by Sara Fraser
Tom pocketed the coins. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘There’s a matter I want you to deal with, Constable. A man whom it seems is not known locally was found dead in Bradley Green on Friday last. Apparently there appears to be something of a mystery concerning the dead man.
‘Timothy Wrighton, who considers himself to be the Lord of Feckenham Parish because he owns the Old Manor House and some land there, has begged me to send you to investigate the matter. It seems that I am not the only one who holds your talents in high esteem, Constable Potts.
‘So perhaps when convenient you might attend upon Master Timothy. You may take a mount from my stable.’
‘I’ll go over there tomorrow, Sir.’
‘Excellent! I bid you good day, Constable Potts.’
‘Good day to you, Sir.’
Some hours later in the dispensary of Hugh Laylor, Tom completed his analysis of the foul smelling contents of the bowl.
Amy, who had been raptly watching him work, questioned excitedly. ‘Well? Is it poisonous? Has it got arsenic in it?’
Tom smilingly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sweetheart, but I can’t find any traces. However, I wouldn’t recommend anyone to swallow it. They’d most certainly be feeling very nauseous afterwards.’
‘Let’s make haste and go home, Tom.’ She smiled seductively. ‘I want to welcome you home properly.’
Tom drew a long deep breath. ‘I’ll be done here in ten seconds, sweetheart.’
FORTY-TWO
Bradley Green
Thursday, 20th March
Morning
Timothy Wrighton was a self-made man, who had gained his considerable wealth by the manufacture of buttons in a score of sweated labour workshops in Birmingham. Information that he wasted no time in sharing with Tom almost immediately after they met at Wrighton’s palatial home set midway between Feckenham Village and Bradley Green.
‘I started life slaving me guts out in a button workshop when I was only a Poorhouse babby. But by my own efforts I’ve risen in the world to my present eminence. First of all I bought the same button shop that I’d slaved in as babby, boy and man, and then I set up more and more workshops. Now I’m known through all o’ Brummagem and the Black Country as the Button King.’
‘You’ve undoubtedly been very successful in life, Master Wrighton,’ Tom complimented.
‘That’s a fact, that is! But look at the pitiful state it’s left me in.’ Wrighton gestured to his haggard, smallpox pitted features and bent-shouldered, skeletal body, and added wistfully, ‘Does you know summat, Master Potts? I’d give all me wealth and success up this very second, if I could only go back to when I was a young lad.
‘Because then I’d do what I always longed to do. I’d run away to sea and spend me life having adventures in all them far off lands like India and China and the Americas and Africa.’
‘Well, you now have the wealth and leisure to allow you to go to those lands, Master Wrighton,’ Tom pointed out.
‘But I aren’t got the health and strength to be able to travel any distance further than a few miles, Master Potts.’ Wrighton made a chopping gesture with his hand. ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me! I wants you to come down to the Old Black Boy and have a look at this stiff ’un. It was one o’ my estate hands who found him and the horse. I’ve got the horse and its tack in my stables, and I’ve been keeping the stiff ’un in me ice house until yesterday, when I had it taken to the Old Black Boy, because according to my knowledge the Coroner will be conducting his inquest there, it being the nearest public house to where the stiff ’un was found. Am I right? Or am I wrong?’
‘Indeed you are right, Master Wrighton.’ Tom couldn’t help but smile in wry amusement at his companion’s eccentric manner.
‘Hello again, Constable Potts!’ Maud Harman smiled and greeted as Tom and Wrighton entered the Old Black Boy. ‘I was wondering if you’d be sent for, because this dead bloke was wearing clothes and gaiters, but had nothing on his feet. It’s a bit strange to go riding like that, aren’t it?
‘Now Barry Blake has had to go off on an errand, but he’s left the key for the cellar door wi’ me. I’ll open the outside trap as well, so that you’ll have daylight to see the man by. We put the poor soul down there because it’s the coldest place in the house, so he’ll keep a bit longer before he starts stinking real bad.’
The dead man was laid on trestle boards, arms crossed on his chest, large penny coins on his closed eyes, and a peeled onion crammed into his mouth.
‘What’s peculiar about this stiff ’un, Constable Potts?’ Wrighton questioned eagerly.
‘Is it that he’s fully clad and wearing gaiters, but has no boots on?’ Tom replied.
‘Exactly! I know that it looks to be a certainty that he was thrown from his horse and fell on his head. But why would a man get on a horse with no boots on his feet? I think it’s most peculiar. That’s why I asked for you to come and investigate it.’
‘Has he been searched?’ Tom queried.
‘Oh yes, I went through his pockets to see if he had anything in them to identify him. Just look at what I found!’ Wrighton took objects from his own capacious pockets and dramatically flourished them before Tom’s eyes. ‘This purse containing twenty-three gold sovereigns and some silver. This fine timepiece and this diamond cravat pin. All of which I now give into your custody, Constable Potts.’
Tom spent some time closely examining the wound on the dead man’s head, and committing his features, height, physical build and clothing to memory. Then he told his companion, ‘I’ve seen enough here for the present, Master Wrighton, could you please guide me to where this man was found?’
‘It’s my pleasure to do that for you, Constable. And what’s more, I’ve had my blokes guarding the place ever since this bloke was found there. Because that’s another thing which I find to be most peculiar.
‘The house is owned by young Widow Farson, but it aren’t been lived in for a good while. After her Ma’s death, she went travelling on the Continent. So God only knows what that bloke was doing there, because it was supposed to be all locked up.’
‘Did you have close acquaintance with the Farson family?’ Tom asked.
‘No, not close. They lived very secluded and kept themselves to themselves. But I saw both of ’um passing in their carriage a few times, and had occasional speech wi’ the younger one. She’s a very handsome woman, and it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that she’s met some foreigner or other and got wed again.’
At Bradley Green, Tom made a careful study of the graveled forecourt where the dead man had been found. Then he and Wrighton toured and closely inspected the shrouded interior of the house, but found nothing which could help to identify the dead man, or indeed to bring Tom any further personal knowledge about the absent Widow Farson, apart from the fact that the opulent furnishings suggested she was a wealthy woman.
When the two men finally emerged from the house, Wrighton declared emphatically, ‘There now, what did I tell you, Constable! This is all most peculiar, aren’t it! Am I right, or am I wrong?’
‘You’re most definitely right, Master Wrighton. I shall report as much to my employer, and subject to his permission to proceed, I’ll investigate this matter further.’ Tom was already experiencing the excitement of trying to solve this mystery.
‘In the meantime, will you be so kind as to ensure that this house is kept securely locked and watched over, Master Wrighton?’
‘Of course! Left in my hands it’ll be as safe as the Crown Jewels, that’s guaranteed that is. But in return you must guarantee to keep me in the know about how you’re getting on with your investigation.’
‘You have my word on that, Master Wrighton. And now I must get back to Redditch and make my report to Joseph Blackwell.’
With a warm handshake Tom took his leave.
In the Old Black Boy, Maud Harman was serving Walter Courtney with his late breakfast of ham, eggs, toasted cheese and bu
ttered muffins accompanied by a large jug of coffee, a smaller jug of cream, and a bowl of broken lumps of cone sugar.
He smiled at her as he took his seat at the table and congratulated, ‘My dear Mistress Harman, once again you have served a feast fit for a king.’
She dimpled with pleasure and bobbed a curtsey. ‘Thank you, Sir. But I was feared that it was going to be a bit too late served for you.’
‘Why so?’
‘Well, you know we’ve got that dead man in the cellar. Him that was found laying outside the New Mill House at Bradley Green. Well, Master Wrighton from the Manor House sent for the Redditch Constable, Tom Potts, to come to have a look at him.’
‘I expect it was just a courtesy call, Ma’am,’ Courtney remarked casually.
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Because from where I was working in the kitchen I couldn’t help but overhear what they was saying, and Tom Potts was saying the same as Master Wrighton, about how it was peculiar that although the dead man was full-clad, he hadn’t got no boots on.’
‘No boots on?’ Courtney’s surprised reaction was involuntary.
‘That’s right, Sir! All dressed up and no boots on his feet; and they both thought that if his boots had been took, then why didn’t whoever took ’um take the man’s money and valuables and horse as well. It’s a queer state of affairs, aren’t it?’
‘Indeed it is.’ Courtney nodded thoughtfully.
‘Then the constable was asking all manner of questions about the widow-woman, Mistress Farson, who owns the house where the man was found; and I heard him ask Master Wrighton to take him to the house so he could have a look around there.’
Courtney’s smile was warm. ‘My dear Mrs Harman, I must beg you not to talk any further about dead men at this particular time. I am longing to devour this delicious breakfast you have so kindly prepared for me. All this talk of dead men does rather deaden my appetite.’
‘Oh, I’m ever so sorry, Parson Winward,’ she hastened to apologize. ‘I’ll get off and leave you in peace.’
‘But the moment I’ve finished my meal, I shall demand you to return here and tell me more.’ He chuckled.
She laughed with him as she left the room.
Courtney sat staring down at the plate of food, evaluating what he had been told, and the possible consequences arising from it. One imperative was at the very forefront of his thoughts.
‘Where the fuck has Archie got to? I need to know that he’s done the business with the Irish bitch.’
FORTY-THREE
Beoley Parish
Thursday, 20th March
Afternoon
Sitting in the gig at the crossroads beneath the Beoley Mount, Walter Courtney was listening intently to what the horseman was telling him.
When Sylvan Kent had delivered his news, Courtney scowled.
‘Well, Cousin. You must be losing your ability to woo the ladies. How have you made her so reluctant to wed you?’
Sylvan Kent scowled back. ‘Haven’t you been listening to what I’ve been telling you, Cousin? She says that she can’t marry me and then desert her father by going to India with me, while he’s in his present condition. She says no matter how deeply she has come to love me, her conscience won’t permit her to do such a callous act. So in my opinion we should just forget about this stink-breathed ugly bitch and move on to some other desperate cow!’
Walter Courtney’s anger exploded, his pink face almost puce as he shouted, ‘I’ve not the slightest interest in your opinion, my bucko! We shall not be moving on anywhere! You’ll continue to pay court to Creswell for as long as I want you to do so! And what’s more you’ll never again question any of my decisions, or you and I will be parting company. And you’ll end up in the fuckin’ gutter because you’re too stupid to earn any sort of decent living off your own bat!’
The pair were so intent on each other that they were unaware of the man with a large bag slung across his shoulders and a brass bell in his hand who was walking down the hill towards them.
As Courtney’s angry shouting carried to his ears, Harry Pratt squinted his eyes to stare at the pair, and hissed in recognition.
‘It’s the soldier-boy, having high words wi’ somebody by the sound of it. And I reckon I’ve seen that fine gig and horseflesh afore, haven’t I? But where was it that I saw it?’
He quickened his pace, and came into Courtney’s peripheral vision.
Courtney hissed a warning to Kent. ‘There’s somebody coming. Ignore him.’
The two men did not return Harry Pratt’s greeting as he passed them, both doing their best to keep their features averted from him.
But Harry Pratt had peered hard at the man sitting under the shadow of the gig hood.
‘He’s a bloody parson by the look of it. But he aren’t a local, or I’d know him else. Is it him who’s going to wed the soldier-boy and Miss Phoebe, I wonder?’
As he continued on his way Harry Pratt told himself. ‘I reckon I might ask Gertie Fowkes about just when and where Miss Phoebe’s getting wed.’
Walter Courtney waited until Harry Pratt had disappeared from sight, before furiously rounding on his companion again.
‘Now go and visit your bride-to-be, and convince her that you are going to make direct application to the East India Company, Directors of Court, to extend your furlough in England, no matter what sacrifices of the promised higher rank and wealth you may suffer for doing so. Tell her also that if they refuse this plea, you will resign from the Company, even though that will mean giving up all you have fought and endured for throughout your life. Then bid her a loving adieu, and go back to your lodging and wait there for me to contact you.’
Kent frowned, but agreed sullenly. ‘Very well.’
Courtney waved his hand in dismissal, and Sylvan Kent spurred his horse up the hill.
Courtney remained still until his companion had passed from view over the crest of the hill. Then disgruntled, he muttered, ‘Oh, God in Heaven, what are you trying to do to me now? I’m beginning to suspect that you’re enjoying tormenting me. You spiteful old bastard!’
FORTY-FOUR
Redditch Town
Thursday 20th March
Early evening
In the study of the Red House, Joseph Blackwell had listened intently to Tom’s report. When it was completed, he smiled mirthlessly.
‘This is a queer kettle of fish, is it not, Constable Potts? I’d like to hear your opinions on it.’
‘Well, Sir, without a full examination of the body I can’t state with total certainty that the visible wound is the sole cause of death, or that it was caused by being thrown from his horse and hitting the ground head first.
‘But from what I was able to discern I do think it highly possible that the wound was caused by a blow from a weighted bludgeon. The reasons being its narrow dimensions and considerable depth. If he’d been thrown violently from saddle height I would have expected to find a broader and shallower breakage of bone and also impacted gravel in the wound.
‘Of course, the absence of his boots suggests robbery. But if robbery was the motive for an assault, why did the assailant not take the money and valuables, and the horse as well?
‘The house is apparently owned by a widowed lady named Adelaide Farson, who’s been absent from it for some time. The furnishings are of good quality. There are good-quality ornaments and some paintings and prints which would be easily portable, and easily saleable. Yet it has not been ransacked.’
Tom paused for a moment, before adding, ‘I’m very sure of one thing, however, and that is that the boots were removed from his feet after he was brought to the ground. Because the soles of his stockings were unmarked by the dirt and gravel which surface the forecourt. As you said, Sir, all in all it’s a queer kettle of fish.’
‘Indeed.’ Blackwell nodded, then asked, ‘If you were taxed with investigating this occurrence, how would you commence?’
‘I would immediately have the body brought to Doctor Laylor�
��s dispensary for a post-mortem examination, which I would hope Doctor Laylor would permit me to assist in carrying out. Next I would make enquiries in the Bradley Green and Feckenham areas, and I would distribute posters issued offering a five-guinea reward for any information as to the positive identity of the dead man.’
‘You echo my own thoughts.’ Joseph Blackwell chuckled dryly. ‘Begin your investigations into this affair, but take care that you do not bankrupt the Parish Chest. I bid you good night, Constable Potts.’
‘Thank you, and good night to you, Sir.’ Tom was grinning with pleasurable anticipation as he left the Red House, and went immediately to Charles Bromley’s shop.
In the shop he found its proprietor sat on the stool behind the counter with a downcast expression upon his face.
‘Good evening, Charles. Is my mother here?’
Bromley’s expression suddenly metamorphosed into one of dawning hope. ‘Have you come to fetch her back home, Thomas?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No, she’s found such great contentment living here, I couldn’t be so hard-hearted as to drag her back to the lock-up against her will. I’m come to pay you for her board; and also to commission some posters from you.’
Behind his bulbous spectacle lenses, Bromley’s eyes blinked back threatening tears as this tentative hope was yet again proven to be a false dawn, and he dolefully told Tom, ‘Your mother and my sister went to my sister’s house in Birmingham yesterday, Thomas. I believe they intend to stay there for a week. But they have not deigned to inform me on which exact date they’ll be returning here.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘They treat me as if I were nothing more than their skivvy, Thomas. As if my only purpose in life were to single-handedly run this business and still find time to cater to their every whim.’ He groaned wearily. ‘Unhappy is the man who bears the yoke of female oppression.’
Tom placed money on the counter. ‘That’s my mother’s next month’s board fees in advance, Charles, and her personal allowance. And here is the draft of the poster I need printing as soon as possible. Thirty copies, measuring eighteen by twelve inches, should suffice. I’ve employed the Crier to alert the people to them.’
