Til Death Do Us Part

by Sara Fraser

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Redditch Town

  Saturday, 19th April

  Morning

  When Alfie Bennet came to the lock-up both he and his horse showed the effects of long and hard travelling. Tom welcomed the man and sat him before the kitchen fire.

  ‘Rest yourself, Alfie. Amy will cook you some breakfast, while I see to the horse.’

  When Tom returned he waited until his visitor had eaten and drunk his fill, before asking, ‘How did it go, Alfie?’

  ‘Well, after I give ’um your letter I had to hang about the place for days, and sleep where I could, Master Tom; and then a bloke come and told me he’d read your letter, and he give me this ’un to bring back to you.’

  He fumbled in his satchel and handed the sealed letter to Tom, who quickly opened and scanned its content, then let out a whoop of satisfaction.

  ‘Is it what you wanted, Master Tom?’ Alfie questioned.

  ‘It most certainly is, Alfie. But this must be our secret. So tell no one where you’ve been.’ Tom pressed gold coins into the other man’s hand. ‘You’ve well earned these, Alfie. I have to go out now, but you stay and rest as long as you wish. My wife will get you any further refreshments you’d like, won’t you, Amy?’

  ‘O’ course I will, and gladly.’ She smiled, and Tom hurried from the lock-up.

  ‘What is so urgent, Constable Potts, that you must disturb my brief hours of leisure?’ Joseph Blackwell demanded tartly.

  ‘It’s this, Sir.’ Tom presented him with the letter. ‘I’ve just received this from the Commandant of the East India Company, Military Academy at Addiscombe.’

  Pursing his lipless mouth, Joseph Blackwell studied the letter closely as he marshaled his thoughts, and after a long pause he told Tom, ‘I fully accept that this information from Lieutenant Colonel Houston proves that about seven years ago a certain Major Christophe de Langlois was cashiered from the Company’s Madras Army. But if it is he who placed the advertisement which led to him meeting and marrying Phoebe Creswell, then he has committed no crime in doing so.’

  ‘But this man is not the Major Langlois who served in the Madras Army, Sir,’ Tom stated with absolute conviction. ‘The Bellman, Harry Pratt, discovered that this man has no knowledge of the language and soldiers of that army. I myself have seen the man wearing a military uniform that was not of the East India Company.

  ‘I know for certain that the dead man at Bradley Green, who claimed to be a Debt Collector for the Aris Gazette, was searching for the person who placed that particular appeal for a suitable lady for marriage in the Worcester Herald broadsheet. I’ve since discovered that the dead man was not a Debt Collector, and I don’t yet know the reason for his search. But I’m sure that his search was the reason for his murder.

  ‘I’m also convinced that the so-called Langlois and Geraint Winward were co-conspirators in the murder of George Creswell, and that they intend to murder Phoebe Creswell to get their hands on her wealth and property.’

  ‘Then tell me how they murdered George Creswell?’ Blackwell asked quietly.

  ‘By poisoning him with a salve which contained the lethal poison of aconite. I know this because I witnessed his death throes, and recognized them,’ Tom stated firmly.

  ‘As a medical student, I once witnessed two men die from aconite poisoning. The roots of the common monkshood plant contain lethally toxic aconite, and the men I saw had mistaken some monkshood roots for horseradish and had eaten them.

  ‘I was also present at their post-mortems, and the stomach contents stank of the aconite they had ingested, which proved that it was the cause of death.

  ‘George Creswell’s death throes were virtually identical. However, when Doctor Laylor and myself performed Creswell’s post-mortem, there was nothing in his stomach contents or the prior vomit or excreta that smelled of aconite. This was because the aconite was administered by Winward by massaging the salve into Creswell’s lower back, and the penetration of the skin by the poison was hastened by an abrasion on that area.’

  Blackwell frowned doubtfully. ‘On what authority do you base this theory?’

  ‘In China, some centuries past, in time of war it was common practice to apply a thick layering of aconite impregnated grease on to the arrowheads. It ensured that the penetration of an arrowhead which might only cause a minor flesh wound would still be fatal, because the aconite would kill the victim.

  ‘But as time passed many of the archers who rubbed the grease into the barbs and shafts of their arrows were also dying of aconite poisoning. It was eventually recognized that the poison was being absorbed through the skin of their bare hands and killing them.

  ‘I obtained some of the salve that Winward used, and rubbed a little of it into an abrasion on my own lower back, which resulted in such dire ill effects that I’m fully satisfied that Winward’s salve killed Creswell; and I still have some of it to prove its toxicity is lethal.’

  Blackwell pondered on what he had been told, before asking, ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Have the magistrates issue me with warrants of arrest for both of them,’ Tom declared.

  Once again Blackwell pondered before replying. ‘I will call upon my Lord Aston and put to him all that you have told me.’

  ‘Surely I should accompany you, Sir, and explain to him myself why I want the warrants?’ Tom stated forcefully.

  Blackwell frowned severely. ‘You know as well as I do, Constable Potts, that my Lord Aston does not like you, and that your presence never fails but to irritate him. I will call upon him by myself, and send word to you of his decision upon my return. Good day to you.’

  That evening Blackwell’s manservant came to the lock-up and summoned Tom to the Red House.

  Joseph Blackwell appeared to be ill at ease as he told Tom, ‘My Lord Aston is very displeased with you, Constable Potts. He says that he has met and talked at length with the Reverend Winward on two occasions this very week, and is more than satisfied with his credentials. He also warns that you will have good cause for regret if you persist in making these accusations against Reverend Winward.’

  Tom’s reaction was shocked anger, and he demanded, ‘Was his Lordship drunk as usual when he met this man?’

  Blackwell lifted his hand in warning and snapped curtly, ‘Remember that your wife and mother are dependent on you. Would you bring ruination and misery down on their heads?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Tom retorted.

  ‘Then I most strongly urge you to heed Aston’s warning, and to bear in mind what power he wields. Because should you persist in hounding Winward, then Aston will most certainly destroy both you and your dependants’ happy security of life, and I fear that I’ll not be able to prevent him doing so.’

  ‘But what if I can prove beyond any doubt that Winward is a fraud?’ Tom challenged. ‘You’ve stated many times that you have trust in my judgement, so give me this chance to justify your trust yet again.’

  ‘How?’ Blackwell frowned.

  ‘By going myself to the administrators of the See of Canterbury and finding out if Winward is the Archbishop’s appointed man, or not. Ritchie Bint can fulfill my duties while I’m away, and I’ll pay his fees from my own pocket.’

  Blackwell bent his head, silently pondering until Tom’s tension became close to unbearable.

  Finally Blackwell’s head rose and his pale eyes were troubled. ‘I know from past experience how difficult it is to obtain confidential information from the Church authorities concerning their clergymen, so it may take you considerable time. You must therefore apply to me in writing for a long leave of absence. You can say that the reason for this leave is that you are going to visit a much-loved relative who is on their deathbed.

  ‘Should you fail to obtain proof of Winward’s fraudulence, and should my Lord Aston discover what you have been doing, then be it on your own head. I shall not be able to save you from ruin.’

  ‘So be it, Sir,’ Tom agreed without hesitation.

/>   The suspicion of a smile flicked across Blackwell’s pallid features. ‘Because of the very sad reason for your leave of absence, I shall act as a Good Samaritan. You may borrow my best horse for this journey. I wish you good hunting, Thomas Potts!’

  SIXTY-SIX

  Redditch Town

  Thursday 8th May

  Evening

  The advent of the Merry Month of May had brought no merriment for Tom Potts, and his mood was one of depressed frustration as he rode back into Redditch, and went directly to the Red House.

  ‘I judge from your general demeanour that your journey has been a waste of time, Constable Potts,’ Joseph Blackwell greeted him in the study.

  ‘It has, Sir,’ Tom admitted quietly. ‘I’ve approached the officials at Lambeth Palace, Addington Palace, Canterbury Cathedral, Saint Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey and every other ecclesiastical administrative centre where I might gain information about Geraint Winward.

  ‘There is an ordained clergyman of that name. But my request for his personal details was politely rebuffed wherever I made it. The explanation one clerk gave me was that because the Archbishop, Charles Manners-Sutton, has been taken gravely ill, and is not expected to live for very much longer, any information concerning his administrative appointments could not be divulged at this present time. The clerk’s advice was for me to wait until the enthronement of Manners-Sutton’s successor, and then try again.’

  ‘And will you try again?’ Blackwell enquired.

  Tom grimaced wryly. ‘Well, Sir, that same clerk kindly tipped me the wink that it would only be a further waste of my time. But . . .’ he left the answer hanging.

  ‘But you’ll continue the hunt! So don’t dare to try and deny that fact to me, because I know you too well,’ Blackwell declared with absolute conviction. ‘However, it seems that your bird has flown. Some days past, Winward informed several people that his work necessitated moving to another diocese, and he left this district.’

  The shock of hearing this galvanized Tom. ‘Then I’d best go find out straight away where he’s moved to, so I’ll bid you good night, Sir.’

  ‘And I think you’d best go straight away to see your pretty little wife and ease her worries about your safe return, Thomas Potts,’ the other man rejoined sternly.

  Instant guilt for his lack of thought for Amy struck through Tom, and he shamefacedly agreed. ‘Of course I must!’

  ‘Then good night to you, Thomas Potts, and please convey my best regards to your wife.’

  As Tom hurried across Redditch Green to be reunited with Amy, another reunion was taking place in the stable of Ella Peelson’s house at Bradley Green.

  ‘Fuckin’ Hell! Didn’t I tell you again and again that I wanted this bastard alive!’ Ella Peelson shouted.

  ‘He is alive. He’s just well dosed up wi’ laudanum, that’s all. He’ll be as right as rain when it wears off.’ Sean Peelson grinned.

  Ella Peelson moved in from the stable door to stand over the comatose, tied-up body of Walter Courtney and directed the beam of her bullseye lantern on to his bloodied features.

  ‘He looks like he kicked up a bit.’

  ‘He did. He pulled a barker and put a ball in Muttsy’s leg. So I had to teach him his manners.’

  ‘When and where?’ Ella Peelson questioned.

  ‘Three nights since on the road from Ludlow to Leominster. He’d been staying at a coaching inn in Ludlow for a couple o’ days. I couldn’t risk making a grab for him until I was sure he was properly on the move again, and not coming back quick to where he’d been staying.’

  ‘What have you done with the gig and horse and his other stuff?’

  ‘Sammy’s took ’um down to Taffy Gilpin’s place in Bristol, and Muttsy’s gone with him to get his leg doctored. They should be back in a week or so. So tell me, what’s the soldier-boy been getting up to while I’ve been away?’

  Her disfigured face twisted with hatred and she spat out, ‘I’ve had word that he’s going out drinking and whoring of a night time. I’ll find out more about that from the Rimmer woman tonight. Now let’s get this fucker down into the cellars. I want to see his blood, and hear him shrieking and begging.’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Redditch Town

  Saturday, 7th June

  Early morning

  While Tom lit the kitchen range fire and set about preparing breakfast for Amy and himself, his thoughts ranged back over the previous night, and his mood became troubled.

  In the month since returning from his unsuccessful attempt to obtain information about Geraint Winward, Tom had on several occasions encountered Christophe de Langlois carousing in various inns and taverns. Every such encounter had faced Tom with a tormenting quandary. He longed to openly confront Langlois and to accuse him of being party to the murders of George Creswell and the dead man in Bradley Green. But each time he was on the verge of doing so, the mental image of Phoebe Creswell held him back.

  ‘Since I’ve no solid proof of his guilt it would only cause her terrible mental anguish, and avail me nothing.’

  His frustration moved to Geraint Winward. ‘Where is he? What’s he planning to do next?’

  Amy came down to join him, and he thankfully turned his attention to her. ‘Are you going to visit your mother later, sweetheart? Because if so remember to take your keys in case I’m out patrolling the market.’

  ‘I will, and on my way back from me Mam’s, I’ll call in at the Fox and see what fresh gossip they’ve got for me.’

  It was late afternoon when Amy came running up to Tom as he patrolled the market. He saw her angry expression and questioned anxiously, ‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’

  She took his arm. ‘You’ve got to come to the Fox and hear what Pammy Mallot has to say.’

  In the rear parlour of the Fox and Goose, Tom found Gertrude Fowkes sitting with Pammy Mallot, whose eyes were blackened and swollen.

  ‘Oh, Tom, I’m glad you’re come,’ Gertrude Fowkes greeted thankfully, and urged her sister, ‘Tell Tom what you’ve told me, our Pammy, and he’ll have the bad bugger behind bars afore this day is done.’

  Pammy Mallot’s voice was choking with sobs as she told Tom, ‘A couple of days after Reverend Winward went away, Langlois began drinking all the time and going out whoring, and when Phoebe took him to task about what he was doing, he started knocking her about all the time. Now her’s too terrified of him to tell anybody what he’s doing to her, and for her sake I’se had to keep my mouth shut about it as well.

  ‘But today I’d had enough of it! He was thrashing her wi’ his stick again, and her was screaming and begging him to stop. I couldn’t stand it no more, so I went for him, but he blacked me eyes, and knocked me cold. I wants you to lock the evil bastard up, Master Potts, and have him sent to jail.’

  Chagrin swept through Tom, since he could only tell her, ‘I’d like nothing more than to do as you ask, Mrs Mallot, but in law a man has the right to physically chastise his wife, child and servant, since they are deemed to be his chattels.’

  ‘But there must be something you can do, Tom,’ Amy rounded on him.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Pammy Mallot wailed in distress. ‘The bad bastard ’ull end up killing my poor Phoebe if he aren’t stopped.’

  ‘Think hard, Tom! We can’t let him go on mistreating poor Phoebe like this!’ Amy begged.

  Tom was desperately racking his brains for something, anything he could do, and an idea came to him.

  ‘Mrs Mallot, can you describe the stick he beats Phoebe with?’

  ‘This long, and this thick.’ She stretched her arms wide, then cupped her fingers and thumb.

  Tom nodded. ‘Will you be able to find and identify that stick?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she asserted vehemently. ‘The bastard keeps it in the hall stand so it’s handy for him to thrash my poor Phoebe whenever he feels like it.’

  ‘What good is having the stick going to do?’ Amy questioned.

  ‘An old law has it
that when beating his wife, children or servants, a man must not use a stick which is thicker than a human thumb,’ Tom said quietly. ‘The stick Langlois uses is obviously thicker than a thumb. So I’ll arrest him for breaking that old law, and hope that the magistrates will agree with me. Will he be at the house now, Mrs Mallot?’

  ‘No, he’s gone off out. It’s mart day, aren’t it, so more than likely he’ll be drinking and whoring somewhere hereabouts.’

  ‘Then I’d best start looking for him, hadn’t I? When I’ve got him in the lock-up I’ll send to you for his stick, Mrs Mallot.’

  ‘God bless you, Master Potts. I’m going straight back to my Phoebe now to give her the good tidings.’

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Redditch Town

  Saturday, 7th June

  Midnight

  ‘Oh we must have it tonight

  ’Cos the moon is shining bright

  And stars are twinkling in your

  Eyes! Eyes! Eyes! Eyes!

  But your old man’s watching us.

  He’s watching you and I.

  So let’s go round the corner,

  And have a bit on the slyyyyyyy!’

  The song bellowed from a dozen throats inside the Red Cow, as Tom waited outside in the rain-soaked darkness. It had taken him hours of searching to find his quarry, and eager though he was to make the arrest, he knew from past experience that if he ventured inside this particular tavern there would be a riot. It was the haunt of jailbirds, poachers, thieves, brawlers and whores who hated the parish constabulary. He desperately wished that Ritchie Bint was here, but Ritchie Bint was on a spree in Bromsgrove six miles away.

  Another hour passed before Sylvan Kent staggered out of the door and went to the horse tethered to one of the wall hitching-rings. Tom steeled himself to face possible violence and walked up to him.

  ‘Christophe de Langlois, I’m arresting you in the King’s name!’

  ‘What?’ Sylvan Kent swung round.