The Broken Token

“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 killed 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.”