The Devil's Monk

by Sara Fraser

  ‘Who told you that?’ the crone demanded suspiciously.

  ‘No one, Ma’am, only Master Parkman said I was to ask for his wife-to-be, and naturally I assumed it might be yourself.’

  ‘Well it aren’t that old bat you’re talking to!’ a youthful voice shouted indignantly and a pretty young girl, resplendent in a fashionable satin gown and foam-plumed bonnet, came hurrying down the passage. ‘It’s me! Mistress Jenny Tolley! I’m Master Andrew Parkman’s betrothed Lady-Wife-to-be.’

  Tom lifted his tall hat and bowed slightly. ‘I hope I find you well, Mistress Tolley?’

  ‘You do indeed, Master Potts.’ She winked pertly and giggled. ‘You did me a real favour, even though you scared the shit out o’ me that night you come and took that bastard, Styler, away. The Banns am to be called this coming Sunday, and three weeks after that I’ll be Mistress Andrew Parkman. I shall be living like a High-Born Lady for the rest o’ me days! Now what’s you come here for?’

  ‘For Styler’s personal baggage and belongings. Master Parkman said to tell you that it was all right for you to give them to me.’

  ‘Florrie ’ull get his bag for you. Go on, Florrie, you daft old bat! Go and fetch Styler’s bag for this Gentleman. Now I must bid you Good Day, Master Potts. You knows what they say about a Fine Lady’s work never being done. These days I’m a very busy woman indeed.’

  With that, she was gone, and Tom could only smile and feel that, for her at least, Styler’s arrest had been a stroke of exceptionally good fortune.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Back in the Lock-Up, Tom emptied the contents of the large canvas bag on to the floor of the kitchen alcove. The subsequent examination of Jared Styler’s personal belongings revealed a pair of boots and assorted items of clothing. A cut-throat razor and small looking glass. Two hunting knives in leather sheaths. Several wire snares, three spoons and a pewter tankard. A flint, steel and tinder box set. A comb and a hair brush. A short-stemmed clay pipe and four twists of tobacco wrapped in a piece of rag. A middle-sized, cork-stoppered stone bottle which, when Tom pulled out the cork, he found to be half filled with gin.

  Tom sat for a while musing over the twists of tobacco being wrapped in a piece of rag. It was this single discovery above all else which convinced him that Jared Styler’s assertion of only ever having had Methuselah Leeson’s silver snuffbox and the two pieces of silk in his possession was the truth. As a smoker himself, Tom knew that given the choice between storing any grade of tobacco in a leather pouch or a piece of rag, even a stolen pouch would win the day, since it would be virtually indistinguishable from so many thousands of similar pouches.

  ‘So where are the objects that Nellie Leeson insisted had been stolen from her husband?’

  Tom abruptly stood up and, leaving the contents of the bag strewn across the floor, shouted to George Maffey, who was sitting on the rear-yard privy.

  ‘I need to go down to the Old Monks Graveyard and speak with Hector Smout, Corporal. I’ll return as soon as possible.’

  Smoking a pipe, Hector Smout was sitting on a mound of earth at the side of an open grave. When he saw Tom, he shouted: ‘Where’s the Reverend Clayton, then? He told me both of you was bringing them babbies down for burial today.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Tom came to an abrupt halt as guilty shame struck him like a physical blow. ‘Oh my God, Master Smout! I’d clean forgotten about them! Oh my God! I don’t know what to say!’

  ‘Then it’s best you say nothing till you can remember why you’ve come here, other than to bury the babbies,’ Smout advised sourly.

  ‘I needed to make a search of Nellie Leeson’s cottage. But instead, I think I’d best go up and see Reverend Clayton and make amends for having forgotten the babies.’

  ‘Is this search summat to do with the murders?’ Smouth asked.

  ‘Yes, and it needs to be done as quickly as possible.’ Tom nodded.

  ‘Where are the babbies?’

  ‘In the Lock-Up.’

  ‘Well, you’d best do the search, and I’ll go up to see Reverend Clayton. He can get the babbies from the Lock-Up. I got a good big basket to carry ’um in, and I’ve made a nice box to lay ’um to rest in. When we’re ready you can join us and we’ll do the burial.’

  ‘That’s a very good plan, Master Smout,’ Tom agreed immediately.

  Smout got to his feet and grinned. ‘Come on then, let’s go and open up Nellie’s cottage.’

  After Hector Smout prised out the final nail securing the door, he handed a small lavender-and-mint-filled pouch to Tom. ‘You’d best put it on, Master Potts. It’ll still be stinking inside.’

  Tom did as advised, and when Smout pushed the door open a foul stench enveloped them.

  ‘I’ll get the shutters up as well to give you more light to see with.’ Smout moved away from the doorway and Tom stepped into the shadowed, sparsely furnished room.

  Like its neighbours in the row the thatch-roofed cottage was single-storied with a low-pitched thatched roof and consisted of two fair-sized rooms and a rear lean-to which served as kitchen and scullery with its own small water pump. A door in the rear wall of the lean-to opened on to a long, narrow garden plot which had a wood-built privy at its end.

  Tom couldn’t help but think that compared to most of the workers’ hovels in alleys and courts throughout the Needle District this could be considered a very superior dwelling place.

  When Hector Smout lifted the shutters sunlight flooded the rooms and Tom moved slowly through them. Noting that, despite the lingering foul miasma of rotting flesh, the walls, floors, sparse furnishings, the beddings and the contents of the lean-to were all exceptionally clean.

  When his companion joined him, Tom remarked on this fact and Hector Smout nodded. ‘Ahrrr! She’s been a very fussy housekeeper, has Nellie. And fair play to Methuselah – until he went loony he was a good worker and provider.’ Smout chuckled and winked. ‘A bloody good poacher as well. They always had fresh meat for their table, or fish or eels whenever they fancied a change. I’ll go up to the Reverend now, Master Potts.’

  ‘Thank you very much for helping me yet again, Master Smout.’

  ‘Youm always welcome to my help, Master Potts.’

  They parted with a warm handshake, and Tom began his search.

  He minutely checked every piece of furnishing, the garden plot, the privy and where possible, the thatch of the roof.

  Search completed, he sat at the table in the front room of the cottage contemplating the varied objects strewn across it. Objects which he had found secreted in the lean-to, the roof thatch and the privy.

  They were a Hunter watch. A pocket flint, steel and tinder set. Three new cambric handkerchiefs. A tobacco pouch and a silver-banded meerschaum pipe with an engraved bowl. The same personal possessions that Nellie Leeson claimed had been stolen from the pockets of her dead husband.

  But Nellie had made no claim concerning one of Tom’s finds: a flat, rag-wrapped packet containing five tightly folded lengths of soiled white silk cloth. Each measured two yards by one yard, and were crudely sewed together from smaller pieces, identically with the two silk cloths from the Ipsley cottage.

  So why had Nellie not listed them with the other articles she claimed to have been stolen from her husband?

  For some time, Tom remained seated at the table, the same questions continually passing through his mind, and for which he could find no ready answers.

  Had Methuselah concealed all these articles without Nellie’s knowledge? If so, why?

  Was it Nellie who had done the concealing without her husband’s knowledge? If so, why?

  Had the concealments been made by both of them acting in concert?

  His train of thought was disturbed by Hector Smout and John Clayton shouting at him from outside; he picked up his new finds and went outside to join them in giving a Christian burial to the tragic, nameless babies.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, 12 August, 1829

  Since early
morning Jared Styler had been pleading with Tom to tell him what was happening in the investigation. But Tom had ignored him, and ruefully admitted to George Maffey, ‘I know I’m behaving like a spiteful child in not telling him what is going on, Corporal, but I abhor men who treat women so brutally. I freely admit that it’s only for the satisfaction of my own vanity that I’m continuing these investigations, which regrettably might well end in saving the evil bastard from the gallows. Should that be the case, I will still only ever be wishing him a lifetime of misery.’

  Nevertheless, these heartfelt feelings didn’t stop Tom dreading that his eagerly awaited informant might fail to put in an appearance.

  The bells signalling the end of the working day were ringing, and swarms of weary toilers were erupting from their workplaces when the bells of the Lock-Up finally jangled. Tom hurried to open its iron-studded door, while George Maffey bundled the leg-ironed and manacled Jared Styler out into the rear yard and barred that door before concealing himself in a cell.

  The tall, gaunt-featured woman pushed Tom aside as she entered and, standing next to the door, demanded, ‘Am you here by yourself?’

  ‘I am,’ he answered.

  ‘Right then! Now just keep your mouth shut and listen careful to what I say. That wench, Carrie Perks, who Jared Styler’s supposed to have killed, well he never! And her aren’t dead! Her come to the house real late at night on the Tuesday before last. Scambler thought I was sleeping, you see. But I’ve known for years about the tricks the dirty old pig gets up to that he thinks I don’t know about! He gives the young sluts extra “Poor Relief” that they aren’t entitled to, providing they opens their leg for him. He must have had more than a dozen of them over the years. The dirty old pig! And he thinks I don’t know about it, because to him I’m just his thick-yedded skivvy of a wife!

  ‘Anyway, I can tell you true that Carrie Perks is alive and kicking, and she’s staying in a tramp’s lodging house down by Evesham, which is kept by a sneaking thief called Slimey Blair. Scambler’s paying Slimey Blair a fortune to keep her hidden away in secret until after Styler’s been hung, because he’s been wanting to get Styler hung for years. And in all truth it would be a good riddance to bad rubbish. But what makes me so angry is that while Scambler begrudges me every miserly ha’penny I spends for me own needs, the dirty old pig is paying for that slut to live on the fat o’ the land and drink herself senseless each and every night. And I have to go down on me knees each and every night and pray to Our Blessed Lord and Saviour to give me the strength to bear this disgrace, and not commit the mortal sin of murdering Scambler for being the rotten dirty pig he is!

  ‘Now I got to get back home, and these days I finds it a long hard walk, I can tell you. The only reason I could come today was because I knew the dirty old pig would be sneaking down to see the little slut, and he’ll sure not be back till late tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, I thank you very much for this information, Ma’am. I’ll go and borrow transport and I’ll carry you back to Alcester,’ Tom offered.

  ‘Ohh, no you won’t!’ she declared emphatically. ‘I’m a respectable married woman, I am. Scambler might be a dirty old pig but I’m his lawful wedded wife and I’ll never break me marriage vows. Not never! So with all your fine manners and way o’ talking, and offering me rides in carriages, it’s still no use you trying to tempt me into mortal sin!’

  Tom could only blurt out in shock, ‘I do assure you, Ma’am, that I have no …’

  The door slammed behind her even as he spoke.

  George Maffey emerged from his hiding place with a broad grin. ‘Well, that went well, didn’t it, Sir? Apart from her turning you down when you tried to sweet talk her into being your fancy-woman.’

  Elated by what she had told him, Tom could only laugh and reply, ‘That didn’t surprise me, Corporal. Of late I’ve known nothing else but rejection from women. Anyway, I’m going to borrow a horse from Blackwell and go down to Evesham this very night. It shouldn’t take long for me to find this lodging house she spoke of.’

  ‘Can I say summat, Sir?’ George Maffey appeared to be somewhat uneasy.

  ‘Of course you may, Corporal.’ Tom was disturbed by his friend’s abrupt change of mood.

  ‘Well, Sir, Slimy Blairs place is a “Thieves’ Ken”. I’ve stayed there a few times, and it’s a fact that nigh on every jailbird and ne’er-do-well for fifty miles around uses it sometime or other.’

  Tom sensed what was to come, and interrupted, ‘Very well, Corporal, I fully accept that this reconnaissance patrol should be left to you. I shan’t try and direct such an experienced soldier as to how you carry it out. But what I shall strictly order is that you do not in any way put yourself into danger. Is that understood?’

  Maffey snapped to action and saluted. ‘At your orders, Sir!’

  ‘At ease, Corporal.’ Tom smiled and realized just how fond he had become of this man. ‘Now take as much time as you need on this patrol, Corporal; and for the sake of our friendship, do not take any chances which might bring you into danger.’

  They parted with a warm handshake, and Tom experienced a sudden pang of loneliness as Maffey walked out of the door. He went out into the rear yard.

  ‘What’s happening? Has you found Carrie Perks?’ Jared Styler questioned anxiously.

  ‘No!’ Tom snapped curtly.

  Styler sank to his knees, shaking his head slowly from side to side and whimpering in despair, and for the first time Tom was shocked by a sudden realization of Styler’s physical and mental deterioration.

  The arrogant, youthful-looking, powerfully built man in his prime had abruptly metamorphosed into this whimpering, haggard-featured, bent-backed old man, slumped on his knees upon the dusty cobbles.

  Tom experienced a fleeting shaft of pity. Then images of women’s bloodied faces and broken bodies and pitifully helpless dead babies forced themselves into the forefront of his mind, and he ordered harshly, ‘Get on your feet, Styler. Once you’re back in your cell I’ll take the leg irons and manacles off you.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Monday, 24 August, 1829

  It was mid-morning when George Maffey returned to the Lock-Up and the grin on his face bore evidence that his almost two weeks’ long mission had met with success.

  ‘Carrie Perks is in Slimy Blair’s all right, Sir. Going under the name o’ Carrie Brown and living on the fat o’ the land wi’ a bed and cubicle all to herself. I got friendly with her straight away, and we’d beg and drink together every day and night. When she got drunk enough she got loose-tongued and let things drop. Like how she’d never got pregnant in her life, although she’d been very free and easy with blokes, because her mam had showed her how not to.

  ‘Scambler came to see her twice while I was there, but he never came to the ken himself. He sent a message to her by way of one of the casuals, asking her when it got dark to sneak out to meet him. She told me who he was, and asked me to follow her close, in case he turned on her, so I followed her both times. They just had a quick shag behind some bushes, then she came back to the ken. One night she asked me if I’d been in trouble with the law. I told her I’d been in trouble with it lots of times, but that you’d been all right to me when I was begging in Redditch. Then she told me how this one bloke she was with broke her nose, and that it was you who’d helped her and got the doctor to mend it. She said that this same bloke broke her nose again, and she was going to see him hung for it, even though she knew for certain he hadn’t done the thing what he was going to be hung for.

  ‘I asked her what his name was, but she wouldn’t tell me. She passed out then and wouldn’t speak of it again.’

  ‘So she definitely knows what’s happening to Styler,’ Tom remarked.

  ‘Ohh, yes! But I’d wager the whole of the bloody Midlands knows what’s happening to him by now. That broadsheet about you arresting him is all over the place.’ Maffey chuckled and teased, ‘You’re well on the way to becoming a famous hero, Sir, and I reckon the
King ’ull be offering to make you the Constable o’ the Tower o’ London when Styler’s hung.’

  ‘I’m wondering what Lord Aston will be offering me when I meet with him tomorrow at the Petty Sessions.’ Tom was no longer smiling. ‘He came back on Friday from Malvern and sent word to Joseph Blackwell that he wants Styler brought before him tomorrow. He intends to commit Styler to Worcester Jail on five murder charges: the Haystack Woman, Methuselah Leeson, Carrie Perks and the babies.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to be satisfied with two charges instead o’ five.’ Maffey chuckled. ‘Styler can only be hung once, so whether it’s for two or five murders it’ll make no difference to his neck.’

  Tom was now grimly serious. ‘Come up to my bedroom, Corporal. I’ve something I want to show you.’

  Up in the garret, Tom opened the storage chest and took from it the packet of silk pieces and the other articles he had found in Nellie Leeson’s cottage.

  ‘Finding these hidden away is proof that they weren’t robbed from Methuselah, as his wife claimed, and that Styler was telling the truth when he denied having ever had them. We now know that his denial of killing Carrie Perks is also the truth, and that she’s never borne children. So as Will Shayler said, those babies most likely belonged to tinkers, tramps, gypsies or even some desperate local woman. Also, I’ve found no proof whatsoever that he knew or killed the Haystack Woman, or killed Methuselah Leeson. As for the attempted murder of Judas Benton, I just do not believe it was anything more than Styler slathering a would-be blackmailer in mud.’

  He paused for several seconds, then stated firmly, ‘In fact, at this very moment, Corporal, I’m becoming increasingly fearful that I’ve arrested the wrong man!’

  ‘So what will you do tomorrow, Sir?’

  ‘I truly don’t know yet, Corporal. But if you’ll be good enough to take command here, I do know what I’m going to do this very minute. I’m going directly up to the Poorhouse to have a word with Nellie Leeson.’