, and quickly.

He looked down at his daughter. She was bent over, sobbing silently into her hands. There was a vivid red mark on the back of her neck where he’d ripped off the ribbon. He’d always
tried to keep his family safe from his work, but now, here, it all came together. He loved the girl so much, he ached to protect her from everything bad, but he needed her answers.

“You see this, Emily?” Nottingham asked, hoping she’d raise her head, but she kept still, curled away from him. For a moment he wanted to grab her by the hair and pull her up
so she couldn’t hide from him. “I need to know who gave you this,” he insisted. “It belonged to your grandmother. I gave it to Pamela. Whoever gave it to you murdered
her.”

“No!” In one quick, furious movement she sat up straight, mouth firm, her eyes alive with anger. “He couldn’t have!” She stared at him defiantly, then lowered her
gaze. “He wouldn’t,” she added softly.

“Then where did he get it?” Nottingham asked in exasperation. His patience was raw, on a knife-edge. He could feel himself shaking. “Come on, you want to be treated like an
adult. You say he hasn’t killed anyone. Tell me who he is. I’ll talk to him. If he’s innocent he’ll be able to tell me the truth.”

“You’re already calling him a killer,” she hissed. “Why would you believe anything he says?”

He gazed into her eyes, trying to quell the bitterness he saw there. “Because it’s my job to find the truth and separate the guilty from the innocent.” He sighed. “Emily,
you know what I do, what I am.” He held up the ribbon, seeing his hand tremble a little and feeling the chill of cooling sweat on his face. “I need you to help me. Please.”

She hesitated before answering and he could hear the first sign of weakening in her voice.

“I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Why?” He ran a hand through his hair. It was better than hitting her.

“Because he asked me to. He asked me to trust him and I said I would.”

“I need your trust, too. That man who brought you here is employed by someone who also wants to find the killer,” he explained urgently. “I don’t know how, but he knows
what this token means.” Nottingham took hold of her shoulders and forced her to look into his face. “He’s not going to arrest the lad who gave this to you. He’s going to
make him suffer and then he’s going to make sure he dies very slowly and in a lot of pain.”

“Why should I believe you?” she asked warily, but now he could see fear flicker in her eyes. “You could be lying to me just to get his name. That could have been one of your
men.”

“You heard what he said to me. He wasn’t one of mine.” He kept hold of her. “You care about this man. Right now he has one chance of still being alive tomorrow morning,
and that chance is me.”

She was torn, he knew it. He wanted to push her harder, but if he did, she might back away. He waited, watching the young emotions conflicting on her face.

“I can’t,” she said finally, with a sad shake of her head. “I promised him I wouldn’t.”

The slap resounded round the small room, lifting her off the chair and sending her sprawling on the flagstones. He saw the sharp redness burn her cheek, hating himself for what he’d done,
lashing out at his daughter. He knew he’d had to do it, to jolt her, but he still wanted to gather her close, to apologise, to stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be all
right.

“Please, Emily, tell me his name,” he begged softly. Gazing up at him, she pushed herself away quickly on her hands and feet, moving awkwardly like a crab until she was backed
against the wall. He walked towards her and she drew her knees up against her chest. The outline of his hand was clear on her pale skin; he saw the tears brimming in her eyes and the agony of fear
on her face.

Squatting, Nottingham held out his hand. She watched it as though he was going to hit her again.

“I don’t have the time to fence with you,” he explained sadly. “I have to get his name, luv.”

The door opened and he glanced up hopefully. But it was Mary standing there, hands on her hips.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising sharply.

“Mama…” Emily began, struggling to her feet.

“Dear God, child, what happened to you?” She pulled the girl to her, examining her face and neck. Nottingham rose slowly, feeling the ache in his knees, and a growing sense of
something lost.

“What did you do to her, Richard?” Her tone demanded the truth from him. He held up the ribbon with its dangling token, still clenched in his fist.

“She was wearing this,” he told her. “Do you remember it?”

Mary’s mouth widened in astonishment, and her eyes moved to her daughter.

“I believe the man who gave it to her is a killer, and she won’t tell me his name,” he continued.

“Tell your father,” Mary ordered. She held Emily fast as the girl tried to pull away.

Before Nottingham could speak, the door opened once more, and Williamson entered. As soon as he saw the women, he removed his hat and bowed in an automatic gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he said with embarrassment. “Richard, it took me longer than I expected.”

“Do you have the name?”

“Robert Crandall. He’s the new curate at the parish church.”

Nottingham glanced at Emily. Her face had fallen, and he knew he had his man.

“Mary, take her home now,” he said, before turning back to the merchant. “Tom, thank you.”

He dashed past them, out on to Kirkgate and the sprawling Vicar’s Croft where Dr Cookson lived. It was no more than two hundred yards, but he was panting by the time he arrived. He banged
hard on the thick front door, and kept knocking until an exasperated servant finally opened it. If only Bartlett had remembered this, he thought.

“Where’s the Reverend?” Nottingham asked, forcing his way past the woman.

“He’s in the library, sir,” she replied, polite but terrified by his manner. The Constable moved quickly down the hall, turning latches as he went until he found the right
room.

Cookson was seated comfortably by the fire, a book on his lap, and three more stacked on a small table at his side, next to a half-drunk glass of wine. As he glanced up at the intrusion,
Nottingham said, “I need to know where Crandall is.”

Coolly, Cookson closed the book.

“Barging into my house and making demands isn’t the best way to find things out, Constable,” the Reverend announced.

“Where is he… sir?” He spat out the word with deliberate insolence.

“And why do you need to know so urgently?” He crossed one leg over the other, smoothing his breeches over his ample thighs.

“Because he’s murdered six people.” Nottingham kept his eyes on the Reverend’s disbelieving face.

“Another of your wild theories?” Cookson laughed. “It was George Carver last time, wasn’t it? Don’t be so stupid, man. Mr Crandall is from a good family in the
county. Why would he do something like that?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve talked to him,” the Constable replied grimly. “But he used to be in Chapel Allerton, didn’t he?” He didn’t wait for an
answer. “There were people attacked there. One of them came back to Leeds and was killed just after your curate arrived.”

Cookson pursed his lips.

“Coincidence is hardly damning evidence, is it?”

“I’ll give him the chance to clear himself, if he can.” He chose not to mention the broken token or Worthy. Keep it straightforward, he thought. “But I need to find him,
and I need to do it now.”

“He lodges with Widow Cliffe on Briggate. But she’s a good Christian woman. She keeps early hours. I don’t want you disturbing her.”

Nottingham said nothing, just walked past the servant and out of the house. He knew Widow Cliffe all too well, a prissy woman who’d plagued his office for years with ridiculous, petty
complaints about her neighbours.

A merchant’s widow, she lived in an old house with a wide frontage, the plaster limewashed a crisp white every year. She spent her days peering out from the small mullioned windows and
making carping comments about the people she saw.

He knew of at least five servants she’d turned out for their behaviour, and pitied those who stayed even more. She liked to think of herself as the city’s moral judge, and was
constantly disappointed with everything she saw.

No lights showed through the shutters as his fist hit the door, but he didn’t care if he woke the entire street. When no answer came, he hammered on the wood again until a downtrodden girl
pulled it open, her eyes puffy with sleep, clothes bundled quickly over her shift.

“Is Mr Crandall here?” Nottingham asked without introduction.

“No, sir,” the girl answered with lazy sleepiness, stifling a yawn. “He left this afternoon. He was all in a hurry. Said his father was ill and he needed to go home for a few
days.”

“And where’s his home, do you know?”

“Harrogate, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The door closed quietly. His mind was churning as he strode back to the jail. Maybe Crandall really had run away and gone home. Not this afternoon, though; he’d been with Emily since then.
He might have planned to leave, but the curate was still in Leeds; he knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

The jail was crowded with Sedgwick and the other men, all milling around in loud conversation that ended raggedly as he entered.

“They’ve had no luck yet, boss,” Sedgwick told him.

“I have,” Nottingham said. “It’s Crandall, the new curate at the parish church.” He heard a crescendo of sound around him and raised his hand. “I want you to
go out and find him. He lodges with Mrs Cliffe, but he’s not there. I want two men on the place, front and back, in case he tries to return. He claimed he was going back to Harrogate, where
his family lives. Check the coach inns and the stables, let me know if they’ve seen him. The rest of you get out there and start looking.”

Sedgwick rose, but Nottingham held him back as the others left.

“I want you with me.” He explained briefly about Emily and the token. “Worthy knew what it meant. I don’t know how, but he’s ahead of us. I don’t think
he’s got Crandall yet; if he had he’d be crowing.”

“Where do you want to start?” the deputy asked, rubbing his arm in the sling.

“Crandall hasn’t been here long,” Nottingham considered. “He’ll want somewhere he feels safe.”

“The church?” Sedgwick suggested.

“It’s a good bet.” He reached into one of the desk drawers and removed two pistols.

“How’s your arm now?” Nottingham asked.

“Getting by,” Sedgwick answered, although it was far from the truth. The Constable loaded and primed the guns, and handed one to his deputy.

“Just in case,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to use it.”

They walked together down Kirkgate. Apart from pockets of noise outside a pair of taverns, the city was quiet. A few torches gave out moments of light in the darkness.

Sedgwick breathed softly and glanced at the Constable. There was a hard, determined cast to his face, and his hand kept straying to his coat to rub the pistol. God help Crandall when they found
him, he thought.

His mind slipped back to the thing it hadn’t been able to shake. If there was one person he could tell, it was the boss.

“Annie’s left,” he said casually, as if the news wasn’t so important. “Took James with her.”

“Are you going to bring her back?” Nottingham didn’t break his stride, although now he understood why the deputy had been so quiet. “You’d be within your rights, if
you wanted.”

He didn’t even need to consider the question.

“No. She was always nagging and arguing.”

“What about James?”

Sedgwick straightened his back and chewed his bottom lip. They walked a few more yards before he answered with determination,

“I’m not letting him go. She can go to hell, but I’m having my son.”

“The law’s on your side,” Nottingham told him with certainty. “You can claim him and keep him.”