Til Death Do Us Part (11 page)

Rimmer grinned and winked back. ‘I'll have them with me tonight, Yakob. I'm double sure we'll agree a fair price after you've seen them.'

Sitting in the cooking alcove of the lock-up, toying with his breakfast of onion porridge, Tom Potts was also thinking about a price. But in his case it was the mental price he was paying for having his wife and his mother living under the same roof. The mutually reluctant truce between the two women had endured for only a few days, and for the past week Tom had been the hapless recipient of blame from both of them for this unhappy domestic arrangement.

What was lowering his present depressed spirits still further was his failure to find any trace whatsoever of the missing dogs, despite searching almost the entire length and breadth of the Needle District for news of them.

‘I'll have to tell Blackwell that I think my time could be better spent here at the mart today,' he decided. ‘There's been no dealer's licenses checked yet this month, and there was a robbery and at least three bad fights last week because nobody was here to keep order with Ritchie and me away looking for those bloody dogs.'

He pushed the plate of half-eaten porridge away and rose to his feet, just as Amy came down to the ground floor complaining pettishly, ‘Your Mam's snoring is driving me mad! Kept me awake half the night it did! That's why I've overslept again this morning! I can't get a decent night's rest with the rattle she makes. It's enough to raise the dead!'

Tom drew a long breath, and invited wearily, ‘Why don't you sit down, my love, and I'll make you a pot of tea before I go to work.'

In the drawing room of her home, Phoebe Creswell was experiencing greatly mixed emotions as she listened to Doctor Hugh Laylor, while Pammy Mallot stood protectively by her chair.

‘I deeply regret, Miss Creswell, that in the type of apoplectic seizure such has stricken your father, I am not able to predict the outcome with any great degree of certainty. His condition is . . .' Laylor hesitated, seeking the words.

‘Pardon me for being so forward, Doctor,' Pammy Mallot intervened. ‘But Miss Phoebe is well able to bear the truth. Nothing's worse for her than not knowing what the likeliest thing is that's going to happen to Master Creswell. So you do her the kindness of speaking out straight and true. I'm here to look after and care for her no matter what is coming about for her dad.'

Laylor considered briefly, then sighed and told Phoebe, ‘Regretfully, Miss Creswell, I fear that your father is never going to fully regain his former robust health or clarity of intellect. Also I'm unable to foretell just how long it may be to recover some degrees of both physical and mental recovery. However, you may rest assured that now I have bled him, and thus weakened the malignant humours which have caused this seizure, his physical and mental condition will undoubtedly begin to improve.'

He hesitated momentarily before admitting, ‘But to what extent, only the Good Lord above can know. I shall of course be ready to respond instantly to any further need you may have of my services during this unhappy period.'

He added his customary words of condolence. ‘In this time of trouble, Miss Creswell, perhaps you may draw some comfort in the knowledge that your father has enjoyed a long and happy life, and has been blessed by spending much of that life with such a loving and dutiful daughter as yourself.'

Now he fell silent and waited watchfully. Despite his long experience of telling people their loved ones were gravely ill, or in fact dying, he knew that he could still be surprised at how some individuals could react to such dread news.

Phoebe Creswell lifted her hands to her mouth, and remained rigidly still for several seconds. Then she dropped her hands, and with a slight frown told Laylor quietly, ‘I must accept what you have told me without complaint, Doctor Laylor. All things are ordained by God, are they not? I shall be most grateful if you will continue to do what you can to help my father, and to ensure that he suffers no pain. I thank you for your kindness, and now must bid you good day, Sir. I feel overwhelmingly the need to be alone with my thoughts.'

‘Let me see you out, Doctor.' Pammy Mallot bustled to open the door.

‘Good day, Miss Creswell. You may rest assured that I will come at your summons and ensure that your poor father will not suffer any bodily pain.' Laylor bowed in farewell.

He went to the rear yard of the house where his horse was tethered, thinking commendably about Phoebe Creswell's reception of the bad news.

‘She took it damn well. Like a true English gentlewoman.'

He mounted and took the horse at a walk around on to the forecourt of the house. As he passed the large drawing-room windows he glimpsed movement within the room, and turned his head to look.

‘Great God above! That's a strange reaction to such bad news!' He gaped in astonishment as for brief seconds he clearly saw Phoebe Creswell and Pammy Mallot locked in a close embrace. The younger woman's features were hidden from him, but on Pammy Mallot's face there was a broad grin of delight.

T
he skies were still clear and although the pale sunlight did nothing to temper the icy chill of the wind, the market stalls, which stretched the full length of the south side of the Green, were doing good business, as were the shops, inns and taverns throughout the town.

Tom Potts moved at a leisurely pace along the Market Place, resplendent with a brand new beaver top hat on his head, and wearing his wedding coat, waistcoat and trousers, white linen shirt, and silk cravat. His crown-topped staff sloped like a musket on his shoulder, as he halted at intervals to check the Trading Licenses of varied stall holders and pedlars, hucksters and basket-women.

As always for the majority of the inhabitants of the Needle District this hour of a Saturday was the end of their working week's grinding toil. The mills, factories and workshops were, in the main, closed until Monday morning. Wages had been paid, coins jingled in pockets, and the air was pervaded with a holiday atmosphere.

On the Green three of Elias Bradshaw's Mountebanks were performing riding feats in front of a crowd, while Bradshaw himself was selling raffle tickets for the prize of what he claimed to be a solid silver horseshoe.

In the Market Place outside the Fox and Goose an outburst of vociferous anger necessitated Tom Potts' attention.

‘This is a piece o' shit, this is, and I wants me money back!' A burly, smock-clad young countryman was bawling furiously as he brandished a fur cap before the swarthy features of Yakob Weiss. ‘This fuckin' thing is rubbish, so it is!'

‘What's the problem here?' Tom intervened between the pair.

‘This is the fuckin' problem!' The young man now brandished the cap before Tom's face. ‘I paid a whole crown piece for this piece o' shit, because he told me that it was made o' Russian bear's fur and not wind nor water could pass through it. Well water and wind does get through it, and now it's falling to bits as well, so it is. The stitches has broke and the peak's come off, and I aren't been wearing it for more than a month!'

‘Constable, my own dear childrens sew my caps, and they do good works. Please, take a close look at my goods for yourself, Constable! Please, lift them and look at them very careful.'

Weiss spoke so volubly that flecks of spittle sprayed from his pendulous lips as he dramatically gestured towards the wooden frame on which rows of fur headgear were hanging.

‘And I sells them very cheap as a favour to the poor peoples who have to work very hard for little monies. I have never ever cheated any man, woman or child in my life! And it wasn't me who sold this man his cap.'

‘It was you, you fuckin' liar,' the young man shouted. ‘And I bought this off you in Bromgrove mart, not more than a month since! Now give me my money back!'

‘Please, will you calm down?' Tom requested politely. ‘Losing your temper and shouting will not solve anything.'

‘There's fuck all needs solving. Here's the fuckin' proof of what I'm telling you!' Again the fur cap was brandished and the young man's beer-laden breath gusted against Tom's face as he threatened, ‘And if this cheating bastard don't give me my money in two seconds flat, I'm going to ram this up his arse and rip up every cap he's got, and then take every penny he's got off him.'

As always in such potentially violent situations Tom's heart was pounding and he was struggling to master his apprehension. He shook his head and managed to keep his voice firm as he warned, ‘You'll not rip up anything, and you'd best stop making these threats.'

‘And you'd best fuck off right now, you lanky streak o' piss!' the young man warned in return. ‘Or I'll make fuckin' mincemeat out of you at the same time as I does this cheating bastard!'

Tom drew a long, deep breath, and gabbled, ‘If you keep making threats against me, I shall be forced to arrest you. So just go away now and come back next week in a calmer frame of mind to discuss this matter with this gentleman – which discussion I promise to preside over.'

The young man instantly punched Tom in the face, sending his top hat flying, and Tom himself staggering backwards to collide with an onlooker, who cried out in protest and pushed Tom violently, sending him staggering helplessly forward to be met with another heavy punch from the initial assailant. Tom's knees crumpled under him, but at that same instant he flailed out with his staff. Its lead-filled crown thudded into his attacker's temple, sending him reeling and collapsing limply on to the cobbles.

Tom was on his knees, shaking his head to clear his scrambled senses, and trying to focus his eyes on the young man. He levered himself painfully upright and realized to his immense relief that his opponent was unconscious.

Pointing his staff at different men among the onlookers, Tom panted, ‘In the King's name I'm calling on you, and you, and you and you, to help me take this man to the lock-up.'

He next selected a woman who was carrying a large covered basket.

‘Do you know where Doctor Laylor lives, Ma'am?'

‘Indeed I do.'

‘Then I would ask you please to go to Doctor Laylor's house and request him from me to come to the lock-up and examine the prisoner.'

None of those selected raised any objections to being summoned to do their lawful duty in the King's name. To be so actively involved ensured that they would have colourfully embroidered stories to tell, which would arouse envy in those unfortunates who had missed this dramatic incident.

The return to the lock-up resembled a bizarrely triumphal procession, with Tom, the victor, at its head, his defeated foe borne on the shoulders of the four men directly behind, and a noisily excited crowd following them.

Amy came out on to the lock-up steps, calling anxiously, ‘What's happened, Tom? Are you alright? Are you hurt?'

He hurried to her. ‘It's nothing for you to worry about, my love. I'm perfectly well. There's just been a dispute in the mart, that's all.'

‘Look at the state of your clothes, they're filthy dirty!' she exclaimed in annoyance. ‘And where's your hat?'

‘It fell off, and I haven't had time to look for it.'

‘Is he dead?' She pointed to the senseless countryman, her eyes widening with alarm. ‘Did you kill him?'

‘No! Of course not! He's merely stunned! Now please, Amy, just allow me to get this man into a cell. I'll tell you all about it later.'

‘And I pray that you'll also be telling her to stop thieving my finest green tea leaves to put on airs and graces in front of her skivvy friends!' Widow Potts screeched furiously from the upper window. ‘My caddy was full, and now it's empty, and I've not had even the taste of a tisane for days! That's what comes of marrying beneath you, Thomas Potts! You've brought her and her low cronies, who're the very dregs of humankind, into my home to take tea as if they were gentlefolk like myself!'

The crowd immediately erupted with jeering cheers and catcalls.

‘That's what you all are!' Widow Potts screeched as she shook her fists at the crowd. ‘The dregs of humankind, the very scum of the earth!'

She was answered with even more jeering cheers and catcalls, and instantly countered with another screeching diatribe.

From bitter experience Tom knew that all he could do now was to get the prisoner into a cell as quickly as possible, and hope that his mother and the crowd would soon tire of their mutual entertainment.

He beckoned the bearers into the lock-up and they laid the unconscious man on to the raised stone slab sleeping bench in the nearest cell, then despite their obvious reluctance to leave were shepherded outside by Tom. As they separated one of them gave Tom the offending fur cap.

Tom thanked him, then took Amy's arm, led her into the lock-up and barred the door.

Inside the cell the prisoner's features became animated, his arms and legs twitched jerkily, and he began moaning loudly.

‘I'll need to manacle him in case he becomes violent again,' Tom told Amy. ‘Will you wait by the front door and let Hugh Laylor in when he comes.'

Amy frowned anxiously. ‘Why not just lock the cell and wait for Hugh Laylor to come and help you? That bloke might have another go at you while you're chaining him up!'

It was an unwelcome possibility, and Tom was very tempted to agree to this suggestion. But, unwilling to display any hint of timidity before her, he shook his head.

‘I'm well able to deal with him, sweetheart.'

He took manacles, chains, keys and padlocks from the wall hooks and went into the cell. The prisoner was still lying on his back, limbs jerking, but now his eyes were open and he was mouthing sentences which to Tom sounded like gibberish.