Til Death Do Us Part (8 page)

‘Alright.' Tom unlocked and unbarred the door and as he opened it wide ordered, ‘Stand fast until I call for you.'

He went quickly along the passage to the rear door and carried out the same operation then stepped out into the rear yard shouting, ‘Come through now!'

Three men clad in filthy smocks, faces half hidden by droopy-brimmed slouch hats, each carrying a broad bladed shovel, large jug and rope-handled wooden cask, shuffled down the passage and into the rear yard.

Even in the open air their combined foul stench was miasmic. It filled Tom's nostrils and, accustomed though he was to the normal unpleasant smells which were part and parcel of daily life, he could not help involuntarily stepping further back from them as they passed and went to the hutted triple-holed privy in the corner of the yard, where they quickly jugged and shoveled its odorous contents into the casks and loaded them on to the horse-drawn cart outside the front door.

As Tom handed over the four pennies collection fee, Rimmer grumbled sourly, ‘Not very good pickings for me today, Constable Potts. It's plain that you aren't had no buggers in the pokey this last week. This shit I got from you won't feed more than a single fuckin' cabbage.'

Tom couldn't help but chuckle in reply. ‘I can only offer you my sincere apologies for that, Master Rimmer. I'll certainly do my utmost to fill the cells this coming week.'

As he stood outside the door watching the trio moving away, he mentally compared his own lot in life with theirs and reached a grimly ironic conclusion: ‘We lead a similar existence in one sense. They earn their living scavenging and disposing of evil smelling faeces and assorted rubbish, and I earn my living in major part by dealing with the after effects of the evil that some rubbishy, faecal-type humans do to others.'

Once they were out of earshot of the lock-up, Ezekiel Rimmer sneered contemptuously, ‘That fuckin' beanpole don't know his arse from his elbow, does he. Not like that crafty bastard Cashmore. He used to have the bloody cells filled to busting, didn't he, and filled his pockets through it.'

‘Don't remind me of bloody Joe Cashmore!' Porky Hicks spat out angrily. ‘I lost count o' the times he banged me inside, and I had to pay him not to lay charges against me. Same for you, warn't it, Dummy?'

The third of the trio, a dumb mute, bared his teeth in a snarl and nodded emphatic agreement.

‘Where shall we go next, Ezekiel?' Hicks asked.

‘You two go and clear the Horse and Jockey, and then deliver all the load straight to Bordesley Farm. I'll go back home and do them dogs. The sooner I gets 'um skinned and scraped the sooner we can have a decent piss-up for a change.'

The isolated cluster of buildings on the eastern edge of the town centre comprised a large cobbled yard containing a towering, stinking rubbish heap enclosed by festering hovels. Polite members of local society called it by its traditional name of ‘The Old Laystall', the archaic name for a dung heap. The impolite members of society called it ‘Shit Court'. But both the polite and impolite of the town were united in their low opinion of its inhabitants. Even the roughest, scruffiest slum dwellers in the rest of the parish regarded those unfortunates who lived in Shit Court as being far beneath them in social standing.

Ezekiel Rimmer had been born and bred in the Old Laystall, and had risen to become its undisputed ruler. Now as he entered his domain, his subjects hastened to greet him. He graciously returned the salutations of those who were currently high in his favour. Those who were not he scowled at, or ignored completely.

Rimmer's present dwelling place reflected his status here. Standing twice the height of the adjoining hovels, it was stone-built and was once the lay brothers' living quarters of a grange farm belonging to the nearby Cistercian Abbey of Bordesley. The un-partitioned ground floor was strewn with assorted rubbish, noisy with the voices of the women and children busily pawing through that rubbish, and the mewling cries of rag-swaddled infants. The air was fetid with assorted odours and thick with smoke from the smouldering fire in the huge inglenook set into one wall.

‘What brings you back, Master Rimmer?' his corpulent, raggedly dressed, toothless wife questioned.

‘Just shurrup and get on wi' your work! Or I'll be giving you a dose o' this.' He growled and lifted his fist, and she cowered back, shielding her face with handfuls of rags. Rimmer hawked up a gob of phlegm and spat it on to her bowed head, then went out of the back door to unlock the padlocked bar on the door of the big windowless wooden shanty at the rear of the house.

As the shanty door opened the mingled reeks of nauseous excretions and rotting flesh swirled out from the dark interior.

Rimmer stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Reaching above his head he pulled a lever which opened a shutter in the roof. Daylight spilled through to disclose the row of cages along one wall, and several wooden frames of varying sizes, some with animal pelts stretched flesh side up across them.

The light also bathed the thick roof beam from which four large dead dogs hung by nooses around their necks. Rimmer closely examined each in turn, carefully checking the elasticity of their hides. Then he made his selection, lifted a sharp knife from a stretching frame, lowered the chosen beast to a convenient height and began to expertly skin it.

The subject of dogs was paramount in Tom's mind as he completed his morning ablutions at the pump in the rear yard, and dried his head and upper body on rough towelling. Then he brushed his teeth with fine-powdered wood ash, swilled out his mouth and chewed a fresh sprig of parsley to freshen his breath.

‘The Newfoundland breed is becoming fashionable, and no doubt a good young bitch might find a ready sale. But Bernese Mountain dogs? They're a different matter altogether, and I doubt there's a ready market for them. This is the first time I've heard of them even being in this country.'

His train of thought was broken by Amy rushing into the yard, and he hastily spat out the parsley and dried his lips.

‘Tom! Oh, Tom, I'm so sorry about last night! I'm so sorry and ashamed! Say that you forgive me! Say that you do!'

She pulled his head down and kissed him passionately before relating her tale.

‘Gertie Fowkes went home and then came back with the bottles, and I only intended to have a single glass of wine, but they all pressed more on me and kept on calling more toasts to our marriage, and said I must drink the toasts and be making merry because I'd finally moved into my new home with my new husband, and it was only fitting to celebrate.'

Again she pulled down his head and kissed his lips, then went breathlessly on, ‘I didn't like to be so churlish as not drink the toasts to our marriage and our new life together. But I must have been so carried away with all the excitement of finally being here together with you, that the drink went to my head, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in our bed.'

Her voice became a sob of distress. ‘But it was Maisie who was beside me, and not you! When I realized what I'd done, I wanted to die of shame! I swear it will never happen again! I swear it on all that I hold holy!'

Witnessing her distress the sole emotion pulsating through Tom was the desperate need to comfort her. He clasped her close, cradling her in his arms, softly crooning to her over and over again.

‘You've done nothing wrong, my darling! Nothing at all! There is nothing to blame! I'm not in the very least annoyed at you having a little party and drinking a few toasts with your friends. I'm only sorry that I wasn't here to enjoy those toasts with you. It's me who should be begging your forgiveness for going out and leaving you for all those long hours as I did. You've done nothing wrong! Nothing at all!'

Snuggled against him, Amy's eyes danced with mischievous delight, and in her mind she silently told him, ‘I'm going to be very happy with you, my darling Tom. Because I know that I'll always be able to have you eating out of my hand. It's one of the reasons I love you so much.'

F
or the previous hour Walter Courtney had been sitting in his hooded, two-wheeled gig some distance from the forbidding walls of Warwick Gaol, watching people entering and leaving through the small wicket gate set into the great main gates.

The closed wicket opened again and a woman wearing the black veil, bonnet and clothing of full mourning emerged into view. Courtney grunted with satisfaction and waited until she had walked further away from him before he drove his gig to the gates, dismounted and rapped on the wicket.

A small shutter opened and a face appeared at the barred grill, a gruff voice demanding, ‘What's your business here?'

Courtney held a gold sovereign up to the grill. ‘Tell me what you know about the woman who just left here, and this is yours.'

Iron bolts squealed, the wicket door opened slightly and a grimy, black-nailed hand appeared through the gap.

Courtney clenched the coin tightly and laid his closed fist upon the upward palm.

‘Let's be hearing what you know.'

‘Her calls herself Mrs Peelson and her's been visiting her man, Terry Peelson. He's to be topped this coming Saturday for “bit faking”. Her said her hadn't set eyes on him for the last ten years and never knew where he was or what he'd been a-doing until her read in a newspaper that he'd been sentenced. So her come here to see him, and make sure it was really him. Been here six days on the trot, so her has.'

‘Terence Peelson, you say. I read of his case. From all accounts he must have done very well for himself from the bit faking.' Courtney probed casually.

‘Some of the lags in here reckons so. They reckons he's got a pile o' rhino hid away. You can bet that's why his missus has come looking for him. She's bound to be hoping he'll tell her where he's hid it. But her can't have been having much luck if her's had to keep coming back here these last six days.'

Fingers pressed on Courtney's fist. ‘That's all I knows, so let's be having it.'

Courtney released the coin on to the palm and walked quickly away.

The grimy hand disappeared, the grill shutter snapped down, the wicket slammed shut, iron bolts squealed.

Courtney remounted his gig and set the horse to a brisk trot, humming contentedly to himself.

The black-clad woman was still in view as she walked up the long sloping road into the town. When Courtney neared her he slowed the horse and kept his distance until he saw her enter the same house in the tall-storied, opulent-looking terrace that he had watched her leaving from earlier that morning.

Beaming with satisfaction he congratulated himself. ‘This really does look most promising.'

An hour later he was in a small tavern on the other side of the town waiting to meet with Sylvan Kent.

When Kent eventually arrived he was displaying the bloodshot eyes, hoarse voice and foul breath that denoted the after-effects of a bout of heavy debauchery.

‘What news do you have for me, Walter?'

‘Surprising news, Cousin.' Courtney beamed jovially. ‘Our widow, Mrs Adelaide Farson, who claims to be in deep mourning for her recently departed Mamma, is apparently wedded to a coinage counterfeiter, Terence Peelson by name, who is to be hung this coming Saturday at Warwick Gaol.'

‘Bloody hell!' Kent ejaculated in surprise. ‘This has been a wasted journey then.'

‘Not at all.' Courtney chuckled, waving his hand in dismissal of that claim. ‘I've a notion that this will be a quick and easy bit of business for a change. Now I want you to get yourself fit and ready to do what you do best, my boy.'

Kent held his hand out. ‘I'm in sore need of some readies, Walter. When I woke up yesterday morning the little bitch I was with had done a runner with what pennies I'd got left, and my watch and chain as well, not to mention my new cravat pin.'

Courtney frowned angrily. ‘By God, Cousin! I pray for the day to dawn when you'll keep a sober head, not be so spendthrift of our money, and make wiser choice of the whores you sleep with.'

He gave the other man some coins, and ordered him brusquely, ‘Now stay away from the whores, and start practising sobriety. Your drinking's getting out of control.'

As Courtney was leaving through the door, Kent mouthed silent defiance to his back.

I
n the darkness before dawn Amy Potts awoke in the bed beside her slumbering husband and explored her emotions.

‘Well that's it! That's my cherry gone! I liked it well enough at the start when we were kissing and feeling each other, but when he pushed into me, it bloody well hurt! Good job that part of it was over quick!

‘I know Maisie says that after I've done it a few times it won't hurt any more, and that it'll feel so good that I'll be shouting for him not to stop. Well it don't feel like that to me at this minute! But I'll just have to grit my teeth and bear it, won't I! That's what a wife has to do.'

She tentatively felt between her legs and her fingers encountered the stickiness there and on the sheet beneath.

‘Bugger it! I've bled! I'll need to get the bedding washed straight away.'

She threw back the coverlets, slipped from the bed and fumbled on the floor for her clothes, muttering irritably as the cold air goose-pimpled her soft skin.

Her movements had roused Tom to drowsy wakefulness and he turned over, reaching for her. The empty space beside shocked him fully awake and he sat up, calling, ‘Amy? What are you doing? Amy?'

‘I'm trying to find my clothes,' she snapped curtly.

‘But it's still only dead of night. Why are you rising at this hour? Come back to bed.'