by Sara Fraser
Bromley lifted the draft and scanned it, then shouted in shocked surprise, ‘Found dead on the forecourt of the Old Mill House at Bradley Green!’
‘It seems he was tossed from his horse,’ Tom informed. ‘And I need to know who he is. The scar on his face is very distinctive, which should strike a chord in someone’s memory.’
‘Five guineas,’ Bromley muttered. ‘That’s a decent sum.’
‘How soon can you have these printed, Charles? I want to distribute them as quickly as possible.’
An inner battle was raging in Charles Bromley’s mind as he was beset by a quandary.
The physical description of the dead man and his clothing matched the Debt Collector from the Aris Gazette. But if Bromley gave this information to Tom Potts, it could mean that he would also be forced to reveal Reverend Winward’s involvement with the advertisement in that newspaper; and the Reverend was paying him well for keeping that secret. Another factor was that Bromley would also forfeit his fees for posters, which would no longer be required.
Bromley forced a smile. ‘Since the posters are for you, Thomas, I’ll make a start on them immediately, and all being well you shall have them come tomorrow noon.’
FORTY-FIVE
The Old Black Boy, Feckenham Village
Friday, 21st March
Morning
The moment the two men were alone in the room Courtney scowled and hissed, ‘Where the fuck have you been, Archie? I expected you back long before this.’
‘The job proved to be a lot harder than I expected; and the information cost a pretty penny.’ Ainsley frowned. ‘And that information won’t please you.’
‘Have we a difficulty to contend with, Archie?’
Ainsley nodded.
Courtney drew in a sharp hiss of breath. ‘Spit it out, Archie. What’s gone wrong?’
‘Everything!’ Ainsley spat in disgust. ‘When I was on my way to Warwick my bloody horse cast a shoe and went lame. I couldn’t get it seen to until late on the next day. When I finally got to the Irish bitch’s place it was all shuttered and locked, with a bloody For Rent sign on the door. So I had to go to the letting office to find out if they had any forwarding address for her. They told me that was confidential information. After haggling for days and greasing their palms, they finally told me that some cove had called and cancelled the lease agreement they’d made with Adelaide Farson. The cove paid all that was claimed for wear and tear and the cancellation fee, and that was it! He gave no forwarding address for her.’
‘Did you manage to get any description of the man who cancelled?’
‘Of course I did! I’m no fuckin’ flat!’ Ainsley retorted indignantly. ‘He gave his name as John Farson, was well dressed, and had a long scar down the left side of his face. It had to be bloody Billy Peelson.’
Courtney frowned thoughtfully and nodded agreement, then asked, ‘Well why didn’t you come back then and tell me what had happened?’
‘Because I had a notion that there must be more I could find out, so I nosed around. But none of the tradesmen who’d been delivering food and necessaries to the house knew anything about her. They only ever met the little maid who paid them. But then I finally found out that there’d been a regular visitor of late who went into the house almost daily and stayed some time there.
‘He’s an old drunk of a surgeon, name of Rainsworth. The trouble is, the old bastard still believes in the sanctity of secrecy concerning the relationship between patient and doctor. Consequently I had to spend a deal of money cultivating his friendship, and loosening his tongue with the very finest French brandy.’
‘Dammit! Will you get to the point, Archie!’ Courtney interrupted impatiently.
‘Alright, Walter, there’s no call to lose your rag with me!’ Ainsley protested aggrievedly.
‘Get on with it then!’ Courtney snapped back
‘Well, it appears that the Irish bitch has been subjected to a terrible hammering, and would have almost certainly choked to death on her own blood and snot, if her little maid hadn’t found her and rushed to summon a doctor – namely my new best friend, Doctor Rainsworth, who has been treating her ever since, and apparently she is making a good recovery.’
‘Has she given him the name of her attacker?’
‘No. She flatly refused. Furthermore she expressly forbids Rainsworth to report the attack on her to the magistrates. But he let slip, that on one occasion in her initial delirious condition she was cursing and threatening some man by name. Rainsworth couldn’t quite catch the name because her speech was so mangled by her injuries. But he thought that it might have had a foreign ring to it.’
Ainsley tapped the side of his nose and winked knowingly. ‘Aware as we are of our colleague’s propensity for knocking women about, I do believe that we might hazard a guess at that name with a foreign ring to it.’
Courtney’s features twisted in a savage scowl and he spat out, ‘It was my fuckin’ cousin, I don’t doubt.’
FORTY-SIX
Orchard House, Beoley Village
Friday, 21st March
Evening
As Walter Courtney halted the gig in the yard Pammy Mallot came hurrying from the house, face strained with anxiety. He got down from the gig and went to meet her.
‘Pammy, my dear, is something the matter?’
‘It’s Phoebe! She’s real upset and worried about what Christophe intends to do. He says that if the Company don’t agree to let him stay longer in England, he’s going to stop soldiering and give up all that he’s fought and slaved for all his life. He’s told her that she means more to him than anything else in this world, and he’ll give up everything to wed her!’
‘Yes, I know. Before leaving for London he came and told me what he intended doing. I think it’s our Good Lord’s blessing on their union that Christophe loves Phoebe deeply enough to give up all that he has achieved in India, and make their future married home here in England. He has already asked me to find out the speediest mode for transfer of his Indian financial assets to England.’
He smiled warmly and patted Pammy Mallot’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, he’ll still have wealth enough to raise a family in comfort and security.’
‘But Geraint, I’ve just told you that Phoebe’s fretting summat awful about it!’ she exclaimed irritably.
‘But why should it cause Phoebe any distress?’ He shook his head as if bewildered.
‘Because her feels terrible guilty, that’s why! Her feels guilty because he’s willing to sacrifice everything that he’s struggled and risked his own life to get, and now her thinks that she’s unworthy of such a good man!’
‘Hush your voice!’ he commanded sternly. ‘And if you value our friendship, then do not ever repeat those words in my hearing! My friend Christophe worships the very ground that Phoebe treads upon. To him, she is a pure soul who personifies goodness of heart and generosity of spirit.’
He tucked Pammy Mallot’s arm under his and told her gently, ‘Come, let us go inside. Now you need not distress yourself any longer, my dear. I shall talk to Phoebe and bring her ease of mind.’
He took a small pot from his pocket and showed it to her. ‘I’ve brought some fresh-made sciatica potion for poor George. At least we may draw some comfort from the fact that this is soothing his pain. I’ll give him his massage after I’ve talked with Phoebe.’
‘You’ve done wonders for his sciatica, Geraint. He hardly ever shows any signs of upset when I moves him about now,’ she told him admiringly. ‘And to think that you learned how to do all these marvelous salves and massages from them heathen blackies out in India!’
‘I certainly did learn from them, my dear.’ He smiled. ‘In India there are so many, many wondrous things that one can witness and learn from. All the ancient wisdoms of the East!’
He smiled broadly, leaned forwards and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Is Phoebe within earshot?’
Pammy Mallot shook her head. ‘No, her’s upstairs.�
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‘Good! I have a surprise for her.’ Courtney produced a roll of vellum tied up with bows of rose-red silk ribbon.
‘This is the Special License for the Marriage of Miss Phoebe Creswell and Major Christophe de Langlois. Issued by the Ecclesiastical Office of the See of Canterbury and embossed with the personal seal of His Most Reverend Grace, Charles Manners-Sutton, my Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.’
‘Ahhhhhh! Aren’t that a beautiful looking thing.’ Pammy Mallot’s eyes became misty with emotion.
‘I shall present this to Phoebe after we’ve had our supper.’ The roll of beribboned vellum disappeared into Courtney’s inner pocket, and he held his forefinger to his lips. ‘And you must not breathe a word of it to her before then.’
‘Wild horses couldn’t drag that word from me. Me lips am sealed, and may God strike me dead if I betrays me solemn oath on it,’ Pammy Mallot declared fervently.
‘And I’ve something else to gladden both of your hearts, which I’ve been anxiously awaiting to reach me, and shall show Phoebe immediately I see her.’
With a flourish he produced a silver flask. ‘I’ve received it this very morning from a courier despatched by my Lord Archbishop. It’s the first delivery of a very special elixir prepared by His Grace’s personal physicians, which they guarantee will over time cure Master Creswell’s stomach ailment and thus enable him to partake of plain and wholesome food and drink without any ill effects such as vomiting or the diarrhoea.
‘Naturally, for the time being we must continue with the low diet prescribed by Doctor Laylor. But as we witness the beneficial effects of this elixir in restoring Master Creswell’s health, we shall then be able to gradually introduce good red meat and fresh vegetables back into his diet.’
He winked with boyish mischievousness. ‘And in due course, the occasional cheering glass or two of fine Madeira.’
Pammy Mallot gurgled with laughter. ‘Oh, you are a scamp, Geraint! I’ll bet you were a real jackanapes of a boy!’
Beaming at each other they linked arms and entered the house.
FORTY-SEVEN
Redditch Town
Saturday, 22nd March
Noon
‘I fully concur with you, Tom. Death is due to this skull fracture, which in all likelihood was caused by a single blow from a bludgeon type implement.’ Hugh Laylor straightened his back, picked up a strip of rag off the naked torso of the dead man and wiped his bloodied hands on it.
Tom smiled wryly as he used another rag to dry his own hands. ‘All I have to do now is find whoever it was that dealt that blow.’
‘It’s a damn strange business this!’ Laylor shook his head. ‘Why would anyone smash a man’s head in and take his boots, yet leave his money and valuables untouched?’
Tom laid aside the towel and shrugged into his coat. ‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out very quickly. Amy’s putting up the last of the Reward notices today, and I’ve already got Jimmy Grier out crying the news about them. But firstly I’ll go and tell Richard Humphries that I need transport to take our friend here back to the Old Black Boy as soon as possible.’
‘And I’ll deliver the death certificate to Blackwell. Then I shall go to the Fox and Goose and enjoy large tumblers of brandy, and a singsong with the Apollo Club. Why don’t you join us? We’ll have a merry time of it,’ Laylor invited.
‘Sadly I can’t,’ Tom declined. ‘It’s imperative that I get to the Old Black Boy. Once the news of the reward spreads there’ll be a lot of people coming there to view the body.’
On his way to Humphries’ premises Tom passed through the bustling market-day crowd and heard above their noise the ringing hand bell and stentorian shouting of Jimmy Grier, the elderly town crier.
‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! A man was found dead in the hamlet of Bradley Green on Friday the fourteenth day of March. Posters detailing his description are to be affixed in public places throughout this Parish.
‘A reward of five guineas will be paid to whomsoever can truly name this dead man. All applications to view the corpse must be made to Master Barry Blake at the Old Black Boy Inn, Feckenham Village.
‘God Save the King!’
FORTY-EIGHT
Feckenham Village
Saturday, 22nd March
Evening
It was late evening when Walter Courtney returned to the Old Black Boy, and he was shocked to see a noisy crowd of men, women and children clustered at the lantern-lit front door. He brought the gig to a halt and handed the reins to his companion, Horace Mackay.
‘I’ll go find out what is happening here, Horace.’
He went through the inn’s front door to find its public rooms thronged, the air thick with tobacco smoke and the barmaids and pot men struggling to keep up with the demands of the drinkers.
Maud Harman, her tray laden with flagons of ale, pushed through the throng to tell him, ‘You go on through to the private, Reverend, and I’ll be with you in two ticks.’ ‘Why are so many here tonight, Ma’am?’ he queried.
‘They’m come to view the dead man, Reverend. Barry Blake’s charging thruppence apiece to view and Constable Potts is taking the statements of them who thinks they can put a name to the dead ’un. I’ve put one o’ the reward posters in the private room for you to look at.’
As Courtney held the poster up to the lamplight he noticed its bottom lines of small print.
‘This Notice printed by Bromley’s Stationery Emporium for All Articles of Stationery, Rare and Antique Books and New Literature, High Street, Redditch, Worcestershire.’
Courtney was instantly riled. ‘Now Bromley must have recognized that this description fitted the Debt Collector who called on him. But why hasn’t he already laid claim to the reward?’
His teeth bared in a contemptuous snarl. ‘He obviously expects it will be more profitable to discuss the matter with me before laying any claim to it. I’ll assure him that his continued discretion will guarantee him an extremely lucrative future, then allow the greedy bastard to enjoy basking in that expectancy until I close his mouth for good!’
FORTY-NINE
Birmingham City
Monday, 24th March
Midday
The bucketful of cold water impacting on his head shocked Sylvan Kent from his drunken stupor into dazed consciousness. The young prostitute sharing his bed still snored on.
‘Get rid of the slut, Archie,’ Walter Courtney ordered.
His companion grabbed the naked girl’s long hair and dragged her on to the floor, then bent over her, slapping her face with his free hand until she came to shrieking wakefulness. Clapping his hand over her mouth to muffle her shrieks, he growled threateningly into her ear, ‘Hold your noise, you whore, or I’ll break your fuckin’ neck!’
She subsided into terrified silence.
Archibald Ainsley released his grip and pressed coins into her hand. ‘Get your clothes and go. Keep your mouth shut about this, and don’ ever come back here!’
Trembling with fear she snatched up her bedraggled finery and ran from the room.
Sylvan Kent pushed himself to a sitting position and complained pettishly, ‘There was no need to soak me like this, Cousin Walter. I could catch me death of cold!’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Courtney snapped. ‘Listen very carefully, Cousin Sylvan, and commit to memory everything that I now tell you. You’ll pay a sore price if you mess things up.’
He went on to give detailed instructions, making the recipient repeat those same instructions over and over again until he was satisfied that Kent had fully absorbed them.
Then he told Ainsley, ‘Stay here and keep this stupid cunt sober and away from the whores, Archie. Make sure he’s at the Beoley Mount crossroads, looking every inch the gallant soldier, at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
FIFTY
Beoley Mount
Tuesday, 25th March
Morning
The air was still, and thick fog blanketed the land. When the rattle of the gig
’s wheels reached the ears of the two horsemen waiting by the crossroads, Archibald Ainsley grunted with relief.
‘This sounds like him now.’
‘And about time too!’ Sylvan Kent snarled sullenly. ‘He lays down the law that we’re to be here for nine o’clock and then keeps us hanging around for fuckin’ ages!’
The solid dark shape of a horse and gig materialized out of the swirling greyness and came to a halt in front of them.
‘I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to, Walter.’ Ainsley kneed his mount forwards to the side of the gig. ‘Is everything alright?’
Courtney touched his forefinger to his lips in a signal for silence, then brusquely ordered, ‘Come here, Cousin Sylvan, I want to take a close look at you.’
Ainsley moved to make space for Kent, who was wearing full military uniform.
Courtney looked him up and down for several seconds, then grinned and nodded. ‘Excellent, Sylvan! You’re a veritable Adonis! Now listen very carefully . . .’
He gave detailed instructions, making the recipient repeat them over and over again. Then he jerked his head at the hill above. ‘Get over there and claim your bride-to-be, Sylvan. I’ll be joining you later.’
As Kent rode away and disappeared in the swirling fog, Courtney related the latest developments concerning the dead Billy Peelson, and the reward poster which had been printed by Charles Bromley.
As he listened Ainsley’s expression displayed intensifying chagrin, and when Courtney fell silent, he cursed savagely. ‘I’d best kill that bastard before he peaches on us!’
Courtney smilingly shook his head. ‘Calm down, my dear fellow! I’ve had words with Master Bromley and ensured his continued silence concerning the Debt Collector’s call upon him. I’ve also sworn him to secrecy concerning his future, very lucrative, employment as Printer to His Grace, My Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.’
