The Broken Token (28 page)

“Thanks, boss,” he answered sincerely.

“Just remember, though, you’ll need someone to look after him. It won’t be easy.”

“Aye, I know that,” Sedgwick said. He’d been giving a lot of thought to the responsibility of raising a child, and the way his own parents had been. “But he’s worth
it. And I can see he’s brought up right.”

Nottingham touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s fine,” he lied glibly. “Everything’ll sort itself out.”

At St Peter’s they separated. Sedgwick lit a candle and explored the deep, shadowy nave while Nottingham searched in the vestry. Nottingham knew that Cookson
wouldn’t be happy if he ever heard that the law had gone through his church, but it had to be done. There was no sign of Crandall, but one chest lay open, a surplice crumpled on the floor
beside it, with books and a pile of papers roughly strewn over the stone floor. Crandall had been here, he was certain of it. He looked in the tall cupboards, pulling the doors open in a sharp
motion, but they only held elaborate vestments. Holding a lantern, the Constable entered the body of the church and called, “Anything?”

His voice echoed around the high emptiness of the building.

“I don’t think so,” Sedgwick answered with caution. His light flickered around the font at the far end of the building. “But there are a hundred places someone could hide
in here.”

“He’s been in the vestry. The question is, how long ago?”

Nottingham felt awkward as he walked around the altar and the chancel, as if he had no right to be there and was doing something sacrilegious. He pushed the light into dark corners, finding
nothing more than a family of mice.

From the corner of his eye he could see the flame of Sedgwick’s candle moving around. Methodically he checked each of the elaborately carved family pews, kneeling to be sure Crandall
hadn’t tried to tuck himself under the wooden benches.

Pigeons nesting in the rafters gave soft coos, their sleep disturbed by the noise below. Nottingham edged around pillars, feeling the prickly chill of holiness on his skin.

Finally they met in the middle of the nave. Sedgwick shook his head.

“We can come back when it’s light,” Nottingham decided. “Let’s go.”

Outside, the wind had picked up, and thick clouds scudded from the west to obscure the stars and bring a promise of fresh rain soon.

“Where now?” Sedgwick asked as they walked through the graveyard. He craned his head around, hoping to see a sudden movement behind the stones.

“I don’t know.” Nottingham was thinking hard. Crandall must have panicked when Worthy’s men grabbed Emily, not knowing what was happening, thinking that somehow
they’d come for him. If he’d fled the city, where would he have gone? Not Harrogate, he was certain of that. There were plenty of places in England where a man could change his name and
hide, but he didn’t have Crandall pegged as someone with the endurance for that. He was a son of privilege who’d probably taken to the church only because he had an older brother
who’d inherit the estate and the wealth. But his father would still grant him an allowance; curates made less than Constables. Abroad, though, a man could live handsomely off very little
money…

“We’ll take a walk down by the river,” the Constable announced suddenly. “There’ll be barges loading early for Hull. He might try and get on one of
those.”

Sedgwick glanced at him speculatively but said nothing, simply loping along beside him. With his arm close against his chest in the sling he looked like an awkward, wounded bird. It was quiet
along the Calls; only a few lights shone in the windows of rooming houses and somewhere a drunk vainly tried to remember the verse of a broadside ballad.

They followed the path past the water engine, its pumps pulling liquid from the Aire along pipes to feed the reservoir up by St John’s Church. At the riverside the bridge loomed above
them, the roar of the current through the arches achingly loud.

“Keep your eyes open for Worthy’s men,” Nottingham warned, taking the pistol from his coat pocket.

They tried the doors to the new brick warehouses, checking they were locked and secure, moving cautiously and quietly.

“I can hear something,” Sedgwick whispered. They stopped to listen, taking shallow breaths, ears and minds alert. “Over there,” he said finally, pointing to the
undergrowth that rose from the quay up to Low Holland.

“An animal?” Nottingham whispered.

Sedgwick shook his head.

“No idea.”

“We’ll wait here for a while and see what happens.”

They remained tense, muscles cramping from standing still, hidden by the deep shadow of the buildings.

“It’s there again. It’s too big for an animal.”

The Constable had heard nothing, but trusted him. He leaned against Sedgwick, speaking softly into this ear,

“Give it some more time.”

He’d never hunted, although he had very faint memories of his father riding off with the hounds as he watched with his mother. Or perhaps that was simply his imagination. Here, though,
there were no horses and hounds, no trampling of crops and spills over hedges. This game involved stealth and patience, and not even the certainty he had the right quarry. It could be just someone
sleeping rough in the grass; he’d done that often enough in his youth.

Finally, after the dampness of the night air had leeched into his skin, he signalled for them to move. He went one way, Sedgwick the other, moving slowly over the gravel path and into the
grass.

But they’d barely taken ten paces when the sound of footsteps and muttered curses filled the air at the top of the hill. The Constable froze, tightening his grip on the pistol.

“Right, you two go down there, see if he’s hiding,” a voice ordered, and Nottingham heard three men push their way down the hill. Worthy’s men. He stood still, safe and
invisible in the faint moonlight. As long as John kept out of sight, everything would be fine. The pimp’s thugs could do their work for them.

It was only a couple of minutes before they discovered the man in the undergrowth, pulling him to his feet as he howled and protested. Very likely thought he was going to be robbed and beaten,
the Constable imagined, and probably he would be. But he couldn’t stay and stop it; the voice wasn’t Crandall’s. Cautiously, he retraced his steps to the doorway, relieved to see
Sedgwick had done exactly the same.

“Looks like they haven’t found him yet,” Sedgwick said in a low voice.

“If he was round here, that’ll have scared him off.” Nottingham pushed the fringe off his forehead.

“Pushed him deeper, maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one came out past me,” Sedgwick explained. “If he’s here, he’s still here. If.” He emphasised the word.

“And if I knew where he was, we’d have him in custody now,” Nottingham retorted sharply. “All we can do is play the odds. The men are out searching, Worthy’s lads
are looking. You and I are taking the likeliest places. The bastard’s somewhere.”

Worthy’s men had moved off, crossing the bridge noisily while their victim lay moaning in the grass. To the east, there was the faintest smudge of light on the clouds against the horizon.
My God, Nottingham thought in surprise, have we been looking all night?

“You go along the path, I’ll cover the water side.”

It was awkward, laborious going. The banks were sheer and slippery, and he found himself grabbing thick tufts of grass to try and keep his balance as time and again he slid perilously close to
the river. The warehouses rose tall, their walls sheer, broken only by doors and pulleys for moving bales on to the barges. A couple of flatboats were tied up, ready for loading, but as he
approached the warning growls and bark of a dog kept him away.

Where was Crandall? He climbed back to the path by Dyer’s Garth, where men and women spent their days colouring finished cloth. The stink of the dyes they used hung in the air and he
wrinkled his nose, his eyes watering. Maybe they didn’t notice it after a while.

“Boss!” Sedgwick’s loud, hoarse whisper pulled him back.

He ran quickly back along the path to the deputy. Sedgwick was squatting, eyes searching the ground. He held up a large piece of expensive black material in a good, tight weave.

“It could be a cassock,” Nottingham speculated, running his fingers across it, and suddenly the memories clicked in his brain. “Dear God. Do you remember young Forester saying
he’d seen a woman the night of the second murders?”

Sedgwick nodded slowly.

“A curate in a cassock,” the Constable explained. “In the dark that would look like a woman in a dress.”

“Looks like he was here, then.”

“Maybe. But where’s he gone?” Nottingham wondered. “And how did the cassock get torn?”

“Do you want me to go and get the men and have them comb down here?” Sedgwick asked.

“No,” he decided after a moment. “He can’t have got inside the warehouses and he’s not down by the river. If he’s still anywhere around here, he’s on
the hillside.” He scanned the trees and the undergrowth.

“There could have been a struggle here,” Sedgwick observed marks in the wet dirt. “It’s difficult to tell.”

“Over there, too.” Nottingham pointed at the grass on the hillside. “You see where it looks trampled?”

He waded through the tall stalks, the dew on the cattails soaking his breeches. There was a space, about five yards by three, where the stems were broken in thick patches too rough to be
someone’s camp. Two trails ran to it, one from the hill top, another from the path below. Squatting, he ran his fingers lightly over the ground, feeling for anything that might have dropped.
It seemed a hopeless task with so much to cover. He tugged at roots and the short young stems of trees poking from the ground, looking for something that might yield to his touch and give a clue.
But there was nothing to proclaim beyond doubt that Crandall had been here.

Back on the towpath he joined Sedgwick. It was close to dawn now, and Nottingham could see the signs of strain and weariness on the deputy’s face. They were probably on his own, too,
seamed and magnified by age. But they’d have to continue until they found the curate or were certain he’d left Leeds.

“Nothing up there,” he said in a voice edged heavily with frustration.

“You think Worthy’s men got him?” Sedgwick asked, echoing his own thoughts.

“I don’t know,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s beginning to look as if they might.” He gave a dark, forbidding frown. “For Mr Crandall’s
sake, let’s hope they don’t.”

“So where now, boss?”

He had no idea, he realised. The church had seemed obvious, the riverside an inspiration. But they’d missed him at the first, and Nottingham had a growing fear that they’d also
arrived too late at the second. They could go to Worthy’s and tear the place apart, but he had so many rooms and rat’s nests around the city it would be impossible to find and check
them all.

“Back to the jail. See if any of the others turned anything up.”

Inside, he was raging, the anger boiling, as if he’d been cheated but unable to prove it. Crandall was around somewhere, he felt it, but in a place just beyond his reach. If Emily had said
something immediately, if Bartlett had recalled the curate leaving, if Tom Williamson had found his information sooner… but none of that was worth a damn now.

He knew no one could have put together the threads any earlier; there was too little to make any kind of pattern. But he blamed himself anyway. It was his responsibility; he was the Constable,
in charge of the investigation. And if Crandall had found his way out of the city, Nottingham’s career was over. Even a squawking gaggle of aldermen wouldn’t be able to save him.

“Maybe the lads got him and he’s waiting in a cell,” Sedgwick offered with a small, hopeful smile.

It was possible, but he doubted it. Still, maybe one of the men had discovered something useful. He’d keep them looking all day and all night if he had to, but for the moment he simply
didn’t know where to send them. And, as if to crown his despair, the first fat drops of rain began to fall from a heavy sky.

He trudged on, his mind churning, eyes on the ground, until Sedgwick nudged him.

“Under the bridge, boss.” The words were a bare whisper.

The tunnel was long, and dark as thick velvet. Water surged along the bank, the sound echoing loud. Nottingham stared into the gloom, his heart thudding loud, until he was slowly able to make
out a shape. Gradually the features took form. At last. The figure was cowering, trying hard to stay small, hidden as deep in the blackness as he could burrow. Crouching, he looked lost, too broken
to even run any more. It had to be Crandall.

“Let’s take him,” Nottingham hissed, feeling a fast surge of satisfaction in his veins.

They approached patiently, carefully hugging the shadows. It seemed to take an age to draw close, holding their breath with each step in case the man heard them. Nottingham kept his eyes on him;
he didn’t move. The Constable edged nearer, so close he could smell the pure terror in the man’s sweat. Behind him Sedgwick’s shoe caught a pebble, kicking it along the path. The
figure started suddenly. He began to rise, his eyes panicked. It was Crandall. The Constable leapt, pinning him against the dank stone of the bridge.

“You’re not bloody going anywhere,” he said through gritted teeth, staring into the curate’s blank eyes.

There was nothing left of the Crandall’s smugness or elegance. His face was carved with fear, his mouth a thin, pale line. A night of trying to hide in the open had left him filthy, a
pathetic figure with a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

Together, Nottingham and Sedgwick hauled him out into the growing light. He was past resistance, moving like a doll in their grasp. Finally, the Constable thought with relief, finally. Now they
could put an end to this.

But as they started up the track from the riverbank to Briggate, three figures appeared at the top of the hill.

Worthy was standing there, and next to him the man who’d brought Emily to the jail. He was dressed in fresh clothes, a foppish coat and breeches of pale turquoise silk cut to hide his
muscles. The third had a face the Constable recognised, Harwood, who’d come to the jail and confessed to the crime. Nottingham felt Crandall stiffen with terror.