by Sara Fraser
This time it was Hilda Lewis who met and accompanied Tom upstairs to the cramped room, telling him with a beaming smile, ‘Nellie’s quite her old self again, Master Potts. She’s ruling the other old women with a rod of iron, just like she did poor Methuselah. But so long as they does what her says she makes good and sure they get their pipes and bacca regular, and none of the old men dares to try and bully them when she’s about.’
In the narrow room he found Nellie Leeson, now dressed in the ‘TP’-badged grey dress and bonnet, sitting with her ancient crone companions on the wooden bench, all three of them noisily sucking in and blowing out clouds of smoke from their clay pipes.
‘Now then, Nellie, here’s a Gentleman come to visit. Do you remember him?’ Hilda Lewis asked gently.
Nellie Leeson screwed her eyes until they were mere slits embedded in red-rimmed flesh and stared up at Tom for several seconds. Then demanded angrily, ‘Where’s me husband? What’s you done wi’ him?’
‘He’s received a Christian Burial in the Old Monks Graveyard, Mistress Leeson. The Reverend Clayton read the service, and Hector Smout and myself were mourners.’
‘Who was it who had me brung up here?’ She scowled.
‘It was myself, Ma’am. You were taken ill and needed constant care. However, your home and belongings are all well secured, and Master Smout keeps a close watch on them.’
Her withered features contorted in fury and she screeched, ‘You had no rights to bury Leeson! There was still plenty o’ folks paying to have a look at him! And the bugger owed me money for the valuables he’d stole from me!’
Tom instantly seized upon this opening she had given him. ‘Well, that is why I’m come here to see you today, Ma’am.’
There was a small table at the end of the room and Tom dragged it in front of the three seated crones. Then, from his canvas bag he started pulling out the articles he had found in her cottage, and one by one laid them on the table in front of Nellie Leeson, identifying them aloud as he did so.
‘The silver-banded meerschaum pipe with an engraved bowl. A tobacco pouch. The Hunter watch. A pocket flint, steel and tinder set. Three new cambric handkerchiefs. Do you not recognize them, Ma’am? They are some of the articles that you told me had been stolen from your husband.’
She made no reply, only sat rocking her body backwards and forwards, noisily sucking in and blowing out clouds of strong-smelling smoke.
He waited briefly before taking out the flat packet of silk pieces and opening the packet lifted one piece and shook it out before her.
‘These pieces of silk are exactly similar to other pieces which I found in the possession of the man who is accused of murdering and robbing your husband, Ma’am. But these particular pieces I found concealed in your cottage, together with all these other articles I’ve just shown you. I’m wondering why you didn’t include the pieces of silk with the other articles you told me of? I’m also wondering who it was that concealed all these things in various hiding places in your cottage?’
Nellie Leeson’s head bent low, her body started rocking, lower and lower, faster and faster until she suddenly toppled off the bench and thumped on to on the floor, her head, legs and arms jerking, her body convulsing erratically, her breaths whooping gasps.
‘Oh my God!’ Hilda Lewis shouted. ‘Quick! Help me get her on to the cot, Master Potts.’
Tom sprang to her side and they lifted Nellie Leeson and laid her on the cot, where she continued convulsing and whooping.
‘I do apologise most sincerely for this, Mistress Lewis. I fear I should have not badgered her so. I’m very, very sorry for doing so!’ Tom was feeling truly guilty and blaming himself.
Hilda Lewis shook her head and told him, ‘Don’t go moithering yourself, Master Potts. She’s been having these fits for as long as I’ve known her. Don’t forget I’ve had years of dealing with Nellie and Methuselah. Every time he’s been put in here Nellie’s come up regularly to see him, and as sure as little apples she’s had one o’ these turns at some time or other during the visit. Perhaps I’m a wicked cow for saying so, but there’s been times when I’ve wondered if she can throw a fit whenever it serves her best. Anyway, you’d best leave her to me now and go about your business, because you’ll get no sense from her when she comes back to her senses. I’ll bid you Good Day, Master Potts.’
Tom bowed. ‘Thank you for being so forebearing, Ma’am. Good Day to you.’
As he walked back to Redditch, memories of various incidents were flooding into his mind.
Nellie Leeson waving the rusty hatchet and threatening, ‘Hold your bloody tongue, Thomas Potts, and bugger off from here afore I cuts your bloody yed off!’
Nellie Leeson, brandishing a rusty hatchet above her mob-capped head, screeching furiously at her husband, ‘Get back here, you barmy bugger! I told you to stop in the house, didn’t I! Get back here afore I has your bloody guts for garters!’
Methuselah Leeson howling in pain as his wife grabbed his long beard with her free hand and hobbled back along the lane, dragging him with her.
Nellie Leeson screeching in fury, ‘He’d gone off by hisself again! I told the bugger time and time again that he’d got to wait for me, and not go gallivanting off by hisself! But he would keep on sneaking off like a slithering snake. We was fighting day and night about it, so we was.’
A grossly obese woman snapping curtly, ‘It’s a wonder Nellie Leeson aren’t put this chopper into old Methuselah’s head long afore now! Her’s tried to do it enough times afore when her bloody temper’s up. Like a mad thing at them times, so her is.’
Nellie Leeson whirling the rusty hatchet around her head, howling, ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!’ at this same obese woman, who was sobbing in terror and struggling to raise her gross body from the ground while Tom himself was grappling with Nellie Leeson, to restrain and disarm her.
Now a voice whispered from the depths of Tom’s mind: If Nellie Leeson had killed Old Methuselah, that would leave only the Haystack Woman to charge Jared Styler with, and you have no evidence against him for it. So what are you going to say to Lord Aston tomorrow?
Tom smiled wryly, and thought: I’m buggered if I know. But personally, I’m sure that it was Nellie who, in a fit of rage, buried the hatchet in Old Methuselah’s head after finding out about his stealing their money to go whoring. But I’m not relishing the thought of a poor old madwoman ending her life on the gallows because of my investigation. As he continued on his way a plan began to formulate in his mind, and when he reached Redditch he went directly to the house of Joseph Blackwell.
After a long and extremely detailed conversation with Blackwell, Tom was on horseback, leading another saddled horse behind him, heading towards Studley Village.
THIRTY-SIX
Tuesday, 25 August, 1829
By eight o’clock in the morning the Select Parlour, Tap Room, Snug Room and the entrance and corridors of the Fox and Goose were packed. Outside a noisy crowd were clustered along the entire length of the front wall of the inn. The roadway was lined with carriages and carts loaded with people. Another large rowdy crowd was gathered outside the Lock-Up. Roaming hawkers and pedlars cried their wares, sweetmeats and drinks vendors offered refreshments, Broadsheet Sellers brandished their sheets of bloodthirsty reportages. The atmosphere was that of a festive occasion, with everyone present eagerly awaiting the entrance of the ‘Star Attraction’; in this case, the ‘Star Attraction’ being Jared Styler, the notorious Devil’s Monk.
Inside the Lock-Up a small group of men were standing in the central passage between the cells, when from outside there came a sudden hubbub of shouting, followed by the jangling of the bells.
‘Attend to the door, Corporal Maffey,’ Joseph Blackwell ordered. ‘You’d best go with him, Constable Shayler, and you also, Deputy Constable Bint, in case any of the roughs try to follow My Lord Aston inside.’
The Right Honourable and Reverend Walter Hutchinson, the Lord Aston, had tak
en great pains with his toilette and dress this morning, and entered the Lock-Up emanating mingled scents of colognes and pomades, freshly laundered linen and clothes, and highly polished leather. But when he spoke his breath carried strong scents of wines, spirits, tobacco and snuff.
‘Blackwell, my good fellow, why did you not inform me yesterday that it was imperative I call here before taking my seat to open the Sessions?’ he demanded pettishly. ‘Why have I only been informed this very morning? This laxness displayed by yourself has most dreadfully discommoded me!’
Joseph Blackwell bowed apologetically. ‘Alas, My Lord, I am truly regretful if you have been discommoded in any degree. However, since midday yesterday until the early hours of this morning, myself, together with Constables Shayler, Potts, Bint and Corporal Maffey have been fully engaged upon official duties. These particular duties were carried out with the sole intent of protecting yourself, My Lord, from being hooted and jeered and insulted by this mob outside.’
‘Hooted? Jeered? Insulted?’ Each word was an explosion from Aston’s purple ballooned jowls. ‘Have you not heard or read of the praises being showered upon my name for instigating and directing the investigation which has brought this vile mass murderer to face justice?’
‘Exactly how many murders constitute a mass, My Lord?’ Blackwell hissed sibilantly.
‘In this case, five! As you well know, Blackwell! Furthermore, as you well …’
Aston suddenly halted in mid-sentence, and he blinked several times in rapid succession as realization dawned. His bombastic bellowing dropped to a virtually whispered plea. ‘What is it, Sir? What is it that you have discovered which creates this need for protecting me from abuse?’
Joseph Blackwell turned towards the kitchen alcove and called gently, ‘Miss Carrie Perks, will you please come here to me. Don’t be afraid, my dear. No one will harm or shout at you, or offer you insult in any way.’
Carrie Perks slowly emerged into view and approached the group, head bowed, hands kneading nervously together.
‘Goddammee! Carrie Perks! The murdered woman, whose babies were murdered also! Goddammee! Is this really her?’ Aston was shaking his head as if he could not believe what his eyes were seeing.
‘It is indeed, My Lord.’ Blackwell smiled thinly. ‘Constable Potts and Constable Shayler brought her here from Evesham last night, where she has been staying in a lodging house of the type commonly called a “Thieves’ Ken”. She has given me a full account of her relationship with Jared Styler. She has confirmed that Jared Styler’s account of her prostituting herself with Methuselah Leeson in return for money and certain other articles is accurate. She has also sworn on the Bible that she has never borne children, and that Jared Styler, to her certain knowledge, did not murder the babies that were found in Ipsley. So, My Lord, would you not agree that the number of the Devil’s Monk suspected murders has now dropped to two?’
Knowing Blackwell as he did, Aston became very wary, and now his tone sounded almost humble. ‘Blackwell, my dear fellow, I do sense that you have more disturbing news to impart. Let me hear it.’
‘One moment if it please you, My Lord.’ Blackwell turned and told George Maffey, ‘Corporal, will you escort Miss Perks out of earshot and ensure she remains so.’
Maffey snapped to attention and saluted. ‘At your orders, Sir.’
He took Carrie Perks arm and said gently, ‘You come on upstairs wi’ me now, my dearie, and you can sit and be comfortable while I make you a nice breakfast.’
Blackwell then said, ‘Constable Shayler, Deputy Constable Bint, will you accompany them and come when I call.’
When the pair had also gone, the moment for which Tom had been waiting with grim anticipation arrived.
Blackwell almost imperceptibly nodded to him.
Tom stepped forward, bowed slightly to Aston and told him firmly, ‘I have to report, My Lord, that the accusation of attempted murder made by Judas Benton against Jared Styler is false, and Benton has proven himself to be lying. There is as yet no positive evidence to link Styler with the murder of Methuselah Leeson, and there is as yet no positive evidence to link Styler with the murder of the individual termed the Haystack Woman. I freely admit that I now have strong doubts that he is guilty of either of those two murders, and that I was too hasty in concluding that he was the so-called Devil’s Monk. Therefore, My Lord, I offer you my immediate resignation, or my dismissal without protest, from the post of Constable of Tardebigge Parish.’
Aston was so taken aback that he could only stare incredulously at Tom.
Blackwell intervened smoothly. ‘My Lord, I do not believe that anything would be gained from dismissing Constable Potts, or accepting his resignation at this time. If you will permit, I will give you my reasons.’
Radiating a confident surety, he fluently presented those reasons at considerable length while giving Aston scant opportunity to present any counterargument.
Slowly, inevitably it seemed to Tom, Blackwell persuaded Lord Aston that he would gain fresh kudos if he followed his, Blackwell’s, advice. Listening and watching intently, Tom’s already high respect for Blackwell’s expertise in handling Lord Aston rose to fresh heights.
When Blackwell was satisfied he had prevailed, he then gave Aston the opportunity to comment upon and alter slightly some of the advice he had received. By the time all was settled, Aston was left believing that it was he himself who had formulated the course of action they were to follow.
Blackwell bowed submissively and in admiring tones declared, ‘Very well, My Lord, it shall all be done exactly as you have advised. May I make so bold as to offer you my sincerest admiration, and also my grateful thanks, for the masterful way you have dealt with this crisis. I fear that without your wise counsel we would be facing the most riotous disorder.’
Aston waved his be-ringed hand in casual acceptance of his rightful dues. ‘I need no thanks, Blackwell. I am merely doing my duty to my sovereign and my country.’
‘As you always do, My Lord.’ Blackwell bowed again before turning to Tom. ‘Constable Potts, go immediately and fetch the Crier here.’
As Tom left he heard Blackwell advising, ‘My Lord, I think it wisest for you to leave in these next moments, whilst the rabble will undoubtedly be focussing all their attention on Constable Potts.’
As Tom walked across the Green he was assailed from all side with questions.
‘Where’s the Monk?’
‘When’s he coming out?’
‘Is it true he’s slaughtered more than a dozen?’
‘Is it true he roasted and ate their hearts?’
Jimmy Grier was standing by the door of the inn fully accoutred in all his garish professional splendour. Tom beckoned for him to follow and walked back across the Green, still being assailed by a barrage of questions.
Lord Aston’s four-horsed carriage had gone when Tom and Grier entered the Lock-Up, and his fellow constables were returned downstairs.
Joseph Blackwell emitted a reedy chuckle. ‘I do hope we’re not faced with a riot when this news is Cried. Now listen carefully, Master Grier.’
He quickly recited the words, then waited expectantly.
Jimmy Grier cleared his throat and repeated in a low voice. ‘OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! By Order of the Magistrates, let it be known that the man, Jared Styler, being held in custody in the Redditch Lock-Up, is presently lying unconscious after suffering a seizure at the hour of three hours and seventeen minutes of this morning, the twenty-fifth day of August, in the Year of Our Lord, 1829. The Petty Sessions called for this day, the twenty-fifth day of August in the Year of Our Lord, 1829, is hereby cancelled. The Magistrates warn that should any disorder occur following this announcement, the perpetrators of such disorder shall be punished with the utmost severity the law allows. GOD SAVE THE KING!’
‘As always, you have committed that to memory without any error whatsoever, Master Grier. I do declare that you are the finest Crier in the Midlands, and likely in the whole kingdom,
’ Blackwell praised as he produced a gold sovereign and handed it to the old man. ‘Now Cry that message until this is fully earned. Then call at my house and you shall be given a full bottle of whatever drink you wish for.’
Jimmy Grier was let out on to the Green. Almost immediately his bell rang out and his stentorian shout rebounded from the wall of the Lock-Up.
‘OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! By Order of the Magistrates …’
Blackwell emitted another reedy chuckle. ‘I’ll wager that with a strong enough wind to carry it that shout can be heard a hundred miles away or more. Now, Deputy Constable Bint, call Corporal Maffey and have him bring the girl back downstairs. I want you, Constable Shayler, to deliver her safely back to her lodging house. Give her this when you arrive there.’
He handed a sovereign to Shayler, and turned and beckoned Tom to follow him to the front door. As he exited he emitted yet another reedy chuckle and whispered, ‘Now, Thomas Potts, make good use of the extra time you have to lay the real Devil’s Monk by the heels, which I have no doubt you will succeed in doing.’ He winked broadly and in a louder voice instructed, ‘Constable Potts, I want you and Deputy Constable Bint to patrol the town until the crowds disperse. Corporal Maffey can watch over our “Sleeping Beauty”.’
Locked away in the cell nearest the rear door, breathing hoarsely through his wide-open mouth, Jared Styler lay unconscious under the effects of the laudanum he had been dosed up with earlier that morning.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Wolverhampton, Black Country, Staffordshire.
Tuesday, 25 August, 1829
The grey dampness of early afternoon did nothing to lift Amy Potts’s spirits as she walked slowly along the canal-branch towpath which led into the wide-spaced yard of the huge Union Mill.
When she reached the edge of the yard she halted and sighed despondently as she scanned the view before her. The south-east directly overlooked a gasworks, the main canal and a large foundry, in that order, surrounded by an ever-spreading smoke-shrouded panorama of the multi-terraced housing, heavy industries, coal and iron mines which stretched more than a dozen miles to meld in parts with the outskirts of the city of Birmingham.