by Sara Fraser
The old crone’s withered features suddenly twisted in fury and she screeched, ‘He’d gone off by hisself again! I told the bugger time and time again that he’d got to wait for me and not go gallivanting off by his’self on this business! But he would keep on sneaking off like a slithering snake. We was rowing day and night about it, so we was.’
‘About what, Mistress Leeson? What business were you arguing about?’ Tom asked.
‘About what he’d found somewhere down the meadows. He reckoned it was something that the Devil’s Monk had left behind when he went back to Hell after killing that wench on Parkman’s farm. The barmy old bugger said it was something that ’ud put gold in his pockets once he’d got it ready to sell. But he ’udden’t tell me what it was.’
‘So what did you do after you had found that he’d gone out, Mistress Leeson?’
‘Well, I went to me bed, because I warn’t going to go out in the dark. You never knows what evil spirits might be roaming about in the dark, does you. Then when I woke up again it was next day. So I went looking all over for him, and I found him a-laying in that ditch wi’ our own chopper in his yed. He always took our chopper out wi’ him since that poor wench was killed. He said that he’d smash the Monk’s yed with it if the evil bugger tried to stop him taking the treasure. He said he’d show the evil bugger that Methuselah Leeson was more than a match for him.’
Her voice choked. ‘But the Devil’s Monk was more than a match for my Methuselah, warn’t he! And I found the barmy old bugger laying there dead wi’ our own chopper in his yed, and I couldn’t do nothing to help him.’ She buried her face in her hands as harsh sobs shook her body.
Pity for her grief coursed through Tom. ‘I’m truly sorry for your grievous loss, Mistress Leeson,’ he told her quietly. ‘And I give you my word that I shall do my utmost to catch your husband’s murderer.’
Her body rocking from side to side, she shrieked piercingly, ‘Don’t talk so bloody daft! There’s no mortal man can ever catch the Devil’s Monk!’
Hector Smout tapped Tom’s shoulder and hissed into his ear. ‘It’s best if you leave her be for now, Master Potts. I’ll stay here wi’ her and see that she’s all right.’
Tom nodded agreement and quietly left.
‘No mortal man can ever catch the Devil’s Monk,’ Joseph Blackwell grimaced contemptuously. ‘In this modern scientific age when intellectual reason should be totally dominant, why are so many of our lower orders still afflicted with the disease of superstitious cretinism?’
‘Perhaps, Sir, it is because the lower orders’ general condition of poverty impels them to be forced into grinding menial labour from virtual infancy, so they have never had the necessary leisure time and the financial means of their so-called “betters” to pay for any scholastic instruction and so gain intellectual advancement,’ Tom could not help retorting, then waited with an involuntary unease for the heated counterblast.
But Joseph Blackwell’s thin lips curved in a bleak smile. ‘Bravo, Constable Potts. I would have been very disappointed in you if you had not presented me with that unchallengeable fact. Will you now kindly go and do what you’re paid to do. Firstly, inform your friend, Laylor, that he is nominated to carry out the post-mortem on Leeson, with yourself assisting him. Then go and continue hunting down that supposed Devil’s Monk!’
As he walked away from the Red House, Tom considered how best to begin the hunt for the Devil’s Monk. He chided himself: I forgot to ask about anything Methuselah might be carrying in his pockets. But I can rectify that easily enough.
He turned and headed down the Fish Hill.
Two hours later he walked back up its steep gradient, pondering over the list of personal possessions that Nellie Leeson had vehemently insisted her husband always carried with him.
A very valuable engraved silver snuffbox which had been his father’s; a costly Hunter pocket watch; silver and copper coins; a tobacco pouch and a silver-banded meerschaum pipe with an engraved bowl. A pocket flint, steel and tinder set, and at least three new cambric handkerchiefs.
Since he knew that the couple had been receiving the very meagre Parish Pauper Outdoor Relief for the last twenty years or so, he doubted the accuracy of the Widow Leeson’s inventory.
‘I fear this loss has sorely affected the poor old soul’s memory, God help her! And God help me as well! Because by this time tomorrow the whole of the district will be buzzing with the nonsense that as well as the treasure trove, Methuselah’s personal possessions were also worth a small fortune.’
ELEVEN
Friday, early evening, 24 July, 1829
Tom’s empty stomach rumbled uncomfortably as he placed the hunk of stale bread and remnants of even staler cheese on the table of the kitchen alcove, then took a jug and drained the last of the ale from the cask.
He sat down on the wooden bench, picked up the bread and a sliver of cheese, telling himself wryly, ‘Well, this supper may not be what a gourmet would appreciate, but it’s my own fault for failing to restock my larder.’
He took a bite of the bread, slipped a sliver of cheese into his mouth and, as he doggedly chewed the sour-tasting combination, mentally reviewed the progress of his investigations into the double killings of the ‘Haystack Woman’ and Methuselah Leeson.
He and Hugh Laylor had performed Leeson’s post-mortem on Wednesday and concluded that his death had resulted from the single injury inflicted by the hatchet embedded in his skull. Tom was still considering why there were no other injuries or marks on the corpse which might indicate that the old man had put up a struggle against his assailant. Even though, according to his wife’s account, he had gone out armed with the hatchet and was more than ready to use it against any potential attacker.
On Wednesday evening Nellie Leeson and a large party of her immediate neighbours had come to claim Methuselah Leeson’s corpse and the rusty hatchet, both of which were now on show in Nellie Leeson’s cottage, where, in accordance with the traditional local custom of the poorer inhabitants, anyone who wished could view the corpse after paying an entrance fee of a few pence.
Tom had then spent the whole of Thursday and this present day making fruitless enquiries resulting in no investigative progress whatsoever. Those enquiries, however, had brought him full cognisance of the low regard a sizeable number of the parish population held him in, many of them openly upbraiding him for his failure to arrest the perpetrator of the crimes.
No matter how farcically unjust, their hostile criticisms still had a depressive effect on Tom which, added to his ongoing estrangement from Amy, had brought his spirits to a very low ebb.
He tried to console himself: Ah well, tomorrow’s Market Day. I’ll restock my larder with the freshest food I can find, and maybe hear something useful about who the Devil’s Monk might be.
TWELVE
Saturday, 25 July, 1829
Since dawn, stall-holders horses and carts, pack-loaded donkeys and pack- and basket-loaded men and women had been creating a tumult of noise as they set up their pitches along the stretch of roadway bordering the southern side of the Green.
Tom had spent a very leisurely day checking the licenses to trade of the men and women vendors, and ascertaining that they were up to date with the pitch-rental dues to the Parish Vestry.
For long hours throughout the day there were not many buyers. But now it was five o’clock in the afternoon and the mills and factories had released their work-grimed, sweat-smelling hordes of men, women and children. The crowded market place was a seething hubbub of wares being shouted and bargained for. The inns, taverns and alehouses were thick with tobacco smoke and resounded with loud talk, laughter, snuff snorting, hacking coughs and spat-out phlegm hitting brass spittoons.
Halfway down the Unicorn Hill which ran westwards from the crossroads, rat-featured, fang-toothed Judas Benton was standing beneath the tripled brass balls which overhung the door of his pawnshop.
Outside the Unicorn Hotel and Inn some distance further up the hill, where the
steep slope evened out before joining the crossroads, a burly white-smocked countryman was glaring threateningly at a shabbily clad young girl whose thin features bore visible bruising. He lifted his clenched fist in front of her eyes. ‘Get down there now, or I’ll be giving you another fuckin’ leathering.’
White-faced with fear, she pleaded, ‘But what shall I tell him if he starts askin’ me lots o’ questions about where I got it from? What if he asks me what me name is, and where I lives? What if he says I’ve pinched it?’
‘This is the last time I’m telling you, you thick-yedded cow. You tells him that it was your dad’s, and your name’s Smith, and youm Brummagem born and bred. But your dad’s just died, so youm looking for work and lodgings hereabouts. Now get going!’ He grabbed the scruff of her neck and shoved her violently towards the downward slope of the roadway.
She stumbled and almost lost her footing, but attracted only momentary attention from the passers-by who were accustomed to witnessing squabbling couples on market days.
Judas Benton, however, had been surreptitiously observing the couple since they had appeared at the top of the slope, and had seen the man take something from his smock pocket and press it into the girl’s hands. The pawnbroker’s interest had been heightened by her companion’s subsequent threatening posture and her fearful reaction. Now, as with head bent she came slowly down the hill, he decided: I reckon I’m going to be offered something by this one, and judging from what’s passed between ’um, it could well be something that they aren’t got any rights to have. He went inside his shop to await her entrance.
The girl halted outside the door for several seconds, her hands clasped tightly, her expression anxious. A distant shout sounded, and she jerked her head to stare back the way she had come, then hastily stepped into the shop.
‘Now then, me duck, you’ve no need to look so fritted o’ me. I aren’t going to eat you.’ Standing behind the shop counter, Judas Benton greeted her jovially and beckoned, ‘Come over here and show me what you’ve brought me.’
‘This!’ She gasped nervously. ‘It’s me dad’s!’
Benton spread his arms wide and chuckled. ‘Well, me duck, whatever this thing of your dad’s is, you’ll need to show it me, won’t you?’
‘Oh! Yes! I got it here!’ She stepped jerkily forwards and opened her tightly clenched fist to disclose a silver snuffbox.
He leaned over the counter, took the box from her open palm, briefly scrutinized its ornate engravings, then put the box on the counter and, keeping his hand on it, queried, ‘What did you say your dad’s name was, me duck?’
‘S-S-Smith – his name’s S-Smith,’ she stuttered.
‘Local bloke, is he?’ Benton smiled.
‘No, no!’ She shook her head in vigorous denial. ‘He’s Brummagem born and bred, like me! I’m come here looking for work and lodgings!’
‘Ohhh, are you now. Well, I reckon a pretty little wench like you ’ull easy find both o’ them around here. Now, there’s just a couple o’ things we needs to settle before we can finish this bit o’ business.’
He paused and deliberately stayed silent, noting her nervousness heightening with every passing second until her hands were visibly trembling.
‘We needs to settle on how much you wants me to give you on your dad’s snuffbox, and how much you has to pay me when you wants it back, me duck.’
Her body sagged and she gusted a long breath of relief. ‘Ohhh, all right, Master.’
‘Does you want to ask your dad how much he wants me to lend him?’ Benton smiled.
Immediately she tensed and blurted. ‘I can’t! He’s dead!’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear, that, me duck.’ Benton oozed sympathy. ‘I naturally thought the Gentleman you’re with was your dad.’
‘Oh, no! No! He aren’t! He’s me friend!’ She was gabbling now. ‘He just come wi’ me to make sure nobody robbed me of me dad’s snuffbox!’
Benton grinned and interrupted her. ‘He must be a very good man to do that, me duck. As I’m sure your dad was; and I’ll bet your dad’s looking down from heaven this very minute and telling you that this day you’ve met another good-living, honest man here in Redditch. And that honest man is me, Master Judas Benton, the sole proprietor of this establishment.’
She gaped at him in utter bemusement, her lips still moving, but only unintelligible mutterings coming from them, as he went on: ‘Now, because I got a kind heart I’m going to lend you four whole shillings on this box, me duck, at sixpence interest for the first week and eight pence interest for each following week.’
He immediately opened the cash drawer, extracted coins and came around the counter.
‘What’s your name, me duck? I needs to know because when you comes to get your box back I has to tick you off my list together with the box. That’s how business is done, you see. What’s your name, me duck …’
‘It’s Carrie,’ she muttered.
‘Carrie who, me duck?’ Benton asked, rattling the coins in his hand.
‘Uhrrrrr … Smith! It’s Smith! Like me dad’s,’ she mumbled.
He pressed the coins into her hand and gently pushed her towards the door.
‘Off you go, me duck. And if you’ve got other things you wants to pawn, or perhaps even sell to me, I’ll give you a really good deal on them, like I have with this one. Because I knows that you’re a good, honest wench, me duck.’
Still looking bemused, she exited the shop and ran as fast as she could up the hill.
Smiling with satisfaction, Benton took up a magnifying glass and re-examined the ornately engraved snuffbox.
‘It’s worth a good few bob, this is. Wonder who they pinched it from?’
He opened it and noted tiny indentations on its inner lid, which after a closer study through the magnifying glass he made out to be lettering.
He mouthed the letters that made the name, ‘Matthias Leeson.’ And gasped. ‘Fuckin’ hell! That was Methuselah Leeson’s dad’s name!’
Benton had heard all the wild rumours about the valuable personal possessions Methuselah Leeson had been robbed of and the mysterious treasure he had discovered. Can it be true then? Was the old bugger really robbed of a bloody fortune? And could that bloke in the smock and that half-witted wench be the ones who did it?
He hurried to the front door, but the girl had already gone from sight.
He returned to stand by the counter, angrily berating himself. Bloody fool that I am! If I’d have given that half-wit cow a fair advance on the box it’s more than likely that her bloke would have sent her here with the rest of the stuff he robbed. Then I’d have found a way of stripping him of all of it, and having him sent to the gallows as well.
He turned the snuffbox over and over in his hands, and as his initial self-directed anger cooled, told himself: Hold on now, just calm down. If it was them then there must still be a way to get me hands on what they’ve got. His thoughts turned to the young girl’s vocal accent. She’s no more Brummagem than I am. She’s been bred and born in these parts. But whereabouts, exactly?
Throughout the kingdom, regional accents, speech patterns, vocal inflexions and even vocabulary meanings and usage differed in varying degrees. Here in the Needle District, even with separ-ations of just a few miles, certain phrases and pronunciations differed noticeably.
Benton stood concentrating hard on his memories of the girl’s speech. After a short while his decayed fangs bared in a savage grin.
‘If she aren’t been born and bred down Alcester way, then I’m a fuckin’ Dutchman. I reckon I’ll close the shop and have a mooch round for a few hours.’
Up in the midst of the market crowds, Tom Potts was paying the price of failing to discover any leads concerning the killings of the Haystack Woman and Methuselah Leeson. Throughout the day as the numbers of people thronging the market had increased, so had the gibes and jeers directed at him for his failure to arrest any perpetrators of either crime.
‘Constable Potts?’
Tom steeled himself for yet another hostile gibe and turned to face whoever had called his name.
It was Joseph Blackwell’s manservant. ‘My Master wishes you to come immediately to him, Constable Potts. He said I was to tell you that he had something of great importance to inform you of.’
Tom instantly experienced a surge of hope that Blackwell had received information about either the Haystack Woman’s or Methuselah Leeson’s deaths.
Spirits buoyed by this hope, Tom was smiling as he entered Blackwell’s study. But his smile disappeared as he saw sitting by the fireside a grossly fat-bellied, purpled-faced man dressed in black clerical garb, white tie-wig and tasselled top hat. The Right Honourable and Reverend Walter Hutchinson, the Lord Aston, Vicar of Tardebigge Parish, Justice of the Peace, Senior Magistrate of the County of Worcestershire and second only to the Earl of Plymouth in the power and influence he exercised over the Needle District.
‘Thank you for attending on me so promptly, Constable Potts.’ From behind his desk, Joseph Blackwell greeted him pleasantly. ‘My Lord Aston and myself wish to hear what progress you have made in the investigations into the deaths of the Haystack Woman and Methuselah Leeson?’
Tom had too much respect for his questioner to attempt to dissemble or obfuscate, and admitted frankly, ‘As of yet, virtually none. But I am confident that perseverance will eventually lead to success … And I most certainly will persevere, Sir.’
‘Persevere, he says!’ Aston’s bulbous bloodshot eyes glared with fury. ‘There now, Blackwell! Have I not been telling you that this damned investigation is nothing more than a damned waste of parish money? We now have the truth of it from this fellow’s own damned lips, have we not!’
Anger exploded in Tom’s brain and he lusted with all his being to smash his fist into the fat, sweating face of the other man. But he knew that if he did so Aston would use his powers to ruin not only Tom’s life but also the lives of those he held dear: Amy and her family.
Aston flung a piece of folded paper on to the floor at Tom’s feet. ‘Take a look at this, Potts, and then tell me why you have allowed this curse to come upon my parish.’