Til Death Do Us Part (28 page)

‘He's a bloody parson by the look of it. But he aren't a local, or I'd know him else. Is it him who's going to wed the soldier-boy and Miss Phoebe, I wonder?'

As he continued on his way Harry Pratt told himself. ‘I reckon I might ask Gertie Fowkes about just when and where Miss Phoebe's getting wed.'

Walter Courtney waited until Harry Pratt had disappeared from sight, before furiously rounding on his companion again.

‘Now go and visit your bride-to-be, and convince her that you are going to make direct application to the East India Company, Directors of Court, to extend your furlough in England, no matter what sacrifices of the promised higher rank and wealth you may suffer for doing so. Tell her also that if they refuse this plea, you will resign from the Company, even though that will mean giving up all you have fought and endured for throughout your life. Then bid her a loving adieu, and go back to your lodging and wait there for me to contact you.'

Kent frowned, but agreed sullenly. ‘Very well.'

Courtney waved his hand in dismissal, and Sylvan Kent spurred his horse up the hill.

Courtney remained still until his companion had passed from view over the crest of the hill. Then disgruntled, he muttered, ‘Oh, God in Heaven, what are you trying to do to me now? I'm beginning to suspect that you're enjoying tormenting me. You spiteful old bastard!'

I
n the study of the Red House, Joseph Blackwell had listened intently to Tom's report. When it was completed, he smiled mirthlessly.

‘This is a queer kettle of fish, is it not, Constable Potts? I'd like to hear your opinions on it.'

‘Well, Sir, without a full examination of the body I can't state with total certainty that the visible wound is the sole cause of death, or that it was caused by being thrown from his horse and hitting the ground head first.

‘But from what I was able to discern I do think it highly possible that the wound was caused by a blow from a weighted bludgeon. The reasons being its narrow dimensions and considerable depth. If he'd been thrown violently from saddle height I would have expected to find a broader and shallower breakage of bone and also impacted gravel in the wound.

‘Of course, the absence of his boots suggests robbery. But if robbery was the motive for an assault, why did the assailant not take the money and valuables, and the horse as well?

‘The house is apparently owned by a widowed lady named Adelaide Farson, who's been absent from it for some time. The furnishings are of good quality. There are good-quality ornaments and some paintings and prints which would be easily portable, and easily saleable. Yet it has not been ransacked.'

Tom paused for a moment, before adding, ‘I'm very sure of one thing, however, and that is that the boots were removed from his feet after he was brought to the ground. Because the soles of his stockings were unmarked by the dirt and gravel which surface the forecourt. As you said, Sir, all in all it's a queer kettle of fish.'

‘Indeed.' Blackwell nodded, then asked, ‘If you were taxed with investigating this occurrence, how would you commence?'

‘I would immediately have the body brought to Doctor Laylor's dispensary for a post-mortem examination, which I would hope Doctor Laylor would permit me to assist in carrying out. Next I would make enquiries in the Bradley Green and Feckenham areas, and I would distribute posters issued offering a five-guinea reward for any information as to the positive identity of the dead man.'

‘You echo my own thoughts.' Joseph Blackwell chuckled dryly. ‘Begin your investigations into this affair, but take care that you do not bankrupt the Parish Chest. I bid you good night, Constable Potts.'

‘Thank you, and good night to you, Sir.' Tom was grinning with pleasurable anticipation as he left the Red House, and went immediately to Charles Bromley's shop.

In the shop he found its proprietor sat on the stool behind the counter with a downcast expression upon his face.

‘Good evening, Charles. Is my mother here?'

Bromley's expression suddenly metamorphosed into one of dawning hope. ‘Have you come to fetch her back home, Thomas?'

Tom shook his head. ‘No, she's found such great contentment living here, I couldn't be so hard-hearted as to drag her back to the lock-up against her will. I'm come to pay you for her board; and also to commission some posters from you.'

Behind his bulbous spectacle lenses, Bromley's eyes blinked back threatening tears as this tentative hope was yet again proven to be a false dawn, and he dolefully told Tom, ‘Your mother and my sister went to my sister's house in Birmingham yesterday, Thomas. I believe they intend to stay there for a week. But they have not deigned to inform me on which exact date they'll be returning here.' He shook his head despondently. ‘They treat me as if I were nothing more than their skivvy, Thomas. As if my only purpose in life were to single-handedly run this business and still find time to cater to their every whim.' He groaned wearily. ‘Unhappy is the man who bears the yoke of female oppression.'

Tom placed money on the counter. ‘That's my mother's next month's board fees in advance, Charles, and her personal allowance. And here is the draft of the poster I need printing as soon as possible. Thirty copies, measuring eighteen by twelve inches, should suffice. I've employed the Crier to alert the people to them.'

Bromley lifted the draft and scanned it, then shouted in shocked surprise, ‘Found dead on the forecourt of the Old Mill House at Bradley Green!'

‘It seems he was tossed from his horse,' Tom informed. ‘And I need to know who he is. The scar on his face is very distinctive, which should strike a chord in someone's memory.'

‘Five guineas,' Bromley muttered. ‘That's a decent sum.'

‘How soon can you have these printed, Charles? I want to distribute them as quickly as possible.'

An inner battle was raging in Charles Bromley's mind as he was beset by a quandary.

The physical description of the dead man and his clothing matched the Debt Collector from the
Aris Gazette
. But if Bromley gave this information to Tom Potts, it could mean that he would also be forced to reveal Reverend Winward's involvement with the advertisement in that newspaper; and the Reverend was paying him well for keeping that secret. Another factor was that Bromley would also forfeit his fees for posters, which would no longer be required.

Bromley forced a smile. ‘Since the posters are for you, Thomas, I'll make a start on them immediately, and all being well you shall have them come tomorrow noon.'

T
he moment the two men were alone in the room Courtney scowled and hissed, ‘Where the fuck have you been, Archie? I expected you back long before this.'

‘The job proved to be a lot harder than I expected; and the information cost a pretty penny.' Ainsley frowned. ‘And that information won't please you.'

‘Have we a difficulty to contend with, Archie?'

Ainsley nodded.

Courtney drew in a sharp hiss of breath. ‘Spit it out, Archie. What's gone wrong?'

‘Everything!' Ainsley spat in disgust. ‘When I was on my way to Warwick my bloody horse cast a shoe and went lame. I couldn't get it seen to until late on the next day. When I finally got to the Irish bitch's place it was all shuttered and locked, with a bloody For Rent sign on the door. So I had to go to the letting office to find out if they had any forwarding address for her. They told me that was confidential information. After haggling for days and greasing their palms, they finally told me that some cove had called and cancelled the lease agreement they'd made with Adelaide Farson. The cove paid all that was claimed for wear and tear and the cancellation fee, and that was it! He gave no forwarding address for her.'

‘Did you manage to get any description of the man who cancelled?'

‘Of course I did! I'm no fuckin' flat!' Ainsley retorted indignantly. ‘He gave his name as John Farson, was well dressed, and had a long scar down the left side of his face. It had to be bloody Billy Peelson.'

Courtney frowned thoughtfully and nodded agreement, then asked, ‘Well why didn't you come back then and tell me what had happened?'

‘Because I had a notion that there must be more I could find out, so I nosed around. But none of the tradesmen who'd been delivering food and necessaries to the house knew anything about her. They only ever met the little maid who paid them. But then I finally found out that there'd been a regular visitor of late who went into the house almost daily and stayed some time there.

‘He's an old drunk of a surgeon, name of Rainsworth. The trouble is, the old bastard still believes in the sanctity of secrecy concerning the relationship between patient and doctor. Consequently I had to spend a deal of money cultivating his friendship, and loosening his tongue with the very finest French brandy.'

‘Dammit! Will you get to the point, Archie!' Courtney interrupted impatiently.

‘Alright, Walter, there's no call to lose your rag with me!' Ainsley protested aggrievedly.

‘Get on with it then!' Courtney snapped back

‘Well, it appears that the Irish bitch has been subjected to a terrible hammering, and would have almost certainly choked to death on her own blood and snot, if her little maid hadn't found her and rushed to summon a doctor – namely my new best friend, Doctor Rainsworth, who has been treating her ever since, and apparently she is making a good recovery.'

‘Has she given him the name of her attacker?'

‘No. She flatly refused. Furthermore she expressly forbids Rainsworth to report the attack on her to the magistrates. But he let slip, that on one occasion in her initial delirious condition she was cursing and threatening some man by name. Rainsworth couldn't quite catch the name because her speech was so mangled by her injuries. But he thought that it might have had a foreign ring to it.'

Ainsley tapped the side of his nose and winked knowingly. ‘Aware as we are of our colleague's propensity for knocking women about, I do believe that we might hazard a guess at that name with a foreign ring to it.'

Courtney's features twisted in a savage scowl and he spat out, ‘It was my fuckin' cousin, I don't doubt.'

A
s Walter Courtney halted the gig in the yard Pammy Mallot came hurrying from the house, face strained with anxiety. He got down from the gig and went to meet her.

‘Pammy, my dear, is something the matter?'

‘It's Phoebe! She's real upset and worried about what Christophe intends to do. He says that if the Company don't agree to let him stay longer in England, he's going to stop soldiering and give up all that he's fought and slaved for all his life. He's told her that she means more to him than anything else in this world, and he'll give up everything to wed her!'

‘Yes, I know. Before leaving for London he came and told me what he intended doing. I think it's our Good Lord's blessing on their union that Christophe loves Phoebe deeply enough to give up all that he has achieved in India, and make their future married home here in England. He has already asked me to find out the speediest mode for transfer of his Indian financial assets to England.'

He smiled warmly and patted Pammy Mallot's arm. ‘Don't worry, my dear, he'll still have wealth enough to raise a family in comfort and security.'

‘But Geraint, I've just told you that Phoebe's fretting summat awful about it!' she exclaimed irritably.

‘But why should it cause Phoebe any distress?' He shook his head as if bewildered.

‘Because her feels terrible guilty, that's why! Her feels guilty because he's willing to sacrifice everything that he's struggled and risked his own life to get, and now her thinks that she's unworthy of such a good man!'

‘Hush your voice!' he commanded sternly. ‘And if you value our friendship, then do not ever repeat those words in my hearing! My friend Christophe worships the very ground that Phoebe treads upon. To him, she is a pure soul who personifies goodness of heart and generosity of spirit.'

He tucked Pammy Mallot's arm under his and told her gently, ‘Come, let us go inside. Now you need not distress yourself any longer, my dear. I shall talk to Phoebe and bring her ease of mind.'

He took a small pot from his pocket and showed it to her. ‘I've brought some fresh-made sciatica potion for poor George. At least we may draw some comfort from the fact that this is soothing his pain. I'll give him his massage after I've talked with Phoebe.'

‘You've done wonders for his sciatica, Geraint. He hardly ever shows any signs of upset when I moves him about now,' she told him admiringly. ‘And to think that you learned how to do all these marvelous salves and massages from them heathen blackies out in India!'

‘I certainly did learn from them, my dear.' He smiled. ‘In India there are so many, many wondrous things that one can witness and learn from. All the ancient wisdoms of the East!'

He smiled broadly, leaned forwards and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Is Phoebe within earshot?'

Pammy Mallot shook her head. ‘No, her's upstairs.'

‘Good! I have a surprise for her.' Courtney produced a roll of vellum tied up with bows of rose-red silk ribbon.

‘This is the Special License for the Marriage of Miss Phoebe Creswell and Major Christophe de Langlois. Issued by the Ecclesiastical Office of the See of Canterbury and embossed with the personal seal of His Most Reverend Grace, Charles Manners-Sutton, my Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.'