Til Death Do Us Part

by Sara Fraser

  Amy kissed him and called to her friends, ‘Come up here, girls, and see my bedroom, it’s like a palace.’

  The caller at the door was the man-servant of Joseph Blackwell Esq.

  ‘My master wants to see you straight away, Constable Potts. He said to tell you that the business is urgent.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll come directly.’ Tom nodded and hurried to call upstairs, ‘Amy, I’ve to go out on urgent business.’

  ‘Don’t you stay out all night, Tom Potts,’ Maisie Lock shouted back. ‘This new bed of yours looks prime for making babbies.’

  The other women laughed and added their own risqué opinions on the bed.

  Tom was smiling as he hurried over the Green towards Joseph Blackwell’s large house standing at the top of the long steep Fish Hill which fell away northwards into the broad valley of the River Arrow.

  Blackwell rose from his desk when Tom was ushered into the book-lined study by the man-servant. Middle-aged, small and thin, with a pallid, deeply lined face, Blackwell’s physical appearance belied the power he possessed. Trained in the Law, he held multiple positions of authority: Coroner, Clerk to the Magistrates, Clerk to the Select Vestry, Senior Overseer to the Poor, Director of the Parish Constabulary. He was also the trusted confidant and legal advisor to many of the aristocrats, Needle Masters and minor gentry who constituted the ruling class of the extended Needle District.

  Now he smiled and held out his hand. ‘Many congratulations on your wedding, Thomas Potts. I was sorry that I was unable to attend, but I was unavoidably detained in Worcester and only returned late last night. I’m glad that you and your wife are reconciled with your mother.’

  Tom shook the proffered hand. ‘The previous difficulty has now been dealt with to our mutual satisfaction, Sir.’

  He felt no surprise that the other man appeared to be fully conversant with what had happened at the wedding and this morning. He knew that Blackwell had myriad secret sources of information about what was happening throughout the parish and much further afield. Tom always visualized him as a spider at the centre of a very large web.

  ‘I’ve a task for you, Constable Potts, which needs to be undertaken immediately. Claude Blair, who’s the newly appointed Factor at Hewell Grange, came to see me this morning. During the night some of the Hewell Grange dogs were stolen.

  ‘His Lordship, who is expected to be returning to the parish next month, apparently values these particular beasts most highly. So, we must ensure that we do our utmost to recover them and apprehend the thieves before His Lordship’s homecoming.

  ‘Therefore you must give it priority above all other matters, no matter what they be, until you have brought it to a satisfactory conclusion. You will have the use of the bay mare from my stable until this case is concluded. I bid you good day, Constable Potts.’

  Blackwell gestured in dismissal, returned to his seat at the desk and immediately began to pore over a sheaf of documents.

  ‘Good day, Sir.’ Tom was frowning as he exited the room. He had met His Lordship, the Earl of Plymouth on several occasions, and knew how arrogantly that nobleman behaved towards his inferiors in wealth and position.

  As on so many other occasions during his life, Tom was battling with an inner conflict between his love and loyalty for his country, and his resentment for the contempt displayed by the vast majority of its ruling caste towards the ordinary people of England.

  ‘No matter what else might happen in the parish, I’m now to disregard it and concentrate on solving the case of this bloody Noble Fop’s missing dogs! If only I had the power to alter such a state of affairs!’

  Then from the deep recesses of his mind a voice sounded wearily. ‘I beg you yet again, Thomas, to please stop your pathetically futile sniveling and set about solving this case. Then you will be free to deal with other crimes as and when they need your attention.’

  Tom grinned wryly and his anger subsided.

  SEVEN

  Tuesday, 15th January

  Midday

  John Mence, proprietor of the Unicorn Hotel and Inn, the largest hostelry in Redditch Town, always took great interest in any new customers. This morning he was taking a close look at the quality of the horse belonging to the guest who had arrived very late on the previous night, and who was now partaking of a solitary late breakfast in the dining room.

  ‘What d’you reckon to this nag and its tack?’ Mence asked his stable hand.

  ‘The bugger’s ready for the bloody knacker’s yard, and the tack’s naught but patched-up rubbish!’ the elderly hand judged scathingly.

  ‘I’ll second that.’ Mence nodded agreement as he left the stables.

  In the dining room the guest had finished eating and was now savouring the fragrant smoke of a cheroot and taking sips from a steaming cup of coffee.

  John Mence went into his small office adjoining the dining room and through a hidden peephole studied the powerfully built stranger, taking inventory of his fashionably styled riding clothes and boots, his elaborately curled hair and the French-style whiskers which met under the chin of his florid features. He also noted that the man’s fashionable clothing appeared somewhat threadbare in places, the riding boots down at heel, and this, coupled with the state of the horse and tack, confirmed his earlier opinion.

  ‘I’ll need to keep close watch on this bugger.’

  Mence closed the peephole, made his way into the dining room and bowed.

  ‘Good morning to you, Sir. I’m John Mence, the proprietor of this establishment. I regret I was not present to receive you upon your arrival.’

  ‘Pray do not distress yourself, Master Mence. I took no offence at your absence. It was of no consequence.’

  The guest dismissed the apology with a lordly wave of his be-ringed hand. Then he rose and bowed in return. ‘Permit me to introduce myself; I am Archibald Ainsley. My name may not be entirely unknown to you since I am led to believe that I possess some degree of repute as a luminary of the theatrical profession.’

  Mence smiled and said smoothly, ‘I do believe that I’ve heard your name mentioned in that connection, Sir, and I’m honoured to have you beneath my roof. But may I make so bold as to enquire why you’re visiting Redditch? We’ve no theatres here; we’re only country bumpkins sadly lacking in any such citified entertainments.’

  Archibald Ainsley resumed his seat, took a long pull at his cheroot and slowly dribbled out the resulting mouthful of smoke before declaiming unctuously, ‘This is the very reason I’m here, Master Mence. I know only too well how lacking in civilized culture these industrial districts are, and I’ve long harboured a dream of bringing the same civilized culture to these same sadly unenlightened districts.’

  He paused, took another long drag on his cheroot, slowly dribbled the smoke through his lips and continued, ‘Thanks to my success in the theatre I can now make that dream a reality. I have engaged a cast of the most accomplished actors and actresses in the kingdom, and I intend to present the works of our finest playwrights for the delectation of the inhabitants of these cultural deserts. Currently I’m scouring the Midlands for venues which can be utilized for the staging of those entertainments, and I’m wondering if you could suggest any such likely places in this vicinity?’

  ‘If you can wait here for a few minutes, I’ll make out a list of possible buildings and directions to them,’ Mence offered.

  ‘I take that very kindly, Master Mence. Very kindly indeed. And while I’m waiting I’ll enjoy a bottle of your very finest brandy.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir. I’ll have it brought to you immediately.’ Mence bowed and exited, telling the waiter hovering outside the door, ‘Bring a bottle of the best brandy to this gentleman, and look sharp about it.’

  Next he went to the stables and told the hand, ‘There’s every chance the flash bugger who booked in last night might try and do a runner, so tell me straight away if he brings any baggage out here.’

  For his part, Archibald Ainsley would most certainly
try to decamp without paying his bills should it prove necessary, but his present intention was to fully explore what opportunities for profit this vicinity might hold for him. So, before studying the list John Mence gave him of possible venues and their locations, he followed his usual practise of going out on foot to familiarize himself with the town, its immediate environs and best escape routes should he need to make a hurried departure.

  When Ainsley left the Unicorn he turned eastwards and strolled up to the town’s central crossroads then went southwards along the High Street. At this hour of the morning with most of the townspeople and their children in their workplaces there were few pedestrians and sparse traffic and Ainsley made leisurely progress, halting at intervals to peer though the bullseyed casements of a shop or workplace.

  A smart-looking covered gig with a glossy-coated horse was tethered outside one shop front which bore an ornately lettered sign proclaiming it to be ‘Bromley’s Stationery Emporium for All Articles of Stationery, Rare and Antique Books and New Literature’.

  As Ainsley neared the gig a man dressed in clerical clothing came from the shop carrying letters in his hand. He halted by the side of the gig, opening and scanning the letters.

  Ainsley’s eyes widened in shock.

  ‘Surely it can’t be! Can it?’ He quickened his pace and called. ‘Walter Courtney? Is it you, Walter?’

  Walter Courtney froze motionless as the other man reached him exclaiming, ‘As I live and breathe, it is you, Walter! Godammee! It must be nigh on five years since we last parted! What brings you here?’

  By now Walter Courtney was fast recovering from his initial shock, and his mind was racing as he stepped back from the gig and faced his questioner. He forced a smile.

  ‘There’s no need to shout, Archie. I still have my hearing. Now where the devil did you spring from?’

  ‘Never mind that! Have you not got so much as a handshake for an old friend?’

  Ainsley reached for the letter-holding hand, and as Courtney jerked that hand away two of the opened letters dropped to the ground.

  Ainsley bent and lifted them, swiftly scanning their addresses.

  ‘Both post paid, and addressed to “XYZ”.’ He grinned, gave an exaggerated wink and tapped the side of his long nose with a forefinger. ‘You’re still on the “Lonely Hearts Lay”, I see.’

  ‘And you’re still minding everyone’s business but your own, I see,’ Courtney snarled and tried to snatch the letters back.

  Ainsley fended him off. ‘Take care! There’s a fellow in the shop staring through the window at us.’

  Courtney’s eyes flicked to the distorted image of Charles Bromley’s face staring through the bullseyed panes of glass.

  ‘It wouldn’t do for us to engage in fisticuffs, would it now, Walter?’ Ainsley grinned. ‘That nosey fellow might run and fetch a constable, might he not. And coming to any unwanted attention of the constabulary wouldn’t benefit either of us, would it?’

  ‘Is all well, Reverend Winward?’ Charles Bromley was now standing in the shop doorway.

  Walter Courtney forced a smile and turned to face the shopkeeper. ‘All is very well, I thank you, Master Bromley. This gentleman and myself are old friends who have not had the good fortune to encounter one another for many years. It has come as a most welcome surprise for both of us.’

  ‘It most certainly has, Master Bromley. Pray allow me to introduce myself. I am Archibald Ainsley, sole proprietor of the London Theatrical Company.’ Ainsley smiled and bowed with a flourish. ‘But alas! I fear that the Reverend Winward and myself must now take our leave of you, since we have many matters to discuss. So we must bid you Adieu for the present, Master Bromley.’

  He took Courtney’s arm. ‘Come, my old friend. Time is pressing.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Courtney assented. ‘Good day to you, Master Bromley.’

  The pair got into the gig, and Courtney set the horse into motion.

  Ainsley was chuckling to himself.

  ‘What’s so fuckin’ amusing?’ Courtney snarled.

  ‘You were always brilliant at playing the God Botherer, Walter. What is it this time? Parson? Rector? Vicar? Deacon? Archdeacon? Canon? Or have you risen through the ranks to become a fuckin’ Bishop, no less?’

  Courtney only grunted sourly.

  Ainsley’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Now listen to me, my old friend. Just cast your mind back to when we worked together. Haven’t I always been brilliant at ferreting out all the details of any “mark”? And didn’t I always steer a safe course and make sure that we never hit any submerged reefs?’

  He went on at great length, but underlying his apparent easy confidence and bonhomie was the note of desperation.

  Courtney remained silent, his features dourly expressionless. But now that he had fully recovered from the shock of this totally unexpected reunion, he was beginning to realize that he could turn it to his great advantage.

  ‘So what do you say, old friend? Have you got anything for me?’ Ainsley finally ended.

  Courtney stared hard into Ainsley’s eyes for several seconds, then queried, ‘What’s your cover story here?’

  Seized by a rush of hope, Ainsley almost babbled the words. ‘It’s ideal for your present purpose. I’m a prominent figure of the London Stage who is currently looking for suitable venues for my touring troupe to play in. Which means I can go anywhere and ask a deal of questions, because I’m the potential bringer of good fortune, ain’t I?’

  Courtney again pondered silently for a considerable period, slowing the horse to a walk and circuiting the limits of the town’s broad central plateau. He finally reined to a halt, and asked, ‘Where are you lodging?’

  ‘At the Unicorn, just down from the crossroads where the chapel is.’

  ‘I know where it is. Now how well lined are your pockets?’

  ‘Lined well enough for me to carry off my role to perfection, and to obtain all the information you’ll be needing.’

  ‘Give me those letters.’

  Ainsley’s tension was now palpable as he handed back the two single sheets of notepaper.

  There was a long silent pause, then Courtney nodded. ‘I’ll give you a trial run, Archie.’

  Ainsley gusted a sigh of relief. ‘You’ll not regret this, Walter. It’ll be just like old times, you’ll see! I’ll not fail you, I swear on my life!’

  Courtney’s tone was now avuncular. ‘I’m confident, Archie, that the next time we meet, you’ll be able to tell me all that I need to know about this lady. Her name is Miss Phoebe Creswell, and she lives at Orchard House in the village of Beoley, which lies about four miles to the east of here.’

  He returned one of the opened sheets to Ainsley, who blustered confidently, ‘I’ll ferret out everything you need to know about her, Walter, never fear. How long have I got?’

  ‘I’ll contact you in a few days. Should you satisfy me, then you shall have other letters to keep you busy.’

  ‘I’d best waste no time in getting to work then,’ Ainsley grinned.

  They parted with a hearty shaking of hands, both now well satisfied with this course that events had taken.

  Ainsley returned directly to the Unicorn and immediately sought out John Mence in his office.

  ‘Well, Master Mence, I find that your establishment has many excellent amenities which truth to tell I did not expect to encounter other than in a city hotel.’ He took a small, well-filled leather coin bag from his pocket and handed it to Mence. ‘I intend therefore to make this my base while I am in these parts. Here is an advance payment for my board, lodging and stabling. When it is near spent please inform me immediately so that I may replenish it.’

  This was most definitely a gesture that Mence had not expected from this particular guest, but his long experience in the trade enabled him to mask his shock.

  ‘I’m most gratified to hear your words, Sir. Be assured that I shall do my utmost to ensure that my establishment continues to deserve such pleasing approbati
on.’

  As Ainsley left the office, Mence shook his head in self-reproof. ‘There now, Johnny boy, that’s a lesson for you, aren’t it? You can still be mistaken about somebody even after all your years in the trade.’

  A few minutes later the stable hand came to tell him, ‘That flash bugger’s just come into the stable, Master, and told me to ready his nag for riding. What d’you want me to do about it?’

  Mence grinned wryly. ‘Ready his nag for him. For the time being he’s a guest in good standing.’

  EIGHT

  Parish of Tardebigge

  Tuesday, 15th January

  Late evening

  Hewell Grange, the family seat of the Earl of Plymouth, the Right Honourable Other Archer Windsor Clive, was two miles to the north-west of Redditch. Tom had hastened to get there, only to find on his arrival that the Factor was not present at the Grange, but had left strict instructions that Tom was to wait at the stable block until his return.

  When over the course of several hours Tom attempted to question the butler and other assorted house servants, stable hands and gardeners about the missing dogs, he was answered with shrugs and denials of any knowledge about any dogs.

  Now, hungry and frustrated, he was being forced to marshal all his remaining stores of patience to continue waiting beside his horse in the chill darkness of the stable-yard for the Factor’s return. The clatter of hobnailed boots upon the cobbles was immediately followed by the shout, ‘Tom, I’ve only just been told that you’re here.’

  It was Josiah Danks’ voice and Tom went towards the oncoming figure.

  ‘I’m waiting for Claude Blair, Josiah. I’m come about the missing dogs.’

  ‘He’s still out searching for the buggers,’ Danks answered.

  ‘Can you describe the dogs to me, because I’ve been told nothing about them or even how many are gone? In fact nobody would tell me anything.’

  ‘That’s because Blair’s threatened that he’ll give their sacks to anybody who speaks of this. He’s shit scared of His Lordship finding out that the dogs got pinched.’ The gamekeeper’s rugged, weather-beaten features creased with contempt. ‘Anyway, there’s three beasts gone. All Bernese Mountain dogs. His Lordship bought ’um in Switzerland and sent ’um back here. Big buggers they are . . .’