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

haughtily. The door closed silently on well-oiled hinges and Nottingham was left with the empty quiet of the churchyard, broken only by the small
twittering of sparrows in an oak tree.
    There was little more he could do today. Sedgwick was unlikely to have anything to report before morning, and if he turned up anything important, he’d come to the house. The lad would be a
good Constable some day.
    He made his way across Timble Bridge; the beck below was not much more than a trickle after the long, dry days of summer. Away from the heart of the city there was stillness in the air, and he
relished the absence of noise assaulting his ears. God willing, he’d have peace tonight. But first he had to tell Mary about Pamela, and that wouldn’t be easy.
    She emerged from the kitchen, thick smudges of flour on her apron, hands and face, surprised and happy to see him so early, and guiltily Nottingham realised he was rarely home before dark.
    He embraced her, closing his eyes to smell her hair and feel her cheek against his shoulder. Only when she started to pull away did he realise he’d been holding her longer than usual.
    “You were off with the lark this morning. It must have been important,” Mary said finally, giving him a curious look.
    “When isn’t it?” he laughed, trying to make light of the situation.
    “They expect far too much of you,” she told him seriously as he followed her into the kitchen.
    “Well, this time they were right.” He poured a cup of ale from the jug on the table. “A double murder,” he said solemnly.
    “Oh God, Richard.”
    She was a Constable’s wife, but even after all these years she’d never come to terms with the violence that was part of his work. He rarely told her about the crimes; if she knew
even a fraction of the truth she’d be horrified. But this time he knew he had no choice.
    “One of the victims was Pamela,” he said softly.
    She stopped and turned to stare at him, her eyes suddenly wide in utter disbelief.
    “Pamela?” she asked. “Our Pamela? Pamela Watson?”
    He nodded, with no idea what else to say.
    “Oh, dear Jesus,” Mary cried, and he pulled her close again, stroking the back of her neck beneath the mob cap as if he was comforting a child. Suddenly she pushed him back.
    “It can’t be her,” she announced with sudden confidence. “She married that labourer in Chapel Allerton, you remember that. She doesn’t even live in Leeds any
more!”
    He looked down at her sadly.
    “He died, love.” Nottingham spoke in little more than a whisper, watching tenderly as the final shred of hope died in her. “Seems she came back about a year ago and
didn’t tell us. It’s her, it’s definitely her.”
    The tears came then, flowing silently at first, then she started to wail. He knew Mary had felt especially close to Pamela, spending every day with her. They’d been mistress and servant,
but the bond had gone far beyond that. They’d known each other’s lives and secrets. Now all he could do was hold his wife until the crying stopped. He didn’t say anything
more.
    Finally, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she sat at the table and drank deeply from his untouched cup. The track of a last tear wound its way like a slow river through the flour on
her cheek.
    “How?” she asked shakily.
    He reached over and took her hand. It seemed small in his, and he squeezed it lightly before shaking his head, indicating he wasn’t going to tell her and knowing she’d guess.
    “Have you found whoever did it?”
    “No,” he admitted. “And right now I don’t even know where to begin. I went to see her grandmother – you remember Meg? I promised her we’d take care of the
funeral.”
    “Of course we will.” She tightened her grip on his fingers as if she was holding on to life. “You’re going to find her killer, aren’t you?”
    He loved the full, simple faith she had in him.
    “I hope so,” was the closest he dare come to a promise.