by Sara Fraser
While Tom spoke a pair of leather gloves lying on the small bedside table was intruding into his peripheral vision, and now he picked them up, remarking casually, ‘I wonder what use the poor fellow was making of these during his illness?’
‘They’m not his.’ Pammy Mallot was standing in the doorway carrying two crock bowls. ‘They’m the Reverend Winward’s. He wears ’um when he gives Master Creswell his massages.’
‘Well he’ll not be needing them for that use again, Mrs Mallot,’ Hugh Laylor intervened. ‘Regretfully, Master Creswell is dead.’
The woman shrugged her meaty shoulders. ‘I’ll not act the hypocrite and say it grieves me. My hope is that God will take him to task now for being the cruel, harsh father he’s been to poor Phoebe. Will you still be wanting these bowl and spoons?’
‘We shall,’ Laylor snapped curtly.
‘I’ll leave ’um with you then; and when you’m done here I’ll strip the bedding and lay him out decent.’
As Pammy Mallot came and put the bowls and spoons on the bed table Tom asked, ‘For what reason was Reverend Winward massaging Master Creswell?’
‘To ease his back pains. The Reverend was real good to him. He brought special Elixir to soothe his stomach, and a special salve for the back pains. The Reverend used to spend hours ministering to the nasty old bugger. He’s a living saint, so he is!’
She left the room as the memory of a man’s death Tom had witnessed many years previously was coming back to him, and he wondered aloud, ‘A special salve? What was it?’
He lifted the gloves to his nostrils and sniffed several times, then looked about him and saw the salve pot on the dresser beneath the window. He went and picked it up, opened its lid and used the tip of his right forefinger to scoop out a tiny smear of the salve, which he dabbed upon his lower lip. There were instant powerful reactions of tingling followed by numbness.
He moved quickly back to the bedside and turned the dead man face downwards, then closely scrutinized the wrinkled skin of the lower and upper back. He used the tip of his left forefinger to rub a small patch of abraded skin and once more dabbed the tip against his lip.
‘Let’s set to work,’ Hugh Laylor invited. ‘I’ll collect the shit and you collect the vomit, then we’ll go back to my dispensary and analyse them post-haste. From the way she’s behaving it won’t surprise me at all if Mrs Mallot has been feeding old Creswell here with arsenic, or some other noxious substance.’
Tom set to work using the spoon to scrape the still-damp clots of fresh vomit from the bed sheets. While he worked his memory ranged back across the years to a treatise he had once read about ancient Chinese war practices and he mused, ‘I wonder if the Reverend Winward has read that same treatise?’
At this same hour in the private parlour of the Old Black Boy Inn, Walter Courtney was being informed that a man named Joey Stokes had come with an urgent message for Reverend Winward.
‘Oh, I’m feeling so very tired, Master Blake. I really must rest for a while.’ Courtney sighed wearily. ‘So will you please tell the man that I’m not here at present, but he can entrust the message to you to pass on to me when I return.’
‘O’ course I will, Reverend.’ The landlord bustled away to return quickly with the news that ‘George Creswell is very near to death, and could the Reverend please come to Beoley as soon as possible.’
‘Thank you very much, Master Blake. Now could you bring me a bottle of your very fine Madeira, and a pipe of your equally fine tobacco?’
A little later, sipping a glass of heady Madeira wine, drawing in mouthfuls of the fragrant Turkish tobacco, Walter Courtney savoured what he now deemed to be a certainty: the successful outcome of his plans.
In Worcester City, Sylvan Kent and his new bride were strolling arm in arm in the precinct of the Cathedral, and Kent’s thoughts were also dwelling on the fact of George Creswell’s wealth and properties.
‘Now we’re wed I own Phoebe’s body and soul. So the moment Creswell’s dead, I’ll be as rich as Croesus. The first thing I’ll be doing is telling that cunt Archie Ainsley to fuck off and beg for his supper elsewhere. If Walter doesn’t like it, he can fuck off as well! Because I’ll be holding the purse strings then, and I’ll be the Master.’
‘Is something troubling you, my dearest?’ Phoebe asked anxiously. ‘You’re frowning so!’
He instantly smiled and stroked her cheek. ‘I was merely frowning with regret for all the long years I’ve spent without you, my darling girl; and for the rest of my life I do not intend to spend a single day or night without you beside me.’
He bent to kiss her lips, and whispered urgently, ‘Let’s make haste back to the hotel. I’m on fire to make love to you again.’
She blushed and trembled like a shy young girl, but clasped his arm tightly, then eagerly changed direction and quickened her pace.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Redditch Town
Sunday, 30th March
Midnight
In Hugh Laylor’s dispensary the final tests on the vomit and excreta had been done, and Laylor’s handsome features displayed disappointment.
‘No traces of arsenic whatsoever, Tom. It seems that my suspicions of Pammy Mallot are unjustified. I’ll enter death by natural causes on the certificate, so there’s no need for any inquest.’
Earlier that evening, Tom had gone to the lock-up and had quickly scrutinized an entry in one of the notebooks he had kept from his years of medical training. Now he pondered briefly before replying simply, ‘Let’s hope so.’
The clock began to strike, and Tom grimaced. ‘Is that the hour already? I’d best go home. Tomorrow I shall be going back to Beoley.’
‘Why?’ Laylor asked.
‘I want to obtain some of the salve the Reverend was using. It might soothe my own aches and pains. I’ll bid you good night, my friend.’
FIFTY-EIGHT
Beoley Village
Monday 31st March
Morning
‘My dear Pammy, I can only offer you my humblest apologies for not coming sooner. I was engaged on Church business and didn’t return to the inn and receive your message until this morning.’
Pammy Mallot appeared to be in high spirits as she took Courtney’s hand and drew him into the house.
‘Don’t moither yourself about it, Geraint. The old bugger died before you could have reached here anyway; and Doctor Laylor and the Constable was both here when he did croak it. All I had to do was strip the bedding and lay him out when they’d gone.’
‘The Constable, you say. What did he want?’
‘I reckon he just come to be nosey.’ She chuckled. ‘Because it aren’t every day there’s the chance of seeing such a nasty old bugger being sent to Hell, is it? Now, have you had any breakfast?’
‘No, I set out the very moment I received your message.’
‘Well then, you go and sit by the fire in the drawing room, and I’ll cook you something nice and tasty.’
‘No, my dear, don’t begin preparing any food for me yet. It is my duty to go up to Master Creswell and to pray for the salvation of his soul.’
She sniffed disparagingly. ‘It’ll need a deal of praying for his soul to find salvation. He don’t deserve none.’
‘You must not say such,’ he told her sternly. ‘Our Lord is infinite mercy, and even the worst sinners can find salvation. I shall join you when I’ve completed my prayers.’
She looked suitably chastened as he left her.
Closing the bedroom door firmly behind him, Courtney sonorously recited the Lord’s Prayer as he rifled through the drawers and chests in the room. He found a large ring of multiple keys and tried them in the lock of the strongbox built into the wall adjoining the bed on which lay the shrouded body of George Creswell. Two of the keys fitted the lock, and he took one of these off the ring and slipped it into his pocket.
He pulled out the pile of documents the strongbox contained and carefully went through them, his eyes glistening with rel
ish as he enumerated the various bank statements, and deeds of properties and land.
‘By God! This is far better than I dared hope for! It’s my fuckin’ dream come true! I can live out my days in luxury with this lot.’
He scanned the Last Will and Testament, and hissed with satisfaction. Apart from a couple of trifling bequests, all the money, properties and land would devolve to Phoebe. Which, now she was married, meant that in law, she, and all she possessed, now belonged to her husband.
‘And when she and Sylvan are disposed of, I shall add the Last Will and Testament of Christophe de Langlois to this lot, and the job will be done.’
The vision of Archibald Ainsley’s face came into Courtney’s mind, and his teeth bared in a snarling grin.
‘Yes, Archibald, they’ll be joining you in the next life. But I don’t think it’ll be the Devil welcoming poor Phoebe. She’ll more likely go to Heaven.’
He replaced the documents and ring of keys, picked up his gloves and the salve pot and went back downstairs.
‘I’m going to burn these gloves, my dear – they’re too impregnated to wear socially – and I’ll throw this pot away. It’s not worth keeping what’s left of the salve. Then after I’ve eaten I shall go to Worcester and find Phoebe and Christophe. It’s best I break the news to her myself, rather than send someone else with such sad tidings.’
‘No, don’t you dare throw that nice little pot away,’ Pammy Mallot remonstrated. ‘If you don’t want it I’ll wash it out and find a use for it.’
It was late morning when Tom rang the doorbell, much to Pammy Mallot’s surprise.
‘What are you doing here again, Tom Potts?’
‘I wanted to ask you where I might find the Reverend Winward, Mrs Mallot. I need to talk with him.’
‘Well, he lodges at the Old Black Boy in Feckenham, but he won’t be there now.’
‘Why so?’
‘He come here first thing this morning and spent ages praying for Master Creswell’s soul, and he told me he was going to go straight to Worcester to find Phoebe and tell her about her dad dying. He’s a living saint, so he is.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Tom agreed fulsomely. ‘And it’s his help I’m seeking. I’m having severe pains in my joints and I wondered if he could let me have some of that amazing salve he was treating Master Creswell with; and perhaps loan me the gloves he used to apply the salve to save me having to spoil another pair because they get so impregnated with it.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity! He burned them gloves this morning because he said that he couldn’t wear ’um any more for that very reason. But you’m in luck, because I aren’t washed the pot yet and it’s got a bit o’ salve in it, which you’m very welcome to.’
She hurried to bring the pot and hand it to him. ‘Now when the pot’s empty bring it back to me because I got a use for it. And I’m sure that if you needs more o’ the salve the Reverend ’ull get you some.’
‘I most certainly will, Mrs Mallot. Thank you very much for your kindness, and please give the Reverend my thanks. Could you also convey my deepest sympathy for her sad loss to Mrs de Langlois.’
As they parted, Tom put the small pot into his pocket, and decided, ‘Now I’ll visit Maud Harman and Reverend Mackay.’
In the Olde Talbot Inn in Worcester City the newly wed Phoebe de Langlois greeted Walter Courtney with a welcoming smile, which faltered when she saw the gravity of his expression.
‘Do you bring me bad news, Geraint?’ she questioned anxiously.
‘Alas! I do. I’m bitterly sorry to have to tell you that your dear father has passed into the care of Our Heavenly Father.’
She dragged in a long, shuddering breath and covered her face with both hands. Sylvan Kent took her in his arms and lowered her gently upon an ottoman, and sat beside her cradling her shaking body, crooning soothingly to her.
‘I grieve for you, my darling wife. Try to hold it in your mind that your dear father is now freed all pain and anguish, and is safe in Heaven with our Lord and Saviour.’ He kissed her forehead and whispered, ‘And I shall do my utmost to soothe your pain and anguish.’
She threw her arms about his neck and clung tightly to him, burying her face against his shoulder.
The two men’s eyes met. Courtney nodded and smiled approvingly. Kent stared coldly back, and told him, ‘My wife and I would prefer to be alone at this sad time. You may call on us when we return to Beoley.’
‘Of course. I entirely understand your need for solitude. I will await your return to Beoley,’ Courtney answered smoothly, and went from the room.
He waited until he was driving his gig from the city before venting contemptuous laughter.
‘Exactly what I was expecting. The cretin thinks he’s the master now.’
FIFTY-NINE
Redditch Town
Tuesday, 8th April
Mid-morning
In the study of the Red House, Joseph Blackwell sat in impassive silence until Tom had finished speaking. Then he smiled bleakly and said, ‘These are very tenuous grounds on which to base your suspicions of this clergyman, Constable Potts. Because he has some sort of connection with a likely fortune-hunter, and another man who leaves unpaid reckonings at an inn, does not prove that he himself is of doubtful character.’
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but Blackwell held up his hand, and snapped curtly, ‘Kindly allow me to finish, Constable. As I have said, these are tenuous grounds. Nevertheless, because of the high regard I have for your talents, I shall not forbid you to abandon this investigation. With the proviso, of course, that you do not make undue demands on the Parish coffers, and should you incur the wrath of the Ecclesiastical hierarchy, then on your own head be it.’
‘Of course, Sir,’ Tom accepted immediately.
‘But now I have a task for you,’ Blackwell went on. ‘I’ve received information that the dead man whom you lodged at the Old Laystall is now so rotted in the face as to be virtually unidentifiable, and that Sally Rimmer is using him as a penny peepshow. So have him buried as soon as possible, and arrange for the sale of his horse and tack to cover the burial costs. I bid you good day, Constable Potts.’
SIXTY
Redditch Town
Tuesday, 8th April
Night
All was quiet in the Old Laystall and only one window in a rear room of one building showed the faint glimmer of candlelight. Sally Rimmer sat in that room waiting for the tapping on that window which would announce the arrival of her visitor.
It was past midnight when that tapping came, and Sally Rimmer quickly went out of the door into the rear yard to find the small girl waiting for her.
The woman held out her cupped palm and Milly Styke placed a crown coin on to it.
‘Now listen very careful, my wench, because I’ve got a lot o’ news tonight. Tell your mistress that Old Creswell died last Sunday week, and that his daughter and that bloke wi’ the funny name who’s her husband, am come back to the Orchard House in Beoley. The funeral is next Monday afternoon at Beoley Church. And from what folks are saying, there’ll be a lot of people going to it, because the old man was very rich and had a lot o’ tenants. And tell her as well that the dead ’un her come to see is to be buried in the paupers’ plot down at the old Monks’ Cemetery this coming Thursday. Now, has you got all that in your noddle?’
The girl nodded, and ran off into the darkness.
Sally Rimmer went back to her chair and cackled with satisfaction as one of her friends came into the room.
‘That’s another five bob for us, Bessie. Just for passing on what we sees and hears when we’em out collecting shit. I reckon we knows more about what goes on in these parts than the bloody Town Crier does.’
SIXTY-ONE
Feckenham
Wednesday, 9th April
Morning
‘Welcome back, Reverend. I was wondering where you’d got to these last days.’ A smiling Maud Harman greeted Walter Courtney as he entered the Old Black Boy.
‘I’ve been on the Lord’s work, Mrs Harman. Giving what help and comfort I could to a young lady who has suffered a most grievous bereavement.’
‘That’s what I told your visitor, Reverend. That you’d most certainly be doing the Lord’s work and helping some poor soul or other in their hour of need.’
‘My visitor?’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘It was that Constable Potts from Redditch. He come on Monday and he said he needed to see you most urgent on private business. So I sent him across to Parson Mackay in case he might know where you were. Perhaps Potts told him what he wanted to see you about. Now then, what can I get you for your breakfast, Reverend?’
Courtney forced a smile and waved his hand in refusal. ‘Nothing, I thank you, my dear lady, I’ve already breakfasted. It may be that Potts is in need of my immediate help, so I shall go and call on Reverend Mackay.’
A frown of suspicion replaced his smile as he walked out of the inn.
‘Potts calls on Pammy Mallot, and takes my salve away. If he really needed a salve for his joints he knows enough about medical treatments to mix his own. Now he’s poking about here. What’s he up to?’
In the vicarage, Horace Mackay gave Courtney further reason for disquiet.
‘Potts was asking me if that Ainsley fellow who calls on you had ever called on me. I said no, but that you had helped him several times by donating money to his charity. Potts then said that Ainsley is a charlatan, and he wanted to question him about certain matters.’
‘Dammee!’ Courtney evinced shock. ‘I must speak with Potts about this matter without delay. Did he tell you anything further?’