The Devil's Monk

by Sara Fraser

  ‘Also, My Lord, may I respectfully request that you permit Deputy Constable Bint to help me escort them back to Alcester.’

  Aston leered. ‘Permission granted, Constable, and you and Bint also have my permission to boot these scum up their arses all the way back to Alcester, and after their committal, then all the way to the Warwick Gaol.’

  An outburst of jeering laughter and applause erupted from the audience as the constable led the trio out of the room. Lord Aston allowed it to continue as he poured himself another glass of wine and gulped it with patent satisfaction.

  At the hour of eight o’clock down on Lower Bordesley Farm, Jenny Tolley led a donkey pulling a small cart along the river bank path and through the open gate of the field where the Sickle Gang were working. As she passed through the gate she aggressively challenged Judas Benton, who was leaning against the gatepost grinning lasciviously at her.

  ‘You needs to pack in gawping at me like that. My friend up there on the horse is the boss here, and he’ll learn you some manners double quick if I says the word to him.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a friend of Master Jared Styler are you, me duck. Well, that being the case I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, and I’m truly sorry if I’ve angered you in any way.’ Benton lifted his tall hat and bowed apologetically. Then asked politely, ‘Could you please do me a favour and ask Master Styler if he could spare a little time to have a private word with me. You can say that I promise him it’ll be very much to his pecuniary advantage to do so.’

  ‘What’s that word, pecunn-whatever?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘No matter, me duck.’ He waved his hand in casual dismissal. ‘If you just say it’ll be worth money to him, I reckon that’ll serve just as well.’

  She walked on and he resumed leaning against the gate-post.

  ‘Here’s your breakfast coming,’ Jared Styler told the workers. ‘Finish the stooks you’re cutting and then knock off.’

  He turned his horse and walked it down the slope to meet the oncoming donkey cart, and when he neared it shouted: ‘What’s you brought us, Jenny?’

  ‘Freshly baked bread, cheese, onions, a big bucket of mutton and turnip stew, and a keg of ale,’ the girl shouted back and smiled mischievously. ‘And a chance to make your fortune.’

  He reached her and, as they both halted, queried curiously, ‘What was that last thing you said?’

  She giggled and turned to point at the gate. ‘That bloke down there says that if you’ll have a word with him he’ll make you your fortune.’

  ‘Did he now.’ Jared Styler peered hard at the top-hatted figure leaning against the gatepost. ‘And did he tell you what I must do to earn it?’

  ‘No, he never.’ Jenny Tolley shook her head, then preened flirtatiously. ‘But I’ve always said that if a man with a fortune came a’courting me, he’d have a lot more chance of winning my hand than if he hadn’t got one.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, I’d best go and have that word with him straight away.’ Styler chuckled and kicked his horse into a fast trot down the slope.

  Now that the moment of confrontation with this violent man was here, Judas Benton’s heart began to beat rapidly. His right hand moved into his coat pocket to grip the butt of the pistol and he moved away from the gateway to stand on the river bank pathway.

  As Jared Styler reined in, recognition came to him with the memory of the day he had sent Carrie Perks to pawn the snuffbox, and he demanded, ‘Why d’you want to speak with me, Master Pawnbroker?’

  Benton coughed to ease the nervous constriction in his throat. ‘I wants to speak with you, Master Styler, about something which could be very profitable for both of us.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘The treasure that Methuselah Leeson found. I know you’ve got it hid away somewhere.’

  For a few seconds Styler stared impassively into Benton’s eyes, then his head went back, his mouth gaped wide and he roared with laughter.

  Benton’s own jaw dropped and he could only stare at the other man in totally shocked bewilderment.

  Still roaring with laughter, Styler kicked his horse into sudden movement and its weight smashed into Benton, sending him staggering backwards and toppling into the river.

  The combined effects of heatwave and drought had made the river levels low, and Benton landed on his side in thick mud and water less than a foot high. Frantically scrabbling with hands and feet, he managed to eventually struggle back up the steep bank and on to the pathway, where he collapsed face down, dragging in wheezy gasps of air.

  Jared Styler didn’t wait to watch what Benton was doing, but rode back up the field to where his gang were sitting eating and drinking. As he dismounted, Jenny Tolley hastened to bring him a platter of food and a tankard of ale.

  ‘Here you are, Master Styler. You sit yourself down and have some breakfast. I’ve tried to pick the best bits for you. When are you going to make your fortune then?’

  He took her offerings and grinned. ‘Not today, my wench, that’s for sure.’

  TWENTY

  Tuesday, noon, 4 August, 1829

  The Special Sessions proceedings were drawing to a close. The Constable of Bromsgrove had presented a prisoner who had deserted his wife and children, leaving them to be supported by Parish Relief, and Lord Aston had given permission for the man to be taken back to be dealt with by the Bromsgrove Magistrates.

  Lord Aston’s permission was also given to William Shayler, Constable of Studley, who had apprehended two suspected horse thieves, whom he would escort to appear before the Warwick bench, and to the Constable of Henley in Arden, who had arrested a deserter from the army, who would also be taken before the Warwick bench.

  All of the constables had immediately departed with their prisoners after receiving their permissions.

  The last remaining prisoner, escorted by Tom, was now standing before Lord Aston. He was heavily bearded, clothed in filthy rags and skeletally gaunt.

  ‘Hold on for a moment, Constable Potts,’ Joseph Blackwell requested, and then informed Lord Aston. ‘This final prisoner, My Lord, was found by Constable Potts lying on a grave in the chapel yard in the early hours of this morning. The man appears to be wandering in his senses, and could give no account of himself to Constable Potts, who then took him into custody for the man’s own protection. Constable Potts has brought him before you to request that you will commit the unfortunate creature to be secured in safety in our Poorhouse. To remain confined there until such time as the Parish Vestry can meet to determine what should best be done to help him.’

  Aston scowled and drawled sneeringly, ‘How blessed the people of this parish are to have such a benevolent soul as Thomas Potts protecting them in his post as Constable of Tardebigge Parish. This morning five constables have appeared before this bench who have done their lawful duty and arrested violent, thieving rogues. A duty which protected we, the loyal, law-abiding subjects of His Majesty from the depredations of law-less scum. Constable Thomas Potts, however, afforded none of those constables any physical assistance in arresting these dangerous rogues. Constable Thomas Potts obviously had other fish to fry. Such as holding in his personal custody a helpless, harmless simpleton.’

  Aston paused and, taking a folded broadsheet from his pocket, made a great show of opening the paper out and smoothing across his knees.

  The roomful of people were silent, avidly intent. Behind the serving counter the faces of Tommy Fowkes and his three female helpers displayed varying emotions.

  Tommy and Lily Fowkes were smiling maliciously. Amy Potts was staring anxiously at her husband, while Maisie Lock, after glancing at her friend’s troubled expression, directed an angry glare at Tom Potts.

  Aston held the broadsheet up, displaying the crude picture of the Devil’s Monk to his audience. Slowly shaking his head from side to side, his pendulous swollen jowls wobbled in concert as he proclaimed in a tone of despairing sadness, ‘Ladies and Ge
ntlemen, I expect many of you have already perused this account of these foul, evil murders which have struck dread and fear throughout the length and breadth of our beloved parish. I have no doubt that all of you share my own fervent wish, that rather than wasting his time arresting helpless, harmless simpletons, Constable Thomas Potts should instead devote himself solely to the pursuit and arrest of the Devil’s Monk! The vile fiend who slaughtered these poor, helpless victims. The same vile fiend who remains free to slaughter any one of us or our families. This Devil’s Monk!’

  After an instant of silence the room erupted with foot-stamping and hand-clapping. There were bellowed cheers and plaudits for Lord Aston and jeers and insults directed at Tom, who could only grit his teeth and struggle to keep his face impassive, while in his mind a furious loathing for Lord Aston was raging.

  Amy covered her face with her hands and ran out of the room, and Maisie went after her.

  Grim-faced, Joseph Blackwell rose from his desk, came to Tom and ordered, ‘Go immediately and take this fellow to the Poorhouse, Constable Potts. Tell the Master that I’ve authorized the committal and will have the documentation delivered to him tomorrow.’

  Lord Aston, grinning broadly, poured himself another glass of wine and lifted it in a congratulatory toast to the crowd before gulping it down.

  As Tom led the vagrant out from the hostile tumult he looked for Amy, and felt relief that she was no longer in the room. Yet at the same time he was racked with bitter shame that she had witnessed this public humiliation.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tuesday, dusk, 4 August, 1829

  When the Lock-Up bells jangled Tom’s only desire was to ignore the summons and remain in the darkly shadowed kitchen alcove. The shame of the humiliation he had endured that morning in the Fox and Goose still tormented him, and his anger against Lord Aston and the hostile, jeering crowd still burned.

  But the ruthless self-honesty which was an integral part of his character also impelled him to acknowledge that if he had been spectator instead of target that morning, he would have accepted that the hostile reaction of the crowd was understandable: ‘This killer might strike again at any moment, and I’m failing to find a single clue as to identity. Of course, the locals are fearful and angry.’

  The bells jangled again and Tom sighed ruefully. ‘Ah, well, duty calls.’

  He used flint, steel and tinder to light a lamp and went with it to open the front door.

  ‘Don’t shine that bloody lamp in me face!’ Judas Benton snapped. ‘Let me in, for God’s sake!’

  He pushed past Tom and urged, ‘Close the bloody door, will you! I don’t want anybody to see me here!’

  Tom closed it and again shone the lamp beams on to the other man, noting the caked dried mud on his clothing, hands and face. But only queried, ‘Where’s your hat, Master Benton?’

  ‘Drowned in the bloody river, where I’d have bloody drowned as well if that murdering bastard, Jared Styler, had had his way.’

  Tom’s heart rate quickened and excitement kindled. ‘You’d best come and sit down, Master Benton, and tell me exactly what’s happened to you.’ He led the other man to the alcove, and seated him before asking, ‘What has Jared Styler done to you, Master Benton? And why has he done it?’

  ‘The bastard’s tried to murder me, like he murdered Methuselah Leeson!’ Benton shouted agitatedly.

  Tom’s heart thudded violently, and he was forced to draw a deep breath before he could ask: ‘Have you proof that Styler murdered Methuselah Leeson?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes!’ Benton’s head nodded jerky affirmation with each repetition of the words.

  ‘And what is that proof?’ Tom interrupted the constant repetitions.

  ‘This for starters!’ Benton pulled a silver snuffbox from his pocket and thrust it into Tom’s hands. ‘Just open it and look hard underneath the lid.’

  Tom did so, holding the box close to the lamp, squinting his eyes to centre on the tiny letters. He then drew his breath sharply as he deciphered the name. ‘Matthias Leeson.’

  ‘How did you come by this box?’ he questioned Benton.

  ‘It was the Saturday before last, and the Finish Bells had been rung a few minutes afore, so the work folks were coming to do their shopping. I was outside me shop and I noticed a couple further up the hill who looked to be having a row. I saw the bloke hand the wench this box, and then I went back into the shop. Then the wench come in and wanted to pawn this box. I asked her the usual questions, and she told me her name was Smith and that she was born and bred in Brummagem. She said this was her dad’s box, and her dad was Brummagem born and bred as well.

  ‘Then I asked her if the bloke I’d seen her with was her dad, and she said no, it was her friend. Then why had he got the box in his pocket? I asked her. She said he was keeping it for her in case she might be robbed by somebody … And the reason she was now in Redditch was to look for work and lodgings. O’ course, by that time I’d already twigged that she was telling me a pack o’ lies about her being Brummagem born and bred. I knew from her speech she was most likely born and bred down Alcester way.’ Benton paused, and asked, ‘Can you give me a drink? Me throat’s that dry and sore it’s paining me to speak.’

  As Tom selected a tankard from the cupboards and filled it with ale from the trestle-borne keg, he deliberately slowed the process to give himself time to calm his own excitement and to marshal his thoughts.

  Up to this point he judged that Benton’s story bore the ring of truth, and from what he had been told about Styler’s character the man was capable of violence which could prove to be lethal. But although this lead looked very promising, Tom bore in mind that it was still only a promising lead.

  While Benton was taking his first mouthfuls from the tankard, Tom asked, ‘Why did it take you so long to discover that this box was inscribed with Matthias Leeson’s name?’

  Benton swallowed, belched, then stated bluntly, ‘It didn’t! I found the name on it the very same day when I had the time to check it carefully.’

  Tom was taken aback and could only exclaim, ‘Then why in Hell’s name didn’t you come and tell me that you’d taken pawn of a snuffbox which Methuselah Leeson’s wife said had been stolen from him?’

  The other man scowled and snarled, ‘Because I saw the opportunity to restore my good name in this parish, after what me cursed brother did to drag it into the mud. I know what you thinks of me, Potts, and I wanted to show you how wrong you am about me. So I decided to bring to justice whoever had killed Methuselah Leeson by myself. And I’ve fuckin’ well done it, aren’t I!’ He grinned triumphantly. ‘While you’ve been buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly and getting nowhere, I’ve tracked down and discovered who the fuckin’ killer is. So that’s fucked you up your arse, aren’t it! And after Styler’s been hung I shall demand you to make a public apology to me for bad-mouthing me like you’ve done these past couple of years!’

  ‘If Styler is guilty then I most certainly will give you all the credit you deserve for bringing him to justice, Master Benton.’ Tom meant what he said. ‘But tell me why Styler attacked you today? Did you accuse him of killing Leeson?’

  The other man bared his rat-like fangs in a sneering grin and scoffed, ‘To ask me that shows why you’re no fuckin’ use as a constable.’ His tone became boastful. ‘O’ course I never accused him. I’m too bloody sharp-witted to do that. What I did was to let him know that I knew he’d got Methuselah Leeson’s treasure hidden away, and then I told him that if he wanted to make good money from it he should let me deal with the business side o’ things.’

  ‘And what did he say to your offer?’ Tom queried.

  ‘He looked fritted to death, and he shouted at me to tell him how I’d found out what he’d done to Leeson,’ Benton declared. ‘And the next second he went fuckin’ mad and did his best to kill me. He knocked me into the river to drown me, but I landed on the mud in the shallows. He was going to come down the bank at me, but I pulled this
out and it fritted him off.’

  Benton took the muddied pistol from his pocket and brandished it. ‘If I hadn’t had this with me I’d be a dead man now.’

  ‘Was his sweetheart with him when all this was going on?’ Tom questioned.

  Benton shook his head. ‘He never took her with him to Parkman’s farm. But I know where they’ve been lodging because I followed them both there on the day of the Hiring Fair. That’s if he aren’t killed and buried her to keep her silent about the murder he’s done, because when I was hiding and watching the cottage they’d gone into, I could hear her screaming and begging him to stop battering her.’

  For brief moments Tom mulled over what action he should take, and the memory of his morning’s humiliation impelled his reaction. ‘Take me to that cottage, Master Benton. I need to speak with her this very night.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Give me the chance to finish me drink and have a bit of a rest, will you!’ Benton protested.

  ‘You’ll rest all the easier when Jared Styler is locked in one of my cells, Master Benton. Because if you have told me the truth, Styler will already be planning how he’ll shut your mouth for good.’

  Benton instantly gulped the tankard empty and stood up.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tuesday, 4 August, 1829

  It was nearing midnight, and no light or sound was coming from the small, single-storied cottage as the two men approached. Tom led his companion into the undergrowth then loaded and primed the brace of pistols slung in separate holsters across his chest. Next he checked that the low-turned wick in his shielded bullseye lantern was still alight.