by Sara Fraser
This was the Black Country. One of the ever-increasing, wealth-producing industrial powerhouses which had propelled Great Britain to its present preponderance among the nations of the world. A fact which, although she was a proud patriot, did not at this moment serve to raise Amy’s low spirits as her gaze switched to the western edges of the yard where the huddled tents of the Vincent Sorenty Grand Aerostation Company were pitched.
Again she sighed despondently, lost in thought: I thought being an Aeronaut Maiden would be different from this. I’ve only been up in the balloon that one time in Brum, and the bloody balloon hasn’t been up either since then. And I never thought we’d be camping out in the Black Country. I thought that by now we’d be travelling over the seas to France and all those other countries I want to go to. Why did Vincent bugger off and leave that nasty sod to boss over me and work me half to death?
The thought of that ‘nasty sod’ entered her mind and his shout sounded in her ears, and Mario Fassia came running from the huddled tents.
When he reached her he challenged her angrily. ‘Why aren’t you practising?’
‘I was just taking a walk before I started,’ she explained.
‘We don’t pay to you to go swanning about like a High-Born Lady,’ he snarled.
‘You haven’t paid me for anything at all yet, have you!’ she retorted.
His dark eyes blazed with fury and he spat back, ‘What about the fine bed and board we give you?’
‘Bed and board!’ she scoffed scornfully. ‘A straw mattress and two blankets on the ground in a leaky tent, and mutton stew twice a day with the cheapest beer that money can buy to drink. That’s not what I call fine bed and board!’
‘Well, you’re still living better than any other skivvy I’ve ever known.’
‘I’m no skivvy!’ She erupted now in fury. ‘I’m married to a man who was born a Gentleman and who’s a much respected and praised Parish Constable. He’s just arrested that murderer called the Devil’s Monk. Read the latest broadsheets if you don’t believe me. My husband, Thomas Potts, is worth a dozen like you, and the whole world knows that now!’
She stepped around him and walked towards the tents.
For brief seconds he stood agitatedly gnawing his lips, then ran after her, shouting, ‘Where are you going now? Where are you going?’ His voice rose to a feminine-like shriek. ‘Where? Where are you going? Where?’
‘I’m going to do my afternoon practice! Where else do you think I’d be going at this hour? Where else is there for me to play in this scruffy hole? You bloody great Molly.’
Mario Fassia jerked to an abrupt halt, lifting his hands to his mouth in shocked consternation. ‘Molly! She called me Molly! What the fuck has she found out?’
In a temporarily vacant section of the extensive mill buildings there was a multistoried enclosed courtyard where Vincent Sorenty had had his crew rig high scaffolding from which ropes and trapezes could be hung to swing freely. It was here every morning and afternoon that Amy, under Mario Fassia’s tuition, had learned to do a variety of acrobatic movements on both trapeze and ropes.
It was later that afternoon when Vincent Sorenty returned to the encampment and came to watch Amy at practice. Dressed in a dark blue, close-fitting, ankle-length dress, she was swooping and soaring through the air on the trapeze. Repeatedly pulling herself upright so she was standing on the bar. Hanging by her hands at full length from the bar. Laying balanced on her stomach across the bar and performing stomach-anchored spins around it. Doing all this as the trapeze continually swooped and soared through a hundred and eighty degrees radius backwards and forwards at top speed.
When she finally let the trapeze slow to lessen the radius of movement and gradually come to rest, Sorenty clapped and cheered loudly as the crew men lowered the trapeze to the ground.
As Amy landed Sorenty hurried to meet her and, clasping both her hands, praised genuinely, ‘That was absolutely superb, Amy. You’ve progressed so wonderfully well in such an amazingly short time. There’s no doubt that you were born to be an Aeronaut Maiden, and so you shall be. You will perform your first balloon ascent with the trapeze this coming Saturday, and I truly believe you’ll create something of a sensation!’
He smiled warmly at her. ‘You’ve earned a reward for all your hard work, my dear. So tonight, let’s you and I seek whatever in the way of diversion Wolverhampton may have to offer. I’m told that the Swan Inn at High Green serves passable food and wine, and the town theatre at rear of the Swan is lit by so many gaslights we shall believe ourselves to have been transported to London.’
Amy’s low spirits had been lifted by her exercise on the trapeze which, now that she was mastering the techniques, charged her with an exhilarating mingling of intense excitement and the crowning exultation of accomplishment.
She giggled delightedly. ‘Oh, yes, please, Vincent! I shall really enjoy a change from mutton stews and watery porter.’
Five hours later in the Swan Inn, after devouring servings of turtle soup, baked carp, pigeon pie, roast beef, potatoes, cauliflower, fried apple fritters and jelly, ginger beer and claret, Amy was contentedly replete.
‘Well, Ma’am, I trust that was to your satisfaction?’ Vincent Sorenty smiled.
‘Oh my God, yes!’ she assured him emphatically. ‘And I’ve made a real pig of myself, haven’t I? I’m not a bit ashamed of it either.’
‘Nor should you be.’ His white teeth gleamed fleetingly in a smile. ‘When I was a small ragamuffin in London without kinfolk or friends I knew nothing but hunger and want. I had to beg and steal and scavenge dirty scraps to try to fill my belly. Now I’m a famous Aeronaut I can eat and drink whatever I fancy, and whenever I fancy …’ His teeth gleamed white again, but now in a vicious snarl of menace, ‘… And the Devil will have whoever tries to drive me back into poverty. Because whoever it is who tries to do that, I’ll save the Devil the work of taking them himself. I’ll present them to him as a gift from me.’
For the first time since she had met Vincent Sorenty, Amy experienced the shock of a nervous wariness of him. Then in the next instant he was laughing and instantly transmogrified into the genial, kindly, charming man she had become familiar with. ‘Pay no attention to my drunken nonsense, Amy. I have this pathetic fault of occasionally feeling sorry for myself without any justification. When, truth to tell, I was a spoilt brat who was treated like a little prince by all his kinfolk.’
He beckoned to the waiter, and when the man came to him, asked, ‘Is there anything in the way of a performance at the theatre tonight?’
‘No, Master Sorenty, there won’t be nothing doing there till Saturday. But yesterday morning a Gyppo woman named Madame Heptiza Lee, who’s a fortune teller, parked her caravan on that bit o’ open ground just along from the theatre. You might be interested in going to see her?’
‘Why? I’ve seen more than enough Gypsy fortune tellers in caravans already in my life.’
‘Well, begging your pardon, Master Sorenty, but I couldn’t help but hear you mention the Devil. Have you read the broadsheets telling about those Devil’s Monk murders on the other side o’ Brummagem there? Well, this Gyppo wench, as well as being a fortune teller, is also saying that she was set on and nearly murdered by the Devil’s Monk, and that for a good fee she’ll tell the story of it. So you can have your fortunes told and meet somebody who knows the Devil’s Monk, at one and the same time.’
Amy was thrilled. ‘The Devil’s Monk! That’s who my husband arrested! Ohh, do let’s go to see this woman, Vincent. I’d love to hear her story.’
‘Then you shall, my dear Amy. Just give me time to drink a Brandy Toddy, and then I shall take you there and wait patiently while you talk with her. But on one condition, and that is that I must pay her fees.’
‘Can you please tell her, Master Sorenty, that it’s Willy Kelly, the waiter at the Swan, who’s sent you to her? You see, she’s promised that if I sends her enough customers she’ll read me fortune wi’ the cards, a
nd I’m real desperate to know if me rotten luck is ever going to change.’
Sorenty laughed and nodded. ‘Of course I’ll tell her that you sent us, Willy. And your luck’s already beginning to change because when you bring me my Brandy Toddy I’ll settle the bill for our feast and give you a florin for yourself on top of it.’
Willy hurried away, and Amy could only smile warmly at her companion and think to herself what a nice man he truly was.
‘Madame Heptiza Lee. Fortune Teller and Star Gazer to the Crowned Heads and Nobility of Europe and Asia.’
The crudely shaped lettering dominated the other garishly coloured designs smothering the large caravan. To one side of the caravan stood a small square marquee, also covered with the same lettering and garish paintwork. A shaggy-coated horse tethered to the caravan’s rear wheel was the only sign of life.
As the couple walked on to the plot of land, Vincent Sorenty called, ‘Are you here, Madame Lee? Willy Kelly, the waiter at the Swan Inn, has sent us.’
The top half of the caravan door swung open and a mature woman leaned out. She was bedecked in a profusion of golden earrings, necklaces, bangles and brooches, a mass of turban-topped black hair framing her plump, dark-skinned features.
‘Welcome to you, my Good Gentleman and Lady. I am Madame Heptiza Lee, Fortune Teller and Star Gazer to the Crowned Heads and Nobility of Europe and Asia. What is it you wish of me? Is it to foresee and tell your futures with the cards, or the crystals, or by consulting with the Wise Spirits who dwell among the stars of the heavens?’
As she and Sorenty had arranged while walking here, it was now Amy who took over the negotiations.
‘No, Madame Lee, we haven’t come to have our fortunes read. It’s me alone who wants to talk with you, not this Gentleman, who is Master Victor Sorenty, the very famous Aeronaut. You see, it was my husband, Constable Thomas Potts, who arrested the Devil’s Monk. So I’m very, very interested to hear all that you can tell me about that awful villain and how you managed to escape from him.’
Heptiza Lee’s black eyes narrowed as if she were calculating odds, and after a pause she smiled and told Amy, ‘O’ course I’m willing to tell you the tale, my Pretty. But the fee is a heavy one, and who’s going to pay it?’
‘I am, Madame Lee, and if my friend Amy enjoys your tale, I’ll most probably pay you something extra on your fee.’
‘You don’t need to pay me anything at all, Master Sorenty, if you’ll do me one small favour.’ She spoke rapidly for a brief while and, when she had fallen silent, Sorenty nodded. ‘Be my guest, Madame Lee.’
‘Come then, my Pretty.’ Heptiza Lee beckoned Amy. ‘Step into my van and be comfortable, while I tells you a tale that’ll make your blood curdle.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
Redditch Town.
Monday, 31 August, 1829
Joseph Blackwell’s manservant came at eight o’clock in the morning to summon Tom to the Red House.
‘My Master says to tell you that he needs to speak with you straight away.’
‘Please tell your Master that I’ll be with him directly once I’ve dealt with an urgent problem here.’
As he watched the man walk away, Tom felt self-disgust at his own cowardly reluctance to face Joseph Blackwell and report on his continued investigative failings, and chastised himself: It’s no use you trying to put it off any longer, you damned coward! You’ll just have to tell Blackwell the truth: that you’ve made no bloody progress and don’t know where else to go with it.
As Tom left the Lock-Up he saw Maisie Lock coming across the Green with the daily rations for himself, George Maffey and their prisoner.
In his current depressed mood, Tom had not the slightest desire to meet her, so quickened his pace and kept looking straight ahead.
‘Tom Potts! Don’t you try making out you aren’t seen me coming! I knows you saw me, so just hold where you am!’ Her strident shouts bounced off walls on all surrounds of the Green.
He halted and faced her, enquiring wearily, ‘What do you want from me, Maisie Lock?’
She halted at a distance and tossed her head scornfully. ‘I don’t want nothing from you, Tom Potts. And the only reason I’m shouting you is that Amy wants to tell you summat and she asked me, her best friend, to pass the message on to you when I brought the grub to the Lock-Up.’
She went on towards the Lock-Up and Tom, heart pounding with shock, forgot all about Joseph Blackwell and ran after her, shouting, ‘Where is she? What is it she wants you to tell me? Where is she?’
Maisie Lock’s only answer was to jerk her mob-capped head backwards in the direction of the Fox and Goose.
Tom changed course and ran towards the inn. As he neared it an upstairs casement window opened and he heard Amy calling, ‘Wait there for me, Tom. I’ll come out to you.’
Body stiff with tension, he stood telling himself over and over again: Don’t raise your hopes! Don’t raise your hopes! Don’t raise your hopes!
She came out from the front door, wearing a simple unadorned green gown. Her long blonde hair was hanging loose, framing her rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes. And for Tom the years rolled back and it was as if he was meeting her for the first time.
Oh, Amy, you look as you did when I first met you and thought you the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
But those words remained unspoken, for it was all he could do to stop himself from bursting into tears and begging her to love him again as she once did.
‘Hello, Tom. Are you well?’ she asked smilingly.
‘Yes, I thank you,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘And you? Are you well?’
‘Never better!’ She radiated an air of bubbling excitement. ‘I did my first trapeze performance from beneath the balloon last Saturday. It was the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever known, Tom. And when the crowd shouted and cheered me I felt like I was the Queen of England. And Sam Thomas has sent word to Vincent that it’s this coming Saturday he wants to open his gasworks, so I’ll be giving a performance there. You will come and watch me, won’t you, Tom?’
Momentarily his genuine pleasure that she had achieved her goal, almost, but not quite, overlaid his bleak sense of absolute loss.
‘Ohhh, that’s wonderful, Amy. I’m really happy that it went so well for you and that you’re having such a great success. Of course I’ll be watching you on Saturday.’ He coughed to try and ease the painful tightness in his throat, and asked tentatively, ‘Is it true what Maisie said? That there is something you want to tell me?’
He waited in dread for her to answer. ‘Yes, Tom, very soon I’m going abroad with Vincent. So after Saturday you might never see me again.’
But when she did speak, he couldn’t fully absorb what he was hearing at first.
‘I’ve met with a woman in Wolverhampton, Tom. She’s a fortune teller. A Gypsy who calls herself Madame Heptiza Lee. Well, she told me that the Devil’s Monk had tried to murder her, but that she’d fought him off.’
He held up his hands and said slowly, ‘Don’t be angry with me, Amy. But can you please tell me all this again – I’m fearing that I haven’t understood correctly what it is you’re saying. Did you say that her name is Heptiza Lee?’
‘Bloody hell, Tom!’ she complained pettishly. ‘Are you going deaf in your old age?’
‘No! Of course not! But what you said is of the utmost importance to me and I need to hear it again. And with the fullest and most minute details of exactly what she told you. This is truly a matter of life and death, Amy. So it’s of the utmost importance that I have everything you tell me absolutely clear in my mind.’
She instantly felt guilty for reacting so pettishly. ‘I’m sorry for snapping at you, Tom. And I didn’t mean what I said about you getting deaf in your old age, because I don’t see you as being old. Now listen carefully, and stop me straight away if you want me to say something twice.’
Within minutes Tom was repeating her information to Joseph Blackwell, and directly after that conversation he was
on horseback, heading for Wolverhampton.
At this hour in the afternoon, with virtually the entire able-bodied population of Wolverhampton at their work or household tasks, the theatre’s immediate surrounds and environs were deserted.
Tom tethered the horse to the front wheel of the caravan and called, ‘Are you inside, Madame Lee?’
The top half of the caravan door swung outwards and Heptiza Lee stared speculatively at this exceptionally tall and lanky caller.
Tom lifted his tall hat and bowed. ‘Good Afternoon, Ma’am. Am I addressing Madame Heptiza Lee?’
Her eyes glinted shrewdly. ‘Indeed you are, and am I right in thinking that you’re Constable Thomas Potts, husband to Amy Potts?’
‘You are, Ma’am.’
She pushed the bottom half of the door open and came down the caravan steps to stand facing him. ‘Your Missus told me that you’d very likely come calling once she’d told you about me. I hopes she also told you that I charge a very high fee for telling my story?’
‘How much might that fee amount to, Ma’am?’
‘How much is it worth to you to hear it? Maybe five sovereigns?’
‘Can I respectfully remind you, Ma’am, that a man’s life might well depend on what you tell me today. How can you or I set a valuation of price on a man’s life?’
‘Pfffff! I don’t give a bugger about Jared Styler’s life! He’s naught but an animal!’ she spat out contemptuously and held out her hand palm upwards. ‘Cross this with five sovereigns worth o’ gold or silver and I’ll tell you my story. Give it to me now or bugger off, because I’m not going to waste any more time haggling the price wi’ you.’
Tom smiled and said at a tangent, ‘My wife told me that last Saturday Master Sorenty allowed you to set up your tent on the same ground as his balloon, and that you did good business because of that pitch. I believe that you’ll be doing the same next Saturday – setting up your tent on the balloon field in Redditch Town.’