Til Death Do Us Part (4 page)

Charles Bromley wrung his hands and blurted apologetically, ‘I fear she is not in the very best of humours this morning, Tom.'

‘Bromley! Get out here this instant!' Widow Potts shouted, and with a final despairing ringing of his hands Charles Bromley scuttled to obey her command.

Tom's heart sank as he looked at Amy's furious expression and he could only desperately beseech her, ‘Now please don't upset yourself, sweetheart. Don't let our day be spoiled because of this unfortunate occurrence.' He turned to the guests. ‘I do apologize to you all for what has happened. Please, let us all put this unfortunate incident from our minds and continue with the festivity.'

‘I'll second that most heartily, Tom.' Hugh Laylor rose to his feet and lifted his glass high. ‘I propose a toast, ladies and gentlemen. Pray charge your glasses and join me in drinking to the bride and groom's future happiness, and to wish them long life, good health and good fortune throughout their marriage.'

With cheers and stamping feet the guests applauded and behind his serving counter, Tommy Fowkes' eyes glistened with satisfaction as glasses were filled and gulped empty. More toasts and good wishes followed in rapid succession amid laughter, cheering and the stamping of feet, as the festivities continued.

At the top table, Maisie Lock was exultantly telling Amy, ‘Jimmy Slater can't take his eyes off me, so I'd best start preparing me bottom drawer this very week in case he asks me to wed him.'

Amy's rosy cheeks were still flushed with anger. ‘Never mind the bottom drawer,' she hissed. ‘Just make sure that you've got a door you can bolt against your bloody ma-in-law, whoever she might turn out to be. To tell you the truth, Maisie, I've a good mind not to step foot into the bloody lock-up until that evil old bitch is gone from it for good.'

‘Don't be daft, my duck. The lock-up's your wedded home and you're the mistress there now, not that rotten old cow. And Tom 'ull be heart-broke if you don't share his bed this night, and he's too nice a man to do that to, aren't he?'

‘That's his trouble sometimes,' Amy complained ruefully. ‘He's too soft-hearted for his own good, and for mine as well.'

‘You won't be thinking that when you're in bed with him tonight, wi' you still being a virgin, and wanting him to be all soft and gentle and patient wi' you.' Maisie puckered her lips suggestively. ‘I'm sure he'll give you a sweeter breaking in than that bugger who took my maidenhead give me. Bloody hell, it hurt!'

Amy's angry mood dissolved into blushing, giggling protest. ‘Breaking me in? You're making it sound as if I'm a horse!'

Her friend laughed and whispered, ‘Well you'm certainly a proper nag at times, my wench. But for your sake I hope that Tom is hung like a stallion so that's he's able to really pleasure you. That's what I'll be looking for in my husband when I gets one.'

As always on such festive occasions, urchins, idlers and curious passers-by had collected on the street outside to peer through the latticed bullseye windows at the noisy gathering within.

One passer-by had spent a considerable time studying the glass-distorted features of the people in the room. Now with a satisfied smirk he hurried away, and entered a narrow alleyway at the far end of which stood a small alehouse.

In the alehouse two men were sitting at a table intent upon their hands of playing cards. The incomer pulled up a three-legged stool and sat down with them.

‘How's your luck, Rimmer?' one of the players greeted him, and pitched his cards down on the table with a disgusted growl. ‘Because mine's fuckin' terrible.'

‘Well now, Porky, me old mate, come nightfall that's going to change.' Rimmer smirked.

‘How so?'

‘Because I've just been taking a close gander at that wedding party in Fatty Fowkes' place.'

‘Taking a gander at a fuckin' wedding party, how's that going to change our luck? You'm getting puddled in your old age, you am, Rimmer,' Porky jeered derisively.

Rimmer was unfazed by this reception of his news, and smirked confidently.

‘The bloke who's just wed Amy Danks is Tom Potts, aren't it; and Ritchie Bint and Josiah Danks am there in the Fox with him, aren't they. So it's certain sure that none of them will be out on the prowl later because they'll all be pissing it up at the party. So the Grange job is on for tonight. And on our way up there we can lift that one from Willie Tyrwhitt's place as well.'

‘What about Willie Tyrwhitt? What's to stop him coming out to see why the dogs am barking?'

‘I'll tell you what's going to stop him coming out. I spotted him and his missus sitting in the Fox as well. So they'll be in there pissing it up while we're doing the business.' Rimmer paused and bared rotting, greenish-brown teeth in a triumphant grin. ‘Like I told you, Porky, your luck's just turned.'

T
he festivities were ended, the guests dispersed. The newly-weds, both very tipsy with wine, were being escorted by some of their equally tipsy friends towards the lock-up at the eastern point of the triangular Green.

When they reached the compact castellated structure that served as the Parish prison, with cells on the ground floor, and living quarters of the Parish Constable on the floors above, Amy tugged Tom's arm.

‘Why aren't the lamps lit, Tom? I thought Ritchie had gone ahead to let your Mam know that we were coming.'

Even as she spoke Ritchie Bint came hurrying up to them from the rear of the black-shadowed building.

‘There's no lights showing anywhere, Tom. I've rung the bells, and hollered and hammered loud enough to wake the dead, but there's no answer from your Mam. She's got to be in there because the door's barred from the inside.'

‘She's done it on purpose!' Amy flared in angry accusation. ‘Your Mam's done this to spite us!'

‘We don't know that, Amy!' Tom protested weakly, although in his mind he was despairingly certain that his bride was right. ‘Perhaps she was nervous to be there on her own, that's why she might have barred the door for fear someone might break the lock and come in while she was upstairs.'

‘Don't make daft excuses for her.' Amy gritted out the words.

Tom desperately clutched at straws. ‘She may have taken a dose of laudanum to ease her pains? Or even, God forbid, have been taken ill and can't rise up to answer the door? That must be it! She's either taken laudanum and is deep asleep, or she's lying ill in her bed.'

‘Well, if the latter is the case we need to get inside without delay.' Drunkenly swaying, Hugh Laylor declared, ‘We'll break the door down.'

‘That's easier said than done, Hugh.' John Clayton blearily demurred and indicated the iron-studded door, the iron-barred cell windows and frontal arrow slits of the ground floor. ‘The place is built like a fortress. We'll need fifty men and a battering ram to break that door down, or a barrel of gunpowder to blow it in.'

The drizzling rain abruptly turned into a downpour.

Amy burst into tears, and cried out, ‘It's ruined! My wedding night's ruined!' She furiously berated Tom. ‘This is all your fault, Tom Potts! I begged you to find that old bitch somewhere else to live, didn't I! And you promised me that you would! But you haven't, have you! And now my wedding night is ruined! And my new bonnet is getting soaking wet and ruined as well! And it's all your fault, Tom Potts!'

‘Oh, Amy, please, I beg you don't say this.' Tom pleaded and moved to embrace her, but she struck his hands away.

‘Don't you dare touch me! And don't even try to speak to me until you've got rid of that rotten old bitch for good! Come on, Maisie, we'll be sharing our bed again tonight.'

She lifted her long skirt and petticoats and ran headlong back towards the Fox and Goose.

‘I could bloody well swing for your bloody Mam!' Maisie Lock shouted at Tom, and hurried after her friend.

Tom went to follow but Hugh Laylor pulled him back. ‘Leave them go, Tom. You'll only make things worse if you try to drag Amy back here.'

‘He's right, Tom.' John Clayton also blocked Tom's way, saying sadly, ‘If you try to fetch her back by force it'll cause a ruction at the Fox and just make everything harder to heal between you both.'

‘Force?' Tom blurted despairingly. ‘Force? I would never ever use force against my little Amy! But I can't let matters lay between us like this, can I? It's our wedding night and it's a disaster!'

The final sentence was more like a long drawn-out wail of utter dismay.

Two miles distant from the lock-up another man, Willie Tyrwhitt, was also wailing in dismay.

‘Me Newfoundland's gone, Missus! Me bloody Newfoundland's gone! Some bugger's pinched me Newfoundland!'

T
he dark grey bleakness of the dawn matched Tom Potts' mood when after sleepless hours spent tossing and turning in bed and pacing the floor, he came downstairs.

‘What will you have for breakfast, Tom? Ham and eggs? Kedgeree? Toasted muffins and cheese?' his host, Hugh Laylor, invited genially. ‘Black tea? Green tea? Brazilian coffee? Or perhaps a few drams of something a little stronger?'

‘Nothing, I thank you, Hugh, and I'm more than grateful for your kindness in giving me a bed. But I really must be about my business without any further delay.'

There was concern in the doctor's eyes as he looked at the pallor of mental strain on his friend's features, the stooped posture of the narrow shoulders, the rumpled untidiness of the wedding suit, and thought ruefully, ‘By God, Tom Potts, you've always been plain in looks and string-bean in body, but this morning you look positively wretched in all aspects.'

Aloud he urged, ‘At least stay a little while and have tea or coffee and smoke a morning pipe with me, Tom. We can discuss what's best to do, because I don't doubt that the news of what's happened is already spreading far and wide across the parish.'

Despite his outward abject appearance, Tom's dark lucent eyes radiated determination as he said quietly, but very firmly, ‘This isn't the first time by a long chalk that I've been made into an object of mockery in this parish, Hugh, so I'm well able to bear it. But I need to speak with Amy without further delay, and to reassure her that all will be put right in very short order.'

Laylor frowned and shook his head. ‘No, Tom, you need to speak with Amy after, not before, you've put this situation to rights. You need to show proof that you've acted, not merely say that you will act.'

Knowing his new wife's fiery temper as he did, Tom was forced to agree.

‘I fear that you're right, Hugh. I'll go directly to the lock-up and get that sorted, before I go to see Amy.'

‘I'll come with you,' Laylor offered.

Tom shook his head. ‘No, it's best that I go alone. So thank you again for your hospitality, Hugh, and I'll keep you informed of events.'

Laylor's house was situated near to the northern point of the Green's broad triangular expanse, and as Tom made his exit the bells of the various Needle Mills and factories began ringing their final warning summons to the workforce.

He grimaced ruefully, knowing that men, women, youths, girls and children would now come swarming from the courts, alleys and streets which radiated outwards from the central Green, and that dressed in his dishevelled wedding finery he would attract curious stares and jeering gibes. Among the labouring classes there were very few who looked upon any Parish Constable as a friend and protector of the poor. The vast majority saw the constabulary as the willing instrument of the rich, powerful, land-owning gentry, Needle Masters and factory owners, and the harsh enforcer of these same ruling classes' self-serving laws.

The first raucous bellows came from a group of workmen. ‘Look at Jack Sprat over there! Don't he look a picture!'

‘Oh, where did you get that hat, Jack Sprat, wi' all them luverly flowers? Oh, where did you get that hat, Jack Sprat, wi' all them luverly flowers?' A gang of factory girls mocked in song.

Tom inwardly cursed himself for neglecting to remove the wedding rosettes from his tall hat as he strode through the oncoming stream of grimy, unshaven, malodorous, shabby-clad humankind.

‘That wedding didn't last long, did it! His missus has buggered him off already!'

‘Can you blame the poor little wench? Her must have thought her was in bed wi' a long bag o' bones.'

Tom looked straight ahead, stoically enduring their jeers and mocking laughter.

‘That's right, that is! Her must ha' thought her was being shagged by a bloody skeleton!'

‘I'll bet it didn't half hurt her when her got a length o' bone up her cunt instead of a nice warm prick!'

‘You should know, Charlie; you've had enough bones shoved up your arse in your life, aren't you! But you liked it, didn't you!'

Another man shouted at the previous jeerer, and a furious fist fight instantly erupted between the pair which drew the passing stream's attention and enabled Tom to walk on without further insult.

His first clear sight of the lock-up, with its Gothic-arched front door wide open but no light coming from within, or from the upper window above it, shocked him into fearful suspicion that there might be intruders in the building, because it was the paramount rule that this door at all times be kept securely locked. He covered the remaining distance at a run, halted at the door and peered inside.

Flanked by closed cell doors the murky-shadowed passage which bisected the ground floor appeared empty. At the far end of the passage there was another door which opened into a rear yard enclosed within high, spike-topped walls. To the inner side of this door a narrow, sharply angled flight of stone steps led up to the living quarters on the second floor.