by Sara Fraser
Benton came up on to the crossroads, panting heavily now but managing to shout between gasps for air. ‘Now what about my fuckin’ reward money? What’s you done with it, you thieving bastard!’
He shook his fists and advanced threateningly towards Tom, bawling, ‘I’m going straight to the magistrates if you don’t hand over my money, Potts! And when I does, you’ll be cursing God for the day you was birthed by your fuckin’ fat, nasty cow of a Mam.’
Tom glanced at the talking group, who were staring in horrified disgust at the hatless, shirt-sleeved pawnbroker and told them, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m the constable of this parish. I regret that you should have had to be disturbed by this man. May I most respectfully ask you to bear witness while I arrest him for the offences of Drunken Behaviour and Profanity on the Sabbath Day.’
‘Indeed you may, Constable.’ The spokesman was a burly middle-aged man. ‘And if needs be I will aid you in making the arrest.’
‘My thanks to you, Sir.’ Tom bowed. ‘I will be most grateful for your aid, if needs be. However, I am not expecting any physical resistance.’ He bowed again. ‘I bid you Good Day, Ladies and Gentlemen.’
He turned and strode towards the oncoming Benton, who abruptly halted and demanded uncertainly, ‘What’s you doing?’
‘Judas Benton, I’m arresting you in the King’s Name for Drunken Behaviour and Profanity on the Sabbath Day. Come quietly or it will be the worse for you.’
‘What?’ Benton stared in befuddled shock.
Tom grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him towards the Lock-Up. Benton wailed in protest, ‘But I aren’t done nothing wrong! I only wants me reward money!’
The group at the chapel gate applauded decorously and their spokesman shouted, ‘Well done, Constable Thomas Potts. You are indeed a most worthy holder of your Office, and well deserving of your fine reputation.’
Tom was surprised by the plaudits and their use of his name. He lifted his staff in salute to them and upped his pace, causing Benton to stumble and reel and complain vociferously all the way to the Lock-Up.
As always in Redditch when people saw what was happening, they came hurrying from their houses to ask Tom why Benton had been arrested, and to mock and jeer at the unpopular pawnbroker.
Inside the Lock-Up, Tom put the now whiningly complaining Benton into the cell furthest away from that of Jared Styler, then told George Maffey, ‘It’ll be interesting to see what Styler’s reaction will be when he finds out who’s his new neighbour. Has he been quiet while I was out?’
‘Well, at first he was raving and bawling that he was innocent and he’d never killed anybody. But then he went quieter, and I could hear him praying to God to send Carrie Perks here to the Lock-Up to prove that she wasn’t dead. But I’ve said nothing to him, nor dropped the door hatch, and he’s been a lot quieter, but still praying by the sounds of it.’
They moved to stand outside Styler’s cell and listen to the broken mumblings coming from inside.
Again the unwelcome question raised itself in Tom’s mind: could it be possible that Styler might be telling the truth and that Carrie Perks is still alive? Have I arrested the wrong man? Involuntarily he shook his head as though to physically expel the disturbing thoughts, and told George Maffey, ‘I’m just going to go and have a brief talk with Reverend Clayton and make my report to Joseph Blackwell, Corporal. As soon as I return you can go on your furlough and make a full night of it. I’m sure you’ll sleep very soundly at Mother Readman’s.’
‘At your orders, Sir.’ Maffey saluted smartly and winked broadly. ‘I’m not so sure about the sleeping soundly, though. I might get disturbed at odd times because Mother Readman expects me to do my duty as a true soldier should, you see, Sir.’
Tom winked back. ‘And like a true British soldier you will not shirk that duty, Corporal. Of that, I am convinced!’
John Clayton was at home and greeted Tom warmly. ‘Come in and have a drink with me, Tom. I’ve just been presented with a bottle of very good brandy.’
Tom was happy to accept and, as soon as they were seated and had had their first taste of the fragrant spirit, Clayton told him, ‘I wish you could have been at chapel this morning, Tom. You are being hailed as the Hero of the Parish for your capture of the Devil’s Monk … Well, certainly by all our reputable, God-fearing parishioners, though I’ve no doubt that the majority of our disreputable inhabitants are equally admiring of what you’ve done.’
Tom was truly surprised that he had been so lauded, and now realized that was the reason the group by the chapel had recognized his name and given him such compliments. He was quick to answer. ‘Well, Ritchie Bint is more than equally worthy of everyone’s praises, John. We made the arrest together, and he’s a much braver man than I am, I assure you. But what I want to speak to you about now is a rather delicate matter …’
He went on to tell his friend about the dead babies and the urgent need to bury them.
John Clayton instantly concurred with that need, then shook his head sadly. ‘Do you know, Tom, if I had guineas to match the numbers of abandoned dead babies I’ve known of, I’d be a wealthy man. This is a damned cruel world for weak, defenceless creatures, is it not.’
Tom could only nod in grim acknowledgement and tell his friend, ‘I’ll go now and report to Blackwell. I’m sure he’ll agree that we must give them a decent Christian burial as soon as possible. But sadly they’ll remain nameless, because I’ve not got any proof who their parents are.’
‘Our Gentle Saviour will most certainly love and care for their souls and know their names, Tom,’ John Clayton declared with absolute certainty. ‘And now I’ll go straight to see Hector Smout and have him prepare a grave for them.’
It was Joseph Blackwell himself who opened the Red House door and quickly ushered Tom into the study.
When they were both seated, Blackwell smiled warmly. ‘I’m very pleased to see you, Thomas Potts. It seems that you are now the hero of the hour, and the whole parish is ringing with your praises. I sent word of the arrest of Styler to My Lord Aston in Malvern and his reply, which I received on Friday, quite astounded me. It appears that the Devil’s Monk murders, and the speedy manner of his subsequent arrest, have created a great deal of interest throughout the entire Midlands.’
Blackwell chuckled sarcastically. ‘My Lord Aston is of course claiming all the credit for your appointment as constable of this parish, and is greatly looking forwards to basking in the reflected glory when Styler is brought to trial and hung. So much so that when Andrew Parkman finally managed to bribe his way to Lord Aston’s hiding place, my noble lord sent him packing with a very large flea in his ear. Of course, we all have our own individual cross to bear, and My Lord Aston is mine, but now undoubtedly will be poor Farmer Parkman’s also. But enough of this drollery! Now, let me hear what progress you are making in your investigation, Thomas Potts. I’ve heard it rumoured that you have discovered dead babies that Carrie Perks may have birthed. You have my permission to arrange their burial without further delay; the Vestry will meet any costs.’
Tom was forced to battle against the immediate impulse to tell the other man what the other man was hoping to hear, before admitting bluntly, ‘I’ve made no progress in the Haystack Woman’s case. I’ve no evidence that the babies are Styler’s or Perks. Neither am I any closer to being able to prove any of the murder charges against Styler. At this time, I’m reduced to hoping that he is near to breaking point, and if he does so break, then he will make confessions. But how long can we continue to hold him, without bringing charges which are backed up by possession of some strong grounds of proof? Surely the Law of Habeas Corpus prevents us from doing so for this length of time without such grounds?’
Joseph Blackwell shrugged his narrow shoulders and smiled bleakly. ‘The current practice of Habeas Corpus is that a suspect can be held for up to twenty days. But it is my opinion that True Justice is not always best served or best achieved by a slavish adherence to the Let
ter of the Law, Thomas Potts. The fact is that it is only those who are poor and powerless who must slavishly adhere to the Letter of the Law. I am not numbered among those individuals. You will keep Styler in custody for a hundred days without charge if I decide that doing so is necessary to achieve True Justice. You should return to the Lock-Up now and release your admirable new Turnkey, Corporal Maffey, to enjoy a few hours of rest from his duties. I bid you Good Day, Constable Potts, and assure you that I am very confident you will achieve the success we both wish for in your ongoing investigations.’
Tom knew that there was nothing to be gained from prolonging this conversation, and answered quietly, ‘Thank you for the confidence you display in me, Sir. I bid you Good Day.’
THIRTY
Sunday, 9 August, 1829
The small tented encampment was on open ground adjoining the great Boulton and Watts, Soho Manufactory. It was the boast of Birmingham and the most modern industrial enterprise in the world, with its multitude of workshops, its own coal gas production plant, foundrie and private hoop of canal giving it access to the myriad tentacles of water borne transport. Even on this Sabbath Day its chimney stacks were smoking and there were numbers of operatives carrying out a wide variety of tasks.
Vincent Sorenty reined in his smart gig, pointed his long horsewhip at the cluster of tents and told the two women sitting at his left side on the driving seat, ‘That’s the encampment of the Vincent Sorenty Grand Aerostation Company, Ladies. We pipe the gas for my balloon directly from that gas works there, close to the tents. Coal gas is more dangerous to use, but has a much cheaper cost and is much more convenient than hydrogen gas bags. I can fill the balloon for take-off in a fraction of the time by being able to pipe the coal gas directly into it.’
‘Where’s your balloon then? I can’t see it!’ Maisie Lock pouted with disappointment. ‘You promised you was going to show it to us. But if it aren’t here, then you’ve brought us all this way for nothing!’
His dark eyes momentarily hardened with fury. But when he turned to give answer he betrayed no sign of that emotion, only smiled broadly and said to the outer passenger, ‘Amy, will you explain to our dear Maisie or shall I?’
‘Explain what?’ Amy asked.
‘The fact that my balloon lies virtually flat on the ground until it’s filled with gas. It’s now on the ground on the other side of the tents, hidden from our view.’
‘Well, you never told us that, did you!’ Maisie protested huffily.
‘And I truly am sorry for not telling you, and I beg you both to forgive me for my remissness. I shall have my men begin the inflation the very moment we reach the tents.’ He flicked his whip and the glossy coated horse jerked into motion.
Amy was experiencing flickers of guilt. Her reaction at not seeing the balloon had been the same as Maisie’s. She had immediately thought that Vincent Sorenty had brought them here on a false promise, and now she mentally reproved herself: I’m becoming far too ready to think the worst of all men, even though all too many of them have given me cause enough these last weeks.
She knew only too well that in the world’s eyes she was now again a lowly menial. Uneducated, untravelled, with neither money nor property. Also a woman of highly suspect morality, because recently she had willfully separated from her lawful husband. This last fact had lately emboldened some men to make crudely verbal and physical sexual advances to her, all of which she had very firmly repulsed.
But Vincent Sorenty’s approaches toward her had been soft-spoken, complimentary words, delicately expressed and always with total courtesy. However, although she acknowledged to herself that she found him to be a very charming, physically attractive man, she harboured strong doubts as to the sincerity of his increasingly frequent professions of having tender feelings towards her.
She frequently castigated herself for even allowing her thoughts to sometimes dwell upon Vincent Sorenty, when in all truth her feelings for Tom Potts were still so powerful as to create a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. There were moments when with all her heart she wanted to rush to him, throw herself into his arms and beg him to take her back as his wife. Then there were other moments when she virulently hated him for impregnating her with a dead child, and all she wished for was to see him suffer for it.
‘Look sharp! The Master’s back!’ a voice shouted as the gig neared the encampment, and when it halted in the centre of the circled tents several men came hurrying to it.
A man took the horse’s bridle and Vincent Sorenty jumped from the gig and walked around it to offer his hand firstly to Amy, then to Maisie and help them step down.
A tall, slender-bodied youth pushed through the group.
‘This is my personal assistant and Second-in-Command, Mario Fassia.’ Vincent Sorenty smiled and introduced the women. ‘Mario, I present Mistress Amy Potts and Miss Maisie Lock.’
‘I’m honoured, Ma’am.’ The youth bowed to each in turn.
Amy was amazed by their close physical resemblance and remarked impulsively, ‘You look very like each other – you must be close related.’
‘Don’t tell him that.’ Vincent Sorenty smiled at her. ‘If he gets the idea that he’s my relative he might well begin to question the rightful authority I wield over him as his Master.’
He swung round to face the youth, frowned and ordered curtly, ‘Prepare Valkyrie for a Captive Flight. I’m taking her up for these Ladies to view the panorama, so allow a hundred and twenty feet for the winch and tether ropes, and load standard ballast.’
Mario walked away shouting orders and the group of men broke up and hurried off in different directions.
Vincent Sorenty offered his arms to the women. ‘Come, my Dears, we’ll be seated comfortably and enjoy some refreshments while we watch my wonderful Valkyrie being readied to soar heavenwards.’
One of the men brought three chairs and a small table out of a tent, then fetched bottles of wine, glasses and plates of cakes.
Maisie began to eat and drink heartily, as did Vincent Sorenty, but Amy was so intent on what was happening that she took only a few sips of her wine and ate nothing as she watched the men uncoiling long canvas hosepipes and making the preparations to inflate the balloon, which, now some twenty-five yards distant from their chairs, appeared to be only a wide flat expanse of cord netting and colourful patterned oiled silk with a nine feet long, gaudily painted wickerwork gondola, guy-roped to the thick wooden hoop of the balloon’s narrow circular base.
The hosepipe nozzle was pushed into the wooden hoop. A loud hissing ensued as the coal gas flowed and the great silken envelope began to slowly waver and undulate.
Amy’s gaze was intently fixed on the spectacle taking place before her. Her heart thudded ever harder, her breathing quickened and excitement gripped her while the silken envelope grew and grew, expanding in all directions, slowly metamorphosing from a shapeless bulbous mass into a vast ever-expanding circular orb, raising higher and higher from its flattened base until it lifted from the ground with its gondola dangling beneath it.
Vincent Sorenty rose from his chair and went towards the balloon, shouting out orders, and men heaved and pressed on winch rods, ropes tautened and strained, and slowly the balloon sank lower until its gondola rested motionless on the earth.
He came back to the table, smiling broadly, and invited, ‘Come then, Ladies, let us rise up into the sky like birds.’
Aflame with excitement, Amy jumped to her feet and, lifting her long skirt and petticoats to her knees, ran towards the balloon, Vincent Sorenty running with her. But when they reached the gondola, Maisie was not with them.
Amy turned to see her friend still sitting at the table, and shouted, ‘Come on, Maisie! Don’t lag!’
Maisie Lock’s normally rosy cheeks were pale and she shook her head. ‘I’m not coming.’
‘What’s the matter with you? Why are you being such a scaredy-cat?’ Amy was puzzled at this unusual display of timidity from her normally bold-spirited friend.
‘I don’t want to ride in that thing. If the Lord meant for us to fly, He’d have give us wings!’ Maisie was adamant. ‘I’m not coming! And that’s that!’
‘Well, I’m going to fly!’ Amy declared and, grasping the guy ropes, lifted her legs over the low side of the gondola.
‘Bravo!’ Vincent Sorenty applauded. ‘I knew the very first moment I saw you, Amy, that you were a woman of exceptional courage and spirit.’
He followed her into the gondola and shouted to his relative. ‘Release us, Mario!’
The gondola jerked upwards and Amy gasped and clutched the guy ropes hard. Then the rising smoothed and, as the earth fell away beneath her, Amy was experiencing total exultation and couldn’t stop herself crying out over and over again, ‘It’s wonderful! It’s wonderful! It’s wonderful!’
Vincent Sorenty roared with laughter and told her, ‘It’s always wonderful, Amy. It never ceases to be anything less than wonderful. And if you want, you can do this wonderful thing over and over and over again.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Amy cried out. ‘Yes, I want to! I want to do this every day of my life!’
She twisted and turned, looking up, looking down, looking round, marvelling at how different everything now appeared, and when the gondola jerked and stopped rising, she cried out in protest, ‘Why can’t we go higher? Why can’t we?’
‘We can someday, Amy. We can rise so high that we are above the clouds, and we can fly over the land and sea like birds, and travel to distant lands like they do.’
‘Really?’ She gasped out unbelievingly. ‘Would you really take me to far-off lands?’
‘Of course. We can travel the whole world together, and wherever we go they will receive us like a king and his queen.’
Even now, at the height of her excitement, the term he used disturbed Amy. ‘No, Vincent!’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t be your queen. I’m a good living woman, even though I’m presently separated from my husband. I’m not a whore who sleeps with other men.’