Til Death Do Us Part (16 page)

‘Reverend Winward must come early tomorrow, mustn't he, Phoebe? And he must have food and drink with us, and make a day of it, mustn't he, Phoebe? We won't take no for an answer, will we, Phoebe?

‘You're to be here nice and early, Sir, and have breakfast with us, mustn't he, Phoebe? Then we can talk all morning, then have another bite to eat, can't we, Phoebe? Then we'll have all afternoon to talk in, shan't we, Phoebe?

‘Come dinnertime we shall have a feast fit for a King, shan't we, Phoebe? And after dinner we'll have the whole night to talk in. It'll be lovely for us, won't it, Phoebe? And some time in the day, Sir, you must meet the Master hisself, mustn't he, Phoebe? Although I fear the Master 'ull not be much for talking, him being in such sore straits and bedridden like he is, aren't he, Phoebe? But we've accepted his sad condition as being God's Will, haven't we, Phoebe?'

As Pammy Mallot went on, and on, and on, Phoebe Creswell, unable to find a momentary pause in the other woman's excited dialogue to actually voice her own agreement aloud, could only repeatedly blush and nod, and blush and nod, and blush and nod.

I
n the early hours Tom took great care to slip from the bed and dress in the darkness to avoid disturbing his softly snoring wife, then fumbled his way downstairs to the alcove kitchen.

He carefully raked the top covering of ashes from the still-glowing embers in the cooking range fire hole and, topping them with wood chips and small coals, blew hard to rekindle the flames. When the fire began to give off heat and spread warmth through the freezing cold air he sat on a low stool staring into the leaping flames. His mood was made sombre by the prospect of the coming meeting with Joseph Blackwell.

‘What excuse can I offer for failing so miserably in this investigation?' he thought glumly. ‘And not only that, but I've also injured one of his favourite mares, and presented him with a damned stiff bill from the horse doctor.'

Tom's mental focus abruptly changed direction, and he angrily growled aloud. ‘Now stop feeling so sorry for yourself, you sniveling moping oaf! Get off your backside, and get yourself cleaned and groomed. Then go and see Blackwell and don't make excuses for your failure. After that think very carefully about how you are going to solve this case, and then set about doing it.'

‘So, Constable Potts, on top of the fee for the horse doctor to tend my injured mare, the Parish is now expected to pay the exorbitant fees of your deputy, Richard Bint, for carrying out your official duties, plus the cost of his candles, coals, drink and food during his nightly sojourns at the lock-up.' Joseph Blackwell's tone was grimly accusatory. ‘And I dread to think what amount the Parish is to be expected to reimburse you with for the maintenance of yourself during these fruitless promenades around the county.'

The memory of freezing cold days, hard travelling, hard beds, little rest, poor quality food and drink, plus the constant pain of his sore backside, stung Tom into resentfully countering his employer's accusatory attitude.

‘Do not forget, Sir, that it was yourself who insisted that I abandon my normal duties, and instead concentrated all my time and efforts in trying to recover the Earl's dogs.'

‘And you have singly failed in that task, Constable Potts!' Blackwell immediately counter-attacked.

‘Not yet, I haven't!' Tom declared doggedly. ‘I'm fully confident that I shall solve this case, and sooner rather than later!'

They stared unblinkingly into each other's eyes for long, long moments, until Blackwell's thin lips parted slightly and a reedy chuckle issued from between them. Then he nodded and said quietly, ‘And I'm fully confident that eventually you will solve it, Thomas Potts. Fortunately for both of us I've been informed that the return of the Earl to Hewell is to be much later than was thought. So to save the Parish unnecessary expense you may also attend to your normal duties while still continuing with this investigation. I bid you good day.'

D
uring the twelve days since his last interview with Joseph Blackwell, Tom had made no progress in his investigation of the stolen dogs, and now had just left Blackwell's house after making another report of his continuing failure.

Drawing deep draughts of the frosty air, he stood gazing northwards down the long steep slope of the terrace-lined Fish Hill and across the broad snow-covered pastures of the Arrow River valley bordered by the long ridges of higher ground beyond.

Suddenly he remembered Richard Bint telling him about the Widow Darke's complaint concerning her poisoned cats, and guilt assailed him.

‘Dear God, I'd completely forgotten about that poor old soul. I'd best go call on her now and make my apologies.'

The terrace of thatched cottages on the Fish Hill was set some twenty yards back from the road and even before Tom had traversed that short distance the door of Widow Darke's home was flung open and she came scurrying to meet him.

Although she was tiny, bent nearly double, and her face and body shriveled with age, Tom was shocked by the strength and deep timbre of her voice.

‘Where's you been this last weeks, Constable Potts? You'm supposed to be at the lock-up when we needs you! Not going off gallivanting around the county like Lord Muck!'

‘I'm very sorry I've not visited you before, Ma'am,' he told her. ‘But I'm here now, and at your service.'

‘This is a terrible thing, and you aren't done nothing about it, you Jackanapes!' she scolded furiously. ‘I've had three o' me cats murdered! And I wants the bugger who done it, brought to trial and hung for being a bloody-handed murderer!'

‘Murdered, you say? In what manner?' Tom asked.

‘Poisoned! By that evil devil, Porky Hicks!'

‘Do you have proof of this, Ma'am?'

‘Proof! Proof! What d'you mean by asking me if I've got proof?' Flecks of spittle sprayed from her toothless mouth as she bellowed indignantly, ‘I'm a respectable, God-fearing, Chapel-going Methodist, who was wed to a respectable, God-fearing, Methodist Chapel Elder for forty years. During which time I birthed and buried ten kids and laid each one of 'um in hallowed ground. And you've got the sauce to ask me if I've got proof? May our sweet Lord turn his gaze away from you, and fling you into the fiery pits of Hell for ill-using me in such a way!'

Her furious rant brought curious faces to stare from windows and doorways all along the terrace, and shouted questions.

‘What's he want wi' you, Widow Darke?'

‘Has he come about your cats?'

‘He's took his bloody time in coming, aren't he!'

Tom hastily suggested to the irate old crone. ‘Let us both go inside and discuss this matter, Ma'am. You can then voice all your suspicions to me without fear of interruption.'

‘It aren't only Widow Darke who thinks that it's Porky Hicks who killed her cats. The bugger's done such before, all over the place.' Another woman came up to Tom. ‘And I saw him feed 'um something the day him and the rest of the gang from Shit Court come down our backyard to empty the privies.'

‘Yes, and that same night my poor beautiful darlings was shitting and spewing all over the place, and dead by next nightfall!' Widow Darke was near to tears. ‘And the very day after that Porky Hicks and his Dummy mate come back down here scavenging our rubbish, and he asked me if there was any dead animals lying around here which needed to be shifted.'

‘And how did you answer?' Tom asked.

‘Well, Mistress Kings here had told me that she saw Porky Hicks give summat to my beautiful darlings, so I was suspicious of him. And I answered him, no there wasn't no dead animals. I said my darlings had been a bit poorly, but that they was as right as rain again. And does you know summat, Constable Potts! He looked really shocked when he heard that.' The old crone nodded emphatically. ‘I knew for sure in that very instant, that that evil devil had murdered my poor beautiful darlings!'

Tom briefly considered what he had heard, and then asked, ‘If they were assailed with diarrhoea and vomiting, might it not have been that they had contracted a virulent form of the distemper, Ma'am? It's a common enough cause of dog and cat deaths after all.'

‘Oh no!' She vehemently dismissed this suggestion. ‘I knows distemper when I sees it. It wasn't any distemper that killed them. It was poison!'

Again Tom briefly considered his options, and decided. ‘Very well, Ma'am, I shall make further investigation into this matter. Have you buried the cats?'

‘No. I've got the poor darlings covered wi' ice and snow to keep 'um fresh. I wants somebody who knows what they'm doing to look close at 'um and find out what's killed 'um.'

‘Let me see them, Ma'am.'

‘Cummon then, I've got 'um round the back.'

She led him through her cottage into the rear yard, where a heap of snow and ice was piled high. She burrowed into the heap and one by one drew out the stiffened bodies of three cats and laid them in a row.

Even in their present condition they were recognizable as exceptionally fine feline specimens.

‘Their coats would make very handsome fur caps.' The thought came instantly into Tom's mind, followed almost simultaneously by the instinctive conclusion that this was why they had died.

‘Scavengers make their profit from collecting rubbish and then selling on anything amongst it that has some sort of market value . . . Human urine and animal skins to tanners! Human and animal shit to farmers! All types of animal furs to furriers! Of course Porky Hicks could see a profit to be made from these three beasts for the outlay of a pennyworth of rat poison.'

As these thoughts flooded his mind, aloud he requested, ‘Will you let me take them with me, Ma'am? I can discover what killed them. But I must request you to refrain from making allegations against Porky Hicks until I've completed my enquiries.'

After he repeated that request twice more she reluctantly acquiesced, and Tom picked up the cats and walked away leaving her glaring after him.

A short time later, as Tom entered the entrance drive of Hugh Laylor's house, its front door opened and the doctor came out accompanied by a clergyman Tom recognized as the one who had been in the gig with Maud Harman.

‘Good morning, Tom,' Hugh Laylor greeted warmly. ‘You've come in the nick of time; I was just about to set out for Beoley with the Reverend Winward here.

‘Reverend, allow me to introduce my dear friend, Thomas Potts, Constable of this parish. Tom, this gentleman is the Reverend Geraint Winward.'

The two men bowed cordially to each other.

Then Laylor asked Tom, ‘What can I do for you, Tom?'

‘I'm come to ask a favour, Hugh. Would you please allow me to have the use of your dispensary for a few hours?' Tom answered and indicated the dead cats he carried in the crook of his arm. ‘I've some specimens here that I need to dissect and examine. Their owner thinks that they've been deliberately poisoned, and I'd like to try and verify if that is the case.'

‘Any ideas as to what the poison might have been?' Laylor asked.

‘The owner said that they'd been given some scraps to eat, and within a short space of time they were violently vomiting and defecating, and died within another short span of time. So it could well have been arsenic. If it was a large dose then the hydrogen sulphide test will show it very plainly.'

‘And if it was only a small dose, what can you do then, Tom?' Laylor asked with interest.

Tom shook his head. ‘I really don't know. My father once spoke of a correspondence he was having with a brilliant chemist employed in the Woolwich Arsenal who was engaged upon a series of experiments which would discover even the slightest traces of arsenic.' He grinned. ‘But I can only hope that these poor cats contain very noticeable traces.'

‘Well I wish you success, my friend,' Laylor declared. ‘I'd like nothing better than to assist you in this task; however the Reverend and myself must make haste to Beoley, so you go on inside. Mrs Blakely, as always, will be eager to fuss over you.' He turned his head to tell his companion, ‘Tom is a particular favourite of my housekeeper, Reverend. Every time she sees him she behaves like a mother hen with her chicken.'

The trio parted and Tom went inside the house to be warmly welcomed by the motherly Mrs Blakely.

On the road to Beoley, as Laylor rode close alongside the gig, Walter Courtney remarked, ‘I've never before in my life encountered a Parish Constable who carries out dissections and scientific examinations, Doctor Laylor. It must be a unique situation.'

Laylor chuckled. ‘I do believe it is, but Tom is of gentle birth and highly educated. His father was a wonderfully talented physician and surgeon who chose to spend his life in the army. Tom became his father's apprentice at a very early age, so has had many years of medical training and practice in both military and civil hospitals.

‘Tragically in the final stages of Tom's medical studies his father died very suddenly, leaving his family virtually destitute. Tom being an only child, he was forced to abandon his studies before gaining his degree and to seek other work in order to support his mother. His leaving the medical profession was our loss, because he has a far greater aptitude for surgery than I possess.'

‘And now he is a lowly Parish Constable, subjected to constant verbal insult and physical abuse by the very dregs of our nation. Poor unfortunate fellow!' Courtney murmured sympathetically. ‘I have to confess, Doctor Laylor, that there are times when I am driven to question why our Blessed Father in Heaven places such heavy loads upon the shoulders of such meek and goodly people as your friend. As Jesus, our Saviour, has told us, God does indeed move in the most mysterious of ways.'