The Broken Token by Chris Nickson Read Free Book Online Page A

deliberately before continuing.
    “I understand the vicar and some of the aldermen didn’t approve of Mr Morton, sir.”
    Kenion looked up sharply, a blush rising from his neck.
    “I believe there had been a few words,” he admitted in a quiet voice.
    “I’ll need to find out more about that.” It was an opportunity to press, and he was going to take it.
    “You don’t seriously think they could have had anything to do with it, do you?” Kenion sounded appalled at the mere idea.
    “I don’t know. But if I don’t follow up all the possibilities I’m hardly doing my duty to the city,” Nottingham pointed out.
    “Of course,” the Mayor agreed after a moment’s awkward consideration. “But you realise this is a crime that has to be solved. And I want it solved quickly.”
    “I understand.” The Constable rose from his seat, bowed to the Mayor, and left. “I want it solved too.”
    There’d been no mention of Pamela, he thought without surprise.
    Outside, he breathed deeply. It had gone well, all things considered, and had been mercifully brief. Thank God Kenion was still new and uncertain of his power. That would pass soon enough, and
he’d become as demanding as everyone else who’d ever worn the chain of office.
    Nottingham wove his way across the road, between the carts clogging the street, negotiating a path among clumps of stinking horse and cow dung that hadn’t been cleaned up yet, then walked
purposefully back down Kirkgate, past the graceful weight of the White Cloth Hall where the Tuesday afternoon buying and selling was already in session, to the parish church.
    He’d known it all his life, but its size still gave him pause, a huge grandeur against the sky, the spire reaching towards heaven. When he was young he’d truly believed it was the
house of God, that He lived there, unseen but all-knowing. It had been a good thing for a child to believe, but he’d grown out of it quickly enough. He still loved the building, though, its
stone blackened by the city’s soot, and he hoped that the words and hymns there went directly to God’s ears.
    The tall, thick oak doors stood open, but he didn’t enter. Instead he followed a small path around the side of the building and knocked on a smaller door beside the transept.
    It was opened by a man about his own height in a cassock of richly-dyed black wool, a short wig perched squarely atop a head with deep-set, suspicious eyes and strong, handsome features. The new
curate, Nottingham surmised. He’d heard one had been appointed, but not that he’d already arrived. He looked to be in his early twenties, and had a haughty scowl on his face. A younger
son with money and connections, Nottingham thought, serving a brief apprenticeship here. Soon he’d probably be appointed to his own expansive living.
    “I’d like to see Reverend Cookson.”
    The curate cast a dismissive eye over Nottingham’s clothes, making a swift judgement.
    “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, failing to keep the sneer from his voice. Nottingham looked directly at the man.
    “My name’s Richard Nottingham. I’m the Constable of Leeds.”
    “Oh?” It was apparent that the curate didn’t believe him.
    “I’m here on official business,” the Constable stated firmly. “A matter of murder.”
    The man pursed his lips, weighing whether the visitor was telling the truth.
    “The Reverend isn’t here,” he admitted finally, and Nottingham felt his fuse start to run short.
    “And did he happen to confide in you where he was going?” he asked acidly, wanting to humiliate the curate for his assumptions. “Or when he’d be back?”
    The other man lowered his eyes for a moment.
    “No.” He barely concealed the anger in the word.
    “No, I don’t imagine he did,” the Constable said with satisfaction. “Tell him I called, and that I’ll be back tomorrow. I need to see him.”
    “Yes.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Crandall,” the curate replied