Til Death Do Us Part (14 page)

‘My master 'ull be a bloody sight more than regretful when he sees her, you mark my words! He'll go bloody mad, so he 'ull.' The man appeared to relish that prospect.

‘When will your master return?' Tom asked.

‘Some time Tuesday next, and I shouldn't like to be in your shoes when he does.'

Tom wordlessly un-strapped his leather bag and constable's staff from the rear of the saddle and limped away across the Green.

At the lock-up it was Amy who opened the door to him, and seeing his bedraggled appearance and depressed expression could not resist telling him before he had even greeted her, ‘I can see by the sight of you that it's all gone awry! Well it's your own fault! I told you it would, didn't I?'

He sighed heavily, and held up his hand to ward off any further recriminations.

‘Yes, Amy, it has! Yes, Amy, it was! Yes, Amy, you did! Now can you please stand aside and let me enter!'

She giggled and stepped aside, but when he entered she saw his limp and instantly cried out in distressed concern.

‘You're hurt, sweetheart! Why didn't you tell me? What's happened? What have you done to yourself?' She snatched the bag and staff from him and put them on the floor, then clasped her arms around his waist, shouting back over her shoulder, ‘Ritchie! Ritchie! Get here quick! Tom's hurt!'

Ritchie Bint came running from the kitchen alcove, and Tom hurriedly told them both, ‘It's nothing to worry about, I'm only bruised! There's no harm done! The horse bucked me off, that's all. I'm only bruised!'

Amy dragged him into the kitchen alcove and forced him down on to a chair.

‘You sit there until I tell you to get up again, and while I'm making your breakfast you can tell us where you've been and what you've been doing since last Sunday.'

Ritchie Bint handed Tom a flagon of ale. ‘Get this down you. You looks like you needs it a sight more than I does.'

Tom drank deeply, relishing the sweet nutty taste, and once his thirst was eased he began to relate his sorry story.

‘I reckon I've covered well over a hundred miles. I started off at Evesham Mart, then went on to Pershore, Worcester and Kidderminster Marts. Yesterday I was at Droitwich. I only saw Yakob Weiss once and that was at Kidderminster, and he had nothing of what I was looking for laid out for sale. Then, of course, yesterday the horse went lame so I've had to walk back here this morning.' He grinned wryly. ‘But truth to tell, by then my backside was so sore that I preferred walking to riding; and I do believe that the poor mare was that sick of having such a clumsy rider as me on her back she deliberately made herself lame so as not to carry me any further.'

Now he spoke directly to Amy, who was frying bacon in a cast-iron skillet.

‘You were right about the traders recognizing me straight off and passing the word around. I should have listened to you, sweetheart.'

‘Of course you should.' Amy smiled smugly.

He could only nod in rueful agreement, then asked Ritchie Bint, ‘How have things gone here? Have you needed to put anybody in the cells?'

‘Not a soul! It's been very quiet and dull. All that's happened was Old Widow Darke from Fish Hill come last night to complain that Porky Hicks had poisoned her cats.'

‘Very well.' Tom nodded indifferently, and then asked, ‘Have you and my mother agreed well enough?'

‘Have we buggery!' Bint grinned. ‘After two nights she told me that it was too demeaning for a high-born lady like her to be sleeping under the same roof as a slum rat Needle Pointer from the Silver Street. So she packed her bags and went to stay wi' her fancy man. And she told me to tell you that you've got to give her a sovereign and a half a week for the costs of her keep at Bromley's.'

‘Dear God!' Tom exclaimed in shock. ‘Thirty shillings! That's double the week's wage for skilled Needle Makers!'

Bint's laughter pealed. ‘Well, you can draw comfort from the fact that you've no cause to worry about me taking any offence at her insulting me so, Tom. And you needn't worry about your Mam losing her good name either, for going to live in sin wi' her fancy man. It's all very respectable at Charlie Bromley's. His sister has come over from Brummagem to chaperone 'um.'

‘And long may they all stay there!' Amy wished with heartfelt emphasis. ‘This is the best bargain I've had in years, and well worth the price.'

Tom sighed, and wryly agreed. ‘Well, after the week I've had, the last thing I needed was my mother shrieking abuse at me, and there's money enough in my reward trust fund to pay for her keep without causing us hardship.'

‘What's you going to do about the dogs, Tom?' Bint wanted to know.

Tom could only shrug wearily. ‘That all depends on what Joseph Blackwell has to say to me when he comes back.'

In the rear yard of the Red Cow tavern, Yakob Weiss was unloading and sorting his packs of wares from his donkey's back, and so engrossed in the task that he was unaware of the other man's approach until the harsh voice bellowed.

‘I'm arresting you in the King's Name, Yakob Weiss!'

The pedlar cried out in shocked alarm and swung round to confront the grimed, unshaven features of Ezekiel Rimmer, his rotting teeth bared in a delighted chortle.

‘You blutty
scheisshund
! You nigh on scared the shit out of me!' Weiss shouted angrily.

Rimmer laughed uproariously, then told him, ‘Be easy now, you windy cunt. I've got summat real good for you. Just take a gander at this.'

He glanced quickly around to make sure that no one else was watching, then furtively produced a bundle from inside his clothes and displayed it to Weiss.

The pedlar's eyes gleamed as he realized the quality of what he was seeing. ‘That's an Otterhound's pelt. Where did you come by that, Rimmer?'

‘Ne'er mind that now. I'se got another five like this, and all of 'um am in top condition, wi' colours that you'd fuckin' well die for. The flash lads 'ull be biting your hands off to get ahold of any caps made from these, won't they just?'

Weiss's immediate reaction was to instigate the bargain haggling, and he shrugged deprecatingly. ‘Maybe a few might, but a lot more might not. But Otterhound pelts are uncommon, so I need to know where you got them from before we talk of doing any business.'

Rimmer pondered a moment, then nodded. ‘Fair enough. They was with the Mountebank show. And from what I hears, it'll be moving on up to the north country next week, so then you'll be safe enough selling the caps in the marts you deals at.'

It was Weiss's turn to ponder for a few moments before nodding. ‘Let's talk prices.'

W
alter Courtney had just eaten a hearty breakfast, and was sipping a glass of Madeira wine in the select parlour of the Old Black Boy Inn when the landlord came to tell him that a man was asking for him.

‘I'm ever so sorry to disturb you at your breakfast, your Reverence. But he says you knows of him. Here's his card, your Reverence. He's one o' they actor blokes from what it says on the card.'

‘Oh yes, I've had some correspondence with him concerning a charity for decayed theatrical people to which he has requested me to donate.' Courtney smiled graciously. ‘You may show him in, Master Blake; and please see to it that I'm not disturbed while he is with me. I prefer to keep my charitable works as discreet as possible.'

‘Alright, your Reverence. But I'm forced to say that ever since you come here the news of your good heart and kindness has been spreading. You must take great care that you'm not taken advantage of by these Thespians nor none o' the local ne'er-do-wells. Else you could end up wi' sadness in your heart for having been deceived by some scoundrel.'

Courtney nodded and answered softly. ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your concern for me, Master Blake, but remember what the Good Book tells us.'

His tone became sonorous. ‘Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver. Second Corinthians. Chapter Nine: Verse Seven.'

His smile broadened. ‘Now how can there ever be sadness in my heart, so long as I have Our Lord's love, Master Blake?'

‘You'm a true man o' God, your Reverence.' The landlord exclaimed admiringly. ‘I'll show the gentleman in right away and make double sure you aren't disturbed.'

‘Good morning, Reverend Winward, I hope I find you well?' Archibald Ainsley doffed his dandified broad-brimmed hat and bowed with an elaborate flourish.

‘I am indeed well, for which I give thanks to Our Father in Heaven.' Courtney rose and bowed in return, then invited, ‘Please, sit down.'

The landlord was hovering expectantly in the doorway, and Courtney smiled. ‘Master Blake, could I please trouble you to bring a fresh bottle of your fine Madeira and another glass for the use of my guest.'

‘It'll be a pleasure, your Reverence.' The man bustled away.

Courtney whispered, ‘Archie, you're begging me for money for decayed Thespians.'

Ainsley winked broadly, and when the landlord came back was telling Courtney, ‘So far this year, Reverend Winward, the charity has relieved more than thirty poor benighted souls, who were in some cases in the very last extremities of want and hardship. Indeed, it is not too much to describe them as being literally standing at Death's doorway, needing only days more before they passed through it . . .'

Blake placed the opened bottle and the glass on the table between the seated men and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Courtney signaled with his finger and Ainsley continued speaking, gradually lowering his tone until satisfied that it could only be a indistinct murmuring to the ears of any eavesdropper, then changing the subject.

‘Now, I've been investigating this lot. The Widow Joyce. Old Hundred House, Withybed Green, Alvechurch. Owns her house and twenty-three acres of pasture which is rented out. About twenty-eight years old. Was married at twelve years of age and has five kids under twelve years still living with her.

‘Miss Tabitha Haden. Ipsley Green. Both parents dead, but several living relatives with whom she has little contact. Is thirty-two years old. Dresses well, of good character, neat cottage and garden. Considered comfortably off, but is a ranting Methodist who spends all her time at prayer meetings.

‘Miss Susan Carr, Salters Lane House, looks to be about sixty years old . . .'

Courtney signaled him to be silent, and leaned nearer. ‘You've done well, Archie. But for the time being I'm going to concentrate on that Beoley mark, Phoebe Creswell. So there's no need for you to further investigate these others.'

‘Oh, I see!' Ainsley snapped in disgruntlement. ‘So you've no further use for me? Is that what you're going to tell me?'

‘Not at all, Archie.' Courtney smiled benevolently. ‘Our current relationship is going to be one of long duration and mutual benefit. It's just that I need you to do other urgent tasks for me at this time. Now listen very carefully. You will remember my cousin, Sylvan Kent, who used to play the lead Beau parts.'

‘Oh yes.' Ainsley frowned. ‘A gambling fool, and can be a nasty piece of work when he's in drink, especially with women. Which is a pretty frequent occurrence, as I recall, having had to teach him his manners a couple of times myself.'

‘True! And eventually you might well have to teach him his manners again.' Courtney smiled. ‘But he's still a honey-pot for the women and very useful to me. He's currently paying court to a mark in Warwick. She's a bitch who calls herself Adelaide Farson, but her real name is Ella Peelson, whose husband, Terence Peelson, was topped very recently at Warwick for bit-faking.

‘I need to know all about the Peelson family, who apparently are well known among the Birmingham swell-mobs. Tread very carefully as you go about this particular job and be extra fly because we don't want them breathing down our necks.'

E
lla Peelson was in her bed, tipsily enjoying a glass of gin, when Milly Styke knocked on the door and called, ‘The Major's come, Ma'm. He's in the drawing room.'

‘Fuckin' Jasus! What's he doing here! He's not supposed to be coming today! Fuckin' Jasus! I hope he's not getting cold feet!' Ella Peelson swore worriedly to herself. Then she gulped down the remainder of the gin and instructed, ‘Tell him that I'm at my morning prayers, and will join him shortly.'

She scrambled from the bed and went to her dressing table, opened a small silver box, took small, hard-sugared caraway cachous from it and crammed them into her mouth, chewing forcefully on them to release the pungent anise oils which would mask the smell of the gin on her breath. She dressed hurriedly in black mourning clothes and arranged her unruly hair in neat coils upon her head. Lavish applications of lavender water on her neck, wrists and hands completed her hasty toilette, and she made a carefully stately descent to the drawing room.

Sylvan Kent rose from his chair and bowed as she entered the room, then went to her with outstretched hands.

‘Please forgive me for intruding upon you without invitation, my dearest Adelaide, but I confess that spending an entire day without seeing you was too much hardship for me to bear.'

She played the bashful lady to perfection, allowing him to clasp her hands in his while blushingly protesting, ‘But we have spent much time together every day since our first meeting, Christophe; and it has been my custom since my tragic loss to spend the Sabbath without company, so that I may think solely of my dearest Mamma and pray for the repose of her soul.'