Til Death Do Us Part (6 page)

Tom's face reddened with embarrassment, and he pleaded desperately, ‘Please, Mother, let me help you to get up.'

‘No, I'll not rise from this spot until your wife tells me that she will forgive me! Let this terrible humiliation I'm suffering be my punishment for how I behaved yesterday.' She covered her face with her hands and vented loud sobbing shrieks. ‘I deserve to suffer. I deserve it! But I only behaved so badly because I was being abandoned by my only son!'

A woman ran up to Tom, and angrily berated him. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself! How can you cause your poor old Mam to suffer so! If any one of my kids did this to me, I'd hang myself for the grief and shame of it!'

From here and there among the spectators came cries of agreement, and other women came aggressively hurrying towards Tom.

Amy was seething with fury against Widow Potts, but realized that there was only one way to save Tom from more verbal assaults. She went to Tom's side, and told his mother, ‘I forgive you for what you did yesterday, Mrs Potts. Come now, let me and Tom help you back to your room.'

Hidden behind her hands, Widow Potts' eyes gleamed with satisfaction. She vented more sobbing shrieks. ‘Oh, bless you, my dear daughter-in-law. Bless you for your tender heart! But I beg and beseech you to call me Mother! Because that is what I shall strive to be towards you. A fond and loving mother!'

‘Oh, bless the poor old soul. She just wants to be a loving mam to both of them, bless her!' Tom's initial attacker cried out to the crowd, and many of them applauded and echoed her sentiments.

Amy mentally bit the bullet and deliberately spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear her. ‘Please, Mam, let me and Tom help you back to your room.'

‘Her's calling the poor old soul “Mam”. That's being a good girl, that is!' the nearest woman shouted, and plaudits for Amy rippled through the crowd.'

To her own surprise, Amy drew ironic amusement from the plaudits and couldn't stop herself loudly telling Tom, ‘Come now, Husband, help me lift our dear Mam up.'

Widow Potts kept her face buried in her hands, and vented loud sobs but allowed the couple to lift her to her feet and support her weight back into the lock-up, being closely followed by the Fox and Goose trio carrying Amy's chest between them.

Maisie slammed and barred the heavy iron-studded front door, and couldn't resist calling teasingly to Amy, ‘Take care you don't let your dear old mam fall down the stairs, Amy. Not now you've grown so fond of her.'

Amy detached one hand and surreptitiously forked its index and middle fingers at Maisie in the ancient derogatory salutation of the English archers towards their battlefield opponents.

After they had settled the Widow Potts comfortably in her room, Tom and Amy joined the three women in Tom's room.

‘What are you going to sleep on tonight, Amy?' Maisie questioned. ‘There's no bed in here and this floor 'ull be cruel hard to lie on, because it's just bare boards. Your arse'll be surely black and blue with bruises tomorrow.'

Gertrude Fowkes gestured lasciviously. ‘Yes, and if your man is only half as rampant as my bugger was on our wedding night, you'll no doubt end up wi' an arse full o' wood splinters as well, judging by the state o' these floorboards.'

As the two women uproariously laughed at their own sallies, Amy turned to Tom in bewilderment.

‘But what have you done with the bed, Tom?'

He smiled happily and pointed above his head. ‘I've had the garret converted into our bedroom, sweetheart. Come and see it. I promise you won't be disappointed.'

He grabbed her hand and led her out of the room and down the landing to the short flight of narrow wooden steps that led up into the room directly beneath the eaves of the gabled roof. He gently positioned her at the foot of the steps and urged, ‘Go on up, sweetheart.'

He followed her up the steps, and grinned with relief when he saw her delighted reaction to the newly painted and expensively furnished room, its air redolent with the scented herbs garlanding the walls.

The door and corridor bells began to ring and Tom told his wife, ‘I'll have to answer that.'

Amy kissed him and called to her friends, ‘Come up here, girls, and see my bedroom, it's like a palace.'

The caller at the door was the man-servant of Joseph Blackwell Esq.

‘My master wants to see you straight away, Constable Potts. He said to tell you that the business is urgent.'

‘Very well, I'll come directly.' Tom nodded and hurried to call upstairs, ‘Amy, I've to go out on urgent business.'

‘Don't you stay out all night, Tom Potts,' Maisie Lock shouted back. ‘This new bed of yours looks prime for making babbies.'

The other women laughed and added their own risqué opinions on the bed.

Tom was smiling as he hurried over the Green towards Joseph Blackwell's large house standing at the top of the long steep Fish Hill which fell away northwards into the broad valley of the River Arrow.

Blackwell rose from his desk when Tom was ushered into the book-lined study by the man-servant. Middle-aged, small and thin, with a pallid, deeply lined face, Blackwell's physical appearance belied the power he possessed. Trained in the Law, he held multiple positions of authority: Coroner, Clerk to the Magistrates, Clerk to the Select Vestry, Senior Overseer to the Poor, Director of the Parish Constabulary. He was also the trusted confidant and legal advisor to many of the aristocrats, Needle Masters and minor gentry who constituted the ruling class of the extended Needle District.

Now he smiled and held out his hand. ‘Many congratulations on your wedding, Thomas Potts. I was sorry that I was unable to attend, but I was unavoidably detained in Worcester and only returned late last night. I'm glad that you and your wife are reconciled with your mother.'

Tom shook the proffered hand. ‘The previous difficulty has now been dealt with to our mutual satisfaction, Sir.'

He felt no surprise that the other man appeared to be fully conversant with what had happened at the wedding and this morning. He knew that Blackwell had myriad secret sources of information about what was happening throughout the parish and much further afield. Tom always visualized him as a spider at the centre of a very large web.

‘I've a task for you, Constable Potts, which needs to be undertaken immediately. Claude Blair, who's the newly appointed Factor at Hewell Grange, came to see me this morning. During the night some of the Hewell Grange dogs were stolen.

‘His Lordship, who is expected to be returning to the parish next month, apparently values these particular beasts most highly. So, we must ensure that we do our utmost to recover them and apprehend the thieves before His Lordship's homecoming.

‘Therefore you must give it priority above all other matters, no matter what they be, until you have brought it to a satisfactory conclusion. You will have the use of the bay mare from my stable until this case is concluded. I bid you good day, Constable Potts.'

Blackwell gestured in dismissal, returned to his seat at the desk and immediately began to pore over a sheaf of documents.

‘Good day, Sir.' Tom was frowning as he exited the room. He had met His Lordship, the Earl of Plymouth on several occasions, and knew how arrogantly that nobleman behaved towards his inferiors in wealth and position.

As on so many other occasions during his life, Tom was battling with an inner conflict between his love and loyalty for his country, and his resentment for the contempt displayed by the vast majority of its ruling caste towards the ordinary people of England.

‘No matter what else might happen in the parish, I'm now to disregard it and concentrate on solving the case of this bloody Noble Fop's missing dogs! If only I had the power to alter such a state of affairs!'

Then from the deep recesses of his mind a voice sounded wearily. ‘I beg you yet again, Thomas, to please stop your pathetically futile sniveling and set about solving this case. Then you will be free to deal with other crimes as and when they need your attention.'

Tom grinned wryly and his anger subsided.

J
ohn Mence, proprietor of the Unicorn Hotel and Inn, the largest hostelry in Redditch Town, always took great interest in any new customers. This morning he was taking a close look at the quality of the horse belonging to the guest who had arrived very late on the previous night, and who was now partaking of a solitary late breakfast in the dining room.

‘What d'you reckon to this nag and its tack?' Mence asked his stable hand.

‘The bugger's ready for the bloody knacker's yard, and the tack's naught but patched-up rubbish!' the elderly hand judged scathingly.

‘I'll second that.' Mence nodded agreement as he left the stables.

In the dining room the guest had finished eating and was now savouring the fragrant smoke of a cheroot and taking sips from a steaming cup of coffee.

John Mence went into his small office adjoining the dining room and through a hidden peephole studied the powerfully built stranger, taking inventory of his fashionably styled riding clothes and boots, his elaborately curled hair and the French-style whiskers which met under the chin of his florid features. He also noted that the man's fashionable clothing appeared somewhat threadbare in places, the riding boots down at heel, and this, coupled with the state of the horse and tack, confirmed his earlier opinion.

‘I'll need to keep close watch on this bugger.'

Mence closed the peephole, made his way into the dining room and bowed.

‘Good morning to you, Sir. I'm John Mence, the proprietor of this establishment. I regret I was not present to receive you upon your arrival.'

‘Pray do not distress yourself, Master Mence. I took no offence at your absence. It was of no consequence.'

The guest dismissed the apology with a lordly wave of his be-ringed hand. Then he rose and bowed in return. ‘Permit me to introduce myself; I am Archibald Ainsley. My name may not be entirely unknown to you since I am led to believe that I possess some degree of repute as a luminary of the theatrical profession.'

Mence smiled and said smoothly, ‘I do believe that I've heard your name mentioned in that connection, Sir, and I'm honoured to have you beneath my roof. But may I make so bold as to enquire why you're visiting Redditch? We've no theatres here; we're only country bumpkins sadly lacking in any such citified entertainments.'

Archibald Ainsley resumed his seat, took a long pull at his cheroot and slowly dribbled out the resulting mouthful of smoke before declaiming unctuously, ‘This is the very reason I'm here, Master Mence. I know only too well how lacking in civilized culture these industrial districts are, and I've long harboured a dream of bringing the same civilized culture to these same sadly unenlightened districts.'

He paused, took another long drag on his cheroot, slowly dribbled the smoke through his lips and continued, ‘Thanks to my success in the theatre I can now make that dream a reality. I have engaged a cast of the most accomplished actors and actresses in the kingdom, and I intend to present the works of our finest playwrights for the delectation of the inhabitants of these cultural deserts. Currently I'm scouring the Midlands for venues which can be utilized for the staging of those entertainments, and I'm wondering if you could suggest any such likely places in this vicinity?'

‘If you can wait here for a few minutes, I'll make out a list of possible buildings and directions to them,' Mence offered.

‘I take that very kindly, Master Mence. Very kindly indeed. And while I'm waiting I'll enjoy a bottle of your very finest brandy.'

‘Certainly, Sir. I'll have it brought to you immediately.' Mence bowed and exited, telling the waiter hovering outside the door, ‘Bring a bottle of the best brandy to this gentleman, and look sharp about it.'

Next he went to the stables and told the hand, ‘There's every chance the flash bugger who booked in last night might try and do a runner, so tell me straight away if he brings any baggage out here.'

For his part, Archibald Ainsley would most certainly try to decamp without paying his bills should it prove necessary, but his present intention was to fully explore what opportunities for profit this vicinity might hold for him. So, before studying the list John Mence gave him of possible venues and their locations, he followed his usual practise of going out on foot to familiarize himself with the town, its immediate environs and best escape routes should he need to make a hurried departure.

When Ainsley left the Unicorn he turned eastwards and strolled up to the town's central crossroads then went southwards along the High Street. At this hour of the morning with most of the townspeople and their children in their workplaces there were few pedestrians and sparse traffic and Ainsley made leisurely progress, halting at intervals to peer though the bullseyed casements of a shop or workplace.

A smart-looking covered gig with a glossy-coated horse was tethered outside one shop front which bore an ornately lettered sign proclaiming it to be ‘Bromley's Stationery Emporium for All Articles of Stationery, Rare and Antique Books and New Literature'.

As Ainsley neared the gig a man dressed in clerical clothing came from the shop carrying letters in his hand. He halted by the side of the gig, opening and scanning the letters.

Ainsley's eyes widened in shock.

‘Surely it can't be! Can it?' He quickened his pace and called. ‘Walter Courtney? Is it you, Walter?'

Walter Courtney froze motionless as the other man reached him exclaiming, ‘As I live and breathe, it is you, Walter! Godammee! It must be nigh on five years since we last parted! What brings you here?'

By now Walter Courtney was fast recovering from his initial shock, and his mind was racing as he stepped back from the gig and faced his questioner. He forced a smile.