by Sara Fraser
‘I’d best get back to the lock-up and do my housework,’ Amy smiled.
‘Not before you’ve ate some of my pancakes, my wench,’ Gertrude Fowler told her and ushered them all back into the parlour. ‘And while we’em eating ’um, I wants to hear everything there is to know about your intended, Miss Phoebe. And what you means to do when you’m living like a queen in India.’
When Amy finally left the Fox and Goose more than two hours had passed. Walking across the Green towards the lock-up, she sighed enviously as she compared the mundane household tasks awaiting her with the exotically glamorous life awaiting Phoebe Creswell in India.
In the lock-up, Tom was sat by the kitchen range fire, rummaging among his father’s large chest of files and medical records. Amy stared at his uncombed hair, stubbled chin, workaday shirt, breeches, gaiters and boots, made a mental comparison of his appearance with the miniature portrait of Major Christophe de Langlois, and clucked her tongue disparagingly.
Tom looked up and smiled uncertainly. ‘Is anything amiss, my dear? You’re looking rather grimly at me.’
‘I don’t mean to look grim,’ she told him. ‘I was just trying to picture you in Scarlet and Gold, that’s all.’
‘Scarlet and Gold?’ he queried. ‘You mean you were trying to picture me as a soldier?’
‘Yes, I was. Phoebe Creswell is to marry a Major in the East India Company’s Army, and she showed me a miniature of him in his uniform. Oh, he’s ever so handsome and dashing looking! And she’s going to India with him as soon as they’re wed, and they’re going to be living in a great big palace and ruling over thousands and thousands of blackies, just like a King and Queen.
‘And you should see the betrothal ring he’s given her! It’s all diamonds and gold and worth a fortune. He’s told Phoebe that it’s been in his family for centuries, and that their tradition is that the first-born son must always present it to his wife-to-be. And now it’s been presented on to Phoebe.’
A note of wistfulness entered Amy’s voice. ‘He went down on his knees when he asked her to wed him and gave her the ring. Isn’t that truly romantic, Tom? It would have been lovely if you could have done that when you asked me to wed you.’
These reminders of his own self-perceived inadequacies as a romantic lover did nothing for Tom’s morale, and he could only sadly reply, ‘Yes, it was truly romantic, Amy, and I truly regret that I wasn’t able to do such. But I do truly love you.’
Instant remorse struck through her as she saw the sadness in his eyes, and she rushed to clasp his head and kiss his lips and tell him, ‘I know you do, my darling! And I love you truly, and I wouldn’t change you for the world.’
It was some time later before Tom gave any more thought to Phoebe Creswell’s forthcoming marriage, and knowing by repute the secluded life her domineering, tyrannical father had enforced upon her, his curiosity was roused.
‘How did Phoebe Creswell come to meet this Major in the first place?’ he asked Amy.
She shrugged and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. When I asked her, she only blushed and dithered and looked down at the floor. And Pammy Mallot just laughed and said that was for them to know and for us lot to wonder about.’
‘Well of course, it’s Phoebe Creswell’s own personal business after all,’ Tom accepted, but the faint nagging of curiosity would reoccur at intervals during the hours that followed. ‘How ever did a put upon little mouse like Phoebe Creswell ever come to meet and get betrothed to such an exotic figure as a Major of the East India Company?’
Throughout the afternoon, curiosity had also been nagging at Harry Pratt as he walked through the outlying areas of the town ringing his collection bell. Time and time again he mentally pictured the mounted officer who had asked for directions to the Creswell house. Time and time again he shook his head in frowning negation.
‘That shako warn’t no Major’s titfer of John Company’s Army. That shako was definitely Light Company officer of a King’s Line regiment. That letter Miss Phoebe give me was addressed to XYZ, warn’t it? Was that him, this Chris-bloody-summat de Lan-bloody-summat-else?’
‘Bellman? Bellman, I’ve a letter for you!’ a man shouted from a nearby house, and Harry Pratt had to turn his mind to the business in hand.
FORTY
Beoley Village
Tuesday, 19th March
Afternoon
Harry Pratt was in the taproom of the Village Inn taking a break from his round and enjoying a flagon of ale, when the innkeeper drew his attention to the couple passing by on the road outside. The woman was resting her hand familiarly on the man’s crooked arm, smiling radiantly up at him as he leaned his head towards her, appearing to be telling her something.
‘Look there, Harry. That’s the Creswell wench and that bloke who’s courting her, arming it together. He’s a Dandy, aren’t he? Them clothes must ha’ cost him more than a few sovs.’
Harry Pratt frowned thoughtfully as he took note of the passing man’s expensively fashionable clothes, then asked, ‘What’s the talk of him in the village, Dick?’
‘That he’s a high-up officer in the East India Company’s Army, and that him and Phoebe Creswell am to be wed and go out to live there like bloody royalty.’
‘Is he lodging local?’ Harry Pratt questioned.
‘No, I don’t think so. They says that he rides in from the direction of Brummagem every day, and goes back that way of a night time.’
‘Have you spoke to him at all?’
‘Only the once. He come in one night, bought a bottle o’ gin and stowed it away in his saddle bag, then rode off out of the village. Ne’er said more to me than to ask the price and chuck the money on to the counter. The very next day I was standing in me doorway when he come riding past, and I wished him a good day, and he ne’er so much as looked at me.
‘I reckon he’s a arrogant, sour bastard! But when I asked Pammy Mallot about him, her said he was one o’ the nicest gentlemen her’d ever come across in her life.’
‘Ah well, officers can be nice down-to-earth blokes, or nasty, high and mighty cunts like him! I’ve soldiered wi’ plenty o’ both sorts,’ Harry Pratt observed philosophically. He drained his flagon of ale, shouldered his mail-bag, and picked up his bell. ‘I’ve got to be off, Dick. See you next week sometime.’
Outside the inn Pratt stared speculatively after the couple who were walking towards the steep slope of the hill leading up to the Parish Church, and muttered, ‘I reckon I’ll test you out, my fine Bucko!’
At a slow pace he also began to walk towards the hill, his left hand firmly clutching the clapper of his bell.
At the base of the hill Sylvan Kent gently drew Phoebe Creswell to a halt and asked her, ‘Can we now speak of more serious matters, my dearest girl?’
Her radiant smile faltered. ‘Is there something amiss, Christophe?’
‘Nothing can ever be amiss between you and I, my love.’ He hastened to reassure her. ‘But I have to tell you that my Court of Directors strongly pressed upon me the necessity of my returning to India as quickly as possible. Now I’ve made the Allegation and posted the Bond for our Special Marriage License.
‘Geraint has submitted the application to the Archbishop himself, and assures me that he will be receiving the License within a matter of days. He will then engage a clergyman acquaintance to perform the church ceremony. So with any luck we can be wed and within a month set sail for India on a Company ship.’
For the first time that day Phoebe Creswell’s brows creased in a troubled frown.
‘There’s nothing in this world that I want more than to be wed to you, Christophe, but what about my father? I fully confess that he and I have never had the most loving of relationships, and that there have been many times when I have resented his manner towards me. But he is still my father, and I feel so very guilty at thinking of leaving him, while he is so ill and helpless.’
‘I share that guilt, my dear, but Geraint will ensure that your poor father receiv
es the very finest medical treatments and care that money can buy; and when he is sufficiently recovered in health he can come out to India and live with us. He’ll be treated like a king there, and will undoubtedly enjoy life to the very fullest.’
‘But Doctor Laylor holds out virtually no hope of my father ever fully recovering his health. I want with all my heart to become your wife, Christophe, but I have a duty of loyalty to my father.’
The flush of happiness had now completely drained from Phoebe’s cheeks, and her sallow face was drawn with strain.
Sylvan Kent’s expression was one of deep concern. ‘You must remember, my dearest girl, that Doctor Laylor, although a man of good intentions, is merely a country physician lacking the qualifications and experience of the medical specialists that we will be engaging to treat and care for your father. Geraint has already written to the very men he has in mind for this task. They’ve achieved almost miraculous cures in cases which were seemingly far more hopeless than your father’s.’
Before Phoebe could reply their conversation was interrupted.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Phoebe, I thought it was you when I was still at a distance.’ Harry Pratt came up to them beaming broadly.
As they swung round to face him, he came to rigid attention, snapped up a quivering salute to Sylvan Kent, and began to babble excitedly.
‘And a very good afternoon to you, Sir. Miss Phoebe has told me of you being a Major in the Madras Regiment. I was at the Battle of Assaye wi’ my regiment and I saw the Madras Regiment win the badge of the Elephant Crest for their bravery. Their war cry on that day sent the shivers down me spine, I can tell you, Sir. No wonder the enemy turned tail and ran away from them. I can hear that cry sounding in me ears this very moment, Sir.’
Pratt drew a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Veera Madrassi! Adi Kollu! Adi Kollu!’
Then he immediately went on. ‘You no doubt were there yourself, Sir. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it means, “Brave Madrassi! Go Forwards! Go Forwards!” Don’t it?’
Taken totally aback, Sylvan Kent was momentarily at a loss, and could only nod and grunt. ‘It is as you say, Bellman.’
‘And their motto, Sir. Does you know I reckon I can still remember what it was, but for the life o’ me, after all these years I’m not sure if I remembers rightly the exact full meaning of it in English. Please tell me if this is right though, Sir? Swadharme Nidhanam Shreyaha. That’s the motto, aren’t it, Sir?’
Kent was recovering from his initial shock, and managed to answer calmly. ‘Yes, Bellman, but of course your pronunciation is dreadfully mangled.’
‘Well, it would be, wouldn’t it, Sir? Because I’m just a lowborn soldier wi’out your schooling, aren’t I, Sir? I aren’t clever enough to speak the same way as one o’ them Bengali warriors your regiment is recruited from, am I, Sir?’
‘No, of course you’re not,’ Kent acknowledged stiffly.
‘And the meaning of it in English, Sir. Isn’t it summat about your regiment being the “First into battle, and the last out of it”?’
Kent coughed several times, and gasped. ‘I’ve something catching in my throat.’
‘Oh, I’m dreadful sorry for that, Sir. I’ll leave you in peace. Good day to you, Miss Phoebe. Good day to you, Sir.’ Pratt saluted in farewell and walked away, but then came to a halt and called back plaintively, ‘I’m dreadful sorry for pestering you again, Sir, but could you please put me mind at rest and tell me if I’m right about the meaning in English of your motto?’
Conscious of Phoebe Creswell’s adoring gaze, Kent felt forced to call back. ‘You’re near enough, Bellman. Now be off with you. Myself and Miss Phoebe wish to continue our conversation without further interruption.’
‘Certainly, Sir, and thank you for your kindness.’ Harry Pratt came to ramrod attention, snapped up another quivering salute and smartly marched away up the hill, scornfully muttering under his breath.
‘Cris-bloody-summat de Lan-bloody-summat-else, or who-some-ever you might be! You’m no more a fuckin’ Major o’ the Madras Regiment than I am!’
FORTY-ONE
Redditch Town
Wednesday, 19th March
Midday
The weekly magistrate’s hearings in the Select Room of the Fox and Goose had taken place on Tuesday. The Right Honourable and Reverend Walter Hutchinson, Lord Aston, Justice of the Peace, Vicar of the Parish of Tardebigge, had remanded Ezekiel Rimmer and his friends to Worcester Jail. Tom and Ritchie Bint had taken them there in Richard Humphries’ coach that same evening, and then stayed overnight in the city.
It was just past noon when Humphries’ coach arrived back in Redditch and halted in the Market Place to allow Tom and Ritchie Bint to alight.
‘Will you collect me money from Joe Blackwell, Tom? I’ve got to get back to me pointing, there’s a batch needs finishing a bit rapid,’ Ritchie Bint requested.
‘Of course, Ritchie.’ Tom nodded and, as his friend hurried away, Hugh Laylor came along.
‘This is very well met, Tom. I’ve a favour to ask of you. I have a sample which needs to be analysed as quickly as possible.’
‘Alright, but first I have to go and tell Amy I’m back; and also report to Blackwell. What’s the sample, and what am I to look for in it?’
‘It’s George Creswell’s vomit. I was called to see him yesterday night. I think the man is dying, Tom. All I can do is to try and prolong his life for a while.’ Laylor’s handsome features displayed some discomfiture. ‘But I’ve no real idea what’s causing him to repeatedly vomit so. I wondered if it might perhaps be arsenic. God knows there’s enough domestic uses of it, so he could well be ingesting it accidentally. If that’s so, then at least I may be able to relieve that aspect of his sufferings.’
They discussed the matter for a brief while longer then parted company.
Tom went on to the postal office and deposited a letter to be forwarded to Clem Bradshaw at the Union Jack tavern in Dudley, informing him about the capture of the men who had stolen Elias Bradshaw’s Otterhounds.
Next Tom hurried to the lock-up where Amy greeted him with a hug and kiss.
‘Has Weiss behaved himself?’ he asked.
‘He’s been as quiet as a lamb.’
‘Is that you, Constable Potts?’ the pedlar’s voice sounded from the locked cell.
‘It is, Master Weiss, I’ll come and speak with you directly.’ Tom kissed Amy again, then moved to open the hatch in the cell door.
‘What is to happen to me now?’ Weiss questioned anxiously.
‘Because you’ve turned King’s Evidence and also now paid for a Hawker’s License, Lord Aston has decided to show mercy, but warns that should you offend in any other manner, he will ensure that you’ll be hung. So I’m releasing you now.’
Weiss gusted a sigh of relief, and exclaimed, ‘You’ve kept your promise to me, Constable! I’m very grateful to you!’
As they parted at the front door of the lock-up, Tom remarked, ‘Your wife and children will be very happy to see you, I don’t doubt.’
‘They’d be very surprised.’ The pedlar winked slyly. ‘You have a saying in this country about the rolling stone gathering no moss. Well I’m the rolling stone, and they were the moss. I rolled away from them more than twenty years ago in Krakow!’
Tom could only grimace wryly and close the door.
He went upstairs to where Amy was tidying the room.
‘I need to go and report to Joseph Blackwell now, sweetheart. Then I’ve got to go to Hugh Laylor’s dispensary and analyse a specimen. So I might be away for two or three hours.’
‘I’d really like to watch you doing that analyse thing,’ she told him. ‘That’s when you look for poisons and stuff, isn’t it? What are you going to look for today?’
‘Arsenic,’ he told her. ‘Hugh thinks that one of his patients might be swallowing it accidentally. So there’s a bowl of vomit for me to delve into.’
‘Whose is it?’
‘A man named G
eorge Creswell.’
‘Is that Phoebe Creswell’s dad? From Beoley?’ Amy questioned excitedly.
Tom was surprised at her eager reaction. ‘Yes, it is. Do you know him?’
‘Only by sight. But yesterday night, me and the girls was talking about Phoebe Creswell and that bloke she’s going to wed.’ Amy’s blue eyes sparkled with amusement and she giggled. ‘And Gertie Fowkes and Old Harry Pratt nigh on come to blows over it, and if Harry hadn’t cleared off the very moment that he did, Gertie swore that she’d have boxed his ears for him.’
‘For what reason?’ Tom’s lively appreciation of gossip was sparked.
‘Well, Gertie Fowkes reckoned that Phoebe Creswell was very lucky to be wedding a Major of the East India Company Army, and Harry Pratt reckoned that the bloke’s not a Major at all, and not who he says he is neither. Harry said that that very afternoon he’d tested Phoebe’s bloke with some questions about the Madras army, and that Phoebe’s bloke knew bugger-all about the Madras army.’
‘Tell me all about what was said.’ Tom was keen to hear more.
Amy, with many giggles and some embellishments, related the full account of that clash in the back parlour of the Fox and Goose.
Tom listened with amusement and, when she had done, kissed her.
‘I’ve got to report to Joseph Blackwell, sweetheart. He’ll know that the coach is back, and he gets very testy when he’s kept waiting.’
‘I want to watch you do that analyse thing.’
‘Alright, you can come to Hugh’s dispensary in about an hour. But don’t blame me if it bores you to tears.’ He smiled and left.
‘Good afternoon, Constable Potts. I take it you had no difficulties while escorting the Rimmer gang to Worcester.’ Joseph Blackwell stated rather than queried this.
‘None whatsoever, Sir.’
‘I’m pleased with your work on this case. The Earl will have no cause for criticism when he returns.’ A fleeting wintry smile curved Blackwell’s thin lips as he counted out the coins for the Escort Fee on his desk. ‘Here are the sums due to yourself and Bint.’
