Parish of Tardebigge, Worcestershire.
Monday, 13 July, 1829

The overnight breezes had died away, and in the clear sky the crescent moon was fading as dawn spread. Concealed in a copse of thick woodland, the tramp lying upon a makeshift bed of fern and bracken grunted and stirred into bleary-eyed consciousness. Casting aside the soiled greasy blanket, he clambered stiffly to his feet, limped to the edge of the trees and stared across the river-bisected valley towards the broad outcrop of steeply rising ground where several tall chimney stacks marked the northern edges of the Needle District of Redditch Town and its satellite villages straddling the Worcestershire–Warwickshire border.

He fingered the long, thick stubble on his grimy face and throat, and thought, Well, before you goes any further, my bucko, you'd best get down to that water and get rid o' this lot.

He collected his blanket and large canvas bag and made his way to the river where he stripped to the waist, laved away the grime on his face and neck and carefully trimmed the stubble with a cut-throat razor. Afterwards, he took a battered military shako and shabby red uniform tunic from the bag and put them on. Stood to 'Attention', saluted smartly and announced out loud: 'Corporal George Maffey, Sir. Fourteen years' service in the Thirty-second Foot, Sir. Invalided out after Waterloo, Sir.'

He repacked and shouldered the bag, then limped along the bank. The pasture he was in had very recently been harvested and as he was passing a large, newly thatched haystack he halted abruptly, staring hard at the motionless figure sprawled on the haystack's wide, flat stone platform. He took a few steps towards the figure, and again halted abruptly.

'Fuckin' hell's bells! Who smashed your head in!' he grunted, and limped as fast as he could towards the nearby turnpike road.

Gripped in the terrible nightmare of a woman's anguished screams dinning in his ears, Tom Potts was thrashing about in his narrow cot, shouting in desperate frustration, fighting with all his strength to break through the impenetrable black cloud that enveloped him.

Amy Potts rushed up into the dark garret, a lighted lamp in one hand, a bucket full of cold water in the other. She bent to place the lamp on the floor, then hurled the cold water into her writhing husband's face.

He jerked upright, gasping and choking for breath as she berated furiously, 'You're doing it again, you great fool! Waking me up and destroying my rest! You're driving me out of me bloody mind!'

Full awareness came to Tom and, wiping his face upon the bed sheet, he ruefully apologised. 'I'm truly sorry, my love, but it was the same nightmare again. I could hear your screams and couldn't come to your aid.'

'Ohhh, "I'm truly sorry, my love, but it was the same nightmare!"' She spat the words back at him, then turned and went down the narrow stairs, shouting, 'You can cook your own bloody breakfast! I'm going to the Fox for mine!'

He sighed despondently, levered his exceptionally lanky body from the bed, pulled on a shirt and breeches, slipped his feet into boots, lifted the lamp and made his own way downstairs.

The slamming of the outer door signalled his wife's departure and he could only sigh sadly, thinking: How much longer is this terrible moodiness of yours going to continue, Amy?

As George Maffey limped up the steep Fish Hill, which led up on to the wide central plateau of Redditch Town, the early 'Waking Bells' were ringing out from Needle Mills and workshops, rousing from sleep the mass of the town's population who earned their living from that industry.

When he reached the broad, flat triangular Green he stood for a few moments, staring at the rows of buildings which enclosed it.

A man emerged from a nearby house and Maffey accosted him. 'I needs to speak wi' a constable straight away, Master. Can you please name one and direct me to him?'

'Ahhrrr, I can, Soldier Boy. He's called Tom Potts and he lives in the Lock-Up down the bottom there. That place that looks like a little castle.'

'Thank you kindly, Master.' Maffey limped on towards the grey-stone castellated building standing on the eastern corner of the Green's triangle; separated from its neighbours by the bordering roadways which merged then forked again to continue eastwards.

He mounted the three steps on to the narrow stone platform which fronted the building and tugged on the long, thin iron bell pull which hung at the side of the large Gothic-arched, metal-studded door.

Bells jangled inside the building and after a brief interval the door creaked open. Maffey blinked in surprise as a half-dressed elongated figure appeared in the doorway and enquired in the accents of an educated Gentleman, 'Good Morning to you, Soldier. Can I be of assistance to you?'

'Might you be Tom Potts, the constable?' Maffey queried, frowning doubtfully.

'Yes, indeed I am.' Tom could not help but smile wryly at his caller's expression.

Maffey immediately stiffened and saluted smartly. 'Corporal George Maffey, Sir. Fourteen years' service in the Thirty-second Foot, Sir. Invalided out after Waterloo, Sir.' He held out a folded piece of parchment. 'Here's my license to beg, Sir, which I'm hoping to get your kind permission to make use of in this parish, Sir.'

Tom took the proffered parchment and briefly scanned its contents, then handed it back. 'Very well, Corporal Maffey, your license looks to be in order, so you may beg throughout this parish. But I must warn you not to beg aggressively, or to pester those who are reluctant to give.'

'Ohhh, I'd never do that, Sir. I'm a man of honour, I am,' Maffey assured him.

'I'm sure you are, Corporal Maffey. Now if you'll excuse me, I have urgent tasks to fulfil.'

Tom stepped back and began to close the door, but Maffey stopped him. 'Hold hard, Sir, if you please. I've stumbled on to summat this morning down in the valley that you really must needs see for yourself. It's a dead 'un, Sir. And although I've seen more dead 'uns that I can wish to recall, this one is summat real extraordinary, Sir. You needs to come see it for yourself; it's real extraordinary, so it is.'

'There now, Sir, what did I tell you? It's real extraordinary, aren't it! You'd have to travel a lot o' miles afore you'd see the likes of this dead 'un again, Sir!' Maffey's manner was that of a showman presenting his latest attraction.

Tom's dark eyes were intently studying the corpse lying sprawled with out-flung arms and legs, its blood-caked, bulging-eyed features and head grotesquely distorted and surrounded by a pool of coagulated blood and brain matter. Although dressed in a man's long-sleeved waistcoat, loose-fitting shirt, breeches and ankle boots, it had the long hair of a woman and Tom bent to loosen the shirt laces and confirm the swell of feminine breasts.

The sun was now well risen and the burgeoning warmth had roused the flies which were swarming on to this feast of blood and body wastes.

Tom's mind was racing as he gently fingered the woman's neck, shoulders and upper arms before straightening upright and asking his companion: 'Corporal Maffey, might you have a blanket in your bag that you could sell me? I promise to pay you well for it.'

Maffey hastened to present Tom with the blanket, and Tom used it to carefully cover the dead...