by Sara Fraser
After a pause, Styler muttered, ‘I’ll listen.’
‘Very well.’ Tom accepted. ‘I’ll be frank with you. I despise men like yourself, who I believe are nothing more than brutal beasts. So I make this offer purely to satisfy my own vanity in my powers of investigation. What I propose to do is to help you to prove your claim to be innocent of these murders. What you must do in return is to answer with complete honesty any question I put to you. I’ll leave you now so you can eat and drink, and later I’ll bring you a pipe of tobacco. I shall want your answer then.’
Tom forced himself to wait for almost an hour before he returned to the cell with a lighted pipe of tobacco and handed it to Styler, who immediately began drawing in and expelling clouds of smoke which wreathed around his head.
‘Well? What’s it to be?’ Tom questioned.
Styler nodded, and now there was no pretence in his manner or in his voice of being mentally broken. ‘I’ll answer you true whatever you asks of me.’
Tom couldn’t help but feel gratified that his plan appeared to be working, and he shouted for George Maffey to come to the cell also.
When Maffey arrived, Tom told him, ‘Pay close attention, Corporal, and store what he says to memory.’
‘O’ course I will, Sir. Orders is orders, and I obey ’um.’ Maffey frowned grimly. ‘But truth to tell, I don’t relish you trying to keep this fuckin’ animal from meeting the hangman.’
‘I don’t relish it myself, Corporal,’ Tom replied, then asked Styler in the mild conversational tone he intended using throughout this session of questioning, ‘What’s the name of the woman who bit the piece out of your ear?’
‘Heptiza Lee,’ Styler answered without hesitation. ‘The bloody Gyppo whore did it nigh on two months since, when I was laying drunk after we had a row. By the time I’d come to me senses, she’d done a runner and had cleaned out me pockets as well. The thieving bitch!’
‘Where might she have run to?’
‘How the fuck would I know? Her’s a bloody Gyppo. Her could be roaming about anywhere! We used to get together for a bit o’ fun and devilment whenever she came through these parts. She gets up to all sorts o’ dodges to get money.’
‘How did you come to kill Methuselah Leeson? Were you having a row with him?’
‘I never laid a hand on that old bastard in me life!’
‘What have you done with Carrie Perks’s body?’
‘I’ve done nothing wi’ Carrie Perks’s body! She was alive when I left her.’
‘Why did you kill her babies?’
‘As far as I know, she’s never had any kids, and I’ve never killed any kid in me life! Nor nobody else neither!’
‘Is Heptiza Lee the Haystack Woman?’
‘Her could be. But I aren’t seen the fuckin’ whore since she ate me ear.’
‘How did you come into possession of Methuselah Leeson’s snuffbox?’
‘The same way I come into possession of his miserable bits o’ money, and his miserable bits o’ dirty old silk!’
Both Tom and George Maffey were completely taken aback by this unexpected admission and momentarily stared at each other in shock, before Tom continued, ‘You’d best explain just how you got them from him.’
‘It was Carrie who got ’um from him, not me. And I didn’t know what she’d been doing to get stuff from Leeson until about a month or so since. That’s when I come across a pound’s worth o’ silver and coppers that she’d hid away, and I give her a belting for hiding it from me. It was then she told me what she’d been doing with Leeson to get it.’
His tone became indignant. ‘And been doing it for bloody weeks! She’d been meeting up regular wi’ him down in the Abbey Meadows, and he’d been giving her money to let him suck on her parts. That’s all he could manage, you see, because he was too old to get a hard-on.’
Tension gripped Tom. ‘The pieces of silk, and the snuffbox? When did Carrie get those from Leeson?’
Styler didn’t hesitate. ‘A few nights afore I heard that he was dead. What it was, you see, he’d said that he was having trouble getting the money to pay her. So I told her to tell him that if he hadn’t got money she was done with him.
‘Well, this particular night he brought them bits o’ dirty old silk with him, and said he’d no money and that was all he could get. So she told him to fuck off! Then he got that desperate for a suck, he offered her the snuffbox as well. So she said all right, and they did the usual and parted company. That’s the last time her saw him.’
Tom asked next, ‘What about that fine Hunter watch he gave her? And the silver-banded meerschaum pipe and leather tobacco pouch? When did he give her the flint and steel pocket set, and the brand-new cambric handkerchiefs?’
‘I don’t know about any o’ that stuff. If he did give her any of ’um, I never set eyes on it. Her was supposed to meet him again on the night after he’d give her the snuffbox and bits o’ silk. But she come back and told me that he hadn’t turned up. And the next time I heard anything about him was that he’d been found wi’ a chopper in his head. For all I know it could have been bloody Carrie who stuck it there on the night she told me that he hadn’t turned up!’
‘When exactly did you finally part from her?’
‘The same day I got took on as Harvest Steward by Andrew Parkman. I parted from her that same afternoon in the old cottage at Ipsley where we’d been camping out.’
‘For what reason did you part from her?’
‘Well, I’d had enough of her being such a dirty, lying, cheating whore. Old Leeson warn’t the first old fart she’d whored with, not by a long chalk. Her was doing the same with another bloke when I first met her. But she said that now she’d got with me she didn’t want to do anything with him no more. There was a few times when I hadn’t got a penny piece to me name, though, so I had to send her to go and see him.
‘When I told her we was finished she went for me and I had to fight her off. And when I left the cottage she was blarting and shouting her was going to kill herself and make it look as though it was me who’d done it. But I left her living, and I aren’t seen hide nor hair of her since! And that’s the God’s honest truth, that is!’
Styler fell silent, and Tom was somewhat disconcerted by his own instinctive reaction that the story he had just listened to had indeed held the ring of truth. But then came the rapidly mounting excitement of having discovered a fresh spoor to follow.
‘Tell me the name of the man she was whoring with when you first met her, and where I might be able to find him?’
Styler’s strong, yellowed teeth bared in savage menace. ‘That bastard’s been an enemy o’ mine ever since I was a nipper, and he’s tried to have me took up by the constables scores o’ bloody times. His name’s Edmund Scambler and he’s the fuckin’ Overseer to the Poor down at Alcester. And, come to think of it, her might very well have took up wi’ him again, now I’ve buggered her off. So the sooner you gets down there, the better!’
Tom managed to keep his excitement hidden and said quietly, ‘I’ll follow up this information in due course. In the meantime, if we have any more noise or trouble from you it will go very hard with you indeed. Come, Corporal Maffey, we must attend to our other duties.’
When Styler’s cell was closed up and secured, the two men went to the kitchen alcove and Tom asked, ‘What are your thoughts on what he’s been telling us, Corporal?’
Maffey grimaced. ‘Well, I hates to say this, Sir, but it all come across like it could be true. He was real steady-eyed while he was telling it, and I was finding meself giving him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘So was I,’ Tom readily admitted. ‘And if tomorrow I get confirmation that Carrie Perks is alive that will most certainly change the state of affairs.’
‘Well, you’ve still got the other murders to lay at his door, Sir,’ Maffey pointed out reassuringly.
Frowning thoughtfully, Tom shook his head. ‘This must remain between you and I, Corporal. Truth to tel
l, I’m now beginning to wonder if indeed Jared Styler is guilty of any murders at all!’
The doorbell suddenly rang out and Maffey jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll see who that is, Sir.’
He returned very quickly, and when Tom asked who had called, shook his head. ‘There was nobody in sight, Sir. But this was laid outside the door.’
He handed a single-page broadsheet to Tom, who read the headlines out aloud.
‘“THE TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE CAPTURE OF THE FIENDISH DEVIL’S MONK!”’
At the bottom of the page in small print was the information: ‘Printed by Solomons Bros., Birmingham.’
As he quickly scanned the largely fictitious and gory account of the murders and subsequent arrest of Jared Styler, Tom could only shake his head and groan ruefully.
‘No doubt by now there’ll be hundreds who’ve read this rubbish, many of them believing it! How will they react towards me if it turns out to be that I’ve arrested the wrong man? Thus leaving the Devil’s Monk still roaming around and free to kill again?’
‘Well, with all respect, Sir, I reckon that you’d best go and borrow that nag again and get down to Alcester tonight,’ George Maffey advised. ‘Because the sooner you finds out whether Styler is telling the truth about Carrie Perks and this bloke, Scambler, the better it’ll be.’
Tom thought hard for some moments, then nodded. ‘I’ll need to call on Reverend Clayton and explain what’s happening. If I have indeed got the wrong man in our cell, then laying the real killer by the heels must, for this night at least, take precedence over those poor babies’ burial.’
It was late at night when Tom rode into the empty, quiet streets of Alcester. Only the occasional glimmer of candlelight showed where people might still be awake. Tom was thankful for the full moon which lighted his path over the rutted roadway and breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the large detached home of Edmund Scambler and saw light shining through its lower windows.
Being a clumsy and ungainly horseman, he breathed another heartfelt sigh of relief when he dismounted and tethered his mount to the railings which surrounded the building. He stood for some moments, rubbing his sore buttocks and legs and easing his aching joints before walking up the long shrub-bordered path to the front door.
A tall, gaunt-featured woman wearing an oversized mob cap and voluminous apron answered his knocking and shone a lamp beam on to his face. When he gave her his name and asked for Edmund Scambler, she grunted, ‘You must wait there.’ And closed the door.
Eventually the door reopened and this time it was Edmund Scambler, coatless, wobbly bellied and smelling strongly of brandy, who shone a lamp on to Tom’s face and demanded pettishly, ‘Why have you come here disturbing me at such a late hour, Constable Potts?’
‘My sincere apologies for disturbing you, Master Scambler, but the matter is urgent and could not be postponed.’ Tom managed to keep a pleasant tone. ‘May I come in and explain it to you?’
Scambler clucked his tongue irritably and snapped, ‘No, you may not! I do not accept unwelcome pests into my house.’
‘I’m here on official business, Master Scambler. I would not otherwise have troubled you at this hour.’ Tom was struggling to keep his tone pleasant. ‘And it is a major, not minor matter that I’m come about.’
‘Then you’d best tell me what this matter is, Potts. I do feel that perhaps I am better qualified than yourself to make a judgement on it being a minor matter or major matter. After all, in this parish I hold a position of considerable importance which ranks far higher than any mere Parish Constable.’
Tom abandoned the struggle to be pleasant and snapped curtly, ‘I’m searching for a young woman who has disappeared. I’ve been informed that you have had a close personal acquaintance with her. Her name is Carrie Perks.’
‘And who has told you that I know this woman, I wonder?’ Scambler assumed a theatrical pose of being in deep thought for a few seconds, before suddenly crying out triumphantly, ‘Eureka! I have it! I’ll wager my entire fortune that the man who has given you this information is that same vile beast who has so recently murdered Carrie Perks. I do believe his name is Jared Styler!’
‘So you do admit to knowing her then?’ Tom challenged.
‘I briefly encountered her many months past, when she applied to me for the Parish Poor Relief. Since she no longer had Right of Settlement in this parish, I sent her packing and heard no more of her until I was told that you had arrested her murderer – Jared Styler.’
‘How well do you know Jared Styler?’ Tom asked.
‘I’ve never set eyes on that piece of scum. And if you come pestering me again I’ll lay complaint against you before My Lord Aston himself!’ Scambler slammed the door shut.
Tom walked slowly back down the path, evaluating his own instinctive reactions to what Scambler had said. A line from Shakespeare’s Hamlet passed through his mind. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He grimaced wryly. Only in this case, it’s the man, methinks!
As Tom neared the gate he heard a sibilant hissing. ‘Pssstt! Pssstt! Master Potts! Pssstt!’
He halted and, from within the shadowed shrubs, sounded a hoarse whisper.
‘Don’t look about! Walk on!’
Tom obeyed, and the hoarse whisper continued, ‘He’s lying about that wench! I’ll come to your Lock-Up on Wednesday, but nobody else must know about it.’
There came a rustling of leaves, then silence.
Excitement pulsated through Tom’s mind at this confirmation of his instinct that Scambler had lied to him, and he could only surmise that his hidden informant must be the woman who had answered the door.
As he untied its reins from the railings the horse tossed its head and snickered loudly. Tom chuckled happily and patted its neck. ‘Hush now! I’ve no more wish to mount you than you have to have me do so. But we’ll journey slowly and gently; and you may draw some comfort from the thought that my horsemanship causes me more physical pain that it causes you.’
THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, 11 August, 1829
While he was performing his early morning, chill-watered ablutions at the pump, Tom’s thoughts turned to the missing personal possessions of Methuselah Leeson and the realization of his own investigative lapse suddenly hit him.
‘I should have got a warrant to confiscate Styler’s personal belongings from whoever held them before making the arrest.’ He couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the present situation. ‘Instead of confiscating the baggage to help prove his guilt, I’m now proposing to confiscate it to help prove his innocence. I wonder how Joseph Blackwell will react when he hears of my change of direction?’
An hour later, standing face-to-face with Joseph Blackwell in the study of the Red House, Tom stated that change of direction.
‘What are you saying, Constable Potts?’ Joseph Blackwell’s expression radiated utter incredulity. ‘Are you telling me that you are now trying to prove that Jared Styler is innocent of these murders?
‘Are you drunk, Constable Potts? Or shall I take the charitable view, that the hot sunlight we are experiencing has addled your brain?’
Tom fought down a fleeting impulse to accept this last offer and steeled himself to reply, ‘I am neither drunk nor addled by sunlight, Sir. I can only repeat that my doubts as to Styler being guilty of these murders are proportionately increasing as my investigation proceeds.’
Blackwell shook his head in apparent bewilderment. ‘But it’s you who proclaimed his guilt to the world by arresting him for these murders in the first place.’
‘I fully accept that fact, Sir.’ Tom suddenly found himself imbued with a certainty of purpose he had never before experienced so forcefully.
‘And it’s for that very reason that I am driven to make absolutely sure that this man is indeed guilty. I can only achieve that surety by a painstaking exploration of any possible likelihood of his innocence. To aid that exploration I now urgently need a warrant empowering me to confiscate Styler’s perso
nal belongings, which are presently being held for him by Andrew Parkman.
‘I’m expecting to receive information tomorrow, which renders it vital that I thoroughly examine Styler’s personal possessions this very day.’
Blackwell shook his head again and said wearily, ‘There are times, Thomas Potts, when you try my patience to the utmost. You know very well that I’m not empowered to issue such a warrant and Lord Aston is still absent from the parish. However, I will give you a note to present to Andrew Parkman, which may persuade him to pass Styler’s possessions over to your keeping.’
Even as Tom began to thank him, Blackwell’s hand shot up to clamp across Tom’s mouth.
He snapped angrily, ‘Do not dare to offer me thanks, Thomas Potts! I shall never forgive you for forcing me to humiliate myself by asking for a personal favour from such an ignorant, greedy, dishonest, slave-driving clod-hopper as Andrew Parkman!’
Tom found Andrew Parkman in the barnyard superintending the building of a large corn-stack and could not help but feel a nervous tension as he walked towards him. To his surprise, however, the farmer greeted him with a friendly wave and told the men building the stack, ‘Look who’s here, you lot. This is the very same Constable Potts who helped me to capture that murdering bastard, the Devil’s Monk. Now then, Constable Potts, how can I help you today?’
‘I’ve brought you a note from Joseph Blackwell, Master Parkman.’
He handed the note to the other man, who quickly scanned it and exclaimed, ‘Bugger me! Blackwell’s being uncommony civil, aren’t he just. Of course you can take the bastard’s baggage, Constable. Go to the house and ask my wife-to-be to hand it over to you. Just tell her I said it was alright to give it to you.’
He turned away and shouted at the labourers, ‘Get on wi’ the fuckin’ job, will you. It’s got to be finished today, not next fuckin’ week!’
Tom quickly walked away.
An old crone answered the door at the farmhouse and Tom asked, ‘Excuse me, Ma’am, but are you the wife-to-be of Master Parkman?’