The Broken Token (25 page)

“Your murderer?”

“Our murderer now, lad, you’re one of us. I’ll tell you what, though, we’ll get him.”

“How can you be so sure?” the boy wondered.

“It’s what we do, son. It’s what we do, and if I say so myself, we do it bloody well.”

A round of the other informers had yielded no more than he already knew, and Nottingham made his way back to the jail. He’d barely been sitting for five minutes before a
boy came in, wide-eyed in fear and curiosity about the jail, holding a note.

“For me?” the Constable asked.

“I don’t know, sir.” The high voice trembled a little. “I was just told to give it to someone here.”

He took the letter and gave the child a coin from his pocket before sending him on his way. Sliding a thumb under the wax of the seal, he opened the paper, glancing quickly at the writing.

Constable
, it began, in a shaky script that was anything but neat,
you wrote wondering if there had been any instances of murder or disturbing incidents hereabouts. We had two such
within a short space a little over a year ago. Although neither officially came to my attention as Justice of the Peace, I am familiar with the details. Should you wish to know more, please feel
free to call on me at your convenience. Sincerely, Robert Bartlett.

He could feel his heart beating faster. Bartlett’s address was in Chapel Allerton, some three miles to the northeast, home of the horse and footraces, and the gallows where the hangman
plied his trade. But far more importantly, where Pamela had moved when she married.

Nottingham put on his greatcoat and left immediately. His body was tense and his throat was dry. There had to be a connection. He walked swiftly along Swine Gate to the stables. He was going to
find answers, find a murderer.

Nottingham couldn’t afford to keep a horse of his own, and the city wasn’t about to pay for him to have a nag. Instead he hired one on the few occasions he needed to travel. To his
relief, the ostler selected a gentle mare which was happiest at a canter, and that suited him; he’d never been much of a rider, uncomfortable and wary so high off the ground.

From Vicar Lane he headed north on the Newcastle Road, a rutted, pitted thing that needed attention like all the roads around Leeds. It ran parallel to Sheep Scar Beck, the fields running down
to the water lush and green, with sheep cropping the grass. Around here the fleeces were more valuable than the meat; the demand for wool was insatiable as the cloth trade grew and grew. Cottages
stood in small clumps at the roadside, and he could hear the insistent clack of looms from within as farming families worked to supplement their incomes by weaving. The children would card the
wool, the wife and older girls would spin, and the husband wove. Come market day the man would weigh down a pack animal with the cloth and bring it into Leeds to sell. It had been the way
throughout the West Riding for centuries, the only way for small tenants to survive the year. And the ones who couldn’t earn enough here flocked into the city, hoping for jobs and money that
all too often didn’t exist. It was a bitter scrape along the knife-edge of existence.

The road began to rise on the long, slow climb and the horse slowed to an easy, manageable trot. Looking back, Nottingham could make out the city, the roofs and spires under a dark haze of smoke
from thousands of chimneys burning Middleton coal. You’re in there, he thought determinedly, and I’m going to find you. Soon.

The first sign of the village of Chapel Allerton was the Bowling Green Inn at the base of Chapeltown moor, a roughly tamed wasteland that spread out to his left. He kept riding, past the gallows
hole where the frame was erected for public hangings, following the road beyond the blast of heat and noise from the smithy, then taking a track at the top of the moor to the elegant facing of
Clough House.

It was a new brick building in a lovingly symmetrical design, with the quiet taste only money could buy. The glass in the windows sparkled, and the garden was carefully tended. Nottingham
tethered the horse and knocked on the door, to be greeted by a grave male servant in his late forties who escorted him into a small receiving room, its walls a duck-egg blue, with portraits and
landscapes hanging from the walls above the dark wood wainscoting.

“I’ve come to see Mr Bartlett,” the Constable explained. “He answered a note of mine.”

“I’ll fetch Sir Robert.” The servant emphasised the title, chiding him gently.

Bartlett proved to be a large, rounded man who strode briskly into the room. There was an air of the country squire about him in his plain, tight-fitting clothes and thick hands. He wore a short
periwig that seemed awkwardly settled on top of a large, rounded head with reddened cheeks.

“Constable,” he said in a booming welcome. “I hadn’t expected you to arrive so quickly. Thought you’d have too much to do.” He seemed to fill the room with
his bluff energy, pacing over to the window and looking out across the moor.

“Your information sounded important, Sir Robert,” Nottingham said with careful deference.

Bartlett ducked his head a couple of times. “It may be. It’s complicated, you see. Sit down, man,” he offered, gesturing at the chairs that faced the empty fireplace.

“I’ll stand if I may… I’m not used to riding.”

Sir Robert chuckled lightly and shook his head. “Never mind, eh? We can get out and stretch our legs a bit if you prefer.”

“I’d rather just hear your information, if you don’t mind.” Nottingham urgently needed to know what the man had to say, then return to the city to finish this business.
Time was too important now.

“Of course, of course,” Bartlett agreed readily. “You’ve seen Chapel Allerton, Constable. We’re a small place, except when everyone comes up for the races or a
hanging, of course. We have a few thefts, but never anything much.” He glanced briefly at Nottingham who nodded his understanding. “About eighteen months ago a courting couple was
attacked by a man.” He gestured vaguely into the distance. “They were walking in the woods beyond the Black Swan, and someone tried to stab them. He wounded the man, then he ran off
when the girl began screaming.”

“Did you find him?”

Bartlett shook his head forcefully. “No, not a trace. But it happened twice more over the next six months. No one seriously injured, but it left everyone scared.”

“And after that?” Nottingham wondered. “Were there any more attacks?”

“No, they just stopped. It was strange. We never did find out who did it. A few men were suspected, but it never came to anything.”

“No one moved from the village?”

“Just one of the women who’d been attacked. She went back to Leeds, from what I heard.” He dismissed her with a casual shrug.

The Constable’s scalp tingled. “Do you remember her name?” he asked with urgency.

“No, I’m sorry,” Sir Robert replied after a moment’s deliberation. “Is it important?”

“The first of the girls to die in Leeds had moved back from this area,” Nottingham explained. “She’d also been a servant in my house before she came out here.”

“I see.” Bartlett focused his attention. “It could be a coincidence, I suppose.”

“It’s possible,” Nottingham agreed cautiously, doubting it, “but I’d prefer to find out.”

Sir Robert was already walking to the door. “Come on, man,” he said, “let’s go, then.”

His broad pace soon carried him across the beautifully cut lawn in front of the house, through the gates and on to the moor. Nottingham, his thigh muscles already stiffening from being on the
horse, had to walk fast to keep pace as they crossed the road and followed a track that led between houses and past hedged fields.

“Where are we going?” he asked, a little breathless.

Bartlett stopped suddenly, looking confused by the question. “You said you wanted to know the name of the girl who returned to Leeds.”

“I do,” Nottingham agreed.

“We’re going to see the man who was her landlord,” Bartlett explained. “We could have ridden over, but you looked as if you didn’t want to spend more time in the
saddle than necessary.”

“Thank you,” the Constable said, the sentiment heartfelt.

“It’s not far,” Sir Robert told him as they walked on. “Just over there.”

Over there
proved to be a long, winding driveway overhung with horse chestnut trees, their leaves in majestic autumn colours, conkers and shells shed all across the path and grass.
Without hesitation Bartlett marched up to the front door and knocked heavily. Almost a minute passed before the handle turned with a creak and a weary, middle-aged woman with rheumy eyes peered
up.

“Hello, Martha,” Bartlett said warmly. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are you?”

The woman perked at the sound of the voice, smiling and running fingers like a comb through her straggly grey hair.

“Getting by, Sir Robert,” she nodded, “up and down. It’s t’way o’t world.”

“Indeed, indeed.” He sounded genuinely interested in her wellbeing, and in a small place like this, maybe he was, Nottingham thought.

“Is the master at home?” Bartlett asked.

“Gone off to York,” the servant told him with a short chuckle. “Looking for a new wife, I shouldn’t wonder, after the last one died in June.”

“A man wants a woman around, Martha,” Bartlett said seriously. “And he still needs an heir for the estate.”

“Aye, although that weren’t for lack of trying on his part,” she observed with a cackle.

“Actually, we’ve come about a woman,” Bartlett said, lowering his voice a little.

“Oh?” She cocked her head.

“You remember the girl who was attacked and then went back to Leeds?”

“Course I do. Lovely lass she were, until that madman attacked her and her husband.”

“Her husband?” Nottingham asked sharply. Martha turned her head to gaze at him uncertainly.

“Aye,” she continued. “They were walking up to the Black Swan one Saturday night when someone tried to stab them. The knife got him, but she started screaming so loud people
said they could hear her on t’other side of Gledhow Valley and he ran off. You remember that, Sir Robert.”

“Yes,” he answered sadly, “yes, I do.”

“She were with child,” Martha told Nottingham, her face crumpling at the memory. “Lost it two days later from t’ shock. They’d been praying so hard for the bairn
an’ all. They’d lost two before.”

“What about the husband?” the Constable said. He needed to know.

“He were hurt bad in t’ chest, but she nursed him back,” Martha recalled easily. “But he weren’t same after. No strength,” she explained with a sage nod.
“Dead within six month. Couldn’t even get out of bed towards the end.”

“And his wife?”

“Poor lass.” The servant dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her dirty, greasy apron. “I’ve never seen owt like it. She lost her faith. Said a real God wouldn’t
have let her man and her babies die like that. Ranted and raved. Refused to see the curate. When he called on her, she threw him out of the house. Finally the master had to turn her out. He
didn’t want to, mind,” she added hastily, “but he needed the cottage for a couple to do the work. Last I heard, she went back to Leeds, a year back.”

“What was her name?” Nottingham asked, holding his breath. He was certain he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the confirmation.

“Pamela Malham,” Martha replied.

“Tell me,” Nottingham asked, “did she wear something round her neck?”

“Aye, she did,” the woman answered, her eyes widening. “I’d forgotten about that. Half a coin, a token she called it, although it didn’t look much to me. Always had
it on.”

“Thank you,” he said and turned away, walking slowly down the driveway. Before he’d reached the lane, Bartlett had caught up with him.

“That was your girl, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Nottingham answered simply. There didn’t seem to be more to say. Now he knew what had really happened to her before her return and why she’d changed. Not that the
knowledge made anything easier, he reflected. It was an answer, but not the answer he needed.

“I’m sorry,” Sir Robert said with the tentative tone of a man unused to expressing emotions. “Come and take a glass of wine with me before you go back. You look like you
need one.”

“I think you’re right.” The Constable felt shaken, his heart booming, a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.

They strolled back along the track and through the village. After the constant noise and traffic of Leeds the empty streets seemed eerie, as if the people had simply vanished. But soon his ears
picked out the sounds of voices and looms in the cottages and animals in the fields.

Bartlett left him in silence, and Nottingham was thankful. He needed some time where he didn’t have to talk or be polite, where he could simply let his mind work. Was there a connection
between the attack here and the one in Leeds? If not, then her killing was death’s black joke, but he couldn’t believe that. There had to be something.

But if he believed that, it raised more questions than it solved. Why had the murderer killed others too? Was he trying to cover his crime with more deaths, or had he found a taste for
corpses?

Most importantly, who could he be? In his bones Nottingham could feel that the answer was here among these cottages.

Before he realised it, they were back at Bartlett’s house, with the scrawny manservant bringing wine. Once they were alone, Bartlett stared thoughtfully at the Constable before shrewdly
saying, “You believe her attacker here was her murderer in Leeds.”

Nottingham swirled the wine, watching the deep red colour move and shimmer in the glass.

“I do,” he answered finally. “Which means her killer either lived here and moved to Leeds or still lives here and comes into town.”

Bartlett shook his head.

“As I told you before, no one’s moved except your girl. A few casual labourers, I’m sure,” he said dismissively, “but you can’t keep track of them.”

The Constable knew how true that was. People arrived for harvests and drifted off after. Some stayed a few months then disappeared suddenly, often just ahead of due rents or creditors. He felt
the surge of hope dying in him. He knew more, but it did him no good.