Til Death Do Us Part (31 page)

‘Let me buy you a drink, Harry.' Tom's thoughts were racing as he went to the counter and called for service. When he brought the flagon of ale back to the other man, he said, ‘I'll have to leave you now, Harry, but might I ask you a favour?'

‘O' course you can, Tom.'

‘For the time being can you please keep what you've just told me to yourself? I'll make some enquiries about those two, and when I find out anything about them, you'll be the first to know.'

‘I'll be as silent as the grave, Tom!' Harry Pratt winked owlishly and buried his nose in the large flagon.

Tom left the inn, and stood staring into the scum-floating Big Pool, pondering his next move. One name above all others was dominant in his thoughts.

‘Maud Harman. What might she be able to tell me about this Reverend Winward?'

W
hen Maud Harman opened the door of her cottage to Tom's knock, she exclaimed in surprise. ‘Master Potts? I thought you'd have been back in Redditch by now? Couldn't you get hold of Johnny Turl?'

‘I did make use of Johnny Turl's cart, Ma'am. But I'm come to seek your aid on another matter, which for the time being must remain strictly confidential between we two.'

‘Well, me husband won't be back for a good hour, so you can speak freely, Master Potts.' She smiled. ‘And if this matter profits me as handsomely as our other dealings have done, then I'm more than happy to help you.'

Inside the neat and cosy cottage, knowing that he could trust this woman's discretion, Tom came straight to the point.

‘I've received information which accuses the officer who got married this morning of being nothing more than a fraud and a fortune hunter. I need you to tell me everything that you might possibly have come to know concerning him.

‘Also I need to know all that I can about the Reverend Winward, his doings hereabouts, his acquaintances, any callers upon him, any information he might have given you about himself.'

At first Maud Harman's eyes widened in shocked disbelief as she heard Tom's initial words, but that wide-eyed disbelief was very quickly displaced by excited anticipation, and when Tom fell silent she exclaimed breathlessly, ‘On my word, Master Potts! I do declare that since meeting you I've had more excitement than I've had in all these many years! O' course I'll help you!'

She talked and Tom listened. She knew nothing about Major Christophe de Langlois except that he was an old friend of Winward's from India. But she could relate all that the Reverend Winward had told her concerning his reasons for being here in this parish, and his charitable works. She described how he had formed a close relationship with the Reverend Mackay.

Next she described a flashy-dressed man named Archibald Ainsley who had called upon Winward several times asking for donations to a Charity for Old and Decayed Thespians, and added, ‘Reverend Winward had another visitor seeking charity from him as well. I never met him meself, but Master Blake did. That one gave his name as Bromley, and I couldn't help but wonder if he was anything to do with the book shop of that name that's on the High Street in Redditch.'

Tom also couldn't help but wonder if it was indeed Charles Bromley who had called upon the Reverend Winward, and if so, for what reason?

He paid Maud Harman for her information and as he walked back towards Redditch decided how he would follow up on what he had been told. Part of his duties as Constable was to check with the innkeepers and lodging house proprietors if they might have cause to suspect any of their guests of being wrongdoers. So firstly he would make a tour of the various premises, and find out if this man named Archibald Ainsley was lodging there. Then he would call upon Charles Bromley.

As Tom was making his plans, Sally Rimmer was receiving a visitor in the Old Laystall, a small girl clad in mourning clothes who was asking to speak with her in private.

Sally led the girl out to the rear yard and questioned, ‘Now what is it you'm wanting wi' me, my wench?'

‘If you please, Ma'am, me mistress wants to look at the dead man that you brought here this afternoon. She said to tell you that she'll pay you very well if you lets her look at him. But that it's got to be kept secret that she's come here. She says that she wants you to come and fetch her when everybody here is asleep and that you're to make sure that nobody sees her, or comes to know that she's been here. She says that if you does this, she'll pay you very well.'

Sally Rimmer didn't hesitate. ‘You tell me where I'm to come for her, and I'll be there at whatever hour she wants me. And you tell her that I'll make double sure that nobody here sees her, or 'ull ever know about her being here.'

‘W
orcester? They've gone to Worcester? But you told me you were all coming straight back here after the wedding?' Pammy Mallot's tone was accusatory. ‘And I've been expecting you to be back hours since!'

‘And that was truly my intention, my dear.' Walter Courtney lifted his hands heavenwards. ‘As God is my judge, I was as shocked as you when Phoebe told me that she could not bear the thought of spending her honeymoon in the house that has been her lifelong prison; and that on this night above all others, she would insist on experiencing her first taste of freedom! So they hired a gig and went to Worcester.'

He waited to see what effect this dramatic declamation had had on his listener.

Pammy Mallot's motherly features saddened, and she shook her head regretfully. ‘It's true, Geraint. That nasty old bugger upstairs did make a prisoner of the poor little soul. Her couldn't stir without him wanting to know where her was going. And how long she'd be. And why she wanted to go anywhere that was away from him.'

‘While we're speaking of Master Creswell, how is he?' Courtney interrupted.

‘Well, he aren't been sick or shit the bed again after I give him that dose of Elixir just before you all left. And he's took two bowls o' bread and milk and two glasses o' port and held 'um down. I've give him a little dose o' laudanum about an hour since to quiet him, so all he needs now is his back made easy wi' your special massage, and he'll be right as rain for the rest o' the week. I'se laid your gloves ready for you on the bed table.'

Courtney grinned and winked like a mischievous boy. ‘Then I'll go up directly and make him as right as rain for the week. You can prepare our supper, and also select a couple of bottles of Madeira for us to toast the health, happiness and fecundity of our new bride and groom.'

‘I'll drink to that, and gladly.' Pammy Mallot smiled. ‘You always manages to cheer me up, Geraint, no matter how low I'm feeling.'

‘And I always will do my utmost to bring that lovely smile to your lips, my dear,' he asserted fervently. ‘Now let us both set to our tasks, and when they're done we can begin enjoying ourselves. But you mustn't let me get too drunk, because I have affairs to attend to tomorrow, and so must return to Feckenham tonight.'

In the shadowy, dim-lit bedroom, George Creswell lay comatose. When Courtney drew back the covering sheets and blankets from Creswell's naked body, the only sign that the man still lived was the sighing of shallow breaths which did not even noticeably lift his skeletal rib cage.

Courtney gently turned the unconscious man on to his front, telling him softly, ‘Your release from all bodily sufferings is very close at hand, Master Creswell.'

A noticeable tremor shivered momentarily through the naked body, and Courtney chuckled throatily.

‘By God! It seems that your hearing is unimpaired, my old Bucko.'

He used his fingernails to scratch a small patch of skin on Creswell's lower back until it wept blood. Then he took the leather gloves from the bedside table and pulled them on, produced a small pot from his pocket and opened its lid. He lightly dabbed the tip of his forefinger on to the pot's contents and tentatively touched that finger tip to his lower lip, hissing in satisfaction at the almost instant reaction of sharp tingling followed by numbness on the site of that touch.

‘Bloody hell! This is powerful stuff!'

He used his fingers repeatedly to ladle salve on to the lower spine of the unconscious man, spreading and rubbing hard with both hands until the salve had been absorbed by skin and flesh.

Courtney straightened and grimaced as a twinge of pain lanced across his own stiffened lower back. ‘I could do with some bugger giving me such an expert massage, Master Creswell.'

He turned Creswell over and carefully arranged him in a comfortable-looking posture, tucked the bedclothes around him and left the room.

Downstairs he joined Pammy Mallot in the kitchen.

‘Come, my dear, let's have a convivial glass while we're waiting for our supper to cook.'

They sat at the table for some time drinking and talking, until Courtney dramatically slapped his hand against his forehead.

‘Dammee! I do declare, Pammy, that I must be entering my dotage. I've very carelessly left the lamp burning in Master Creswell's room.'

He laid down the long pipe he was smoking. ‘I'll go up now and douse it.'

‘No you won't!' Pammy Mallot told him firmly. ‘You've done enough for the nasty old bugger for this day. I'll go and put it out.'

Before he could protest, she was gone from the room.

Courtney grinned with satisfaction. ‘She'll find the old bastard sleeping like a babe.'

‘A
insley, you say? Yes, I've had a man of that name staying here. What villainy has he been up to?' John Mence, proprietor of the Unicorn Hotel and Inn, frowned.

‘Nothing that I know of, Master Mence,' Tom Potts hastened to assure. ‘I'd merely like to have a word with him.'

‘And so should I!' Mence spat out angrily. ‘I aren't laid eyes on him for days and he owes me money.'

Tom's highly attuned instincts were aroused, and certain pieces of a mental jigsaw puzzle began to jostle for closer attention.

‘You'd best give me a full description of him, and an account of anything you might know or have heard about his doings since he's been here, Master Mence.'

‘Well, he claims to be a Theatrical Manager, and said that he was looking for suitable premises where his travelling troupe could stage performances. I do know that he's spoken to a lot of the local farmers about hiring their barns.

‘When he first arrived I was suspicious because although he was flash clad, his horse and tack were rubbish. But then he started spending with a very free hand, and so I got a bit careless about the bills he was running up.'

Mence hissed with self-disgust. ‘I should have trusted my first instincts, shouldn't I? They've been hard enough won.'

‘Did he have any callers while he was here? Any clerical gentlemen, for example?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Well, if you'll now give me his physical description, I'll keep a look out for him.'

Mence gave a full description of Ainsley and his horse, and Tom stored the information to memory and took his leave.

Outside the inn Tom considered his next move. Maud Harman's and John Mence's description of Ainsley had tallied closely, and he was satisfied that they had described the same man.

‘So, here are two men of doubtful character, Christophe de Langlois and Archibald Ainsley, with a connecting link, the Reverend Geraint Winward. Who in his turn apparently has a link of some sort with Charles Bromley. I think I'd best have a word with old Charlie now, and find out what that link is.'

Tom was making his way along the High Street when he was hailed from behind. He turned to find Richard Parsons, the parish Customs and Excise Officer, hurrying towards him, radiating indignation.

‘Have you forgotten our appointment, Constable Potts? I've been waiting for you at the lock-up for the past hour.'

Recollection flooded Tom, and he hastened to apologize. ‘I'm sorry, Master Parsons. We are to check the traders' Weights and Measures today, are we not?'

‘Indeed we are, Constable, and with the whole parish to cover I can't waste any more time, so can we commence immediately?'

‘Very well, Master Parsons,' Tom agreed.

It was late evening before the task was completed and Tom was able to go to Charles Bromley's shop.

It was locked and shuttered with no lights showing, and he went around to the rear living quarters to find the same. He hammered on the door there, calling loudly for Bromley, and the next-door neighbour came out to berate him angrily.

‘Will you give over making such a bloody racket! There's no bugger in! Charlie Bromley's went up to Brummagem this midday on Humphries' coach, and perhaps he's gone for good! Like I hopes you will this bloody instant!'

For the second time that day, Tom was forced to apologize and change direction.

I
ntent upon their game in the comfort of the warm room neither chess player had been aware of any caller at the house until Mrs Blakely came to tell Hugh Laylor, ‘George Creswell's housekeeper, Mrs Mallot, has sent a message asking you to come straight away. She thinks George Creswell is breathing his last!'

Hugh Laylor tutted in chagrin. ‘Wouldn't you know it, Tom, the first time for ages I'm poised to checkmate you, and this has to happen. Thank you, Mrs Blakely; will you please tell the messenger I'll be there as soon as possible?'