Til Death Do Us Part (10 page)

He sensed the almost noiseless opening of the door, but remained motionless until he heard a soft warning cough.

He opened his eyes, lifted his head and, gasping in feigned dismay, jumped to his feet and bowed low.

‘I beg you to accept my humblest apologies, Ma'am. I was seeking the guidance of our Lord, and as always at such times I fear that I lost all awareness of this material world about me. I beseech you to forgive my ill manners!'

‘There is nothing to forgive, Reverend Winward; I beg you not to distress yourself. I also lose all awareness of this world when I am communing with our Lord. Please, resume your seat.'

The woman's voice was husky and low pitched, and Courtney could detect an underlying Irish accent. He took this first close-up opportunity to make a rapid inventory of her appearance. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with dark eyes and hair, and a handsome, fresh-complexioned face. She was of medium height, wearing a fashionably styled, black silk mourning gown which accentuated her full breasts.

She seated herself opposite to him on a similar type of chair and stared expectantly at him.

‘I trust, Ma'am, that I am addressing the same Mrs Adelaide Farson who has recently replied to an advertisement placed by XYZ in the
Birmingham Aris Gazette
?' Courtney smilingly sought confirmation.

‘Indeed you are, Sir.' She smiled back, and he noted that she had good teeth.

‘Then let me begin, Ma'am. I am come here on behalf of my friend, Major Christophe de Langlois, of the Madras Native Infantry, Honourable East India Company Army.'

From an inner pocket he produced the finely executed miniature portrait of Sylvan Kent and handed it to her.

‘This was painted recently, Ma'am, and I can verify that it is a true likeness. He stands near two yards in height, and has the physique of a warrior . . .'

He continued at length, verbally creating an image of a gallant soldier of Huguenot descent, who had amassed wealth and property in India. Who was a bachelor, but now desired above all else to find a suitable wife to share his life in India and enjoy the benefits of his good fortune.

Ella Peelson, wife of the convicted ‘coiner' Terence Peelson, sat silently gazing at the miniature, while committing her guest's words to memory. A product of the rancid slums of Dublin, she had survived the sexual abuse and maltreatment of her childhood by utilizing her sharp wits and acute intelligence to escape from there. These same attributes had served her well throughout her life in the underworld of criminality, enabling her to enjoy the considerable profits of crime and evade the gallows which had claimed the lives of so many of her varied confederates.

‘. . . and so that brings my account of Major Christophe de Langlois to its end.' Courtney smiled. ‘With the utmost respect, Ma'am, may I make so bold as to request to hear some account of your own antecedents and passage through life that I may carry back to him? Who naturally is most eager to learn more about you.'

Ella Peelson returned the miniature, smiled and requested: ‘Before I relate such antecedents and personal experiences, Sir, may I be permitted to spend some time in reflecting upon what you have told me about this gentleman? I'm sure that you will appreciate my delicacy of feelings concerning this matter. I am a widowed lady with limited experience of the wider world. Having spent my life in somewhat cloistered surroundings, I need to consider very carefully my decision on this matter.'

‘But of course, Ma'am! Your wish is my command!' Courtney immediately rose and bowed. ‘I'll take my leave now, Ma'am. Will you permit me to call upon you again at this same hour on Monday next to receive your decision?' He smiled warmly. ‘I pray that you will forgive my boldness. But now that I have met you, I must confess that in my opinion my friend will have true cause for regret if you should decide against furthering your acquaintance with him.'

‘Oh, Sir!' She reacted with girlish flutters of her hands to shield her blushing cheeks and with head bowed murmured shyly, ‘I shall expect you at this hour on that day. Good morning to you, Sir. My maid will show you out.'

As soon as she heard the outer door closing upon her departing visitor, Ella Peelson shouted, ‘Milly, bring me a bottle of gin, a jug of water and a glass.'

Within seconds the child had brought the articles and placed them on the table at her mistress's side.

‘The man who just left, did he ask you any questions?' Ella queried.

‘Oh yes, Ma'am.' The girl related all that had passed between herself and the visitor. ‘And he give me this sixpence to keep it all secret from you, Ma'am.'

Her mistress chuckled and stroked the girl's cheek. ‘What a treasure you are to me, Milly. You shall have whatever treat you want tomorrow, and two more sixpences to spend with that one. But leave me now, my dear.' She jerked her head in dismissal, mixed gin and water into the glass and, deep in reverie, began to sip the drink.

‘Madame Adelaide de Langlois. I like the sound of that, and if he looks half as well in the flesh as he does in his picture, and is half as rich as the parson tells me he is, then he'll make a real good catch. If I play my cards right, I could be living like a queen in India for the rest of my days. There'll be no danger of my fuckin' husband's brothers ever pestering me there.'

The mental vision of Terence Peelson's haggard death-cell features suddenly intruded, and she gloated.

‘He'll have been buried by now, and with a bit of luck I'll be an Officer's Lady well before he's rotted to nothing under the jail yard.'

Driving his gig away from the house Courtney chuckled appreciatively. ‘You're a fly bitch and no mistake, Ella Peelson, but now you've come up against an even flier old dog. I'm going to enjoy furthering our acquaintance.'

E
lla Peelson had spent long hours on her toilette and now, as she examined her reflection in the bedroom's full-length mirror, was not unhappy with the result.

‘You're still good-looking enough, girl, and I doubt he'll be even half as handsome as his picture.'

She turned her thoughts to her present situation and the course events had taken.

On the day before his execution Terry Peelson had finally relented and told her where his cache of coinage and die stamps were hidden, and she had lost no time in retrieving them. Even though the majority of the coins were counterfeit, there was still a very large sum of genuine coinage, and the die stamps were worth a great deal of money to any Coiner.

The meeting with the Reverend Winward on the day of her husband's execution had gone better than she could have hoped; and had been followed by meetings on the following Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. He had told her it was a matter of urgency that Langlois should return to his regiment in India, and therefore should they find that they were a suitable match, his friend wanted to be married immediately by Special License.

As for her own land and property, the Reverend himself would be remaining in England, and if she so wished would undertake the care and administration of it, as he did for that of Langlois.

‘Therefore, Ma'am, if you would be so kind as to now furnish me with the particulars of your property it will save much time should the marriage take place and the necessarily hasty departure for India.'

Ella Peelson had been happy to comply with that request.

Now, after a final examination of her mirrored refection, she went down to the drawing room and spent some minutes in altering the positioning of the lighted candelabras in order to illuminate the chair in which she intended her visitor to sit, so that she might clearly read his facial expressions.

That task completed she seated herself and awaited the arrival of her visitor, exerting all her self-discipline not to surrender to her pressing need for a strong mix of gin and water.

The clock struck the hour and she readied herself for the imminent arrival of Major Christophe de Langlois.

Sitting in the stationary gig around the corner from the terrace of opulent houses, Walter Courtney was briefing Sylvan Kent.

‘I found out from the house agents that she's renting this place here by the month, and it's costing her plenty, so she's definitely got money to spare. Her cover story is that she wed very young. Her husband was a lot older than she, and he died very soon after they wed. She and her mother had always lived together and she's temporarily renting the house here because to remain at her family home at this time is too painful for her after her mother's death last year.'

‘And where does she say this family nest is?'

‘A hamlet called Bradley Green. It's close to Feckenham Village where I have my lodgings. But it'll take me a little time to check out her story, because I'll need to tread very carefully. These country yokels are always suspicious of any stranger making enquiries. But if she does own the property there, and she really is on her own now, then it could be very good business for us, and quickly completed.'

Kent chuckled. ‘And if she's as toothsome as you say she is, then I'll enjoy the work for a change.'

‘Just don't mess up,' Courtney warned. ‘And keep off the drink, because you'll need to keep a clear head to handle this one. She's a fly bitch, not a gormless old maid.'

Kent stepped down on to the road, unhitched the saddled horse from the rear of the vehicle and mounted it as his companion drove away.

He trotted around the corner and along the terraced street and reined in before the house he sought. Dismounting, he tied the horse's reins to one of the bollards that fronted the pavement and rapped the highly polished lion's head door knocker. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the slight movement of the lace curtain in the bow window.

When the diminutive maidservant opened the door he smiled down at her. ‘I take it that you are Milly.'

Her eyes widened in shock and she bobbed a curtsey and blurted, ‘That's me name right enough, Sir.'

‘Well, Milly, will you be so kind as to tell your mistress that Major Christophe de Langlois has come to see her.'

‘Major Cristo—' She screwed her face with the effort of trying to repeat his name.

Still smiling, he enunciated slowly, ‘Major Christophe de Langlois.'

‘Major . . .' A pause. ‘Christophe . . .' A pause. ‘De . . .' Another pause. ‘Lang . . . Lang . . . Langos, Sir?'

He chuckled jovially. ‘I trust that will do well enough, Milly.'

Before she could reply Ella Peelson came to the door herself and gently directed her maid. ‘You may go to the kitchen, Milly; I'll receive this gentleman myself.'

Kent swept his top hat from his head and bowed. ‘Have I the honour of meeting Mrs Adelaide Farson?'

She curtseyed. ‘You have, Sir, and I trust that I have the honour of meeting Major Christophe de Langlois.'

They smiled at each other.

Sylvan Kent was telling himself, ‘This bodes well! If all goes to plan, I'm going to thoroughly enjoy fucking this one.'

Ella Peelson, taking in his handsome face, fine teeth, well-groomed thick dark hair, powerful physique, elegant clothing, scented emanation of expensive pomade, was telling herself exactly the same.

N
o snow or rain had fallen for four days and the skies were clear. In the Mountebanks' encampment in a Lodge Farm meadow, Elias Bradshaw was telling his second-in-command, Corporal Taylor, ‘It's market day, and the ground's firm enough now for us to drum up some trade. I'm going to see the Constable and find out if we can make use of the Green.'

In the slum-filled cul-de-sac known as Red Cow Yard, Ezekiel Rimmer was in discussion with a swarthy-featured itinerant pedlar.

‘You'm trying to make a cunt out o' me, Yakob Weiss. Half a dozen prime cat furs, and a dozen rabbit, all fresh and washed with never a scrap o' meat on 'um and you'm offering me a measly two shillings. I knows full well that I could get double that if I took 'um up to Brummagem.'

‘You take 'um up there then, and just see what price you'll get,' the pedlar challenged. ‘Because the most I'll give you is three shillings, and that's me final offer.'

‘Oh, alright then, you bloody Shylock,' Rimmer accepted. ‘I'll have 'um ready for you in the Cow's back room when you're done with the mart. But you giving me such a rotten price means that I'll be taking me prime goods up to Brummagem to sell.'

The pedlar stared questioningly at the other man. ‘Come on, Rimmer! Spit it out! What other stuff have you got?'

‘The best you can get,' Rimmer announced triumphantly. ‘The sort o' fur that's fuckin' wind and weatherproof. The rain just jumps off it, so the skin don't need oiling, tarring or lining. The sort o' pelts that any other cap-maker'd bite me hands off to get hold of 'um. That's guaranteed, that is!'

The pedlar frowned and tugged on his long straggly beard. ‘What pelts are they?'

‘Massive big dog pelts. A Newfoundland and three Bernese Mountain dogs.'

‘Where did you get hold o' them? Because I know for a fact that Bernese Mountain dogs are bound to be few and far between in these parts.'

‘That's very true, my friend,' Rimmer agreed equably. ‘You don't come across many o' the buggers round these parts. But that's the very reason that any cap-maker 'ull be mad keen to get hold o' them, because all the flash lads 'ull be mad keen to be flashing off such a kicksy-upsy titfer and be ready to pay through their noses to get one.'

‘Well, just supposing I did take a look at them, and just supposing I might be persuaded to take them off your hands, what sort of price are we looking at? Because I'm thinking that these Berneses weren't dumped on a rubbish tip and left to die there by a cruel master.' The pedlar winked meaningfully. ‘Not that I mind how they come to stray and get lost.'