The Devil's Monk

by Sara Fraser

  She shrugged her meaty shoulders dismissively. ‘So? What’s that to you?’

  ‘Well, since Jared Styler is the talk of the entire Needle District, you’ll make a veritable fortune displaying yourself there as one of his victims. The local people will be clamouring to hear your story and will pay a very large price for it.’

  ‘So? What’s that to you? I’ll do whatever I choose, whenever I choose, wherever I choose, and there’s naught you can say or do about it. Now, are you going to pay me or what? Because I’ve had more than a bellyful of you now!’

  Her attitude was so unpleasantly arrogant that Tom’s patience abruptly evaporated and he told her, ‘You should know that if you practice your fortune telling in the Tardebigge Parish, I could, if I chose, lawfully arrest you for making, “False and Pretended Prophecies”. The penalty for a first offence is a Ten-Pound fine and one year’s imprisonment. For a second offence, Forfeiture of All Goods and Chattels and imprisonment for life.’

  Heptiza Lee put her hands on her hips and roared with laughter before shaking her head and telling him, ‘You knows as well as I do, Tom Potts, that that law was passed in the days of Old Queen Lizzie and that what I does in my tent is seen in this day and age as just a bit o’ fun and nonsense – nothing more.’ Her hand came forward. ‘If you wants to hear my story, you’ll cross my palm wi’ five sovereigns this instant or you can bugger off! So what’s it to be?’

  Tom stepped to the horse and freed his yard-long, crown-topped staff from the saddle straps. He stepped back to confront Heptiza Lee and told her quietly, ‘Heptiza Lee, when I’m carrying this staff I’m acting in the King’s Name, and now I am arresting you, in the King’s Name, for the offences of Battery and Wounding and Robbery, committed by you upon the person of Jared Styler. One of the wounds you inflicted upon Jared Styler being the biting off of the lobe of his right ear.

  ‘I warn you that I’ll use force if you make any attempt to resist arrest or to escape. You now have choice of being manacled and pulled at rope’s length behind me, or riding pillion on the horse with me. What’s it to be?’

  She seemed totally dazed with shock and was shaking her head, muttering, ‘You can’t do this! You can’t arrest me for biting that bad bastard! You can’t do it!’

  ‘Oh, but I can. And I have. So you’d best tell me right away. Do you walk or do you ride back to Redditch?’

  He gripped her arm and pulled her to the side of the horse, where he opened a saddlebag and lifted out a set of manacles.

  ‘Noo!’ she wailed. ‘No, please, no! Just let me go and I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything what happened! Everything! I swear on me mam’s grave! I’ll tell you everything!’

  After a long pause, Tom told her quietly, ‘Very well. I’ll give you a chance. We’ll sit inside your van and you must tell me everything and answer all my questions truthfully. Should I be satisfied that you’ve done that, I shall release you and you’ll be free to continue your fortune telling.’

  An hour later, after questioning in great detail and listening to Heptiza Lee’s answers and explanations concerning her relationship with Jared Styler, Tom fully accepted the truth of what he had heard.

  ‘Very well, Madame Lee, you’ll hear no more from me concerning Jared Styler. But until it is proven in a Court of Law that he is indeed the Devil’s Monk, I would advise you to stop calling him by that title.’ He smiled wryly. ‘As I shall stop doing so myself, now I’ve met with you and heard your story.’

  ‘Will it be all right for me to come to Redditch with the balloonists?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Again, he couldn’t help but smile wryly. ‘And the way my life is going at this time, I may well be seeking to have my own future prospects foretold.’

  In the lamp-lit study of the Red House, Joseph Blackwell listened in silence while Tom described the meeting with Heptiza Lee, ending with the admission, ‘So, Sir, yet another of my suppos-itions have been proven to be completely without substance. It’s my own stupidity to blame, for assuming without an atom of proof that Heptiza Lee must be the Haystack Woman.’ Tom sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘Truth to tell, at this moment I’ve not got any idea at all as to how I can now further the investigations into the Methuselah Leeson and Haystack Woman murders. I fear that I’ve arrested an innocent man, and feel that I should now release him.’

  Blackwell smiled bleakly. ‘You may well fear and feel, Thomas Potts. But the fact remains that you have not yet proven Styler to be innocent of either of these two murders, and until you have done that he must remain in custody.

  ‘Imagine the outcry should we release him and within a space of time another murder is committed in the Needle District. Who would be blamed for it, d’you think?’

  Tom could only accept. ‘Jared Styler for the murder, and ourselves for letting him go free to commit it.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Blackwell slapped his hand down sharply upon the desk. ‘Now go and attend to your normal duties, Constable Potts, and for a brief period push this matter of the Devil’s Monk to the back of your mind. I’m confident that in God’s good time you will find another avenue of this investigation open up for you to journey down.’

  He chuckled dryly. ‘And above all else, give no thought to any nonsense such as Habeas Corpus. Bear this in mind that Jared Styler is enjoying the absolute surety of warm, dry shelter and free bed and board. There are countless thousands of the homeless and hungry in this country who would greatly envy him for having such material blessings. I bid you Good Night, Constable Potts.’

  In the Lock-Up, George Maffey greeted Tom with a smart salute.

  ‘All present and correct, Sir. The prisoner has been quiet and orderly. Ritchie Bint called in to say he’d report for duty early Saturday morning. Master William Maries from the Red Lane come in to lay a complaint against his neighbour, the Widow Reilly, for chucking the contents of her chamber pot on to his head when he was passing underneath her bedroom window. The Widow Reilly come in to make a complaint against Master William Maries for abusing her with foul language and threatening to kill her. Doctor Laylor sent a message to remind you it’s the Apollo Club meeting at the Fox and Goose tonight; and that your attendance would be much appreciated. Your Missus called in on her way back to the Black Country to say tarrah to you, and that she was looking forwards to seeing you again next Saturday after her’s done her performance. And I’ve got a nice bit o’ beefsteak and some potatoes for our supper, which I can start cooking right away if you want me to, Sir.’

  ‘I do indeed, Corporal, because I’m bloody starving,’ Tom accepted gratefully. ‘And while you’re doing that I’ll have a word with Styler.’

  The cell stank of unwashed flesh and the reeking bucket in its corner when Tom entered, and ordered sharply, ‘Pay attention to me, Styler.’

  The prisoner stood up from the bed slab unshaven and, with hair left unoiled and uncombed for more than two weeks, Jared Styler’s face and throat were thickly stubbled with grey whiskers. His shaggy hair now displayed grey streaks and roots.

  Tom felt no pity as he regarded the other man’s physical deterioration; the battered, bloodied features of Carrie Perks were still too vivid in his mind.

  ‘I’ve found Heptiza Lee and have spoken with her this very day, Styler. She confirmed that after suffering a week of brutal ill-treatment at your hands she bit off part of your ear and ran away.’

  Styler vented a shout of exultant relief. ‘That’s it then! I told you I’d never murdered nobody, didn’t I? You’ve got to let me go now, haven’t you?’ He scowled menacingly and snarled, ‘I’ll be looking for payment in gold for the wrong you’ve done me, Potts!’

  Slowly and deliberately, Tom shook his head. ‘No, Styler. I’m not letting you go. So far I’ve only proven that you didn’t murder Carrie Perks or Heptiza Lee, and given you the full benefit of doubt about the babies. You’re still the main suspect for the murders of Methuselah Leeson and the Haystack Woman and, unless I prove otherwise, you’l
l stay in here.’

  He turned and went out, locking the cell and bolting the hatch cover in place while Jared Styler cursed and raved and howled like a madman.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Redditch Town.

  Saturday, 5 September, 1829

  When the clock chimed the morning hour of eight, it signalled the end of a discussion which had lasted for nearly two hours in the Select Parlour of the Fox and Goose.

  Joseph Blackwell raised his hand and announced, ‘Very well, Gentlemen, I’m satisfied that our business here is done. I move that we now partake of breakfast. Is the motion agreed?’

  Samuel Thomas, Vincent Sorenty, Tom Potts and William Shayler chorused agreement and Blackwell rang his hand bell to summon Tommy Fowkes.

  ‘Bring in five of your excellent breakfasts, Master Fowkes, with whatever these Gentlemen care to drink, and a bottle of your best claret for myself.’

  ‘And put everything down on my tab, Tommy,’ Samuel Thomas ordered. He instantly quelled any possible dissent by insisting loudly, ‘No! I’ll not stand for anybody paying a penny. This will be the best day o’ my bloody life today, and you chaps am the ones who’ll be making it all run smooth for me, so just get on and fill your bellies with whatever you fancies. This day ’ull be long remembered as the greatest day in the history of the whole bloody Needle District, and it’ll be stamped forever with the name o’ Samuel Thomas, Needle Master!’

  At the bottom of the steep Fish Hill, flat fields spread northwards from the complex of buildings which constituted the Needle Mills of Samuel Thomas. Close to the complex on its north-eastern side stood the new gasworks. An impressive, high-storied Retort House with an exceptionally tall, smoke-belching chimney stack and three adjoining Gas Holders: huge inverted steel bells contained within frameworks which allowed them to rise and fall as gas was pumped in or drawn out.

  On the north side of the mills was a spacious enclosure in which a large grandstand had been erected, directly overlooking the balloon launch site.

  High lath-and-canvas screens were positioned to shield the launch site from the gaze of those unprivileged individuals who had paid their sixpences for entry to the main field.

  Now, at the launch site the preparations were being made for the first of the two separate ascents the balloon would be making.

  Mario Fassia was telling Amy, ‘The first one will only be up to 150 feet. Depending on what wind we get, the winch and the four tether lines will be tied to the netting at different places around the widest curve of the balloon. So no matter what direction the breeze might shift to, the balloon stays in the same position and the lines won’t impede your swing path. Once the trapeze is lowered you go down to it by rope ladder, which is then pulled up. You make your swings and do your tricks. When you’re done, Vincent will lower the rope ladder to you and you’ll climb back up into the gondola. Vince will deflate through the top valve and down you’ll come.’

  ‘It’ll cost a deal of money to inflate again, won’t it?’ Amy remarked.

  ‘Not a penny.’ The young man grinned. ‘Sam Thomas is supplying all the gas for free, and the use o’ this preparation ground and whatever extra casual labour we needs to take on. So me and Vince will not have to pay anything out of our fee for the show for any of that. Plus there’ll be men patrolling all the hedges and guarding the gates surrounding this field here where you’ll be performing, and everybody who comes in is going to be charged sixpence. That includes all the stall-holders and traders, right down to even the bloody beggars. And me and Vince are going to get a half of all those takings as well. If me and Vince could get a show on these terms every week, we’d soon have as much gold as the bloody Lord Mayor o’ London.’

  At ten o’clock the group from the Fox and Goose came to the mills and walked down the broad sunlit sweep of the central concourse, both sides of which were lined with drink and refreshment stalls already supplying the needs of the multi-variegated traders, pedlars, hawkers, street entertainers, travelling musicians and licensed beggars who were awaiting the crowds.

  Ritchie Bint, dressed in Pointers Rig, and George Maffey in red tunic and black shako, both wielding constables’ crowned staffs, were standing guard and taking the entrance fees from the early-comers at the concourse gate. Near the gate, thirty of Samuel Thomas’s mill hands, armed with lead-weighted cudgels and wearing white sashes across their chests, were standing in a long line.

  ‘Well now, Tom Potts, Will Shayler, what do you think of my lads? My Lord Aston has sworn them all in as Special Constables for this day.’ Samuel Thomas grinned. ‘There’s none o’ them who’ll turn tail and run from a scrap, I can assure you. I’ve handpicked the roughest buggers from the whole o’ my works.’

  Tom and his friend briefly eyed the lines of stocky, tough-looking men, noting the brawl scars many of them displayed.

  ‘They’ll do for me, Master Thomas.’ William Shayler nodded.

  Tom saluted Samuel Thomas. ‘My friend Constable Shayler and myself are of the same mind, Master Thomas. We think they are most satisfactory for our purpose.’

  ‘We shall leave you to it then,’ Joseph Blackwell intervened. ‘The Yeomanry band and gun team will be arriving shortly. They, of course, will not be charged entrance, nor will any of the carriage folk who might chance to come in this way.’

  He, Vincent Sorenty and Samuel Thomas walked back towards the grandstand.

  ‘All right, lads, gather round.’ William Shayler called the sash-wearers to him while Tom went to the entrance gate.

  ‘Ritchie, you’ll be patrolling the ground like myself and Will Shayler. Corporal Maffey, you’ll command the gate guard. I’ll give you six men. Did you have any trouble with Styler?’

  ‘No, Sir, not a bit. He’s becoming a real greedy pig for his porter and laudanum shandy. He’ll still be bloody snoring when we gets back. You’ll be wanting to take the money we’ve collected so far and put it somewhere safe, Sir? It amounts to—’

  ‘Be silent! I don’t wish to know that!’ Tom snapped curtly. Then laughed, shook his head and stated very firmly, ‘And furthermore, I most definitely do not wish to take the money with me, Corporal Maffey, because I don’t know of a safer billet for whatever amount is paid here today than to leave it in your keeping.’

  Maffey glowed with gratified pride. His chest swelled visibly. He snapped to rigid attention and saluted, ‘At your orders, Sir.’

  FORTY

  It was late afternoon and the concourse was a seething, uproarious mass of men, women, children of all ages, shapes and sizes; and by this hour the majority were in conditions of greatly varying degrees of coarse-mannered sobriety.

  In the now open to view but still fenced enclosure, the resplen-dently scarlet-and-golden uniformed band of the Worcestershire Yeomanry Cavalry were playing to entertain the occupants of the grandstand. These Gentlefolk also comprised men, women and children of all ages, shapes and sizes, the majority of them also displaying varying degrees of sobriety, but in a more refined manner.

  In a small tent near to the now grounded, half-inflated balloon, Amy was still elated by the success of her trapeze performance earlier that afternoon, which had been rewarded by long-sustained tumultuous applause.

  Vincent Sorenty, elegantly clad in the very latest High London Fashion, came into the tent and scolded: ‘Come now, Amy, no more daydreaming! You should already be changed. There’s a slight breeze risen and a bit of shifting in the highest cloud strata. We need to launch as quickly as we can and get the show done in case the wind freshens too much.’

  Carrying a brass speaking-trumpet, Mario Fassia came to tell them, ‘The gondola’s ready and the lads and sheep are loaded; we’re waiting to inflate. So come the moment you’ve changed, Amy.’

  Both men hurried away, leaving Amy to change into a garishly ornate costume styled on the nursery rhyme shepherdess Bo Peep.

  Her reappearance was greeted with loud applause, which she acknowledged by waving her shepherd’s crook. The Yeomanry gu
n team fired a charge of gunpowder to alert the crowded concourse that another balloon launch was imminent.

  In the middle of the concourse, Tom Potts, standing talking to Josiah Danks, heard the loud bang, stiffened and exclaimed, ‘Ohh, no! She’s going up again!’

  Danks chuckled. ‘Bloody hell, Tom. Youm as big a scaredy-cat as my Missus is. Her wouldn’t come out of the house today or even look up through a bloody window, just for fear she might happen to catch sight of our Amy flying over in the balloon. Amy knows exactly what she’s doing, and her’s loving doing it. You should be proud to have a Missus as brave and able as her is. And bear in mind that it’s a sight more dangerous going to sea than it is flying about in a balloon on a nice calm day like this is. I knows that, because I’ve climbed a lot o’ rigging on a lot o’ ships when gales have been blowing the rain into your face like double charges o’ small shot and the ship’s been jumping about like a mad flea.’

  A sudden commotion erupted at a drink stall and Tom heard his name being shouted. ‘I have to go, Josiah.’

  They shook hands and parted. Tom ran to the stall to find two of Samuel Thomas’s men holding a man face down on the ground.

  ‘He’s a pickpocket, Constable Potts,’ one of the men informed him.

  ‘It was my watch he pinched, Constable,’ a respectably dressed, elderly man explained. ‘And these chaps spotted him doing it, and they’ve give it back to me.’

  ‘And he had these others on him.’ One of the captors showed Tom two watches.

  ‘Very well done, Lads!’ Tom praised. ‘Please take him down to the gate and hand him over to Corporal Maffey. He knows what to do with the bugger.’

  At the launch site, the previous gondola had been exchanged for a larger one and was now carrying four sheep and two of the ground crew together with Vincent Sorenty and Amy.