Til Death Do Us Part (7 page)

‘There's no need to shout, Archie. I still have my hearing. Now where the devil did you spring from?'

‘Never mind that! Have you not got so much as a handshake for an old friend?'

Ainsley reached for the letter-holding hand, and as Courtney jerked that hand away two of the opened letters dropped to the ground.

Ainsley bent and lifted them, swiftly scanning their addresses.

‘Both post paid, and addressed to “XYZ”.' He grinned, gave an exaggerated wink and tapped the side of his long nose with a forefinger. ‘You're still on the “Lonely Hearts Lay”, I see.'

‘And you're still minding everyone's business but your own, I see,' Courtney snarled and tried to snatch the letters back.

Ainsley fended him off. ‘Take care! There's a fellow in the shop staring through the window at us.'

Courtney's eyes flicked to the distorted image of Charles Bromley's face staring through the bullseyed panes of glass.

‘It wouldn't do for us to engage in fisticuffs, would it now, Walter?' Ainsley grinned. ‘That nosey fellow might run and fetch a constable, might he not. And coming to any unwanted attention of the constabulary wouldn't benefit either of us, would it?'

‘Is all well, Reverend Winward?' Charles Bromley was now standing in the shop doorway.

Walter Courtney forced a smile and turned to face the shopkeeper. ‘All is very well, I thank you, Master Bromley. This gentleman and myself are old friends who have not had the good fortune to encounter one another for many years. It has come as a most welcome surprise for both of us.'

‘It most certainly has, Master Bromley. Pray allow me to introduce myself. I am Archibald Ainsley, sole proprietor of the London Theatrical Company.' Ainsley smiled and bowed with a flourish. ‘But alas! I fear that the Reverend Winward and myself must now take our leave of you, since we have many matters to discuss. So we must bid you Adieu for the present, Master Bromley.'

He took Courtney's arm. ‘Come, my old friend. Time is pressing.'

‘Indeed it is,' Courtney assented. ‘Good day to you, Master Bromley.'

The pair got into the gig, and Courtney set the horse into motion.

Ainsley was chuckling to himself.

‘What's so fuckin' amusing?' Courtney snarled.

‘You were always brilliant at playing the God Botherer, Walter. What is it this time? Parson? Rector? Vicar? Deacon? Archdeacon? Canon? Or have you risen through the ranks to become a fuckin' Bishop, no less?'

Courtney only grunted sourly.

Ainsley's smile didn't falter. ‘Now listen to me, my old friend. Just cast your mind back to when we worked together. Haven't I always been brilliant at ferreting out all the details of any “mark”? And didn't I always steer a safe course and make sure that we never hit any submerged reefs?'

He went on at great length, but underlying his apparent easy confidence and bonhomie was the note of desperation.

Courtney remained silent, his features dourly expressionless. But now that he had fully recovered from the shock of this totally unexpected reunion, he was beginning to realize that he could turn it to his great advantage.

‘So what do you say, old friend? Have you got anything for me?' Ainsley finally ended.

Courtney stared hard into Ainsley's eyes for several seconds, then queried, ‘What's your cover story here?'

Seized by a rush of hope, Ainsley almost babbled the words. ‘It's ideal for your present purpose. I'm a prominent figure of the London Stage who is currently looking for suitable venues for my touring troupe to play in. Which means I can go anywhere and ask a deal of questions, because I'm the potential bringer of good fortune, ain't I?'

Courtney again pondered silently for a considerable period, slowing the horse to a walk and circuiting the limits of the town's broad central plateau. He finally reined to a halt, and asked, ‘Where are you lodging?'

‘At the Unicorn, just down from the crossroads where the chapel is.'

‘I know where it is. Now how well lined are your pockets?'

‘Lined well enough for me to carry off my role to perfection, and to obtain all the information you'll be needing.'

‘Give me those letters.'

Ainsley's tension was now palpable as he handed back the two single sheets of notepaper.

There was a long silent pause, then Courtney nodded. ‘I'll give you a trial run, Archie.'

Ainsley gusted a sigh of relief. ‘You'll not regret this, Walter. It'll be just like old times, you'll see! I'll not fail you, I swear on my life!'

Courtney's tone was now avuncular. ‘I'm confident, Archie, that the next time we meet, you'll be able to tell me all that I need to know about this lady. Her name is Miss Phoebe Creswell, and she lives at Orchard House in the village of Beoley, which lies about four miles to the east of here.'

He returned one of the opened sheets to Ainsley, who blustered confidently, ‘I'll ferret out everything you need to know about her, Walter, never fear. How long have I got?'

‘I'll contact you in a few days. Should you satisfy me, then you shall have other letters to keep you busy.'

‘I'd best waste no time in getting to work then,' Ainsley grinned.

They parted with a hearty shaking of hands, both now well satisfied with this course that events had taken.

Ainsley returned directly to the Unicorn and immediately sought out John Mence in his office.

‘Well, Master Mence, I find that your establishment has many excellent amenities which truth to tell I did not expect to encounter other than in a city hotel.' He took a small, well-filled leather coin bag from his pocket and handed it to Mence. ‘I intend therefore to make this my base while I am in these parts. Here is an advance payment for my board, lodging and stabling. When it is near spent please inform me immediately so that I may replenish it.'

This was most definitely a gesture that Mence had not expected from this particular guest, but his long experience in the trade enabled him to mask his shock.

‘I'm most gratified to hear your words, Sir. Be assured that I shall do my utmost to ensure that my establishment continues to deserve such pleasing approbation.'

As Ainsley left the office, Mence shook his head in self-reproof. ‘There now, Johnny boy, that's a lesson for you, aren't it? You can still be mistaken about somebody even after all your years in the trade.'

A few minutes later the stable hand came to tell him, ‘That flash bugger's just come into the stable, Master, and told me to ready his nag for riding. What d'you want me to do about it?'

Mence grinned wryly. ‘Ready his nag for him. For the time being he's a guest in good standing.'

H
ewell Grange, the family seat of the Earl of Plymouth, the Right Honourable Other Archer Windsor Clive, was two miles to the north-west of Redditch. Tom had hastened to get there, only to find on his arrival that the Factor was not present at the Grange, but had left strict instructions that Tom was to wait at the stable block until his return.

When over the course of several hours Tom attempted to question the butler and other assorted house servants, stable hands and gardeners about the missing dogs, he was answered with shrugs and denials of any knowledge about any dogs.

Now, hungry and frustrated, he was being forced to marshal all his remaining stores of patience to continue waiting beside his horse in the chill darkness of the stable-yard for the Factor's return. The clatter of hobnailed boots upon the cobbles was immediately followed by the shout, ‘Tom, I've only just been told that you're here.'

It was Josiah Danks' voice and Tom went towards the oncoming figure.

‘I'm waiting for Claude Blair, Josiah. I'm come about the missing dogs.'

‘He's still out searching for the buggers,' Danks answered.

‘Can you describe the dogs to me, because I've been told nothing about them or even how many are gone? In fact nobody would tell me anything.'

‘That's because Blair's threatened that he'll give their sacks to anybody who speaks of this. He's shit scared of His Lordship finding out that the dogs got pinched.' The gamekeeper's rugged, weather-beaten features creased with contempt. ‘Anyway, there's three beasts gone. All Bernese Mountain dogs. His Lordship bought 'um in Switzerland and sent 'um back here. Big buggers they are . . .'

Danks went on to describe their appearance in minute detail and Tom listened and stored the information to memory, and also the further details he was hearing.

‘I've found what looks to be three separate sets of boot and paw marks going easterly around the lake, but once they'd reached the woods there was no more tracks to be followed. I'd brought along me best hound as well, but the rain put paid to any chance of him picking up a scent.'

Tom shook his head regretfully. ‘The woods to the east also stretch for miles to the north and south, don't they?'

‘Yes, and there's a good few bridle paths running through 'um. So if they'd got a packhorse hid away they could have slung the dogs across it and been gone double quick to wherever they was heading.

Josiah Danks also gave a regretful shake of his head. ‘The thieving bastards are clean away, Son-in-law.' Then he grinned salaciously. ‘And the hour is getting nigh to bedtime, so shouldn't you be getting back to your new missus and start making some grandkids for me and my missus to make a fuss of?'

With a guilty shock Tom realized that he had been so engrossed in this new investigation that he had not thought of Amy since leaving Redditch.

‘You're right, Father-in-law. She'll be wondering where I've got to! Will you please tell Blair that I'm making all possible enquiries into this thievery?'

‘I will. Now go on home and start making me a fine grandson!'

Tom rubbed his heavily bristled chin, and grinned ruefully. ‘Before I can head home and begin that task, I've another urgent task to do, or Amy won't let me near her. Can you find me a razor, please? I must shave and wash properly.'

By the time Tom rode back into Redditch the town was still and quiet, the taverns closed and only here and there a window showing light. But despite his burning desire to be with Amy, Tom had to return the horse to Joseph Blackwell's stables and to bed the animal down for the night, which delayed him still further.

As he finally hurried back across the Green towards the lock-up he saw that though its upper-front windows were dark, there was a long vertical slit of light glimmering down one side of the front door. The door which at all times should be kept securely locked was slightly ajar.

‘Are there intruders?'

Anxiety for Amy struck through him and he broke into a lolloping run. But when he reached the lock-up he abruptly slowed and halted. Hard and painfully gained past experience would dictate his actions from this point.

He crept up to the door and paused there, listening for any sound coming from within. All was silent. He cautiously pushed the door further open and saw his yard-long, crowned and painted Constable's staff of office propped against the inside wall within his reach. Despite its garish appearance it was a formidable weapon. Its crown and top shaft were filled with a weight of lead which, when directed with deadly intent, would crush the skulls and shatter bones.

He grabbed it, dragged in a deep breath, pushed the door wide and stepped inside ready to strike. But the dimly lit passage was empty and silent, the cell doors closed and bolted.

He closed and locked the front door behind him and moved as quietly as he could to the far end of the passage to find that the rear door was also locked and bolted. He craned his head into the recess of the foot of the stone steps and saw a glow of light from above.

Suddenly as he slowly mounted the narrow flight a succession of loud snores pierced the silence.

He expelled a gusty sigh of relief. ‘She's sleeping. That's why everything's like it is.'

Then he thought disconcertedly. ‘I never knew Amy snored so loud! In fact I never knew she snored at all! How could I? I've never seen her asleep, have I!'

The doors on the landing were closed and the light was being diffused from the open door of the garret bedroom above, from where the snores were also coming.

Tom looked into his sitting room and could see several bottles spread about the floorboards. He checked and found that they were empty.

Next, he went up into the lamplit garret and found his new wife and her friend, Maisie Lock, lying asleep on top of the bed. Clutched in Amy's fingers was another empty bottle, which he gently prised from her grip and sniffed at.

‘Gin!'

For brief seconds annoyed resentment dominated Tom's mind. Then another series of loud snorting snores erupted from Maisie Lock and he couldn't help but think ruefully, ‘Well, I suppose I should at least be relieved to find out that it's not Amy who's snorting like a pig!'

He returned to the sitting room below and settled himself as comfortably as he could in the wooden armchair, sadly resigned to spending this second night of marriage deprived of such eagerly anticipated newly-wedded connubial bliss.

T
om had spent a virtually sleepless night and he actually welcomed the jangling of the bells in the first grey light of approaching dawn as a distraction from his sombre thoughts.

He used flint, steel and tinder to light his candle lamp and went downstairs. The bells jangled again as he neared the front door and he shouted, ‘This is Constable Potts. Who's there?'

‘It's Rimmer and his lads come for the shit, Constable Potts!' a gruff shout answered.