by Sara Fraser
‘It is indeed so, Master Thomas,’ Clegg confirmed positively.
‘A gasworks!’ Tom was simultaneously shocked and greatly impressed. ‘Here in this town! My God, Master Thomas, I’ve heard that you were building something at your mill, but assumed it was merely new workshops and furnace facilities. There was nothing said about a gasworks.’
‘No, because Master Clegg and his workmen was all sworn to secrecy, and the works site was fenced off and covered so that nobody could see what was being built. My people was told it was going to be new workshops. But now with the gas pipes having to be run all over me mill and me house, the secret is out. I told me people before I come up here this morning that theym going to be working under the brightest lamps that’s ever been seen in this town. Lamps that’ll turn the darkest nights into sunny days.’
From behind the serving counter Tommy Fowkes had been listening intently, and now he came up to the group and exclaimed in fervid admiration, ‘I’ve known you ever since we was raggedy-arsed nippers going scrumping apples, Sam Thomas, and I got to say that I reckon youm bloody well amazing! There’s gasworks in London, there’s gasworks in Brummagem, and now you’ve brought a gasworks to the Needle District! Your mill ’ull look like a bloody great bonfire burning day and night down the bottom o’ the Fish Hill! There’ll be bloody thousands coming to gawk.’
‘That’s so.’ Samuel Thomas grinned broadly. ‘But I think that there’ll be tens o’ thousands coming to gawk when the word spreads about what’s going to mark the opening of my gasworks.’
‘And what might that be?’ Tommy Fowkes asked.
The Needle Master grinned at the handsome, black-haired, dandily dressed man at his right hand. ‘You can tell him yourself, Master Sorenty.’
Vincent Sorenty visibly preened and announced boastfully, ‘I am the foremost Aeronaut in the world, and I have designed and constructed the most modern and powerful balloon that the world has ever seen. I can guarantee that when it soars heavenwards it will have every country bumpkin in these backward parts rubbing their eyes and yelling their thick heads off.’
Maisie Lock and Amy had come into the Select Parlour and had been listening intently to the conversation. As Vincent Sorenty boasted they reacted with excited exclamations.
Tom turned his head towards them, and his stomach lurched sickeningly when he saw Amy’s eyes were shining admiringly upon the handsome Dandy.
‘And it’s my very own coal gas from my very own gasworks that going to be filling that balloon and carrying Vincent Sorenty up into the skies.’ Samuel Thomas beamed proudly. ‘And it’s going to be displaying a great big poster saying the name of the man paying for this flight! Samuel Thomas of Redditch! Who’s the foremost Needle Master in the world, and owns the most modern Needle Mill in the world.’
Although Tom disliked Sorenty’s arrogance and his contemptuous attitude towards the people of the Needle District, he still could not help but be impressed by the man’s claims, and asked, ‘Tell me, Master Sorenty, do you know the famous Aeronaut, Charles Green? My father had, and I have, a great interest in Aerostation, and my father was a close friend of Charles Green. He took me to meet and talk with that Gentleman many times.’
‘Of course I know Green. When he made his ascent last year from the Eagle Tavern in the City Road, seated on the back of a horse suspended by harness from the basket, I piloted his balloon.’
He expelled a hiss of derision. ‘Of course I sent him packing when he first asked me to fly it for him. Because his balloon was a crude, old-fashioned thing. But he begged and begged me because he does not trust any other Aeronaut to have the skills to carry him safely. So in the end I gave way to his pleading and agreed to help him.’
Sorenty paused, then with a smile that bordered upon a sneer, added: ‘Of course, poor old Charles must be aged forty-five years by now, and is well past his prime. His advancing years are weighing very heavily upon him.’
‘Not like you then, Master Sorenty,’ Maisie Lock gushed admiringly. ‘It’s plain to see that your years don’t number enough to weigh you down.’
‘That’s enough o’ your sauce, Maisie Lock! Youm offending Master Sorenty!’ Tommy Fowkes reprimanded.
‘No, indeed she is not, Master Fowkes,’ Sorenty contradicted. ‘In fact, I have to congratulate you on your great good fortune in having two such beautiful and spirited Young Ladies as Amy and Maisie in your service. They would be a great attraction to the public if they were serving as my Aeronaut Maidens, I do assure you.’
‘What does they do, them Maidens?’ Maisie questioned eagerly.
‘Oh, I train them to do a great many breathtaking artistic feats, which have the crowds cheering them till the heavens resound.’ Sorenty smiled across at Amy, who blushed and smiled back. ‘When I am next here, I will tell you, my lovely Amy, and you also, Maisie, all about my Aeronaut Maidens and the riches they earn.’
‘Will you give over now, Maisie, and take these Gentlemen’s orders for whatever they wants in the way of refreshments,’ Tommy Fowkes ordered sharply.
‘That’s right, you pretty minx, take our orders and put ’um all on my slate,’ Samuel Thomas chortled heartily, and told his companions, ‘And you’d all best eat and drink until youm filled to bursting, Gentlemen. I’ll be sorely offended if you don’t.’
Tom’s stomach had lurched sickeningly when he’d seen Amy blushing and smiling at the Aeronaut, and now one single impulse dominated him: the overwhelming need to escape from this room before he erupted with angry jealousy.
He rose and, exerting all his self-control, managed to bow to the Needle Master and tell him politely, ‘Unfortunately I must ask your pardon, Master Thomas, for being unable to accept your kind invitation. I have a very urgent task to fulfil which regrettably I cannot delay.’
‘Is it to do wi’ them Devil’s Monk murders?’ Samuel Thomas asked.
‘It is indeed, Sir. So I must bid you all farewell, Gentlemen.’ He bowed, turned away and, unable to risk looking at Amy, hastened from the room and out of the inn.
In the sky the quarter moon was beginning to show, and Tom welcomed its coming because it was bringing the night and forcing him to put Amy from the forefront of his thoughts and concentrate on the task ahead instead.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was midnight and in the cloudless, moonlit sky the air was still, while the remnants of the day’s intense heat were continu-ing to emanate from the hard-baked ground. There was no visible movement among the huddled buildings of Andrew Parkman’s farm. No glimmers of lamp or candlelight showing from the windows of the house, the arrow-slits of the barn or the pierced shutters of the varied storage sheds.
At their vantage point on the high ground, some forty yards distant to the south of the farm, the two men were crouched low, staring down at the buildings.
‘How the fuckin’ hell are we going to find where the bastard’s sleeping?’ Ritchie Bint hissed in frustration.
‘I’m sorry! This is my fault! I should have found out that fact before we came here!’ Tom apologised, guiltily accepting that his troubled thoughts had been too jealously distracted by Amy smiling and blushing at the Aeronaut.
The ghostly pale shape of a predatory barn owl swooped low over their heads and circled over the buildings below, moving ever lower towards the ground. Then suddenly it emitted a harsh cry and soared upwards.
‘Something’s scared it off!’ Bint declared. ‘Barn owls am always silent hunters, and that’s its warning cry.’
Even as he spoke he grabbed Tom’s arm and pointed to the barn. ‘Theym down there! They looks to be a bloke and wench!’
Tom peered hard at the black-etched figures. The much taller of the two appeared to be wearing breeches and the smaller what looked like a long skirt. They came to a halt and then the male figure suddenly grabbed the female figure, lifting her bodily from the ground and carrying her towards a small shed which was some distance from the remainder of the buildings.
‘Am you
thinking what I’m thinking?’ Bint queried excitedly.
Tom smiled grimly and nodded. ‘I think I am, Ritchie. That could be Styler getting up to his usual tricks with a woman.’
‘Well, we can find out about that in very short order. Let ’um get settled somewhere and then we’ll make our move.’ Bint grinned happily as he momentarily peeped inside the shield of the bullseye lamp to check that its flame still burned. ‘I’m looking forwards to seeing what this ’un throws a light on.’
‘Nooo! Noo! I don’t want you to do that! I don’t like it! Nooo! Youm hurting me! Stop it! Stop it! Nooo!’
As Tom and Ritchie Bint neared the shed the girl’s frantic protests grew shriller and then were abruptly cut short. Both of them broke into run and burst through the door. Ritchie Bint swung the lamp’s beam on to the writhing figures sprawled on the low mound of hay.
‘What the fuck!’ Jared Styler shouted as he rolled off the girl and tried to get to his feet, then grunted and collapsed as the brass-weighted pistol butt cracked into the side of his head.
‘Nice one, Tom!’ Ritchie Bint laughingly congratulated.
‘Don’t be afraid, my dear. We’re constables. We’ll not harm you!’ Tom tried to reassure the girl who was keening and shaking with terror. ‘You’re safe now. We’re constables. You’re safe!’
‘Quick! Get his hands behind his back and shove these on the bugger!’ Bint urged as he took manacles from his canvas knapsack and handed them to Tom.
Tom wrenched Styler’s hands rearwards and locked the close-chained iron rings around both wrists.
Bint proffered another set of longer-chained manacles. ‘Do his legs as well. Else he might try to kick us in the balls.’
By the time this second set was secured Styler was rapidly recovering his senses. Now crouching on hands and knees, blinking repeatedly against the beam of the lamp, as Tom told him, ‘Jared Styler, we are Constables, and I’m arresting you, in the King’s Name, for the murder and robbery of Methuselah Leeson and the attempted murder of Judas Benton.’
Styler shook his head and shouted, ‘Youm talking bollocks!’ He then urged the now-whimpering girl, ‘Run quick to Master Parkman, Jenny, and tell him what these stupid bleeders am doing to me!’
‘You’ve no need to, my dear,’ Tom told her, ‘because we’re going to take him directly to the house and speak to Master Parkman ourselves.’
Ritchie Bint thudded his boot into the manacled man’s bare buttocks and jeered. ‘On your feet, Styler, and I’ll pull your britches up for you. Else you’ll be mocked at by everybody who catches sight of your prick. Your new wench must be as tight as a flea’s arsehole if that miserable little worm o’ yours was hurting her.’
‘Hold your tongue, Ritchie, and show some decency towards the girl!’ Tom ordered sharply. Then said gently to Jenny Tolley, ‘If you want, my dear, you may remain here until you are calmer. I shall be keeping your friend in the Redditch Lock-Up for some time to come, and you may visit him there if you so wish.’
After continuous hammering on its panels the front door of the farmhouse opened and Andrew Parkman, wearing a long-tasselled nightcap and voluminous nightshirt, appeared in the narrow doorway. While behind him in the passage, a covey of candle-bearing, mob-capped, blanket-swathed women were straining their necks, bending and crouching in their efforts to see through the gaps in the doorway unfilled by the farmer’s bulk.
Tom hastily explained the reason for his being there, and Parkman exploded in furious protest.
‘You can’t take my Harvest Steward to the Lock-Up when we’re in the middle of the bloody harvesting. Where the bloody hell did you get the bloody stupid notion that he’s murdered bloody Methuselah Leeson? Who’s been filling your bloody thick head wi’ such a bloody cock and bull tale? I’ll break their bloody heads for ’um when I finds out who they are!’
‘All will be revealed when Styler comes to trial, Master Parkman. Suffice to say that I have sufficient evidence to arrest him at this time,’ Tom informed quietly.
‘And what if I don’t intend to let you take my Harvest Steward from me?’ Parkman scowled threateningly. ‘What if I takes them bloody chains off him and wraps the buggers round your scrawny neck?’
As always when faced with raging hostility and the threat of violence, Tom’s heart pounded sickeningly and nervous tension enveloped him. But by sheer willpower he betrayed none of this and managed to counterfeit a calm confidence.
‘Should you make any such attempt, then Deputy Constable Bint and myself will arrest you also, Master Parkman. So I would strongly advise you against impeding officers of the King’s Law who are fulfilling their lawful duties in the King’s Name.’
Parkman stood drawing in long, rasping breaths, his head sporadically jerking. Then, to Tom’s shock, the farmer bared his broken, tobacco-browned teeth in a snarling grin and hissed, ‘Oh yes, youm an officer of the King’s Law right enough, Constable Potts. But I’m very close to another officer of the King’s Law, who’s a bloody sight higher in rank than you.’
He paused to give emphasis to his next words before announcing triumphantly, ‘I’m a tenant of My Lord Aston, and he’s very caring of me because this farm pays him one o’ the highest rents in the county. He looks after me like I was his kinsman.’
There instantly sprang into Tom’s mind the words of Joseph Blackwell when he had spoken about Andrew Parkman employing Styler … ‘Upon my word, Thomas Potts, that will most assuredly be of considerable interest to My Lord Aston.’
Tom hadn’t known until this moment that this farm was owned by Lord Aston, and now he couldn’t help but smile with ironic amusement and mentally acknowledge: You cunning old bugger, Blackwell. You were savouring the fact that what I’m now doing will give both you and I the great satisfaction of annoying that arrogant bastard!
Parkman saw Tom’s smile and erupted again. ‘You’ll be grinning on the other side of your bloody face when I tells My Lord Aston what you’re doing to ruin my harvesting!’
Tom immediately apologised. ‘I am truly regretful if my actions here are hindering your harvesting, Master Parkman, but I am carrying out my lawful duty in arresting this man. Now I must also request that you hand over to me whatever personal possessions he has here on your property.’
Parkman shook his head and declared, ‘His personal possessions are in the bedroom he uses in my house. And until you gets a magistrates’ warrant to enter my house and take ’um, his personal possessions stays in my safekeeping.’
Knowing he hadn’t sufficient legal grounds to force entry, Tom shrugged and turned away from the other man. ‘Let’s take our new guest to his new quarters, shall we, Deputy Constable Bint.’
‘You’ll find no girl in them quarters, my Bucko.’ Ritchie Bint laughed and, jerking on Jared Styler’s wrist manacles, led him away.
‘Don’t you be worrying, Jared,’ Andrew Parkman shouted after the trio. ‘When Lord Aston hears about this you’ll be out of the bloody cell and them two stupid bastards ’ull be inside it.’
From the moment he had been led out of the shed, Jared Styer had not uttered a single word, and during the long walk to the Lock-Up he remained silent.
While putting his prisoner into a cell, Tom said, ‘Are you thirsty? I’m prepared to give you a cup of ale.’
‘I want no ale from you, Potts. Just take these off me.’ Styler shook his wrist manacles.
‘All right,’ Tom agreed. ‘Turn round and get down on your knees.’
‘And if you makes one wrong move, I’ll bust your bloody jaw,’ Ritchie Bint added warningly.
Styler turned and went down on to his knees. Tom unlocked the wrist manacles, left the cell and bolted and padlocked its door.
Jared Styler shouted threateningly, ‘I knows your face, Bint. And when Lord Aston gets me out of here we’ll see whose jaw gets bust, won’t we?’
Later, as Tom and his friend parted at the front door of the Lock-Up, Ritchie Bint asked, ‘What’s your next move, Matey?’<
br />
‘Well, I want to inform Judas Benton about Styler’s arrest. Then take this snuffbox to Nellie Leeson for her to identify it. After that, resume the search for Carrie Perks’s body. But I can’t do anything until I have somebody to keep watch on Styler.’
‘Well, I can’t afford to help you do any o’ that search.’ Bint grinned. ‘But I’ll kip for a few hours then come back and watch over Styler while you finds somebody else to act as Turnkey here. As soon as you gets one, I’ll have to get on me saddle double-quick and point an awful lot o’ needles to make up me loss o’ wages. Now you go to bed yourself, Tom, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
As Tom watched the other man walk away, he yet again acknowledged his great good fortune in having this loyal, tough, fearless Needle Pointer as his deputy.
TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, 6 August, 1829
Tom stirred into wakefulness at the ringing of the early ‘Waking Bells’ and, for the first time since Amy had let him, welcomed the advent of a new day.
‘I’ve got the Devil’s Monk in a cell, and he’s going to pay the price for what he’s done. Surely this will soften Amy towards me.’
He followed his customary toilette routine, washing, shaving and cleaning his teeth at the pump, and when fully dressed and booted went to Jared Styler’s cell and opened the foot-square door hatch.
Styler stood up from the raised stone sleeping slab and stepped to the hatch, demanding, ‘Come to your senses, have you, Potts? Come to let me go free, have you?’
‘No!’ Tom replied flatly. ‘I’ve come to take you to the privy if you have need of it.’
‘I does.’
‘Then turn round, put your hands behind you and poke them through the hatch.’
‘Listen, Potts, I aren’t got any thought o’ trying to harm you and then doing a runner. And me legs am already chained, arn’t they. So you’ve no need to chain me hands behind me. All I’m wanting is for you to let me take a shit and be able to wipe me own arse afterwards.’