by Sara Fraser
‘Me and Master Fowkes both knows that youm a good living wench, my duck, and you always has been. You can come back whenever you chooses, can’t she, Master Fowkes?’
Tommy Fowkes was savouring this moment. He relished the fact that by taking her in he would cause Tom Potts a great deal of chagrin.
Tommy Fowkes had always disliked Amy’s husband for the simple reason that the man had been born, educated, and invariably behaved as a Gentleman was expected to behave. That fact alone made Tommy Fowkes, who had most definitely never been any sort of Gentleman, feel resentfully inferior to Thomas Potts.
His sweaty, florid features now beamed benevolently at both of the women. ‘O’ course our Amy can come back here to live, Missus Fowkes. It’ll be like having our own daughter come back to us, won’t it?’
THREE
It was early afternoon when the horseman, Doctor Hugh Laylor, reined to a halt at the haystack and nodded towards the blanketed corpse.
‘Well now, Tom, I take it that’s the female that your messenger spoke of? I must apologise for not coming sooner, but there were patients needing my urgent attention.’
Tom smiled at this exceptionally handsome, elegantly dressed friend. ‘I’ll wager that those particular patients were ladies, Hugh.’
‘Of course.’ Laylor chuckled and dismounted. ‘Now, let’s take a look at the specimen.’
Clouds of flies buzzed up from the blanket and the mingled stench of blood and body wastes were palpable as Tom uncovered the dead woman.
‘By God! She’s been sorely ill-used!’ Hugh Laylor exclaimed as he knelt to stare closely at her. ‘She looks as if she’s been trampled by a herd of beasts.’
‘Well, there are spatters across the platform to indicate that she was hit with weight and impact enough to spray the blood widely,’ Tom rejoined. Then asked, ‘Will you do the post-mortem? Blackwell will be back in the parish this afternoon, and I’m sure he’ll agree to you doing it.’
‘Certainly I will! The longer I look at this wench the more eager I’m becoming to get her on to my slab.’ Laylor paused, then grinned. ‘I assume that you’ll be happy to assist me at the work?’
Tom nodded. ‘You assume correctly, my friend.’
His companion’s mood abruptly sobered, and he burst out: ‘By God, Tom! If there were any true justice in this life, it should be you leading this post-mortem and I assisting. If your father’s death had not left you and your mother penniless, you would now be a Licentiate of the Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons both, instead of being a dogsbody Parish Constable under that useless bastard, Aston!’
‘I won’t be under his rule for ever, Hugh. And strangely enough, I like being a Parish Constable.’ Tom chuckled wryly. ‘There are moments when I believe that in a previous life I was a bloodhound, because I do so relish tracking down lawbreakers.
‘Now, I’ve sent for Ritchie Bint to come with a handcart, so when he arrives we’ll take her directly to your house.’
‘We?’ Laylor queried doubtfully. ‘I don’t think my patients will appreciate my working as an undertaker’s handcart pusher, Tom. Why don’t you just send for Jolly’s horse and cart?’
‘Because I don’t want word of this spreading until we know more about what’s befallen this poor creature. Don’t worry, I’ll not trouble you to push the handcart. Ritchie and myself are perfectly able to manage that without your aid.’
‘A capability which at this moment truly makes me appreciate you even more than I do normally.’ Laylor chuckled, remounted his horse and cantered away, calling back over his shoulder, ‘I’ll have everything prepared for your arrival, my friend. I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy yourself with while you’re waiting for Bint.’
Tom could only nod grimly. He had already closely scrutinized the stack, its platform and near surroundings. Now he began moving in ever-widening circles around the platform, painstakingly searching the mowed ground for bloodstains, tracks and possible weapons.
Hours passed and Tom had found nothing when he was hailed from the river bank pathway and looked up to see his scar-faced, sandy-haired, muscular Deputy Constable Ritchie Bint pushing a handcart with George Maffey.
Bint left the handcart and ran to Tom. ‘I hear we’ve got a dead wench on our hands, Tom.’
‘Indeed we have, Ritchie, and it looks to be a nasty business,’ Tom confirmed gravely.
‘Where is her?’
‘On the stack platform.’
At the stack Tom removed the blanket from the dead woman. ‘Do you see any likeness to anyone you know, Ritchie?’
The other man shook his head. ‘Her head’s so fucked up, I couldn’t name her even if her was me own kin.’
Maffey brought the cart to the edge of the platform. The three men carefully transferred the woman on to it and re-covered her with the blanket.
Maffey saluted Tom. ‘I’m dreadful sorry I took so long to do these errands, Sir, but I had troubles finding both Gentlemen.’
‘I’m sure you did, Corporal Maffey. I always have great difficulty in finding them myself, particularly when I’m in sore need of their services.’ Tom grinned. ‘You’ve done good service for me and I am very grateful to you. As soon as we complete our business I’ll take you to the Lock-Up and pay you.’
It was early evening and the sun was setting when Tom and Maffey finally returned to the Lock-Up. Maffey sat down on the stone steps while Tom unlocked the main door and went inside, calling, ‘Amy, I’m back, and there’s a Gentleman with me who needs some refreshment.’
There was no reply and Tom called again, but was still met with silence. He went along the broad passage between the locked and barred cell doors and up the stone staircase to check the living quarters on the upper floor, then continued on up the wooden steps to the garret. All the rooms were neat and tidy, and his cot had been remade with fresh bedding.
‘She’ll be out visiting her family or her friends,’ he accepted and, unlocking the iron-bound chest in the corner of the garret, he took coins from the money pouch stowed inside it and returned to the ground floor.
In the kitchen alcove, next to the rear door which led into the enclosed spiked-walled yard, he portioned out bread and cheese on a platter, filled a pewter tankard with ale drawn from the trestle-mounted keg and carried them out to the front platform.
‘Here’s some supper, Corporal Maffey, and here’s the cost of your blanket and the wage for the work you’ve done for me.’ He pressed two silver crown coins into the man’s hand.
‘Fuckin’ hell’s bells, Sir! I warn’t expecting to get ten shillings!’ Maffey exclaimed in shock. ‘I thought I’d not get more than a shilling at best. You’re a true Gentleman, Sir! And if there’s ought else that you wants me to do for you, then you’ve only to ask it of me. It won’t cost you a penny piece neither, Sir.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not at present, Corporal Maffey, but many thanks for your offer. When you’ve finished your victuals, just tug the bell pull and leave the tankard and platter outside the door. If you want lodgings for the night, go to Mother Readman’s house in the Silver Square. Tell her I sent you and she’ll find you a bed, a fire to cook at, and drink and victuals as well if you want them. All at a very fair price. I bid you Good Night, Corporal Maffey.’
‘And a Good Night to you, Sir.’ Maffey stiffened to attention and saluted as Tom stepped back inside and closed the door.
His own sharp pangs of hunger impelled Tom to return to the kitchen alcove, cut himself some slices of bread and cheese, draw a tankard of ale and sit down to eat. As his stomach pangs eased his thoughts turned towards the gruesome condition of the female corpse, and pity for her flooded through him as he thought: I could feel so many broken bones. The poor girl must have suffered unspeakable agonies while she was being killed. Whoever served her so is truly an evil savage. I’ll relish bringing him, or them, to the gallows.
Even as this last thought crossed his mind, he chided himself: Come now, why am I already assumin
g that she’s been battered to death by some man, or men? It might have been females who did this to her.
He sat pondering the questions reverberating through his mind. Was she alive or already dead when she came to the stack? Was she brought there by force, or did she come willingly? Why was she wearing a man’s clothing?
The bells jangled loudly.
That’ll be Maffey leaving, Tom thought. I’d best take the things in before somebody pilfers them. He put his platter to one side and walked to the front door. As it creaked open he exclaimed with pleasure, ‘Oh, you’re back, my love!’
He pulled the door fully open to allow Amy to enter. Bonnet-less, wearing no shawl over her gown, she stayed motionless, staring nervously at him.
He frowned with concern at her troubled expression and questioned anxiously, ‘What’s the matter? Is there something amiss with your family?’
She gave a slight shake of her head.
‘Amy, what is it? What’s troubling you?’ He stepped towards her, reaching out his arms.
She recoiled from him, shaking her head and telling him, ‘No, Tom! No! Don’t touch me!’
He let his arms fall to his sides and questioned anxiously again, ‘Amy, what ails you? Are you ill or in pain?’
She drew a long, shuddering breath and blurted, ‘I’ve come to tell you that I’ve moved back into the Fox to live.’
He could only stare at her in shocked bemusement, and she went on hurriedly: ‘It’s no fault of yours, Tom – it’s me who’s to blame for this. I just can’t live here with you at this time. Don’t follow me now because I’ll not speak with you, and I’ve told Tommy and Gertie Fowkes to bar you from the Fox till I tell them different.’
She turned and, lifting her skirts to her knees, ran back across the Green, her long blonde hair tossing about her shoulders.
Tom stood as if transfixed, desperately wanting to go after her but unable to force his limbs into motion. He watched her reach the inn door, where the waiting Gertie Fowkes and Maisie Lock enfolded her protectively as they all disappeared into the building.
He heard a cough and turned to face George Maffey, standing on the platform a couple of paces from the door.
Maffey coughed again, then said tentatively, ‘If I might make so bold, Sir, I reckon it would be for the best if you went back inside. There’s them who’re taking a deal of notice of you.’
Feeling dazed by what had happened, Tom turned his head and saw that curious onlookers were gathering. ‘Yes, Corporal Maffey, you’re right,’ he agreed wearily. ‘It would be for the best.’
‘Here’s your things, Sir.’ Maffey stepped forwards and handed him the tankard and platter, then saluted and urged, ‘Don’t stay here any longer, Sir. You go back inside now and spoil these nosey buggers’ entertainment.’
Tom silently stepped through and closed the door, then slumped back against its thick boards as despair overwhelmed him. ‘Oh, God, what shall I do?’ he groaned aloud. ‘What can I do?’
Knowing Amy’s character, he accepted that it would be fruitless for him to go to the inn and try to speak with her while she was in her present mood.
His thoughts ranged back over the previous year, and how Amy’s attitude towards him had soured when she had become pregnant.
Truth to tell, he thought, I feared this might happen. But after she lost the baby I just didn’t dare to talk with her about her moods and tempers. Bloody coward that I am, he accepted miserably.
The memory of that terrible night when Amy had miscarried, only weeks from the estimated time of birth, flooded back. Her screams of agony had reverberated through the Lock-Up as in the garret bedroom the man-midwife and his female helpers battled to deliver the dead baby boy from her womb.
He, Tom, banned from the birth chamber by the deeply engrained strictures of age-old custom and usage, could only stand helplessly at the foot of the wooden staircase, cursing himself for his own impotence to free her from such agonies of pain and anguish.
The bells suddenly jangled and hope sprang up. She’s come back!
He pulled the door open and found himself staring into the fat, florid features of Gertie Fowkes.
‘Now then, Tom Potts, step aside and let me come in. I needs to have a talk wi’ you.’
Crestfallen with disappointment, he obeyed and she entered, telling him, ‘Now don’t you fret too much about Amy. We’ll take good care of her. You must just bide your time until her gets over losing that babby. You’ve got to remember that losing a babby that close to birthing can fill a woman’s mind wi’ strange fancies and turn her against him that put the babby into her belly in the fust place. I’ve seen it happen time and time again.’
She lifted her hand and pointed her forefinger at Tom’s face, repeatedly jabbing it towards him to emphasize her next words. ‘But them strange fancies don’t always last, Tom Potts! As time passes they can leave that woman’s mind bit by bit until theym all gone and she’s her old self once more. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. So my advice to you is to let her alone and not go pestering her to come back to you. I knows that you’ve been a good, kind husband to her, and I’m certain sure that sooner or later she’ll come to her right mind and want to be wi’ you again. But mind what I say, Tom Potts, and do as I’m telling you if you wants her back. Just leave her be for the present!’ With a final emphatic jab of her finger, she turned and left him.
The hope that had so suddenly flared and been extinguished now flared again in Tom, and he called after Gertie Fowkes’s receding figure, ‘I’ll do what you advise, Mistress Fowkes, and I sincerely thank you for that advice.’
FOUR
Tuesday, 14 July, 1829
It was late afternoon and the two men had been working on the woman’s corpse since early morning.
‘I think that we’ve done enough, Tom, do you not agree?’ Hugh Laylor straightened his back and stared questioningly across the dissecting table at his friend.
Tom Potts also straightened to his full height and nodded. ‘More than enough, Hugh. I’ve never before seen so many multiple blunt-force injuries.’
‘Nor I.’ Laylor drew a long, hissing breath, then intoned grimly, ‘Fissure fractures of skull and spine, ribs and clavicle, hips, pelvis and upper and lower limbs.’ He pointed to the row of buckets on the floor which were half filled with bloodied liquid and bodily organs. ‘Lacerated foetus and womb, liver lacerations, lung lacerations, spleen and kidneys damaged. Multiple lacerations of the outer epidermis. Every body region has suffered injury! It’s as though she’s been smashed with heavy hammers. Whoever did this to her should be burned alive, and I’d gladly light the flames.’
Tom could only nod in rueful agreement. ‘Me also, and I’m going to do my damnedest to find who did this to her. But for now I think that we should put her back together as tidily as we can and lay the foetus with her in the coffin. I’ll get her back to the Lock-Up and then report to Blackwell.’
Dusk had fallen when Tom walked to the imposing Red House at the top of the Fish Hill, which was the dwelling place of Joseph Blackwell Esq., Lawyer, Coroner and Clerk to the Select Vestry, Clerk to the Magistrates and Senior Overseer to the Poor. He was also the Director of the Parish Constabulary and Tom’s de facto immediate employer.
When Tom tugged the bell pull the door was opened almost immediately and he was met by the pallid, deeply-lined, ageing features of small, frail-bodied Joseph Blackwell.
‘I’m going for a stroll, Constable Potts. You may walk with me and make your report on the post-mortem.’
‘Very well, Sir.’
They left the house side by side, and as they walked Tom took shorter steps so that his companion might keep up with him more easily.
Blackwell snapped curtly, ‘Do not trouble yourself to so awkwardly shorten your step, Constable. I was a champion pedestrian in my youth, and am perfectly at ease in matching your normal walking pace.’
‘Very well, Sir.’ Tom obediently lengthened his steps.
‘What have you to report to me?’ Blackwell asked, and listened intently while Tom gave a full account of the post-mortem findings.
When Tom finished speaking, Blackwell mused aloud, ‘From your description, it appears that this female has been rendered virtually unidentifiable. How can you possibly achieve any successful investigation into her identity?’
‘Well, Sir, both Doctor Laylor and myself are of the opinion that she was a young woman carrying a foetus approximately two or three months in development. Her hair was black with no trace of grey. Her teeth, although damaged and broken now, were free of decay, and there was no shrinkage of the gums from them. Her flesh appears well nourished and her bones to be free of rickets. We also discovered that the third and fourth fingers on both of her hands were peculiarly deformed by malformation of the proximal, middle and distal phalanx joints, which we judged to be birth defects. So I already have knowledge of her as a starting point for my investigation.’
Blackwell’s thin lips twitched momentarily, and he exclaimed pettishly, ‘Goddamn it, Constable Potts! You appear to be taking it for granted that I’m going to make free of the parish coffers by paying Ritchie Bint to carry out your parish duties, so as to enable you to go gallivanting around like a hound following the scent of prey! I don’t think that My Lord Aston will take very kindly to that idea.’
It was Tom’s lips which now twitched in grim amusement as he replied gravely, ‘With great respect, Sir, it’s well known throughout the whole of the Midlands that My Lord Aston doesn’t take kindly to any ideas but his own, but that he listens very carefully indeed to any suggestions that you may venture to offer him.’
Blackwell halted and turned to stare searchingly into Tom’s eyes. ‘Tell me, Constable Potts, will your separation from your wife not adversely affect any investigation you might be engaged upon?’
Tom was not shocked by his companion’s knowledge of Amy’s leaving. He had long since known that Blackwell was like a spider sitting at the centre of a widespread web of informants.