by Sara Fraser
‘You stay here, Master Benton, and keep still and silent,’ he whispered.
‘If Styler’s there, make sure you shoots the bastard afore he grabs you,’ Benton hissed in reply.
A cocked pistol in his right hand, the shielded lantern in his left, Tom trod cautiously as he moved slowly through the undergrowth. His heart was pounding and his breathing rapid and shallow from mingled excitement and fear.
When he reached the wall of the cottage he stepped to the side of the door, which to his surprise was slightly ajar. He stood holding his breath, his ear close to the gap between the door and doorpost, listening hard. All was silent within. He hesitated for long seconds, mentally castigating himself for his fearful reluctance to burst into the room and face whatever peril might be lurking within.
He opened the shutter of the lamp, dragged in a strained breath and burst into the room, swinging the lamp beam around the malodorous interior, shouting aloud, ‘Stand fast in the King’s Name or I shoot!’
On the earthen floor of the room was a large straw mattress with a coarse blanket and light-coloured sheets strewn across it. The only other furnishings were a broken-backed wooden chair and two three-legged stools. Skeletal remnants of what had been a plank partition divided the interior into two cramped compartments.
Slowly, the pounding of Tom’s heart began to lessen and his breathing eased as he swept the lamp beam slowly across the floor and walls.
Built into one wall was a small brick hearth, fire grate and chimney with a built-in iron grid and hooks for cooking pots to sit on or hang from. By the side of the hearth there were two iron cooking pots, some small earthenware bowls, wooden spoons and a large reed basket covered with a cloth.
Tom bent over the basket and lifted the cloth to disclose half a loaf of mouldy bread. He straightened and thought hard before returning to where Judas Benton was waiting.
‘Why was you so long in there?’ Benton demanded pettishly. ‘I was starting to think fuckin’ Styler had done for you!’
‘Well, he hasn’t,’ Tom snapped curtly as his intense dislike for this man momentarily came to the fore. ‘The place is deserted, but I need to make a thorough examination of it, so I’m going to wait here until daylight. You can go back home now.’
Benton scowled suspiciously. ‘Has you found some valuables in there that you don’t want me to know about?’
Tom’s temper fired, but he only shook his head and replied, ‘No! But if I do they’ll be brought before the court as evidence. Now just go, and I’ll come and speak with you when I’ve finished here.’ He waved his hand in dismissal, turned his back on the other man and walked away.
Benton bared his fangs in a vicious snarl, shook his fist at Tom’s retreating figure and, hissing foul abuse, also walked away.
In case Carrie Perks or Jared Styler might return, Tom could seek no respite in sleep, and the long hours waiting for daylight were a seemingly endless journey through the torments of his separation from Amy.
When Wednesday dawned, Tom felt intense relief that he could now begin physically investigating his surroundings and escape from his memories. He rose stiffly from the broken-backed chair and, after making sure that there was no one outside the door, went out himself.
He made a cautious circuit of the cottage, but found no signs and heard no sounds of human nearness. Impelled by urgent physical necessity he went into a dense thicket of bushes, pulled down his pantaloons and squatted to empty his bladder and bowels. By the time he had wiped his backside with leaves pulled from the bushes, and cleansed his hands by rubbing them through dew-wet grass, the sun had cleared the horizon.
Tom stood for some time savouring its strengthening rays and the full daylight they were bringing to his surroundings. He also relished the increasingly powerful thrill of the hunt that any exploration of fresh aspects of an investigation aroused in him. Now he was able to thrust away the melancholy of loss and centre his emotions on the task awaiting him within the cottage. He returned to its door whistling a jaunty marching tune he had learned as a boy in the military establishments where his beloved father had served.
As Tom stepped into the room it was immediately the makeshift bed on the floor that caught and held his attention. A slender ray of sunlight lancing through a small ragged gap in the thatched roof was striking the bedding upon the straw mattress and where it impacted, creating a luminous white shimmer of reflection.
Tom went to the mattress and knelt down, handling the stained white sheeting material.
‘It’s silk!’ The recognition surprised him. ‘How in Hell’s name does such costly fabric come to be used as sheeting for a pair of trampers?’
He separated two pieces of silk from the blanket and took them outside where there was space to spread them out on the ground. He judged that they both measured two yards long and one yard wide, and noted that they were composed of smaller pieces crudely sewn together. He lifted one, stared closely at it, then used his tongue to moisten and taste a patch of dark reddish-brown staining, drawing a sharp breath as he identified it to be blood. After careful scrutiny he found several more patches of dried blood on both pieces of sheeting.
He went back into the cottage, knelt to study the sack cover of the mattress itself and discovered another patch of dried blood. He then lifted the mattress and saw beneath it the now cracked and distorted plaster cast which had covered the broken nose of Carrie Perks.
He sighed regretfully, as this discovery could well confirm what he had suspected since finding the dried bloodstains: that Jared Styler had killed her!
Next, he spent a long time scrutinizing all parts of the walls and floor, pushing his hands into the gaps of the thatch above his head, feeling with his fingers for anything which might be hidden there, but they found nothing.
He went outside and began a search of the area surrounding the building moving in ever-widening circles, hunting for either the girl’s body or signs of disturbed earth where a burial might have been made.
An hour later, after finding several sizeable areas where the ground had been disturbed, Tom accepted that he’d best postpone this search until he had more available time and help.
He returned to the cottage, pocketed the cracked nose plaster, made a bundle of the silk pieces and the sack mattress cover and carried it back to the Lock-Up.
It was nearing midday and he was feeling the effects of a lack of sleep and food. But his lust for the hunt would not let him rest or eat, and as soon as the bundle and plaster cast were locked away he went immediately to the Red House.
When the manservant ushered Tom into the study, Joseph Blackwell’s lipless mouth quirked in a knowing smile, and his eyes sparked in shrewd recognition of the reason for this unarranged visit.
‘May I take it that you have identified a suspect for the Devil’s Monk murders, Constable Potts?’
‘Indeed you may, Sir,’ Tom confirmed quietly. ‘I request that you issue me with a warrant for Jared Styler’s arrest on suspicion of committing two murders and one attempted murder.’
Blackwell blinked in surprise. ‘How so, Constable?’
‘Well, Sir, I want to arrest Jared Styler on suspicion of the murders of Methuselah Leeson, and the girl, Carrie Perks, and for the attempted murder of the pawnbroker, Judas Benton. I’ve found nothing material as yet to tie him to the Haystack Woman’s murder. But Methuselah Leeson claimed to me that he had met the killer of the Haystack Woman on the night of her death. Could that killer be Jared Styler? Who, to ensure Leeson would never be able to identify him at some future chance meeting, came back and murdered and robbed the old man.’
Blackwell pursed his mouth and appeared deep in thought for a brief while. Then he pointed to one of the fireside chairs and told Tom, ‘Place that chair before my desk, but before you sit on it you’ll find in that cupboard there …’ he pointed to the wall cabinet, ‘… two bottles of claret, a jar of the finest American tobacco, some pipes and glasses and a box of Lucifer Friction Lights.’
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‘Lucifer Friction Lights?’ Tom was impressed. ‘I’ve heard that they are all the rage right across the country, even though costly to use.’
‘They will render flint, steel and tinder obsolete within a very few years,’ Blackwell stated positively. ‘And no doubt the ease of instantaneously striking a flame from a small thin stick of wood will send the rates of criminal arson attacks soaring to the heavens.’
Tom fetched the various articles and placed them on the desk.
Blackwell immediately filled the glasses with wine, stuffed the bowls of the churchwarden pipes with tobacco, and invited, ‘Now please sit down, Thomas Potts, and we shall drink, smoke and be comfortable while we discuss what justifiable evidence there is for my issuing you with these warrants.’
They were drinking the second bottle of claret and smoking their second pipes of tobacco when Blackwell signalled for a pause in their discussion, and Tom waited tensely.
Blackwell’s initial words came as a shock to Tom. ‘If I issue all these warrants, Constable, the first reaction of the generality of people will be that because of My Lord Aston’s public humiliation of you yesterday, you are now desperately clutching at straws to salvage your pride.’
‘Indeed I am not!’ Tom riposted indignantly. ‘Of course I’m greatly angered by what he did. But I swear upon my honour that my anger against him is not the reason I’ve come here to ask for these warrants. I truly do believe that there are sufficient grounds for arresting Styler on suspicion of committing these two murders, and also the attempted murder of Judas Benton.’
Blackwell smiled bleakly, and held up his palm in a gesture of mollification.
‘Well answered, Thomas Potts. Unhappily however, anonym-ous bloodstains and a discarded plaster cast for a nose are not proof enough to hang him for the murder of Carrie Perks. We need her corpse, or a witness, or his own confession. The snuffbox that was Methuselah Leeson’s property, and the fact that Judas Benton has kept record of the circumstances of his coming into its possession is promising for us. As is the alleged attempted murder of Benton by Styler.’
Blackwell abruptly closed his eyes, bent his head and rested his chin upon the points of his clasped and steepled fingers.
Tom fell silent, knowing from experience that any further words he spoke would be superfluous and he must restrain his impatience and wait for Blackwell to come to a decision.
After a short pause, Blackwell’s eyes opened, his head lifted and he said, ‘At this particular time I shan’t be able to obtain either of our magistrates’ signatures upon the warrants. The Reverend Timmins is travelling on the continent and My Lord Aston is at the Malvern Spa.’
Blackwell’s almost lipless mouth quirked in a sarcastic smile. ‘Taking the “Waters” to ease his gout! Or at least that is what he wants the world to believe. I happen to know he is taking treatment for another type of ailment altogether, which is an unhappy memento of his brief encounter with a fair damsel the last time he went on his travels. You say that Styler is currently employed as a Harvest Steward by Andrew Parkman. Well, now, Thomas Potts, that will most assuredly be of considerable interest to My Lord Aston. Therefore, you have my permission to arrest and hold in custody Jared Styler on suspicion of the robbery and murder of Methuselah Leeson and the attempted murder of Judas Benton. He can be formally charged when Lord Aston returns to the parish.’
Tom gusted a sigh of relief and nodded. ‘I’ll go to Parkman’s farm and arrest Styler immediately.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Many thanks for your hospitality, Sir. The claret and tobacco were as always of most superb quality.’
‘No! You will not go to Parkman’s immediately!’ Blackwell chopped his hand down in negation. ‘Jared Styler is a violent and dangerous man, and I will not unnecessarily risk your bodily safety. So you will go there tonight accompanied by Deputy Constable Bint, and make the arrest when Styler is sleeping and you can achieve complete surprise. That is an order, Constable Potts, and you will not question it.’
Tom couldn’t help but grin wryly and admit, ‘Yes, Sir, I do accept I would empty both my pistols into Styler if he attacked me and still be doubtful of overcoming him. So truth to tell, it’s an order I’ve no ardent wish to question.’
A wave of weariness washed over him and he couldn’t restrain a wide yawn, for which he immediately apologised. ‘Pray forgive my ill manners, Sir.’
‘Go and get some sleep, Constable Potts.’ Blackwell smiled. ‘You’ll need to be fresh for the fray tonight.’
TWENTY-THREE
Wednesday, early evening, 5 August, 1829
‘He’s back again!’ Maisie Lock announced excitedly as she came into the back parlour of the Fox and Goose, where Gertie Fowkes, her daughter Lily and Amy Potts were sitting at the table.
‘Who’s he?’ Amy Potts queried without much interest.
‘That good-looking Cockerney who was asking me all about meself the last time he come in!’ Maisie’s face was flushed with excitement. ‘You remember him, Amy – he said he was from London.’
‘Oh, you means that flash-dressed Cockney who was making sheeps’ eyes at Amy. Which he warn’t making at you, Maisie Lock,’ Lily Fowkes sneered.
‘He fancied both me and Amy,’ Maisie riposted huffily. ‘You was the one he warn’t taking any notice of, warn’t you, Lily. But that’s how it always is for you, aren’t it. No bloke even notices you when us two am around.’
‘That’s enough squabbling, you pair!’ Gertie Fowkes snapped curtly. ‘You acts like daft kids, you both does. Why can’t you be like Amy. She don’t act like a silly kid no matter how many blokes makes eyes at her. And anyway, what’s you doing in here, Maisie? Who’s looking after the Select Parlour?’
‘Master Tommy, and he’s sent me in here to tell you that Samuel Thomas is here with that Cockerney and another bloke.’
‘So, Sam Thomas is here, and he’s brought company.’ Gertie Fowkes smiled broadly. ‘We’ll be earning well tonight then. You’d best get in there a bit sharpish, Amy, because Old Sam likes pretty faces around him.’
Samuel Thomas, who had begun his working life as a mason’s labourer, had risen by his own efforts to become a very rich and successful Needle Master, and sole owner of the large modern mill at the base of the Fish Hill. Unlike his fellow Masters he had no interest in, nor any ambition for social advancement and ‘gentility’. His manners and speech were still that of a common labourer, his dress simple and unpretentious. But he was noted for his kindness to his workforce and his liberal spending when he entertained others.
Maisie Lock shook her head doubtfully. ‘You’d best hold here, Amy, because Sam Thomas has sent word for your husband to join him. So Master Tommy says that if you aren’t happy about your husband being there, and if Mrs Fowkes is agreeable to it, you can work in the Tap Room tonight.’
Amy instantly shook her head. ‘No, Mrs Fowkes, I don’t mind working in the Select. I’ve no bad feeling towards Tom, and I’m sure he’s none towards me.’ She grimaced with a hint of chagrin. ‘He always looks to be happy enough anyway, whenever I accidentally catches any glimpse of him.’
‘Accidentally catches any glimpse of him, do you say?’ Lily Fowkes challenged with greatly exaggerated surprise. ‘When you spends bloody hours at your bedroom window looking out for him to pass, and then makes any old excuse to run out into the road so he can see you!’
‘That’s enough from all o’ you!’ Gertie Fowkes snapped. ‘Now you get your glad rags on and work in the Select if that’s what you want to do, Amy, and you set about that bit o’ sewing I wants you to do, Lily.’
Tom was dozing fully dressed on his garret cot when the jangling bells roused him and brought him down to open the front door.
‘Master Samuel Thomas wants you to join him straight away over at the Fox and Goose. He says it’s very important,’ the messenger said, and immediately walked away from the door of the Lock-Up.
‘Did he say why he wanted me?’ Tom shouted after the retreating figure, o
nly to be answered by a silent wave of negation.
Tom donned his coat and hat and walked across the Green. As he came through the door of the Select Parlour of the Fox and Goose, Samuel Thomas pointed to the empty chair at the table where he was sitting with two companions, and then at the bottles and glasses on the tabletop.
‘Set your arse there, Tom Potts, and tell me what you wants to drink.’
‘Nothing as yet, I thank you,’ Tom politely declined as he sat down. ‘If you have urgent work for me to do then I’d best keep a clear head.’
‘There’s naught urgent, so you’ll have a drink wi’ me or I’ll be sore offended.’ The Needle Master mock-scowled threateningly.
‘Very well, to avoid giving you offence, I’ll have a glass of whatever is in this bottle.’ Tom accepted the invitation with a smile.
‘That’s better!’ Samuel Thomas grinned broadly and filled a glass with brandy which he placed in front of Tom, who immediately picked it up and took a drink.
His host applauded loudly and told his two companions: ‘There now, what did I tell you! This chap might look like a long, soft streak o’ piss, but I knows that he’s got the heart of a British lion and the brains to match, which he’s proved more than a few times since he’s been the constable o’ this parish.
‘Any bugger who causes any upset when we has our Grand Opening ’ull find themselves banged up in a bloody cell in two shakes of a mare’s tail. Because there won’t only be Constable Potts keeping watch. Constable Will Shayler from Studley, Deputy Constable Ritchie Bint and plenty o’ me own mill hands am going to be sworn in as Special Constables for the day as well.’
‘What is this Grand Opening, Master Thomas, and when is it to be?’ Tom queried.
‘It’s the opening of me own gasworks at me own mill.’ Samuel Thomas indicated the middle-aged man on his left hand. ‘Master Clegg has been building it for me and it’ll be up and running within the next couple o’ months. Aren’t that so, Master Clegg?’