by Sara Fraser
They shook hands and parted, and as Tom returned up the steep slope to the roadway he felt his spirits lifting, and the strengthening confidence that both Josiah Danks and Gertie Fowkes had given wise advice which would bring Amy back to him. And when I run this killer to earth that will surely help to make Amy proud of me and readier to return to me, so I’ve no time to lose, Tom thought as he quickened his pace.
When he reached the town he went to the terraced tenement where the Town Crier lived and knocked on the door.
The neighbouring window casement opened and a woman’s frowsty mop of hair poked out from it. ‘There’s nobody there. He went out first thing this morning to go and do some Crying down Studley way.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘Has you caught that bad bugger that killed that wench?’
‘I’m afraid not, Ma’am,’ Tom admitted.
‘Then you’d best get a bloody move on and catch him afore he kills another poor wench, hadn’t you!’ she shouted angrily. ‘It’s about time you did the bloody job youm supposed to do! Instead o’ coming round here hammering on bloody doors and frightening them like me, who has to work all bloody hours to pay your bloody wages. Youm naught but a useless long streak o’ piss, with your nose stuck up the Gentry’s arseholes!’ The frowsty head withdrew and the casement window slammed shut.
Tom could only shrug, having long since accepted that the vast majority of the Needle District’s poorer inhabitants regarded him as being a willing tool of the ruling class of Aristocrats, Landed Gentry and Needle Masters. Those possessors of wealth and power who, by popular belief, all spent lives of idle opulence while forcing those born beneath them to spend their lives toiling in abject poverty.
He set off to walk the three and a half miles south-east to the village of Studley.
‘OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! To be sold by auction on Tuesday the twenty-fifth of July at the Unicorn Inn, Redditch. A Freehold Estate, tithe-free. Consisting of a substantial dwelling house with barns, stabling for eight horses …’
Tom had clearly heard the ringing of the brass bell and the stentorian shouting while he was distant from the sharp bend which would bring him to the front of the Barley Mow Inn, Studley Village.
‘… and other outbuildings, and forty-eight acres of excellent arable meadow and pasture district in a high state of cultivation …’
Tom rounded the bend and saw his quarry standing outside the main entrance of the inn without any visible listeners other than a solitary small boy.
‘… situated and being at Abbots Morton in the County of Worcester. GOD SAVE THE KING!’
Old, bent-bodied Jimmy Grier, garishly resplendent in his plumed tri-corn hat, scarlet waistcoat, green tailcoat, purple knee breeches, scarlet stockings and silver buckled half-boots, gave another loud ring of his bell, then turned and greeted Tom with a scowl.
‘Now then Tom Potts, if youm come to ask me to Cry the finding o’ that murdered wench, then I’ll tell you straight to save your breath and the parish coffer money, because I doubt there’s a living, breathing soul in these parts who don’t already know about it.’
‘I don’t doubt it either, Jimmy, but I want you to Cry another message.’
‘Which is?’
‘The Constable of Tardebigge Parish seeks information about any young woman who on occasion wears men’s clothes. A reward will be paid to anyone giving her name and present whereabouts to Constable Thomas Potts at the Lock-Up, Redditch Town. The informant’s name will remain a secret known only to Constable Potts.’
‘And where do you want it Cried?’
‘All over the Needle District, including Alcester, Alvechurch and Feckenham.’
‘I shall want double fee for Alcester, because o’ the time it’ll take walking.’
‘You’ll get it,’ Tom accepted.
‘Right then, I’d best make a start.’ Grier rang his bell and roared, ‘OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!… The Constable of Tardebigge Parish seeks …’ He continued on, repeating word perfectly the exact message that Tom had just imparted, and ending with the obligatory, ‘GOD SAVE THE KING!’ and a final ringing of the bell. Then he told Tom, ‘I’ll go and Cry Alcester now, and do Sambourne and Coughton on me way back. You can pay me when I’ve done all the district, Tom Potts.’
‘I’ll do that, Jimmy,’ Tom assured him, and Grier left.
A burly figure, clothed like Tom in a fashionable top hat, tail coat and pantaloon trousers, exited the inn and greeted him. ‘This is well met, Tom Potts.’
‘And for me likewise, Will Shayler.’ Tom smiled.
He and William Shayler, Constable of Studley Parish, had cooperated on previous occasions and held a warm regard for each other.
‘I was expecting to see you, Tom, after what’s happened. Needless to say, I’m more than willing to help you all I can. But I arn’t yet heard of any wench from around here going missing.’
‘It’s early days yet, Will. I’m having a reward for information Cried throughout the all the district, so hopefully something might come of it.’
‘Well, you know where to find me if you needs any help.’
They shook hands and parted.
SEVEN
Sunday, 19 July, 1829
The morning service had ended and the Reverend John Clayton took post outside the main door of the chapel to say farewell to his flock. As always the Private Pew Holders led the exodus. The wealthy, powerful Needle Masters who had propelled the Needle District to its world pre-eminence in the production and trade of that commodity. The Ladies and Gentlemen of independent means. The affluent people of multiple property ownerships.
The next to leave were the Rented Pew Holders. These were the more prosperous farmers, traders, innkeepers and shopkeepers who aspired to rise in society.
Last to exit were the most numerous groupings of the congregation, who sat packed together on hard wooden benches at the rear of the nave and up in the overhanging steeply-banked galleries: the clerks, overlookers, artisans and those sundry elements of the ‘respectable’ population of ‘lowly birth’ who were eager to ‘better themselves’.
John Clayton tried to treat all of the congregation with an equal courtesy, and so always remained standing by the door saying his farewells until the last worshipper had left.
Tommy and Gertie Fowkes were Rented Pew Holders, but their narrow pew could only accommodate the couple themselves, which meant that their daughter, Lily, was forced to sit in an upper gallery in lowly ranked company with the two barmaids, Amy and Maisie. By the time the three girls made their exit, the senior Fowkes were already halfway back to the Fox and Goose.
‘You two go on,’ Amy told her companions as they reached the chapel gate. ‘I need to pop back for a quick word with John.’
‘I don’t think he’ll take kindly to a skivvy calling him so familiar. You’d best remember that now youm just a common barmaid again and address him as Reverend Clayton,’ Lily Fowkes advised sneeringly.
‘And you’d best remember that I’m wedded to a man born a Gentleman, and that John Clayton looks upon me as the Lady Wife of that Gentleman and considers me his personal friend,’ Amy riposted.
‘Which is a bloody sight more than he’ll ever consider you to be, Lily Fowkes,’ Maisie Lock giggled. ‘All he sees when he looks at you is a bloody “on the shelf”!’
‘Youm calling me an “on the shelf”!’ Lily Fowkes exclaimed indignantly. ‘That’s rich coming from somebody who’s been shagged and left on the shelf by a dozen or more blokes at the very least!’
Amy lost patience. ‘Give over now, both of you! I’ll see you later.’ She turned and went back.
John Clayton exchanged a few pleasantries with the final leavers, then looked gravely at Amy. ‘I’ll wager I know what you want to ask me, my dear. So I’ll tell you that Tom is trying to show a brave face to the world, but I know that in his heart he is grievously unhappy.’
‘I don’t deliberately choose to hurt poor
Tom.’ Amy’s eyes were troubled. ‘And truth to tell, I hate myself for doing so. But if I’d stayed with him we would have ended up hating each other.’
‘Why so?’ Clayton’s ugly features showed puzzlement. ‘Tom would never have been unfaithful or ill-used you, and I’m sure that you would never have been untrue to him.’
‘That’s as maybe.’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and a rising note of hysteria entered her voice. ‘But sooner or later he would have pestered me to do my duty as a wife with him, and that’s what I could never do with him again. He planted a dead babby in my womb! That I carried for five months knowing in my heart it was dead. Well, everybody knows that if the first babby a man plants in you is dead, then more than likely so will all the others that he plants in you be. I can’t risk going through that again! I’d sooner be laying in my own grave!’
Her voice choked and she turned and ran, leaving John Clayton staring after her, concerned.
Outside the Lock-Up there had been a noisy, smelly, constantly fluctuating crowd since daybreak.
Ritchie Bint was on the platform, guarding the door which at varying intervals opened to discharge a man, woman or child. Each time this happened the waiting crowd surged towards the platform, shouting and gesticulating to catch Ritchie Bint’s attention. He would select one of these applicants and allow them to enter the building, then bellow threateningly at the loudly protesting unsuccessful applicants.
‘If you don’t shut your cakeholes I’ll be shutting ’um for you, and then you’ll never get to spake wi’ Constable Potts!’
Well aware of Bint’s prowess as a bare-knuckle prize-fighter and tavern-brawler, the crowd would quieten, but only until the exit of the previous entrant.
Inside the Lock-Up, Tom had pulled a table and stool into the central corridor and set out an ink pot, quill pens and a sheaf of paper on this makeshift desk. As each entrant came to the desk, Tom initially asked the same set of questions.
‘What is your name? Age? Address? Place of work? Do you know of any female who is missing from the places she normally frequents? Do you know personally, or have heard of, any female who at times wears male clothing? Has this female any deformity of body that you can describe to me?’
Almost inevitably the last three questions were answered with fervent assurances of such personal knowledge, and Tom was treated to many bizarre descriptions of female deformations and outlandish fashions of dress.
Another constant uniting all these interviewees were their demands to see the corpse and to be given the payment of the promised reward there and then.
Tom’s firm refusals led at times to heated arguments and verbal abuse but, to his relief, no physical assaults.
It was a welcome respite when instead of yet another reward- seeker, Ritchie Bint ushered in Joseph Blackwell.
‘Good Afternoon, Constable Potts,’ Blackwell greeted. ‘How is your investigation progressing?’
Tom bowed. ‘Good Afternoon, Sir. As yet with no result.’ He hesitated, then tentatively suggested, ‘Perhaps if I placed notices in the Worcester and Birmingham newspapers it might help to quicken the identification?’
The other man shook his head dismissively. ‘The Vestry will not sanction the expense of placing the notices. They are already complaining about the parish having to meet the expense of paying Bint to perform your duties while you investigate the death of a tramper woman who apparently has no connection whatsoever with this district.’ Blackwell’s thin lips momentarily quirked in a grim smile. ‘But you may continue your investigation into her death. At the very least it will certainly help to distract you from your current matrimonial difficulties.’
Tom could not help but nod in rueful appreciation of this ironic sally. ‘Indeed so, Sir. However, I believe I may still be able to find a little time to feel sorry for myself.’
Blackwell chuckled dryly. ‘I don’t doubt your capacity to do so. Now, is there anything else you require of me at this time?’
‘Well, to begin with, Sir, I do think it best if the woman is buried as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of the very unpleasant odour emanating from that cell over there. You may arrange to have her buried as quickly as possible. I’ll leave you to continue interviewing your visitors, Thomas Potts. I wish you good luck in that task.’
‘I fear I’ll need a good deal of that, Sir,’ Tom wryly acknowledged.
EIGHT
Monday, 20 July, 1829
Fortunately for Tom’s capacity for tolerance, the numbers of reward-seekers coming to the Lock-Up was greatly diminished, and by mid-morning he had finished interviewing the final unsuccessful applicant. With relief he left the building and walked down the Fish Hill into the valley of the Arrow River.
The more prosperous of the local population buried their dead in the various church and chapel graveyards of the Tardebigge Parish, as Tom had buried his own mother in the graveyard of the Tardebigge Parish Church during October of the previous year.
The poorer people utilized the Old Monks Graveyard adjoining the multi-mounded site of the ancient Bordesley Abbey. One section of that graveyard was the Paupers’ Plot, where the destitute dead were buried at the parish’s expense.
‘Has you come to pick out a nice plot for yourself, Master Potts?’ Hector Smout, the aged, gnarled-featured gravedigger cheerily greeted Tom on his arrival at the graveyard. ‘That’s a very wise thing to do because there aren’t a deal o’ room left to choose from. There’s too many bloody furriners come to live in the parish lately, and theym a dying off like bloody flies, so they be, and taking the grave plots that by rights belongs to us local folk.’
Tom grinned amusedly and countered, ‘Come now, Master Smout. Like the people you refer to, I’m not originally from this parish. But I was born in England of English stock, and that makes me a true Briton. As are the vast majority of these other newcomers that are settling hereabouts.’
The old man brayed with laughter. ‘As far as I’m concerned, anybody who aren’t bred and birthed in Tardebigge Parish is naught but a bloody furriner. Now does you want to choose a plot for yourself, or not? Because I’se got work to do.’
‘I need a pauper plot as soon as possible, for the dead woman who was found on Andrew Parkman’s land.’
‘You can have it this very hour.’ Smout pointed his long-handled spade at a large excavation. ‘I’m just opening that ’un up for a bloke that’s coming down from the Poor’us anytime now. There’s only three long-timers in it at present and theym well rotted down. So after I’ve flattened them, your wench and the new bloke ’ull be plenty deep enough.’ He hawked and spat, then growled contemptuously, ‘That’ll please the fuckin’ Vestry, won’t it? Does you know that them rotten, skinflint bastards never gives me a penny more on me wages, no matter how much land I saves for the parish by cramming the paupers in tighter every year that passes!’
‘Well, thank you very much, Master Smout,’ Tom told him sincerely. ‘You’ve done me great service by offering me this space. I’ll go straight and make arrangements for the coffin to be brought here.’
‘You’ll have to be a bit sharpish about it then, because I knows that Parson Clayton has got another funeral to do at the Tardebigge Church later this afternoon.’
‘I’ll make haste,’ Tom assured, and was turning away when Smout asked, ‘Am you any nearer to finding who killed the wench?’
‘Sadly, no.’ Tom shook his head.
‘But me neighbour, Methuselah Leeson, reckons he told you days ago that he saw who did it.’
‘Come now, Master Smout, you surely can’t believe that a long-dead monk is able to kill anybody?’ Tom chided gently.
‘No, o’ course not!’ the other man irritably denied. ‘But what I’m saying is that Methuselah might have gone doolally, but if he says that somebody wearing white stuff run past him that night, then I for one believes him. He’s always been a man who speaks the truth.’
Smout pointed his spade eastwards. ‘
There’s a deal o’ bloody furriners whom lately settled on that side down towards Ipsley and Studley way. I reckon you needs to be looking among them for the bugger who killed that wench.’
‘I shall certainly do as you advise, Master Smout.’ Tom proffered a verbal olive branch. ‘Just as soon as I’ve made the necessary arrangements to have the woman brought here and notified Reverend Clayton that he now has two burials instead of one.’
As Tom walked back towards the town centre he found himself thinking hard about Hector Smout’s support of Methuselah Leeson. Could it be that Leeson really did see the murderer making his escape? And the man he saw was perhaps dressed in a white smock? He turned his thoughts toward the task of conveying the dead woman’s coffin down to the graveyard. At this hour the carters would all be out working and the dead man from the Poorhouse would be brought by way of the Red Lane. He’d have to borrow the four-wheeled handcart from the Red House stable and see if someone there could help him load her coffin on to it.
But when Tom took the handcart from the stable there was no one there to ask for help.
The local celebrants of Saint Monday always ensured that there would be more than a few individuals neglecting their work to continue the weekend’s carousing; however, the Saint Monday celebrants were invariably hostile to the Parish Constabulary.
‘There’s nothing else for it; I’ll just have to try among them, and risk getting bombarded,’ Tom reluctantly decided.
Parking the handcart outside the Lock-Up, he went to the Red Lion inn which stood at the arched entrance to the long slum alleyway known as the Silver Street. As he nervously entered the smoky, odorous Tap Room, the sounds of loud talk and laughter stilled and the hostile stares of men and women greeted him.
Tom drew a deep breath to steady his racing heartbeat, and forced a smile. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’ve not come to spoil your enjoyment. I’m in need of a strong man to help me lift a single load. It’ll take only a minute, and I’ll pay him a full shilling for his help.’
‘Fuck off, Jack Sprat!’ a woman shouted, and almost instantly a dozen other voices roared in concert.