‘That be a coincidence.’ Ada Clews looked across to her husband finishing his evening meal.
‘What do?’ Arthur asked, chewing on a pork chop.
Laying the evening paper on the table Ada poked a finger at a passage headed mystery man in devil’s pool named.
Arthur leaned forward to read the close-typed print, saying as he finished, ‘What be a coincidence about that?’
‘The name.’ Ada frowned. ‘I seen that name afore. I remember cos it struck me as bein’ lah-di-dah, certainly there ain’t nobody in Wednesbury wi’ a name fancy as that.’
‘ “Tristan Reue Gaylord,” ’ Arthur read aloud. ‘That ain’t a name I’ve come across. Tristan Reue Gaylord,’ he repeated, sucking the chop bone. ‘A name as arty-farty as that would bring a few ripe remarks from men in the foundry. But last we ’eard the police had nuthin’ to go on, nuthin’ to say who he be or what he be doin’ in Wednesbury.’
‘Maybe the police advertised; you knows, askin’ in the newspapers did anybody know of a man gone missin’.’
‘Well.’ Arthur sniffed, running a finger around his plate to scrape up the last remnants of tasty gravy. ‘Seems somebody did if they’ve got a name, shame it weren’t known when Thorpe said a prayer forrim.’
Thorpe! Ada’s senses tightened. Why when she had read that report, why each time she scanned it again did the name Thorpe sing in her mind?
‘That be it.’ She slapped a hand hard on the table, setting Arthur’s knife and fork clattering on the plate. ‘That be where I seen it.’
‘Seen what?’ Arthur reached for his tobacco-stained pipe.
Tutting impatiently Ada retorted, ‘The name, y’fool, it were in Thorpe’s house. It were when I went to talk to ’im about Leah teken up sellin’ her butter and cheese to the women. There were a black leather bag lyin’ open on his table and that name were wrote clear: bold black letters . . . they stood out plain on the biscuit coloured inside of the flap.’
‘So what?’
‘So what!’ Ada’s patience snapped. ‘What were it doin’ in Thorpe’s ’ouse? He never once mentioned anythin’ about it . . . and then in the chapel when he prayed for the dead man’s soul he d’ain’t once speak that name; strikes me there be summat as don’t meet the eye in that, same as with our Sarah. Thorpe’s tongue stilled mighty quick when I tried to talk to ’im about her, and her were the same whenever I brought him into the conversation. I couldn’t never rid meself of the feelin’ summat was bein’ kept very close to the chest wi’ the pair of ’em. Oh Lord!’ She stopped suddenly, eyes wide. ‘Y’don’t think . . . I means could it be . . . ?’
Arthur stared back at his wife, his work-weary eyes filled with the same enquiry. Could Thorpe have made Sarah pregnant?
‘He wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘he be a man o’ God.’
‘Man o’ God!’ Ada spat contemptuously. ‘Since when did bein’ a man o’ God stop any man gettin’ between a wench’s legs, an’ if any man ’ad the chance wi’ our Sarah, it were Thorpe, her thought the sun shone out of his arse.’
‘But Matthew went to the Chapel House along of her and then walked her ’ome again.’
‘Ar, so he did,’ Ada returned. ‘But he d’ain’t stay in that Chapel House so he’s told me since, he left Sarah there on her own, so the lad wouldn’t know had Thorpe been there all along. You knows our Sarah . . . God rest her . . . and while I don’t wish to speak ill o’ the dead, I ’ave to say that wench could be a dark ’orse when it suited her.’
‘So you thinks. . . .’
‘Can’t see it bein’ no other, that house be the only place her were on her own an’ nobody other than Thorpe were ever allowed in there since them lodgers o’ Leah Marshall’s left.’
Putting aside his pipe Arthur tied a scarf about his neck then reached for his jacket, saying as he slipped his arms into it, ‘I be goin’ to ’ave a word wi’ Thomas Thorpe.’
‘Y’ don’t think as he be goin’ to own to it, supposin’ he do be the one put our Sarah up the stick, he ain’t a’goin’ to tell you.’
‘Not voluntary.’ Arthur buttoned his jacket. ‘But then I only says ‘‘please’’ one time.’
‘You was stubborn as a young lad but now you be a man y’be even more stubborn.’
Leah Marshall’s words as she walked with him to the gate closing off the path to her house from the one leading to the road rang in Edward’s mind.
‘You two be ’urtin’ of yourselves when there be no call forrit.’
She had scolded as if he were still ten years old. Edward smiled despite the ache inside of him.
‘Would tek no more’n a word to put things right.’
No Leah. This time you are wrong, a word . . . many words . . . would not cure the pain in my heart. You did not see what I saw! His eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the picture of Ann spread-eagled on the ground with Thomas Thorpe on top of her. You did not hear what I heard! She was with him because she wanted to be.
Each to his own! But the slimy Thorpe was the last man he would have thought Ann Spencer to want. Shows how wrong you can be, Edward Langley!
‘Hey up lad!’ In the darkness a man caught at Edward’s elbow as they collided.
‘Sorry . . . wasn’t looking where I was going,’ Edward apologised then, ‘You be going the wrong way, the Rising Sun is in that direction.’
‘I’ll be goin’ there later, I ’ave a bone to pick first.’
‘Oh.’ Edward laughed. ‘That doesn’t bode well for somebody.’
‘That’ll depend on the way I be answered, but either way Thorpe’ll be answerin’.’
Thorpe! Edward listened intently as Arthur related what Ada had said regarding the drowned man’s name.
It was no surprise. Thorpe was a roaring ranter when preaching in chapel but when talk turned to himself, he was sparing with words . . . he told very few truths.
‘Would y’mind comin’ along o’ me, Edward, I knows I loses me temper sometimes so it might be best I don’t see Thorpe on my own.’
I wouldn’t put it past that toerag to claim you’d assaulted him when you’d merely looked at him. Edward kept the thought to himself, and fell into step beside the older man.
Knocking at the door of number twenty-three Cross Street and for the second time receiving no reply, Arthur Clews shuffled irritably. ‘There be somebody in.’ He glanced at the living-room window from which a gleam of anaemic yellow light spilled through a gap in the closed curtains. ‘Thorpe don’t be one to go a wastin’ o’ money on lamp oil when he don’t be ’ome; that one would skin a fart for ’apenny and sell the skin for tuppence! Well Arthur Clews also be a man who be mean, I ain’t goin’ to ’ave no wasted journey.’
So saying he marched round to the back of the house. He was through the scullery and into the living room before Edward caught up to him.
‘Lord God Almighty!’
Taken aback by the exclamation, Edward looked over Arthur’s shoulder into the tiny living room, his own astonishment making him gasp. What in the world was Thorpe playing at!
Thorpe’s face was the picture of fury. ‘What do you think you are doing coming into my house!’
‘What do we be doin’?’ Arthur Clews laughed outright. ‘What the bloody ’ell be you doin’ dressed up like a tart in a brothel?’
‘Whose robes are those?’ Edward ran a slow glance over the black cassock, its tiny cloth-covered buttons reaching to the ankles, the white silk stola draped round Thorpe’s shoulders, the prayer book held reverently in both hands.
One eyebrow arched high as Thorpe sniggered dispara-gingly. ‘They are mine, whose else would they be?’
Clews’ reply flashed out before Edward had time to think. ‘Try Tristan Reuel Gaylord.’
Obviously stunned, Thorpe stared for a moment but as quickly pulled his thoughts together. These men had no proof, therefore there was no need for him to answer.
‘That be who them robes belongs to!’ Clews answered the silence. ‘Was
it you found ’em and decided to keep ’em for y’self?’
Watching the sneer slide across Thorpe’s face, watching it settle on his thin lips, Arthur felt the thunderclouds of anger begin to gather. Ada and many like her had trusted this man, followed his words as they would those of a saint but that sly smirk, that cunning glint in the narrowed eyes, were proof enough for him Thomas Thorpe was no saint.
Not caring whether he was right or wrong, his anger augmented by a fast-growing suspicion, Arthur Clews stepped further into the room. ‘You stole that there gown and the scarf wrapped ’round your shoulders . . .’
‘Cassock,’ Thomas Thorpe corrected him. ‘This,’ he touched the black cloth, ‘is known as a cassock and this,’ he ran a finger over the white silk, ‘is a stola but then you are too ignorant to know that.’
Sensing the tremor of rage run up Clews’ spine Edward placed a restraining hand on the man’s arm.
‘Ar, I don’t be clever as some or as quick wi’ words, but I be smart enough to know you be naught but a liar. If them things be your’n how come you ain’t never worn ’em to chapel? I’ll tell y’ why . . . cos they ain’t your’n, you took ’em from the chap you killed then tipped into Devil’s Pool.’
‘Arthur, you can’t go saying such!’ Edward’s hand tightened as he spoke the warning but it was the look on Thorpe’s face that grabbed his attention. Sheer arrogance burned like fire in eyes which had dropped their guard.
‘He thought to take my place.’ Thorpe stared at the men in his living room. ‘The fool thought to be pastor but the chapel is mine. It is decreed by heaven only Thomas Thorpe may serve there, he is the Chosen, the man called by God Himself to minister there, to conduct His divine service, so you see . . . he had to die.’
Thorpe had murdered that man! Edward’s mind reeled. He had killed him in cold blood and now he was parading in the clerical robes he had stolen from him.
‘The Lord’s word has to be obeyed.’ Thorpe raised the prayer book to his lips, his eyes glittering fanatically. ‘It was His will, nothing must stand in the way of that.’
‘My God Arthur, did you hear what he said?’ Edward’s incredulous question was clear yet all that Clews heard was a whisper, a murmur soft in his mind: Sarah . . . Sarah.
Across the room Thorpe laughed, a high-pitched manic screech which seemed to bounce from wall to wall. ‘That slut!’ he screamed at the murmured name slipping from Arthur Clews’ tongue. ‘Stupid bitch thought to become the minister’s wife, thought that opening her legs would put a ring on her finger! Marry . . .’ He laughed again, a piercing half-crazed laugh that rang in his listeners’ ears. ‘Thomas Thorpe would not stoop to marry among the lowest of the low, a common foundryman’s daughter.’
‘Y’ wouldn’t marry her but you’d tek her to bed often as chance were given!’
‘A whore who hoped to better herself by marrying the minister,’ Thorpe raved on, not hearing Arthur, ‘she thought we were going to Darlaston to talk with the minister there, to ask would he perform the wedding ceremony, but that could not be allowed, the trollop had to die before she could make trouble.’
‘Wait, Arthur!’ Edward held Clews securely then looked across to Thorpe, saying quietly, ‘Sarah Clews had to die.’ At Thorpe’s nod he asked, ‘Who killed her?’
Eyelids closed, the prayer book pressed again to his lips, Thorpe stood for a long moment like a soul in rapture. Then lifting his face as if to the sky he said exultantly, ‘The Lord’s Chosen . . . the instrument of heaven: Thomas Thorpe was granted that privilege.’
Edward looked at the man still floating on a cloud of ecstasy. Thorpe saw murdering the girl as some sort of reward. Christ, he must be insane!
‘Let go o’ me Edward, I’ll kill the filthy swine.’ Arthur Clews struggled to throw off Edward’s grip.
‘Tristan Reuel Gaylord . . .’ Mindless of the other two men Thomas Thorpe laughed dementedly. ‘He thought to steal my place as minister, to take my chapel, he thought to blacken my name as did the other two . . .’
Three! Edward’s brain rocked at this new information. Thorpe had killed three times: Gaylord, Sarah Clews . . . but who was the third victim?
‘The other two.’ He tried to sound matter-of-fact. ‘You said Sarah so who is the other, was it a man?’
Thorpe fingered the fringes of the stola, straightening each until they lay in perfect symmetry each side of his chest, then turned towards the door. ‘I think I’ll go see her now; tell Leah Marshall I killed her daughter.’
‘You go get the constable, I’ll wait here and don’t go a worryin’, Edward, I be more’n a match for Holy Joe.’ Arthur Clews pulled savagely at the arm twisted behind Thomas Thorpe’s back.
‘I don’t know Arthur, he’s a sly one.’
‘He be welcome to try puttin’ one over on me if’n he be daft enough but I tells him clear, should I see so much as the bat of an eye I’ll lay him out cold.’
Edward smiled grimly to himself. Chalk and cheese, that was these two: Thorpe small, almost weedy in stature while Clews was strongly built, his arms bulging with muscle gained from years of heavy foundry work. No, Thorpe stood no chance of getting away.
He waited until Thorpe’s hands were securely tied with the string drying line snatched down from the scullery.
‘Edward,’ Arthur Clews called as Edward was leaving. ‘Go to Leah Marshall first. Better for her to be told by you what this tripehound done to her wench than hear it from the police.’
Two minutes later, once all sound of Edward’s leaving had died away, Arthur Clews hauled Thorpe to his feet.
‘You ain’t goin’ to meet no coppers,’ he breathed, ‘you ain’t goin’ to see no doctor neither, there’s gonna be no let off for balance o’ mind bein’ disturbed. You killed my wench and you be goin’ to answer forrit.’
Outside the house Arthur Clews breathed a prayer of thanks that the sky was dark with promised rain clouds and for the fact Leah’s house backed on to cow pasture beyond which lay derelict ground. Going that way there would be next to no chance of meeting anyone.
Glad he had thought to gag Thorpe, he half dragged, half carried his reluctant prisoner. As he had guessed they met no other person. Coming to the edge of Devil’s Pool he glanced at the water, its viscous surface moving sinuously in the breeze like some huge black serpent.
Thorpe also stared a moment at the dark mass then began to struggle.
‘Won’t do you no good.’ Clews snarled, grabbing a piece of fallen rock and smashing it against the other man’s head. Working quickly he removed the thin rope from Thorpe’s wrists, wrapping it first about a larger heavier rock which he then tied round the neck of the unconscious Thorpe.
He glanced at the scudding clouds. It would take a minute or so more before Thorpe regained consciousness. He must not act before then. Arthur Clews’ mouth set determinedly. Thorpe must be awake so he could hear his sentence.
A groan told him his waiting was over. Clews scooped up a handful of water, throwing it in Thorpe’s face.
‘Y’be awake now.’ He snatched the befuddled man to his feet. ‘I wanted you to be awake afore I left you.’
Fully aware now, Thorpe felt the weight of the stone drag at his neck. ‘What . . . what do you think you are doing?’ His voice trembled. ‘Take this thing off my neck at once.’
‘Oh I ain’t thinkin’ any more, my decision already be med.’
Forcing Thorpe closer to the rim of the pool he hissed against the terrified man’s ear.
‘You put my wench in there, now you be goin’ to follow ’er, you gonna be given a taste o’ what it be like in that black hole.’
‘No . . . Clews, no . . . you can’t!’
‘Best leave that to us.’ The reply was firm. ‘I’m sure the inspector will ask should he feel we need help.’
After bidding William Price goodnight at the corner of Cross Street, watching him stride purposefully on along Holyhead Road, Edward said quietly, ‘You know where Thorpe is, don’t
you?’
Beside him, cloaked in night’s darkness, Arthur Clews laughed briefly. ‘Ar I knows, but I don’t be goin’ to tell you lad. Be it enough for you to know that he got his dues.’
Arthur Clews had taken his revenge, of that he was certain. But what of Leah? On his way home to Hill Rise, Edward’s thoughts returned to his friend. There had been no gasp of surprise when she was told, no cry of shock; Leah had simply nodded. Why? He frowned at the answer which came. Leah Marshall already knew!
‘It were always in my heart you died of no accident nor would you ’ave teken the path o’ suicide.’ Leah Marshall touched the face of the photograph smiling from the mantelpiece. ‘Now the truth be out and the one who harmed you will be brought to justice in my world and in yours. Rest happy now my darlings,’ she smiled at each photograph in turn, ‘rest in God’s peace.’
At a sound on the stairs she left the neat front parlour, glancing concernedly at Ann coming into the living room.
‘I still thinks y’ should let me or Edward come along of you.’
‘No.’ Ann shook her head, ‘neither of you can spare the time away from the farm.’
‘But Stafford be so far away – too far for a young wench to go on her own.’
Ann smiled. ‘Leah,’ she said gently, ‘Russia is a long way but Alec and I managed so I’m confident I can manage a train journey.’
‘Well if y’ must, but you will both come back here?’
‘You know we would not leave just like that, you mean too much to both of us.’
‘Off y’ go then wench, the lad’ll be more than anxious for you to collect him. I just thanks God the whole thing be cleared up.’
Thomas Thorpe had not yet been found. Ann walked briskly towards the police station, as she did so reviewing the events of the past few days. Edward Langley and Arthur Clews had both made sworn statements that Thorpe had confessed to three murders, but without the confession of the man himself it was strange Alec was being set free.
But he was and that was all she cared about. The thought added a spring to her step as she walked into the small yet imposing police station. Inspector Allingham had said he would furnish her with a letter which would ease the process at Stafford Prison.
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