Free The Broken Token by Chris Nickson

mellifluous voice, used to filling the nave with its rolling cadences on a Sunday, its sound almost too big for such a small room. Although he wasn’t a merchant,
Cookson’s position made him one of the most important men in the city, well paid as a shepherd of souls, his influence extending into every walk of life. Tall and thin, he had the
self-satisfied, smug look that Nottingham despised. For all that he was supposedly a man of God, Cookson was also a fighter, always eager to slyly grab a little more power or consolidate what he
already had.
    “Now, what can I do for you, Constable?” he asked.
    “You’ll have heard what happened to the visiting preacher?”
    “I did.” The vicar sat back and crossed his arms. “A terrible business when someone serving God is murdered,” he said, but there was no great sympathy in his tone.
“Do you know who killed him?”
    “Not yet, no,” Nottingham replied straightforwardly, his eyes fixed on the other man. “From what I’ve heard, I gather you didn’t approve of what he was
saying.”
    Cookson raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to imply I might be a suspect in this death?”
    Nottingham weighed his answer carefully.
    “I rarely imply things, Reverend. If I have something to say I come right out and say it.”
    Cookson examined the words for hidden meanings or barbs, then nodded.
    “You’re right, of course. It was impossible to approve of someone who wanted to upset the social order in the name of religion.”
    “And what was it he said that was so upsetting?”
    “People like the late Mr Morton aim their words like missiles, Constable. They end up making the poor discontent with their lot, and that’s a dangerous thing, as you well
know.” He searched Nottingham’s face for a reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “When you have a man talking like that, it’s sowing the seeds of rebellion and revolution,
and that’s asking for trouble in a place like Leeds. The Jacobins up in Scotland would love to see confusion down here so they could march in.”
    “Then perhaps you feel his death was a good thing?”
    Cookson shook his head in vigorous denial, but the Constable could see the truth in his eyes.
    “I never said that, Mr Nottingham. Every death, particularly one so violent, is a tragedy. But you saw the reaction he provoked on Saturday – and that was from the very people he was
supposed to comfort! We can’t have more scenes like that. It was almost a riot, man!”
    And he was right, Nottingham knew. If they hadn’t hustled Morton away quickly, it would have been ugly.
    “I’d planned to ask that the Mayor ban Mr Morton from speaking in public, for the safety of Leeds,” Cookson stated. “Then, of course, it became unnecessary.”
    “I believe there were several merchants who agreed with you?”
    The vicar look astonished at the question. “More than several – the majority, I’d imagine. The idea underlying Morton’s words is one that challenges the entire social
order. We may be equal in the eyes of God, but here on earth we all have our separate roles to fulfil. Some lead, others follow, and that’s the way it’s always been. To suggest to the
followers that maybe the whole idea is wrong is rather like letting a young child play with a lit candle. It’s irresponsible.”
    And dangerous to those in power, Nottingham thought cynically. Yet it didn’t fully address Saturday’s events.
    “But as you said, the people he came to help didn’t want to hear him, either. Why do you think that was?” he asked.
    “The nature of man is essentially conservative, Constable, surely you’ve noticed that in your work?” The Reverend gave a short, broken smile. “People like the familiar,
the routine of the church. The followers are content to follow, it’s what they know, they’re comfortable with it. But if people like Morton repeat their message often enough, at some
point people will start to question things. Once that happens,