The Devil's Monk

by Sara Fraser

  He instantly answered, ‘Oh, no, Amy! You’ve sadly misunderstood what I was saying. Of course I respect you as being a wedded lady who would never behave loosely, and so bring shame upon yourself. What I meant was that we would both be received and treated as two individuals who are honourable friends, and who work together like a brother and sister might. Myself, as the Aeronaut Pilot, and you as the Aeronaut Maiden. But I know from experience that we will be also received and feted as though we were of royal blood. When people first meet us Aeronauts, they cannot control themselves, because we are doing things which they have never before witnessed and think to be impossible for mere mortals to perform. We are performing in front of their eyes what they have always believed only the birds of the air, and the angels of heaven can perform. We are flying through the skies! We are the living embodiments of ancient legends!’ He paused, watching to see the effect of his words.

  Amy had listened in wide-eyed enthrallment, and now, almost timidly, she asked, ‘And will you still teach me to become an Aeronaut Maiden? And take me with you on your travels? Even though I won’t share your bed?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said solemnly. ‘We will be as brother and sister.’

  Again he paused, for what seemed to Amy to be an interminable time. Then he asked her, ‘So, my dear Amy, will you join my team and let me train you to become my new Aeronaut Maiden?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes, I will!’ she cried out delightedly.

  He moved to open a wooden locker fixed to the wickerwork and took from it a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  He gripped the cork between his strong white teeth and pulled it free, filled the glasses and handed one of them to Amy. Then, smiling and lifting his glass high, he proclaimed, ‘I give you the toast to the new Aeronaut Maiden, and future Queen of the Skies … Mistress Amy Potts.’

  Tears of excited joy stung Amy’s eyes and her heart pounded with the thrill of this marvellous moment, marking the beginning of a personal adventure that never in her wildest fantasies could she have visualized.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Monday, 10 August, 1829

  Tom had spent yet another restless night of broken sleep, long spells of wakefulness and hard thought – much of that thought engendered by something Styler had blurted out when Tom had come so close to shooting him.

  George Maffey returned to the Lock-Up at sunrise while the ‘Waking Bells’ were ringing across the town for the third and final time.

  ‘Have you enjoyed your furlough, Corporal?’ Tom asked as he opened the front door.

  ‘Very much, Sir. But I’m well content to be back to duty. Have the prisoners been “Stood To”?’

  ‘Not yet, Corporal. I wanted to wait and discuss matters with you.’

  Tom beckoned the other man to follow him and led the way upstairs, where, out of earshot of the cells, they talked for several minutes.

  Downstairs again, Tom slightly lowered the door hatch of Judas Benton’s cell and peered through the slit.

  The pawnbroker was sitting hunched on the edge of the bed slab, hands covering his face, his breeches wet with urine, some of which was pooled on the floor around his boots.

  George Maffey took a peek, Tom closed the hatch, they moved to Jared Styler’s cell and repeated the sequence.

  Styler was on his knees on the floor, his upper body slumped over the bed slab, his head face downwards on his cradled arms, incoherent words coming from him in a continuous mumbling.

  Tom and Maffey went back upstairs, and Tom asked, ‘What do you think about Styler, Corporal?’

  ‘I reckon he’s all but broken, Sir. A couple more hours should finish it,’ Maffey stated confidently.

  Tom nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. We’ll leave him be until I come back. I shouldn’t be away more than two or three hours if I can get a horse from Blackwell’s stable.’

  ‘What do you want me to do with Benton, Sir?’ Maffey grinned expectantly. ‘I can think of more than a few ways to make the bastard sweat blood.’

  ‘Release him in about an hour. Tell him that I’ve said that if he delivers the written statements I require I’ll drop all charges against him.’

  ‘Don’t you reckon that’s being far too soft on him?’ Maffey queried doubtfully.

  It was Tom who now grinned like a mischievous urchin. ‘Possibly not, Corporal. I do believe that when he gave chase to me, he left his shop door unlocked. And he lives alone, doesn’t he?’

  Maffey roared with laughter and spluttered out, ‘Bloody hell! I wish you’d told me about that when I went on me furlough! I might now have had very nice betrothal and wedding rings for me wife-to-be!’

  Tom found William Shayler sitting alone in the snug bar of the Barley Mow Inn. The Studley Constable mock-scowled and told him, ‘You can bugger off back to Redditch this instant, Tom Potts. I’m bloody well sick and tired o’ being told by everybody I meets about what a bloody clever constable you am and what a bloody stupid constable I am! And how they wishes you was down here in bloody Studley and I was up there in bloody Redditch.’ Then he laughed, got up from his seat and, seizing Tom’s hand, shook it hard. ‘It’s brilliant what you’ve done, Tom! Brilliant! How did you manage to identify that Styler was the Devil’s Monk so bloody quickly?’ Shayler abruptly apologised. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my friend. I’m being a very bad host. You sit yourself down, I’ll get the drinks and pipes and then you can tell me all about everything.’

  When they were seated with tankards of ale before them and long pipes of fragrant tobacco in their hands, Tom said, ‘I’ve come for your help, Will. I need answers to questions.’

  ‘Ask away then, Tom.’

  ‘Have you ever heard any stories about Jared Styler being impotent?’

  ‘Impotent?’ Shayler grinned. ‘I wish I was as impotent. I’ve heard that every wench he goes with tells her mates that he’s like a bull on heat, and wants it half a dozen times a night.’

  ‘So has he fathered any children that you know of? Because what he said to me was that he couldn’t have children.’

  Shayler frowned thoughtfully and mused aloud, ‘Shooting blank cartridges? Well, come to think of it there were eight kids in the Styler family … Three lads and five girls if I remember rightly. Jared was the last-born of them. One lad and three girls died as kids. I know for a fact that the other lad got wed, but hadn’t had any kids when he was still living in these parts. Both the girls got wed as well, and neither had had any kids when they died. Now, thinking about Jared, whenever he’s been in my neck of the woods he’s always had some wench or other hanging on his arm. But I can’t remember any of them bringing claims against him for a babby. A lot o’ families do become barren and their name dies out. The Stylers could be one of that sort, so it could be Jared’s telling the truth and only shoots blank cartridges.’

  Tom next spoke about his discovery of the dead babies, and Shayler shrugged.

  ‘It’s been common land for centuries, Tom, and lots of trampers, tinkers and gypsies bed down on it for a couple o’ nights or so. Those babbies could have been buried there by any of them, or even by locals. When women get driven to desperation they’re forced to take desperate measures. God pity them!’

  The two friends drank and smoked for another hour as they discussed every aspect of the Devil’s Monk murders. When the time of parting came Will Shayler sincerely expressed his absolute conviction that Jared Styler was the perpetrator, and heaped praises on what he what truly believed was Tom’s brilliance as an investigator.

  But as he rode back to Redditch, Tom was still thinking hard about certain aspects of what he had encountered during the investigation and, deciding his immediate course of action concerning those particular aspects, he returned the horse to Joseph Blackwell’s stable and went to the Lock-Up, where George Maffey reported to him.

  ‘The prisoner’s snoring like a trooper, Sir, and Benton aren’t come back, so it don’t look as if his shop was looted. More’s the pity! Padre Clayton came round to tell you that
the grave for the babbies was ready down in the Old Monks Graveyard, and Hector Smout was readying a nice little box for ’um to be laid in. He suggests that you call for him at his house sometime after sundown when all’s quiet, and you and him can take the babbies down there and hold a little service over them.

  ‘Oh, and it was your Missus who brought our rations and said that she wanted to speak with you as soon as possible.’

  Tom’s heart thumped; rapid alternations of hope and dread coursed through him and all his action decisions were instantly postponed. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can, Corporal,’ he stammered out and ran to the Fox and Goose.

  He burst into the entrance corridor, almost colliding with Tommy Fowkes, who cried out in shock, ‘Heigh up! You’ve nigh on knocked me off me bloody feet!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Master Fowkes,’ Tom apologised. ‘I’m here to see my wife. She has asked to speak with me without delay.’

  ‘Humphh!’ Fowkes grunted sourly. ‘It’s all your fault, this is!’

  ‘What is?’ Alarm struck Tom. ‘What’s happened to Amy?’

  ‘Nothing’s happened to her! It’s to me and me Missus it’s happened! And it’s all your bloody fault!’

  ‘What is?’ Tom demanded impatiently.

  ‘Her leaving! That’s what is! Our best barmaid is leaving!’

  ‘Master Fowkes, will you leave me and my husband alone to talk, please?’

  Amy came hurrying from the back parlour.

  Tom swung to face her, demanding elatedly, ‘Leaving here? Does that mean you’re coming back to live with me, Amy?’

  By now the doors of the other rooms along the corridor had opened to reveal avidly staring onlookers.

  Amy grabbed Tom’s arm and pulled him with her out of the door and across the Green.

  He made no effort to resist, and was inwardly laughing with delight. She’s coming back to me! She’s coming back to me! She’s coming back to me!

  When they reached the Lock-Up, she ordered, ‘Inside! We’ll speak inside!’

  The door was still unlocked, and as they entered George Maffey came hurrying to meet them. ‘It’s my fault the door aren’t secured, Sir. I wasn’t sure if you wanted it locked and barred or not!’

  Suffused with happiness, Tom waved him away. ‘No matter, Corporal! No matter! Please, will you leave us alone.’

  Maffey saluted. ‘At your orders, Sir,’ and hurried away through the rear door, closing it to a crack behind him. But then pressed his ear to the crack and listened intently.

  Tom turned to Amy and started to tell her, ‘Amy, you’ve made me the happiest—’

  ‘No Tom! No!’ She reached up and put her fingers over his lips. ‘I’m not coming back to live with you, Tom! I’m going to fly on Vincent Sorenty’s balloons and travel all over the world.’

  He didn’t react immediately and she repeated more loudly and forcefully, ‘I’m not coming back to live with you! I’m going away from Redditch this very day, Tom! I’m going to be an Aeronaut Maiden! I’m going to travel all over the world as one of Vincent Sorenty’s Aeronaut Maidens!’

  This time her words penetrated his euphoric elation and their impact struck him like a hammer blow. He could only shake his head and repeat half-dazedly, ‘Vincent Sorenty’s Aeronaut Maidens? Travel all over the world?’ Then question brokenly, ‘Amy, what is it I’ve done that’s caused you to hate me so much?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Amy shook her head and sudden tears filled her eyes. ‘Of course I don’t hate you, Tom. I still love you! But I can never again be a proper wife to you. And you deserve so much better than that. But I can’t ever be a wife to you again. Nor to any other man. Goodbye, my Darling!’

  She turned and ran out on to the Green.

  Tom wanted to follow, but it was as if an invisible force was holding him motionless and the all-powerful voice deep within his mind was re-iterating over and over again, ‘Stay here! Stay here! You must let her go free. She must go free! Fate, Tom! Fate!’

  Tom remained motionless, losing all track of passing time, his consciousness utterly enveloped by that all-powerful voice.

  Abruptly the voice ceased and Tom experienced a sensation of sudden awakening. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, struggling to come to terms with the strange mental dichotomy he was now experiencing, as if one half of his mind was furiously cursing the uncontrollable haphazardness of the sheer ill luck which had cost him his beloved Amy, while the other half was quietly accepting that it had been a pre-ordained and inescapable destiny.

  Which, if it was their pre-ordained destiny to be so, would someday reunite them.

  Another voice began talking to him. ‘I couldn’t help hearing what’s just happened between you and your Missus, Sir. I had summat like that happen to me when I was a young Johnny Raw. My old sergeant told me, “Listen, Private Maffey, when life knocks you flat, a real soldier just bites hard on the bullet, gets to his feet, shoulders his musket and marches on!” That’s the best bit of advice I ever had in me life, Sir.’

  For many, many seconds, Tom stared down into the weathered, deep-lined features of this tough, battle-hardened old veteran. Then drew a long breath and said huskily, ‘I do believe that it’s the best bit of advice I’ve ever received in my own life, Corporal Maffey. And I thank you for it.’

  ‘Do we march on then, Sir?’ Maffey questioned.

  ‘Indeed we do, Corporal,’ Tom affirmed. ‘And we’ll step off by having a talk with the prisoner.’

  ‘Get to your feet, Styler!’ George Maffey barked the command as he opened the cell door.

  Jared Styler stayed down on his knees, upper body slumped on to the bed slab, face in his hands, mumbling incoherently.

  Tom pointed to the large bucket in the corner of the cell which was half filled with excreta and urine and said loudly, ‘What do you think to that, Corporal Maffey? Have you ever known a truly mad man to take such great care to piss and shit into a bucket to save his breeches from being soiled?’

  ‘Never, Sir!’ Maffey grinned.

  Tom stepped into the cell and shook Styler’s shoulder. ‘Listen very carefully to what I say, Styler. You are sadly mistaken if you think you can use insanity as a defence. For that defence, you must be able to prove that you are so totally deprived of understanding and memory as not to know any more than an infant or a wild beast what you are doing. And even if it were possible for you to use that defence at your trial, it is highly unlikely to enable you to escape the death penalty for just the one murder, let alone the five you are going be charged with. Also, there are more than two hundred hanging offences in British Law. So your only chance of being granted clemency is if you had accomplices in these murders and you turn King’s Evidence against them. So, do you want to eat and drink your fill, and smoke a pipe or two of good tobacco, then follow that by having a sensible talk with me? The only man in England who is willing to try to help you. Or will you continue foodless and thirsty and smokeless on your journey towards the gallows? Shout out when you wish to speak with me.’

  Tom exited the cell and George Maffey slammed and locked the door.

  The two of them went and sat in the kitchen alcove, and George Maffey asked, ‘If he does talk wi’ you, Sir, what will you try and do for him?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I haven’t got the faintest idea, Corporal. I’m of the strong opinion that this world would be a better place without women-beating scum like him in it. But, in all truth, I’m not yet fully convinced of his guilt for any of the murders. The doubts are like tiny worms wriggling in my brain. They don’t cause me any physical pain but they constantly remind me that they are there.’

  The next few hours passed tortuously slowly for Tom. No shout sounded from Jared Styler and, when at spaced intervals Tom peeped through the slightly cracked open hatch, Styler was still in the same position, still mumbling incoherently.

  Finally Tom said to George Maffey as they sat together in the kitchen alcove, ‘I have to confess, Corporal, I’m beginning to wo
nder whether he might really have lost his senses. If nothing else I would have thought he’d be crying out for a drink because he must be suffering terribly with thirst by now.’

  Maffey grinned and shook his head. ‘No, Sir. I reckon the stupid bugger didn’t believe what you told him and thinks if he acts loony he’ll just be committed to a madhouse. And I reckon he thinks that whichever madhouse he gets sent to will treat him like a bloody king because of all the money the Turnkeys will earn by using him as a bloody peepshow. Certainly lots o’ folks ’ull be clamouring to pay to have a squint at the Devil’s Monk.’

  He paused for a moment or two, then winked slyly. ‘I’m willing to wager that most of our Vestrymen are thinking that they should be getting back the money they’re spending for our rations and my wages by turning him into their own peepshow.’

  A succession of the Vestrymen’s faces paraded through Tom’s mind’s eye, and he couldn’t help but nod in mock-lugubrious agreement.

  Then the disturbing fact that he still had not the slightest incontrovertible proof of Styler’s guilt pressed upon Tom once more, and he suddenly thought at a tangent: If Styler were indeed to be innocent, then the guilty killer is crowing in triumph. Could it be that if I sought for proofs of Styler’s innocence, rather than his guilt, I might find signposts pointing me towards finding if that guilty killer actually exists?

  Gripped by uncontrollable impulse, he jumped up from the chair, drew a tankard of ale from the keg and piled a platter with bread and cheese, which he carried to Styler’s cell.

  He lowered the hatch and put the tankard and platter on its surface, then unlocked the door and entered the cell. He used his hands to lift and turn Styler’s head so that the man’s puffy, slitted eyes and swollen features were revealed. He indicated the food and drink on the hatch. ‘You shall have this ale and food, Styler, and I’ll bring you a pipe of tobacco also. But only if you listen to me very carefully, and without making any interruptions. Will you agree?’