The Devil's Monk

by Sara Fraser

  Both men gratefully thanked him as they tied the pouches around their heads.

  ‘Where’s your own pouch, Master Smout?’ John Clayton enquired.

  ‘Phooo! I’ve no need.’ Smout expelled a dismissive snort. ‘I’se been pickled in dead ’uns stink for more years than I cares to remember. Now I’se already took the nails out o’ the door, and we needs to get him out as quick and quiet as we can. Because if we wakes any of the neighbours up, we’ll have ’um all out here jabbering like loonies and getting in our way.’

  Leaving the handcart and moving as quietly as possible they went into the cottage, and were enveloped by a stench that seemed to force its way through their very pores. Tom opened the lamp shield to illuminate the dead man lying face upwards on blanket-draped, boarded trestles. Accustomed as he was to look upon and physically handle corpses, he still drew in a sharply hissing intake of disgust.

  Methuselah Leeson’s face was hideously bloated and blackish-green in colour, his naked body grotesquely ballooned by gases, its soft tissues in the process of disruption and liquefaction which had created cavities oozing blood and pus over the outer layering of skin.

  Being by far the physically strongest of the trio, John Clayton instructed, ‘Tom, Master Smout, take a corner each of the feet end of the blanket. I’ll take the head.’

  Tom extinguished the lamp and they lifted the makeshift stretcher and carried the dead man back to the handcart. Tom and John Clayton wheeled it away while Hector Smout went to secure the cottage door. When he rejoined them at the graveyard gate they carried the corpse to the waiting grave and lowered it down to the lidless coffin which they had placed at the bottom of the shallow shaft.

  As they had anticipated, the corpse was so swollen that only parts of it sank into the coffin. As gently as possible they lowered the coffin lid down upon the visible remains and, using the shovels that Hector Smout had brought in readiness, the three of them filled the grave.

  John Clayton conducted a burial service and, satisfied that they had given Methuselah Leeson the laying to rest that was his due, the three men shook hands and parted, Hector Smout returning to his cottage and Tom Potts and John Clayton wheeling the handcart back up towards the town.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Friday, 7 August, 1829

  At eight o’clock in the morning Maisie Lock brought over the breakfast of bacon cobs and a large jug of porter. As Tom took the basket and jug from her at the door, she slipped past him and walked down the passage, asking excitedly, ‘Which cell is the Devil’s Monk in? I wants to have a look at the bloody animal.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait until he comes to trial for that,’ Tom told her curtly.

  ‘Youm a mean nasty bugger, you am, Tom Potts!’ She flared petulantly. ‘It’s no wonder poor Amy left you. Her ought never to have wed you in the first place.’

  ‘Just go away, Maisie,’ he snapped.

  She flounced away through the door, shouting, ‘That good-looking Cockerney’s took a strong fancy to her, and she’ll be down in London with him before very long! Living and dressing like a queen! Not like the pauper her was when she was living wi’ you, you lanky streak of piss!’

  Maisie Lock’s personal insults didn’t trouble Tom, but the mention of Vincent Sorenty brought back the troubled memory of Amy’s blushing cheeks and shining eyes when the Aeronaut had spoken to her.

  Dear God, he thought, what will I do if she does go to London with him? I’m only able to bear this situation now because I can still hope that she’ll return to me one day. Please God, let her come back to me.

  ‘Potts, will you take me out to the privy?’

  Tom felt almost grateful for Jared Styler’s shouted request because it distracted him from his troubled thoughts of Amy. He unlocked and opened the rear door, fetched his constable’s staff then concentrated his all attention on the prisoner as he unlocked the cell door and ordered, ‘Move slowly, Styler, and keep your distance.’

  As he exited the cell, Jared Styler questioned, ‘Why aren’t you lot been making money by letting folks have a gawk at me?’

  ‘Because this is a Lock-Up, not a fairground freak show,’ Tom answered curtly. ‘Now walk slowly ahead of me.’

  The other man obeyed, his leg manacles clanking as he shuffled towards the rear door, turning his head to ask, ‘Why did you say what you said to me about Carrie Perks?’

  ‘Because I know that you killed her.’

  ‘What?’ Styler halted and, shouting furiously, swung round to face Tom. ‘Youm a fuckin’ loony, you am, Potts. I aren’t killed Carrie Perks, nor Old Leeson, nor any other bugger! Youm a fuckin’ loony if you thinks that I’m a fuckin’ murderer!’

  George Maffey came hurrying down from the upper floor, wielding a lead-weighted cudgel and shouting to Tom, ‘Shall I discipline him, Sir?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No, let him be for the moment, Corporal. I’m curious to hear what else he might have to say.’

  Styler was now dragging in long harsh breaths, baring his teeth like a threatening animal and continually shaking his head in denial.

  Tom decided to bait him into further reaction. ‘You thought that Carrie Perks’s body would never be found, didn’t you, Styler? But when I searched that cottage at Ipsley I found her blood on those pieces of silk and the mattress. I also found the plaster that Doctor Laylor had fashioned to cover her broken nose. That broken nose that I myself witnessed you inflicting.’

  Styler’s head stilled, his jaw dropped in shock and he could only gasp, ‘Youm telling me that Carrie’s dead? Where is her? Take me to her!’

  ‘The only place you’re being taken to is the privy, and then back to your cell,’ Tom snapped. ‘Now move on.’

  He tensed, half-expecting the other man to disobey. But again, shaking his head and now muttering inaudibly, Styler obeyed.

  Tom signalled to George Maffey and they walked side by side behind the prisoner.

  When Styler was secured back in his cell, Tom placed food and a tankard of porter on the flat surface of the opened door hatch.

  ‘Here’s your breakfast. When you’ve finished drinking put the tankard back on here.’

  He received no answer, so went and sat with George Maffey in the kitchen alcove and they took their own breakfasts.

  The current behaviour of Jared Styler was giving Tom much thought, and eventually he asked his companion, ‘Tell me, Corporal, what do you think about Styler’s reaction when I spoke of the girl, Perks, being dead?’

  ‘Well, he did look to be real shocked, Sir. But it could well ha’ been shock that you’d found her body when he believed he’d hidden it too well for it ever to be seen again.’

  Tom sighed pensively. ‘That’s the trouble, Corporal. I’m going to need the Devil’s own luck to find her, and unless I do I’ve got no proof of her death.’

  He sighed again and stood up. ‘Now I’m going to the Poorhouse, and tell Nellie Leeson that we’ve given her husband a Christian burial. So I’ll bid you farewell for the present.’

  Some two and a half miles to the west of Redditch Town, the Tardebigge Parish Poorhouse stood isolated beyond the straggling village of Webheath. The large semi-derelict building was currently housing more than sixty of the casualties of Fate. Paupers too old or enfeebled to care for themselves. Younger people who were physically crippled or mentally afflicted. Abandoned wives and children, pregnant unmarried girls, orphans and infant foundlings.

  Despite the bright afternoon sunshine Tom’s spirits, as always, momentarily dipped as he reached its gothic-arched entrance door and, as always, prayed silently. Dear God, I beg that I don’t have to end my days in here.

  He reached for the lion-headed door knocker, but his fingertips had only touched it when the door swung inwards and a female voice commanded, ‘Be good enough to step aside, Sir, and let my Young Ladies pass through.’

  Tom obeyed, and four small girls emerged, walking in single file, all wearing grey bonnets and dresses bearing the large lette
rs ‘TP’ painted in red. The emblem of the Tardebigge Parish Pauper.

  They were followed by a short, sturdy-bodied woman wearing a severe black dress and a man’s slouched hat and hobnail boots.

  ‘Stay, Girls!’ she commanded, and as the small girls halted she smiled at Tom.

  ‘Good Afternoon, Master Potts. Me and these Young Ladies am just off to Lame Ben Mitchell’s house to do a bit o’ dancing. He normally comes here to play for us, but he’s sent word that his legs is bad today, so we’re going up to him. Aren’t that so, Girls?’

  ‘Yes, Missus,’ they chorused in unison.

  For Tom, the best features of this Poorhouse were its Master and Mistress, Edwin Lewis and his wife, Hilda, who, in stark contrast to many in their positions countrywide, used the sparse resources the Vestry allowed them to the best advantage for their powerless inmates.

  ‘Good Afternoon, Mistress Lewis.’ He smiled. ‘Would it be possible for me to speak with Nellie Leeson?’

  Hilda Lewis grimaced sympathetically. ‘Well, you’re more than welcome to speak with the poor soul, Master Potts. But whether you’ll get any sense out of her, it’s hard to say. None of us here have been able to.’

  She turned her head and shouted through the door. ‘Will somebody please come here and take Master Potts to see Nellie Leeson.’ She then told Tom: ‘There’ll be somebody here directly, Master Potts, but me and my Young Ladies have got to get on to our dancing. So we all bid you a Good Day. Mind your manners, Girls!’

  The girls curtseyed in unison, chorusing, ‘Good Day to Your Honour!’

  Tom lifted his tall hat and bowed. ‘I bid all you Young Ladies a very Good Day, and my hopes that you’ll have a most enjoyable time of your dancing.’

  The girls walked on in pairs, chattering and giggling excitedly and taking backward glances at Tom.

  ‘You’ve made their day giving them that Gentlemanly bow, Master Potts.’ Hilda Lewis beamed and followed her charges.

  It was Edwin Lewis who came in answer to his wife’s shout. A middle-aged, powerfully built man with the upright bearing of the veteran soldier he once was. He and Tom had an amicable relationship.

  ‘I’m glad to have this opportunity to congratulate you on catching the Devil’s Monk, Master Potts.’ He shook Tom’s hand. ‘I’ve met up with Jared Styler meself a couple of times in the past, but to be fair I found him civil spoken enough. I was surprised to hear he’s been doing this killing and robbing.’

  He led Tom upstairs to the cramped room where Nellie Leeson, dressed in a nightgown and mob cap was sitting upright in a narrow cot, her fingers toying with the blanket, her eyes staring blankly down and her lips moving but only unintelligible mumblings coming from them.

  Two old crones were perched side by side on a wooden bench facing her, both of them champing noisily on short-stemmed clay pipes.

  ‘As you brung us firing for our bacca, Master?’ one of the crones demanded. ‘Me and Jess am bloody well dying for a spit and smoke!’

  ‘Ahrr, that’s right, that is! You swore you’d bring us firing for our bacca if we looked after Nellie, didn’t you? And you bloody well aren’t done it, has you! Youm a bloody vile, cruel Master, you am!’ her companion scolded.

  ‘Stop bullying me, will you! I’ve got your firing with me.’ Edwin Lewis grinned good-naturedly and produced flint, steel and tinder box. He quickly struck the sparks which ignited the tinder and used miniature tongs to transfer shards of flaming tinder to light their pipes.

  They both greedily sucked in and expelled clouds of strong-smelling smoke, grunting and beaming in toothless satisfaction.

  Tom looked closely at Nellie Leeson, who had shown no reaction to the newcomers or the exchanges between the crones and Edwin Lewis.

  ‘Hello, Nellie, do you know me?’ he asked her.

  Again she showed no reaction, and he repeated his greeting twice more with the same results.

  He turned to the crones. ‘Tell me, Mistresses, has she said anything at all to either of you?’

  It was Jess who answered. ‘Not to us, her aren’t. But a couple o’ times her shouted out, “I’m real sorry, but it’s your own fault for being such a dirty robbing old bastard!” That’s what her shouted.’

  ‘Has she said anything else?’ he persisted.

  Jess glared at him. ‘Will you bloody give over pestering me, Master! I’ve told you already, aren’t I! That’s all her did! So bloody well bugger off and leave me be!’

  Tom accepted defeat. Edwin Lewis escorted him back downstairs and invited: ‘Will you have a parting drink, Master Potts? I’ve got some ale.’

  ‘No, but thank you for the kind invitation, Master Lewis. I must get back to the Lock-Up. Will you please let me know how Nellie progresses? I do need to tell her that her husband has had a Christian burial.’

  ‘You may be sure that I will, Master Potts.’

  As he walked slowly back to Redditch, Tom was overtaken by a fast-moving gig, and as he recognized its fashionably dressed driver he experienced a shiver of dread.

  Where’s Vincent Sorenty going in such a hurry? he thought. Is it to the Fox and Goose to pay court to Amy? Dear God, I pray not!

  In the depths of his mind a voice jeered, Don’t be such a fool as to believe that it’s any of God’s concern who pays court to Amy. If Sorenty can offer her a life of riches and excitement she’d be a fool not to accept him.

  Tom was driven to answer that voice. But she’s my lawful wedded wife! We swore before God that we would love and be faithful to each other until death parted us!

  Well, Death has parted you, hasn’t it? the voice stated solemnly. Death took the boy baby that you planted in her womb. The baby made from your seed that turned her womb into a coffin. The dead baby that you fathered, whose memory constantly torments and grieves her, and yourself also. If Sorenty can soothe her torment and ease her grief, then how can you, who claims to love her beyond all other things, begrudge her this chance of some relief from her terrible sufferings?

  Total despondency flooded through Tom, and tears stung his eyes as the answer was torn from him in strangled whispering, ‘I can’t begrudge her finding some relief through this man! But it should be me who brings her that relief!’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Saturday, 8 August, 1829, Market Day

  Tom had spent sleepless hours tossing and turning. He left his cot long before dawn to wake the snoring George Maffey and instruct him.

  ‘If anybody comes here to ask why I’m not patrolling the market today, Corporal, you tell them that I went out very early and didn’t say where I was going, or when I’d be back.’

  ‘Very good, Sir,’ Maffey saluted, pulled the blankets over his head and went back to sleep.

  Tom got dressed and left the Lock-Up to walk as quickly as he could to the cottage of Josiah Danks.

  ‘Bloody hell’s bells, it’s you, Tom! Why’s you hammering me door at this hour? What’s amiss?’ Josiah Danks stepped out of cottage and the moonlight bathed his naked, muscular body and glinted upon the long barrel of the shotgun in his hands.

  ‘I need your help, Josiah,’ Tom blurted. ‘I’ve got to find a young woman’s body!’

  He went on to explain the situation in great detail, and the other man listened intently. Then, when Tom fell silent, he commented, ‘I’ve had dealings with Jared Styler. I know for sure that he’s done a good amount o’ poaching on our land, but I’ve never been able to catch the crafty bastard at it. So I’m more than happy to help you get him hung. Now, have you got anything of the girl’s that we can get her scent off?’

  ‘Some bedding that she used, and several dried bloodstains on that and her nose plaster.’

  ‘Well, if she’s sweated on the bedding, and we dampen and warm the bloodstains that might do the business. I’ve got a fresh bought young Otterhound in our kennels that looks likely to have the sharpest snout I’ve ever known. This ’ull be a good tryout for him.

  ‘Now you go back to the Lock-Up and sort out
the bedding and plaster, and wait there for me. I’ll go to the Grange and get the hound, shovels and ropes. I’ll get a horse and trap as well so we’ll make better time o’ getting to Ipsley.’

  He paused, then added: ‘And it’ll save us having to hump the poor wench’s body back to the Lock-Up on our shoulders.’

  The morning sun was high and hot when the two men reached the isolated, derelict building. As Josiah Danks reined in the horse, the large, unusually multicoloured Otterhound, secured by a long leash to the tailboard, emitted deep-pitched baying.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Danks grunted. ‘He’s belling out because he’s young and gets excited easy. I’ll take him into the cottage and quieten him, then give him a good sniff and taste of the bedding and bloodstains afore we starts.

  ‘You go lay out the guide ropes for the first cast, Tom. Ten yards width. We’ll circle tight round the cottage to start with.’

  ‘But I’ve already searched the near surrounds of the cottage, Josiah,’ Tom objected. ‘And found no trace of recently disturbed ground. Shouldn’t we rather put the dog to work where there are areas of disturbed ground?’

  ‘Tom, these Otterhounds can follow a scent through running water. If this wench was killed in the cottage and then dragged across the ground away from it, this dog ’ull be able to pick up her scent from off the ground and follow it direct to where she’s laying. There’s been no rain or strong winds since her went missing, has there, so the scent won’t have been much dispersed.’

  Josiah took the slender roll of bloodstained cloth and the dog into the building, and Tom lifted the long coils of rope and laid them in a circle around the walls. As he worked he felt the familiar tension of expectation, and the intensifying excitement of the hunt throbbing in his brain.

  When Josiah and the dog made the cast around the circle, Tom followed close behind carrying the two long-handled shovels. Nothing was found and Tom repositioned the ropes to create a straight corridor leading outwards from the cottage.

  Time passed and the procedure was continually repeated until, on a wide patch of disturbed ground, the dog suddenly halted, frantically scrabbling its front paws against the earth and baying repeatedly.