by Sara Fraser
Table of Contents
The Thomas Potts Mysteries by Sara Fraser from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The Thomas Potts Mysteries by Sara Fraser from Severn House
THE RELUCTANT CONSTABLE
THE RESURRECTION MEN
THE DROWNED ONES
SUFFER THE CHILDREN
TIL DEATH DO US PART
TIL DEATH DO US PART
A Constable Thomas Potts Mystery
Sara Fraser
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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Sara Fraser.
The right of Sara Fraser to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Fraser, Sara.
Til death do us part. -- (A Thomas Potts mystery)
1. Potts, Thomas (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. East
India Company--Fiction. 3. Police--England--Redditch--
Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9'14-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-392-1 (epub)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8254-7 (cased)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ONE
Lincolnshire
Wednesday, 2nd January, 1828
Afternoon
The skies were dark grey and rain gusted on the bitterly cold north wind, but in the gloomy sheltered porch of the isolated ancient church, Walter Courtney’s smile radiated benign warmth.
‘This has been a stroke of unexpected good luck, Cousin Sylvan. I never expected the auction to gross so well, what with the house fabric needing so much attention.’
‘No more did I, Cousin; it was a bloody wreck if truth be told. But even the furnishings are fetching almost double the prices we estimated.’ Sylvan Kent chuckled. ‘It makes the memory of the old bitch almost bearable. But I’ve still got the stink and taste of her turning my stomach, so I need to gorge on a sweet scented young dish.’
‘And so you shall, Cousin; you shall feast on the sweetest, juiciest young whore you can find,’ Courtney assured him, then frowned as he saw someone pass through the churchyard gate and head towards the porch. ‘Who’s this coming?’
Kent looked round and hissed with annoyance. ‘It’s the damn busybody parson.’ Then he called out to the oncoming man, ‘Good afternoon, Reverend, I trust you are hale and hearty despite this inclement weather.’
‘Indeed I am, I thank you, Sir Henry, and I truly hope that your own health is bearing up, despite the tragic loss you have suffered.’ The elderly clergyman entered the porch and squinted short-sightedly at Walter Courtney. ‘Greetings to you also, Sir. Have I had the pleasure of your acquaintance before?’
‘To my regret thou hast not, Reverend. I am merely a wayfarer who has taken shelter here from the rain, and have had some conversation with this other gentleman concerning his recent tragic bereavement. My name is James Gibson. I give thee greeting, Reverend, and with all respect I must ask thee not to address me as “sir”. We of the Society of Friends are addressed by our names only.’
The clergyman moved closer and squinted for long moments at Courtney’s traditional Quaker dress of low-crowned wide-brimmed black hat, pocketless coat, knee breeches and stockings, plain white linen shirt and stock, totally without any type of adornment.
‘I beg your pardon, James Gibson. I confess the correct usage of speech when addressing those of the Quaker persuasion had slipped my mind. The Society of Friends are indeed true Christians whom I hold in the deepest respect.’
‘I most humbly thank thee for thy kind words, Reverend, and do assure thee that in return we of the Society of Friends hold the established church in the deepest respect.’
They exchanged bows then the clergyman turned to Sylvan Kent.
‘Are you come to inspect your lady wife’s gravestone, Sir Henry? The sexton informed me that it was mounted only yesterday afternoon.’
‘Indeed that is the very reason I am just arrived here, Reverend. I’ve taken lodgings in Lincoln, but until my return to Ireland I shall come here every day and pray over my beloved wife’s last resting place.’
‘Be assured, Sir, that the Good Lord sees your pain and will bring comfort to you as time passes. Remember always that when it is your time to pass on you will most assuredly find your lady wife await
ing you in Paradise. Now I must leave you for I have work to do inside. I bid you both a good day and may God’s presence be always with you.’
‘Amen,’ both Kent and Courtney intoned with feeling.
As the church door creaked shut behind the clergyman, Kent winked and jerked his head, whispering, ‘I’d best be seen to be saying a prayer over the sour bitch’s gravestone before I leave.’
Courtney nodded and whispered. ‘I’ll keep you company.’
The newly erected gravestone bore the glittering gilt words:
In Memory of Fanny.
The beloved Wife of
The Honourable Henry Kinleary. Bart.
Died November 16th 1827. Aged 48 years.
‘’Til Death do us Part’
Courtney pointed at this last sentence. ‘That don’t scan well, Sylvan. Death has already parted you, has it not?’
Kent grimaced as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Listen, Cousin Walter, I was wed to that nagging old cow for four long months, and she kept telling me every day . . .’ His voice became a querulous, high-pitched tone. ‘“May the Good Lord have mercy on me, because I’d never have married you if I’d known what a wicked, brutal, drunken wastrel you are! And now I must live with you in misery because we’re man and wife ’til death do us part!”’ He grinned savagely. ‘In fact she was shouting those very words when I dosed her tea with that powder you gave me, and released her from her life of misery! So I thought she would appreciate having them on her gravestone.’
Courtney chuckled. ‘What a kindly and considerate gesture on your part, Cousin, in return for her being kindly and considerate enough to leave us in handsome profit.’
‘Have you made preparations for our next venture?’ Kent wanted to know.
‘Of course I have, and very thorough ones as regards our new identities. They are both real people. Your man was kicked out of the East India Company Army some years past, and has not been heard of since; and mine is apparently incarcerated in a private lunatic asylum down in Kent.
‘We shall be fishing Warwickshire and Worcestershire and my postal drop is in Redditch Town on the county border between them.’ Courtney radiated self-satisfaction. ‘I’ve placed a series of notices in the Birmingham and Worcester news sheets, and already have a prospective client. A widow in Warwick by the name of Adelaide Farson.’
He took a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket and handed it to the other man. ‘Here’s the script for your next role. You are now Major Christophe de Langlois of the Honourable East India Company’s Madras Native Infantry Regiment; and I am the Reverend Geraint Winward.’
Courtney produced a miniature portrait from his inner pocket and chuckled as he displayed it to the other man. ‘I’ve had this likeness of you altered somewhat. As you can see, instead of a dreary black scholar’s cap and robe, you are now clad in splendid scarlet and gold.’
Kent shook his head doubtfully. ‘But I don’t know anything about soldiering.’
Courtney frowned irritably. ‘Then study the script closely and learn all you can about military matters, and about India, instead of wasting all your time drinking and gambling. Now there’s the parson just come through the door, so let’s make a show of it.’
They stood with bowed heads and hands clasped as if in prayer while the clergyman walked past them and disappeared through the lychgate.
Then Courtney announced, ‘Well, our business is all but done here. I’ll leave you to finish the odds and ends, while I establish myself in the Midlands. Behave yourself, study the script, and keep sober.’
He turned and walked away.
Sylvan Kent scowled resentfully after him, and muttered, ‘You’re not my boss, you cunt, and the first thing I’m going to do now is get as drunk as a fuckin’ Lord.’
TWO
Beoley Village, Worcestershire
Tuesday, 8th January
Morning
Sitting in the drawing room of her spacious home, Phoebe Creswell’s imagination soared, and her heartbeat quickened, as she read and re-read the advertisement in the Worcester Herald newspaper.
Matrimony. An Officer of the Honourable East India Company, who notwithstanding his warlike profession possesses a most tender heart and gentle nature, is greatly desirous of finding a soul mate to share his life and fortune.
Preferably this Lady should be of similar social standing and have power of property, which may remain in her own possession.
Should any Lady find this advertisement worthy of notice she may reply by letter (post paid) to ‘XYZ’, care of Mr Charles Bromley, Stationery Emporium, High Street, Redditch, Worcestershire.
Honour and Secrecy are guaranteed to any replies.
‘India! How I would love to sail to India and see all the wonderful sights there.’ She sighed wistfully, and then hastily folded the newspaper as an elderly, bent-bodied man shuffled into the room leaning heavily on his walking cane and complaining petulantly.
‘Damn it all, girl, why didn’t you tell me that the lad had fetched my Herald? Why do you always keep me waiting for it? It’s damnably bad of you, it really is.’
‘I’m sorry, Father; Jack only came a couple of minutes past and I was about to bring it to you.’
She rose and went to him, took his arm and led him to the tall-backed armchair beside the brightly burning fire.
‘Don’t drag me so roughly, you brutal wretch! I’m not a dog on a leash, damn you!’ he scolded angrily.
‘I’m very sorry, Father, I don’t mean to drag you at all, it’s just that I’m anxious to see you comfortably settled in your chair,’ she apologized.
‘Not half as anxious as you are to see me settled in my grave!’ He glared accusingly. ‘I know very well that you only see me as a burden that you wish with all your heart to be rid of!’
‘That’s nonsense, Father, and you know well it is.’ She sighed dispiritedly.
‘I know well that you blame me because you’re an ugly old maid that no man wants to marry. But that’s no fault of mine.’ He scowled. ‘I’d gladly have given you to any man who asked me for your hand. It’s you who is the burden that I’ve been cursed to carry all through your useless life!’
He held out his hand. ‘Now give me my paper and get out from my sight. I can’t bear to look at your miserable ugly face a moment longer.’
She silently obeyed and went from the room closing the door quietly behind her. She stood for a moment drawing long deep breaths, then crossed the central corridor which bisected the large house and went into the dining room where the family cook/housekeeper was clearing the breakfast dishes from the table.
The woman’s broad features were flushed with anger and she exclaimed, ‘I don’t know how much longer I can put up with his bloody nastiness, Phoebe, I surely don’t. Does you know what he said to me this very morning? I’ve a mind to give me bloody notice, I have!’
Phoebe could only shrug helplessly. ‘I’m sorry if he’s upset you again, Pammy, but he’s somewhat out of sorts this morning. I’m sure he really didn’t mean whatever it was he said to you.’
Widow Pamela Mallot indignantly shook her mob-capped head. ‘He said that I ought to be a pig keeper because me cooking was only fit for pig swill and that me kitchen stunk like a bloody pigsty. I tell you truly, if I’d had me ladle in me hand I’d have cracked it over his bloody head, so I ’ud. I’m going to give in me notice, so I am. This very day!’
‘Oh no, Pammy!’ Desperation flooded through Phoebe and she pleaded, ‘Please don’t do that! I don’t know what I’d do if you were to leave me! I couldn’t bear to see you go! I beg you not to leave me!’
Seeing the distraught expression on the younger woman’s thin sallow face, the cook’s strident voice softened. ‘There now, my dearie, don’t upset yourself so.’
Tears stung Phoebe’s eyes and her voice became choked. ‘Don’t go, Pammy. I beg of you, don’t go. You’re the only friend I have in this world, and having you here is my only comfort. Please do
n’t leave me here by myself with him, I couldn’t bear it!’
For some moments Pammy Mallot regarded Phoebe’s distress with troubled eyes, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. Then finally she nodded.
‘Alright, my dearie. Because I’ve known you ever since you was a little mite, and been as fond as if you was me own flesh and blood, then I’ll stay for your sake. But I tell you truly that from now on whenever that old devil speaks to me harsh, he’ll get the rough side of me tongue, and he can like it or lump it because I don’t give a bugger for him.’
Absolute relief shuddered through Phoebe, and despite her tears she smiled and blurted, ‘Oh thank you, Pammy. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
The other woman smiled back at her. ‘Let me give you a piece of advice, my dearie. You start looking about and find yourself a decent, kindly man to wed, and leave your Dad to stew in his own nasty juices.’
Phoebe shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m too worn and ugly to find a man who’d want to wed me. I’m destined to remain an old maid.’
‘That’s only what that old devil keeps on telling you, aren’t it? Well pay him no mind, because you’m still the right side o’ thirty, and though you might not be a beauty, you’m presentable enough in your face and figure to get yourself a husband.’ She pointed to her own gapped decayed teeth, ran her hands down her fat body and chortled. ‘Look at the state o’ me and I’ve managed to marry and bury three husbands, and Joey Stokes the carter tells me every time he sees me that I’ve only to give the word and he’ll be me number four.’
Her infectious good spirits lifted Phoebe’s own and she laughed. ‘I’ll bear what you say in mind.’
Even as she voiced the words the recollection of that advertisement in the newspaper flooded into Phoebe’s mind, and she suddenly thought, ‘Dare I do it? Dare I reply to that soldier? What an adventure it would be!’
‘Phoebe? Phoebe? Goddamn and blast you, get in here! Get in here this instant!’ George Creswell’s irascible shouts caused Phoebe to twitch nervously and she started to go to him.
‘Where are you, you useless ugly bitch? Get in here now, damn you!’
In the corridor Phoebe suddenly became filled with an all-consuming, flaring defiance. Then quite deliberately she walked on past the closed door, ignoring the man’s commands.
