Til Death Do Us Part (17 page)

‘Indeed he does, Reverend!' Laylor agreed wholeheartedly. ‘Ironically, Tom now has an independent income from a trust fund a wealthy family established for him after he had rescued their relative from grave danger. But the local Chief Magistrate, Reverend the Lord Aston, has very spitefully used his power and influence to ensure that Tom must continue in the post of Parish Constable for several years to come, thus preventing Tom from completing his medical studies and becoming a practising doctor.'

In Hugh Laylor's dispensary Tom laid the cats side by side within the broad shallow stone trough, and again was struck by what fine feline specimens they were in size and the quality of their black fur.

He quickly set up a round-bottom flask, the cork stopper of which was threaded through with a long, slender, stop-cocked glass thistle funnel and a much shorter delivery tube. Then he dropped a few small pieces of ferrous sulphide into the flask and in a smaller flask diluted some sulphuric acid with water.

Next he took up a knife, deftly opened the first body and carefully dissected from it the organs he required. Finely slicing and dicing a portion of them into a small pan of water, he took it into the kitchen and with the housekeeper's permission, set it down to boil on the cooking range.

Mrs Blakely clucked her tongue disapprovingly. ‘Is that your breakfast you're cooking, Master Tom! Well all I can say is that your wife ought to be ashamed of herself for letting you leave the house wi'out feeding you a nice breakfast!'

‘No, Mrs Blakely, this is most certainly not my breakfast,' Tom hastened to assure her. ‘It's to do with the experiment I'm conducting. I'll be back directly.'

This time he returned with a spirit lamp.

After several minutes he judged the pan mixture had boiled long enough. He lit the lamp and took it together with the pan back into the dispensary, where he sieved the pan's contents to remove the solid tissues and poured some of the remaining liquid solution on to the ferrous sulphide in the round-bottom flask. Next he inserted the flask's cork stopper and extended the protruding curved end of the delivery tube with a further longer piece of tube, under the middle of which he positioned the wavering bluish flame of the spirit lamp.

He picked up the small flask of diluted sulphuric acid and prayed as he poured its contents down the thistle funnel. ‘It's a long time since I last tried this experiment, Lord, and it failed miserably on that occasion. Please be merciful and let it work this time.'

He twisted shut the stop cock and held his breath, silently counting the seconds, waiting for the acid to react with the ferrous sulphide to form hydrogen sulphide gas, which in turn should react with any arsenic present to create yet another gaseous mixture.

Tom's explosive gasp of relief broke the silence as the mixture began to emit tiny bubbles and wraiths of visible fumes which snaked up and along the delivery tube. Now he focused all his attention on the section of the delivery tube extension being heated by the flames of the spirit lamp.

At first it looked to be steam coating the inner surface of that section, but as the seconds passed that initial coating disappeared and Tom could clearly see the yellowish-white layer of precipitation caused by the heat discomposing the gases. Unable to control his impatience, he detached the tube extension and sniffed both its ends. A smell which resembled garlic filled his nostrils, and he punched the air in triumphant recognition.

The yellowish-white layer was composed of minute crystals of yellow arsenic trisulphide.

As Tom Potts was smiling in triumph, his friend Hugh Laylor was standing at the bedside of George Creswell, frowning in chagrined bafflement.

The sick man's turgid breathing was an irregular weak rasping, his heartbeat was slow, his skin pale and clammy, and although he was to all intents comatose, yet his hands still moved restlessly, fingers scratching at his nightdress-covered skin.

‘You said that he was vomiting severely during the night, Reverend, but was not afflicted with the diarrhoea. What did he eat prior to that – I mean the last things he ate?' Laylor sought clarification.

‘Well he ate his breakfast before my arrival here this morning, Doctor,' Walter Courtney replied. ‘I assume that it was the special broth that Mrs Mallot prepares for him.'

‘Mrs Mallot's special broth. Could that have provoked the vomiting?' Laylor mused aloud, as he stared down at the sick man's deathly pallid face. Suddenly an unbidden memory rose in his mind: the joyful smile on Pammy Mallot's face after he had first told the two women about the gravity of George Creswell's condition. That unbidden memory brought with it a sense of uneasiness.

Courtney shook his head and spoke hesitantly. ‘Regretfully, I'm not medically qualified. Also I've only been visiting the family for a few weeks, so can make no judgement on what may have caused such a severe bout of vomiting.'

‘Is it always Mrs Mallot who prepares the broth?' Laylor pressed.

‘I don't know.' Courtney shrugged. ‘But she appears to do all the cooking here and may I say she is a very fine cook indeed. I've eaten dishes that she has prepared and they have been without exception among the most toothsome I have ever tasted.'

He shook his head dismissively. ‘No, I cannot believe it is Mrs Mallot's broth that is causing these attacks of the vomit. I've eaten that very same broth myself on more than one occasion and experienced no pangs of discomfort.'

The uneasiness in Hugh Laylor's mind goaded him to question further. ‘Does Master Creswell feed himself?'

‘Apparently he's not able to do so without spilling the broth over himself and his bedding, so I assume Mrs Mallot or Miss Phoebe normally feed him.'

‘How much time elapses between Master Creswell's taking food and his attacks of the vomit?' Laylor probed.

‘I really can't say.' Courtney shrugged, and went on, ‘It's unfortunate that Miss Phoebe and Mrs Mallot will not be returning home until tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps you might call then and ask if they have taken notice of the times elapsing.'

It was Laylor's turn to shrug. ‘I shall have to see what other demands are made on my time before I can give you an answer to that, Reverend. However, I would request of them that for the time being Master Creswell's sustenance must be solely white bread soaked in milk, and a glass of port wine four times daily.

‘What is imperative is that the next time Master Creswell vomits, then that vomit must be saved and delivered to my house as quickly as possible, and also any bowel excretions.'

‘They most certainly will be, Doctor, because I shall take that task upon myself,' Courtney stated gravely.

A little later Courtney was contemptuously sneering as he stood at the window watching Hugh Laylor ride away.

‘He's just another stupid yokel quack, isn't he?'

It was late in the afternoon and Tom Potts was finishing the cleansing of the instruments and equipment he had used when Hugh Laylor returned to the dispensary.

‘How goes it, Tom, have you had success?'

‘Oh yes. All three cats were definitely poisoned with arsenic. And if Widow Darke's neighbour is to be believed, it was Porky Hicks the scavenger who fed it to them on scraps of food.' Tom grimaced wryly. ‘Unfortunately I fear that proving his guilt in a court of law will be nigh on impossible, because we have none of the original scraps of food as evidence that they were impregnated with arsenic.'

Laylor frowned thoughtfully and muttered, ‘Yes indeed, that's what is needed above all else.'

Tom finished cleaning the final glass tube, and picked up the sack containing the bodies of the cats.

‘Well, many thanks for letting me use your dispensary, Hugh. I'm truly grateful.'

‘You know that you're welcome to use it whenever you wish, Tom. In fact, I might have cause to request the help of your expertise in this field some time soon.'

‘Why so?' Tom asked curiously.

‘George Creswell, the patient of mine at Beoley that Parson Winward fetched me to see today, has some symptoms which are puzzling me. Should the poor fellow be attacked with any further vomiting fits, I'd greatly appreciate your assistance in analyzing his vomit and bowel excreta.'

‘I'll be happy to help.' Tom readily agreed. ‘Now I must give these poor creatures a decent burial, so with thanks once more I'll bid you a good day.'

But as Tom walked away from Laylor's house a fresh idea occurred to him. He came to a standstill and mulled over this new idea. Then he changed direction and tramped the several miles to the hill known as Merry-come-Sorrow above the village of Feckenham. He called at the cottage of Mrs Maud Harman and spent some considerable time talking to her. When he left the cottage he was no longer in possession of the dead cats, and there was a smile on his face.

W
hen Walter Courtney halted his gig outside the Old Black Boy, Archibald Ainsley hurried to greet him.

‘Is it him there, Walter?'

Courtney nodded grimly. ‘Oh yes, it's him alright, he exactly fits the description you gave me. He's looking for the Irish bitch, without any doubt.'

‘What shall we do about him?'

‘Nothing at this time. But we'll cut all connection with her this very day. I'm meeting Sylvan in Redditch at noon, then I shall go on to the Creswells' house. I want you to go straight to Birmingham now and arrange bed and board for him at this address.'

Courtney passed over a slip of paper, and drove off.

Among the bustle and noise of Redditch mart day the two soberly dressed men attracted no attention as they joined company.

Walter Courtney frowned as he saw Sylvan Kent's bloodshot eyes, and the dark shadowed bags beneath them.

‘Goddammit, Sylvan, didn't I tell you to lay off the drink!'

The other man only smiled. ‘Don't upset yourself, Cousin. I've merely been enjoying bed and board at my newly betrothed sweetheart's house! She's a prize lush who can drink you and I both under the table! And she's mad keen to wed me, so all you have to do is to hand over the Special License now, and I'll be a married man within the week.'

Courtney shook his head. ‘No you will not.'

Now it was Kent who frowned. ‘Why? What have you found out? Aren't she got any property then?'

‘Oh yes, she has a fine property in Bradley Green; and some old cow by the name of Farson was indeed buried in Feckenham churchyard a few months past.'

‘Well that's what we were hoping for, isn't it?' Kent's handsome features were puzzled. ‘Now we can do the business in short order.'

‘Oh yes, we most certainly could have done so,' Courtney agreed equably. ‘But there's an unforeseen snag cropped up.'

‘And what might that be?'

‘There are people searching for her. I went to the house to have a mooch about and it looked to be shuttered up. But as I drew in on the forecourt a hard-looking cove, sporting a fine “Chiv Ribbon” knife scar, came out of the house and asked me if I'd come there to call on the Widow Farson. He said he was a close relative and needed to see her most urgently on family matters. But unfortunately she had unexpectedly gone away for a brief stay with friends of hers, and he didn't know their address. Might I be able to help him in this matter?'

‘And what did you say?'

‘That I'd never met the lady, and I was seeking for a property to rent in the neighbourhood, and had wondered if this one might be available? To which he answered me very positively that it was not. I thanked him for his information, insisted on shaking his hand and took my leave.'

‘I wouldn't have bothered to shake his fuckin' hand,' Kent grunted sourly.

‘No, you wouldn't, would you, Cousin? And that's one of the many reasons why I call the tune, and not you,' Courtney sneered. ‘You see, I can tell a great deal about a man when I shake his hand, and one of the trademarks of bit fakers' hands are acid scars and brown patches of skin.'

Kent instantly understood the implication. ‘You think he's one of her husband's coining mob.'

‘You've got it in one, Cousin! By God, what a fly cove you are!' Courtney mocked. ‘But he's Terence Peelson's brother, Billy, and not just one of the gang.'

‘How do you know that?' Kent demanded.

‘Never you mind,' Courtney scowled.

‘Well, even if he is, I don't see why that should stop me doing the business with her,' Kent argued.

‘You don't see why, because you're too stupid to see past the end of your prick!' Courtney snorted in disgust. ‘Well all you're going to need to see now is the new bride that I've found for you. She's a spinster living with her father.'

‘Living with her Pa! That's got to be a recipe that'll make bad eating!' Kent scoffed challengingly.

‘Her father is currently bedridden with illness, and when he dies she'll inherit a great deal of money, and property.'

Courtney produced the letter sent by Phoebe Creswell, which Kent scanned and then queried, ‘How have you come by the information, because there's no mention of a sick father, land or property in this?'

‘At this moment, how I've come by this information is no concern of yours, Sylvan. What you'll do now is break off all connection with the Irish bitch this very day. Tell her you've been called back to Addiscombe, but will be coming back to her as soon as possible. Tell her the Directors are making difficulties about you getting wed, but that you're not going to stand for it, and that you'll marry her no matter what their objections may be. Make sure the parting is sweet and you leave her believing all will be well. Then go to Birmingham and wait in this lodging house until I come for you.' Courtney passed over a slip of paper with an address on it.