by Sara Fraser
‘Now just take some deep breaths and calm yourself down. Remember, even though this parson might be high-born, you’m the sole heiress of as good and worthy a family as ever lived in England.’
She bustled away to return very quickly with Walter Courtney, who bowed with courtly grace, and fervently apologized, ‘It is an honour to meet you, Miss Creswell. I do most humbly apologize for calling upon you without previous introduction. I beg your forgiveness for doing so, and beseech that you will be gracious enough to hear my explanation for approaching you on behalf of Major Christophe de Langlois.’
He waited for her reply, quickly evaluating her gauche lack of poise and self-confidence.
‘She’s a timid, woefully plain country mouse, right enough,’ he told himself with satisfaction. ‘I do believe I’ve dropped lucky with this one.’
Phoebe’s hands were trembling with nervousness, and her mouth so dry that she could not help but stammer when she answered. ‘P-p-please, Sir, there is no need for any apologies, I am honoured to receive you in my house.’ She gestured awkwardly at a fireside chair. ‘P-p-please, be seated. W-w-would you c-c-care for some refreshment?’
He bowed his head as he sat down, and his eyes flicked momentarily towards Pammy Mallot, who was staring like an anxious mother at Phoebe Cresswell.
‘It’s not mistress and servant, but mother hen and her chick! That’s the way of it between this pair!’ He recognized the situation instantly, and made equally instant use of that recognition, rising and bowing to Pammy Mallot.
‘That is most kind of you, Miss Creswell, but I cannot bring myself to trouble this good lady with my bodily appetites.’
‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Sir.’ Pammy Mallot beamed. ‘You just tell me what’s your fancy, and I’ll have it here for you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
Courtney beamed back at her. ‘I doubt not, Ma’am, it is already plain to me that your competence is a match for your good heart. But I feel that we should first discuss the purpose of my visit, and then perhaps take some refreshment and be merry together.’
He sensed that already both women were quite taken by his avuncular smile and manner, and, gesturing at another chair he invited Pammy Mallot, ‘Please will you be seated, Ma’am, and do me the honour of taking part in these discussions.’
‘O’ course I will, Sir, and I’m real pleased to be so invited.’ Pammy Mallot placed a chair at the side of Phoebe Creswell’s and seated herself, but Courtney remained standing.
He produced the two rolls of vellum, which he opened to display the ornately scrolled writing and several imposingly embossed seals. He handed them to Phoebe Creswell and said to both women, ‘Will you please read these very carefully. They are my identification and authorization from His Grace, my Lord Archbishop of the Ecclesiastical Province of Canterbury. I am currently acting as a confidential aide to his Grace, and am touring his province to ascertain the structural condition of our churches, and the ministrations of our clergy.
‘But of course, because of the highly confidential nature of this investigative task my Lord Archbishop has currently entrusted to myself, I would request that you do not speak of what I have told you of my current task to anyone. There are certain parish clergy in this diocese who are sadly lacking in their duties towards their parishioners, and if they were to hear of my presence they would hide their true characters behind a facade of charitable zeal.’
He paused to allow the women to study the scrolls, and noted with satisfaction their awe-struck expressions. Then he went on, ‘For many years I was in India and it was there that I met my good friend, Christophe de Langlois. As you may know the military officers of the East India Company are but poorly paid; they are allowed however to earn money by trading for themselves and also by the rendition of services to the various native rulers.
‘It was by these means that my friend has accrued his monetary fortune, and the ownership of a considerable amount of land and property within the Madras Presidency. Quite a remarkable achievement for such a comparatively young man.’
He smiled as he produced the portrait miniature of Sylvan Kent and handed it to Pammy Mallot, who exclaimed, ‘Oh, just look at him, Phoebe! Aren’t he beautiful!’
Phoebe Creswell’s sallow features flushed as she stared at the miniature, and then muttered despondently, ‘Indeed he is, but he’ll not think that of me, will he?’
‘Come, come, Miss Creswell!’ Courtney chided gently. ‘Knowing my friend as I do, I can affirm with the utmost certainty that he will find you most pleasing to his sight; and on meeting you will be as charmed by your manner and deportment as I am myself.’
‘O’ course he ’ull, and so ’ull any man who’s got an ounce o’ sense in his noddle!’ Pammy Mallot emphatically agreed, then asked, ‘But where is this gentleman now, Sir?’
‘He is unavoidably detained at the East India Company Military College in Addiscombe. He sends his sincerest apologies for not having been able to come and meet you in person at this time. The reason being that the Court of Directors of the Company are having a series of most important discussions with him.’
Courtney winked roguishly. ‘What I am going to tell you now must remain strictly confidential between ourselves, until he tells you of this himself. Although Christophe is far too modest to boast of his achievements, I have it on excellent authority that he will be advanced to very high office within the Company upon his return to India. He and his bride will be the virtual monarchs of their own realm within the Madras Presidency.’
‘Well now, aren’t that something wonderful to think on!’ Pammy Mallot’s expression verged on the awe-struck.
‘But mind now!’ Courtney placed his forefinger across his lips. ‘Not a word about this must pass your lips until Christophe tells you of it himself. Otherwise he’ll be most displeased with me for divulging his private affairs.’
‘You can rest assured about that, Sir,’ Pammy Mallot told him solemnly. ‘Not even the cruellest torture ’ull make us breathe a single word about what you’ve just told us.’
‘I have implicit faith in you both, Ma’am.’ Courtney smiled and bowed to her, then took his seat and chuckled. ‘And now I would greatly appreciate a small glass of whatever refreshing beverage you may have available, and after that I will answer any questions you wish to ask me.’
Pammy Mallot jumped to her feet. ‘Name your fancy, Sir, and I’ll have it in your hand in two shakes of a mare’s tail.’
‘I’m exceedingly partial to a small glass of Madeira wine, Ma’am.’ He gave her his roguish wink. ‘But that is another thing that must be kept strictly between ourselves. Otherwise, His Grace, my Lord Archbishop, may come to regard me as a shameless old reprobate.’
Both women gurgled with laughter, as Pammy Mallot hastily placed a small table at his side, and a bottle and glass, and told him, ‘Now you drink the whole bottle if you’ve a mind to, and another dozen after that if you wants ’um, Sir, and your boss ’ull never get to know nothing about it.’
The atmosphere in the room was now verging on festive, and their three-way conversation flowed more and more easily as, with the ease of long practice, Courtney regaled the women with colourful stories of Christophe de Langlois, and his own experiences in India.
When the clock chimed the hour, Courtney reacted with an exclamation of concerned surprise.
‘’Pon my word, is that the time! My dear ladies, what must you think of me? I’ve been babbling away like a garrulous old fool, and have unforgivably intruded upon your most generous hospitality for far too long I fear.’
He rose to his feet. ‘I shall take my leave this instant, dear ladies; and can only beg for your forgiveness and express the fervent hope that you will allow me to call upon you again?’ He shook his head and reproached himself. ‘I’ve been such an ill-mannered bore. Monopolizing the conversation and not allowing you to tell me more of yourselves. I do apologize most sincerely for having done so. But it is rare for me to encounter s
uch charming ladies, and I could not resist the temptation to tell you about my dear young friend, Christophe’s daring exploits in India, and my own much less adventurous years in that far off place.’
‘And we’ve loved hearing them, Sir, haven’t we, Phoebe?’ Pammy Mallot’s rosy face beamed with pleasure. ‘And we could sit and listen to you talking ’til the cows come home, couldn’t we, Phoebe? And you, Sir, must come again tomorrow so we can listen to some more stories about you and Mr Langlois.
‘Reverend Winward must come early tomorrow, mustn’t he, Phoebe? And he must have food and drink with us, and make a day of it, mustn’t he, Phoebe? We won’t take no for an answer, will we, Phoebe?
‘You’re to be here nice and early, Sir, and have breakfast with us, mustn’t he, Phoebe? Then we can talk all morning, then have another bite to eat, can’t we, Phoebe? Then we’ll have all afternoon to talk in, shan’t we, Phoebe?
‘Come dinnertime we shall have a feast fit for a King, shan’t we, Phoebe? And after dinner we’ll have the whole night to talk in. It’ll be lovely for us, won’t it, Phoebe? And some time in the day, Sir, you must meet the Master hisself, mustn’t he, Phoebe? Although I fear the Master ’ull not be much for talking, him being in such sore straits and bedridden like he is, aren’t he, Phoebe? But we’ve accepted his sad condition as being God’s Will, haven’t we, Phoebe?’
As Pammy Mallot went on, and on, and on, Phoebe Creswell, unable to find a momentary pause in the other woman’s excited dialogue to actually voice her own agreement aloud, could only repeatedly blush and nod, and blush and nod, and blush and nod.
TWENTY-ONE
Redditch Town
Wednesday, 6th February
Morning
In the early hours Tom took great care to slip from the bed and dress in the darkness to avoid disturbing his softly snoring wife, then fumbled his way downstairs to the alcove kitchen.
He carefully raked the top covering of ashes from the still-glowing embers in the cooking range fire hole and, topping them with wood chips and small coals, blew hard to rekindle the flames. When the fire began to give off heat and spread warmth through the freezing cold air he sat on a low stool staring into the leaping flames. His mood was made sombre by the prospect of the coming meeting with Joseph Blackwell.
‘What excuse can I offer for failing so miserably in this investigation?’ he thought glumly. ‘And not only that, but I’ve also injured one of his favourite mares, and presented him with a damned stiff bill from the horse doctor.’
Tom’s mental focus abruptly changed direction, and he angrily growled aloud. ‘Now stop feeling so sorry for yourself, you sniveling moping oaf! Get off your backside, and get yourself cleaned and groomed. Then go and see Blackwell and don’t make excuses for your failure. After that think very carefully about how you are going to solve this case, and then set about doing it.’
‘So, Constable Potts, on top of the fee for the horse doctor to tend my injured mare, the Parish is now expected to pay the exorbitant fees of your deputy, Richard Bint, for carrying out your official duties, plus the cost of his candles, coals, drink and food during his nightly sojourns at the lock-up.’ Joseph Blackwell’s tone was grimly accusatory. ‘And I dread to think what amount the Parish is to be expected to reimburse you with for the maintenance of yourself during these fruitless promenades around the county.’
The memory of freezing cold days, hard travelling, hard beds, little rest, poor quality food and drink, plus the constant pain of his sore backside, stung Tom into resentfully countering his employer’s accusatory attitude.
‘Do not forget, Sir, that it was yourself who insisted that I abandon my normal duties, and instead concentrated all my time and efforts in trying to recover the Earl’s dogs.’
‘And you have singly failed in that task, Constable Potts!’ Blackwell immediately counter-attacked.
‘Not yet, I haven’t!’ Tom declared doggedly. ‘I’m fully confident that I shall solve this case, and sooner rather than later!’
They stared unblinkingly into each other’s eyes for long, long moments, until Blackwell’s thin lips parted slightly and a reedy chuckle issued from between them. Then he nodded and said quietly, ‘And I’m fully confident that eventually you will solve it, Thomas Potts. Fortunately for both of us I’ve been informed that the return of the Earl to Hewell is to be much later than was thought. So to save the Parish unnecessary expense you may also attend to your normal duties while still continuing with this investigation. I bid you good day.’
TWENTY-TWO
Redditch Town
Monday, 18th February
Morning
During the twelve days since his last interview with Joseph Blackwell, Tom had made no progress in his investigation of the stolen dogs, and now had just left Blackwell’s house after making another report of his continuing failure.
Drawing deep draughts of the frosty air, he stood gazing northwards down the long steep slope of the terrace-lined Fish Hill and across the broad snow-covered pastures of the Arrow River valley bordered by the long ridges of higher ground beyond.
Suddenly he remembered Richard Bint telling him about the Widow Darke’s complaint concerning her poisoned cats, and guilt assailed him.
‘Dear God, I’d completely forgotten about that poor old soul. I’d best go call on her now and make my apologies.’
The terrace of thatched cottages on the Fish Hill was set some twenty yards back from the road and even before Tom had traversed that short distance the door of Widow Darke’s home was flung open and she came scurrying to meet him.
Although she was tiny, bent nearly double, and her face and body shriveled with age, Tom was shocked by the strength and deep timbre of her voice.
‘Where’s you been this last weeks, Constable Potts? You’m supposed to be at the lock-up when we needs you! Not going off gallivanting around the county like Lord Muck!’
‘I’m very sorry I’ve not visited you before, Ma’am,’ he told her. ‘But I’m here now, and at your service.’
‘This is a terrible thing, and you aren’t done nothing about it, you Jackanapes!’ she scolded furiously. ‘I’ve had three o’ me cats murdered! And I wants the bugger who done it, brought to trial and hung for being a bloody-handed murderer!’
‘Murdered, you say? In what manner?’ Tom asked.
‘Poisoned! By that evil devil, Porky Hicks!’
‘Do you have proof of this, Ma’am?’
‘Proof! Proof! What d’you mean by asking me if I’ve got proof?’ Flecks of spittle sprayed from her toothless mouth as she bellowed indignantly, ‘I’m a respectable, God-fearing, Chapel-going Methodist, who was wed to a respectable, God-fearing, Methodist Chapel Elder for forty years. During which time I birthed and buried ten kids and laid each one of ’um in hallowed ground. And you’ve got the sauce to ask me if I’ve got proof? May our sweet Lord turn his gaze away from you, and fling you into the fiery pits of Hell for ill-using me in such a way!’
Her furious rant brought curious faces to stare from windows and doorways all along the terrace, and shouted questions.
‘What’s he want wi’ you, Widow Darke?’
‘Has he come about your cats?’
‘He’s took his bloody time in coming, aren’t he!’
Tom hastily suggested to the irate old crone. ‘Let us both go inside and discuss this matter, Ma’am. You can then voice all your suspicions to me without fear of interruption.’
‘It aren’t only Widow Darke who thinks that it’s Porky Hicks who killed her cats. The bugger’s done such before, all over the place.’ Another woman came up to Tom. ‘And I saw him feed ’um something the day him and the rest of the gang from Shit Court come down our backyard to empty the privies.’
‘Yes, and that same night my poor beautiful darlings was shitting and spewing all over the place, and dead by next nightfall!’ Widow Darke was near to tears. ‘And the very day after that Porky Hicks and his Dummy mate come back down here scav
enging our rubbish, and he asked me if there was any dead animals lying around here which needed to be shifted.’
‘And how did you answer?’ Tom asked.
‘Well, Mistress Kings here had told me that she saw Porky Hicks give summat to my beautiful darlings, so I was suspicious of him. And I answered him, no there wasn’t no dead animals. I said my darlings had been a bit poorly, but that they was as right as rain again. And does you know summat, Constable Potts! He looked really shocked when he heard that.’ The old crone nodded emphatically. ‘I knew for sure in that very instant, that that evil devil had murdered my poor beautiful darlings!’
Tom briefly considered what he had heard, and then asked, ‘If they were assailed with diarrhoea and vomiting, might it not have been that they had contracted a virulent form of the distemper, Ma’am? It’s a common enough cause of dog and cat deaths after all.’
‘Oh no!’ She vehemently dismissed this suggestion. ‘I knows distemper when I sees it. It wasn’t any distemper that killed them. It was poison!’
Again Tom briefly considered his options, and decided. ‘Very well, Ma’am, I shall make further investigation into this matter. Have you buried the cats?’
‘No. I’ve got the poor darlings covered wi’ ice and snow to keep ’um fresh. I wants somebody who knows what they’m doing to look close at ’um and find out what’s killed ’um.’
‘Let me see them, Ma’am.’
‘Cummon then, I’ve got ’um round the back.’
She led him through her cottage into the rear yard, where a heap of snow and ice was piled high. She burrowed into the heap and one by one drew out the stiffened bodies of three cats and laid them in a row.
Even in their present condition they were recognizable as exceptionally fine feline specimens.
‘Their coats would make very handsome fur caps.’ The thought came instantly into Tom’s mind, followed almost simultaneously by the instinctive conclusion that this was why they had died.