A Killing Too Far

by Andrew Wareham

  “I have, Nick. My normal pair of single barrels, and two murderers, produced I think by one of the great London men. Their locks are very fine, see.”

  Sam produced the pocket pistols, held them out for inspection.

  “Fine, strong springs, Mr Sam. Made, as you so perceptively suggest, by one of the best gunsmiths. These will not misfire.”

  “No maker’s name to them, but of the best, I believe, Nick.”

  They agreed that it would be wise to reach the outskirts of Stone soon after eleven and then to walk down the main street until they reached the Fighting Cock, watching carefully as they went.

  Nick thought this the best course by far.

  “If there are villains laid in wait for us, perhaps carrying muskets to perform their nefarious deed, then the people of the town will have seen them, Mr Sam. What will they do? They will run, that I cannot doubt. The main street, which should be bustling with activity at that time of day, will be empty, and that of itself will confirm that evil awaits us.”

  “It will indeed, Nick. The men of blood will be disclosed to us, I do not doubt.”

  “Well said, sir. What then are we to do, Mr Sam?”

  “Do? Why, nothing, Nick. We shall watch and walk forward, all unawares, or so it shall seem. If there is an ambush laid, then we may assume it will be designed to catch us at the Fighting Cock, for we could come to the inn from either direction, or perhaps through the alleys to the rear. If they wish to kill us, then they will wait until Jacky and Henry take their places outside the door and you and I walk inside, apparently all unawares. We shall be alert, however, and will open fire the moment the first barrel shows.”

  They thought that to be very clever.

  “Jacky, you and your brother will fire at any musketeer or pistolman who shows and will then scamper across the road and into the building where you have seen them, then to finish them at close quarters, as you are so able to do.”

  That seemed practical, to Jacky. Happy Henry did not entirely understand, but that that was no matter, he was not to be present to use his powers of reasoning.

  “You and I, Nick, will enter the front door and immediately jump to the side, putting a good ten feet between us. If there are no armed men awaiting us, well, we smile and admit we were over-cautious. If there are brutes set to kill us – we have both met that particular problem before, I believe and yet are still here.”

  “A wise plan, Mr Sam, and one I shall follow to the very letter. As you so rightly say, the wicked have laid traps for both of us before now, and they have fallen into them. We are certainly still here, I believe.”

  “We are indeed, Nick, and will be for many a year to come.”

  “’Deus vult’, the old Crusaders cried, Mr Sam; ‘God wills it’. It is the Will of God that we shall prevail, for both of us have been touched by the finger of destiny, I do believe.”

  Sam was increasingly convinced that Nick was a hopeless lunatic – but, while he remained on the right side in any coming conflict, that might even be an advantage.

  “How is the moon this night, Nick?”

  “Four days from full, Mr Sam. I watch the moon, you know, Mr Sam. A fascinating orb, sempiternal and staring down at us, tiny mortals that we are.”

  Sam wondered what that might mean; he agreed that Nick was very sensible in his comments.

  “We shall take our places in the coach and four at nine o’clock precisely, lads. Do you come to Banfords and we shall set out from there. Arrive at thirty minutes past seven and we shall eat a breakfast then we depart – serious business demands a full belly, I believe.”

  Steaks of bacon and fried eggs together with black pudding and hot oatcakes, the teapot hot and both milk and rare white sugar besides; it was a breakfast fit for a king, Jacky said. Happy Henry said nothing, simply ate until almost at bursting point. Nick thought it was a fine meal, but not more than he had expected when sitting to Mr Sam’s table – for they would, indeed could, find nothing but the best there.

  “Fifteen minutes gentlemen.”

  Time for a visit to the necessaries and then into the coach, Sam and Nick facing forward, Jacky opposite them and Happy Henry on top for liking the fresh air and often sick if bounced about in a closed carriage.

  Fortunately, it was a dry morning, making the journey far quicker and allowing their priming powder to stay dry.

  They came to the White Hart public house and pulled into the back yard where they were expected, Sam having sent a messenger on the previous day. He wondered whether Mr Crabtree the landlord of the White Hart, the landlord, had despatched his own man to Mr Bottomley, but there was no way of telling, and it mattered little enough.

  “Ready lads? Let us set out then.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Killing Too Far

  Contrary to Sam’s expectations the main street of the small town was normally busy. There were prosperous housewives with baskets walking to and from the market square and customers in several of the little stores they passed. There was certainly no sign of any expectation of warfare erupting on their street.

  “Jacky, keep a hand on Happy Henry’s arm, now.”

  “Got him, Mr Sam.”

  Nick glanced across, almost nervously; Happy Henry was too unpredictable for his liking. He touched Sam’s shoulder.

  “There is the Fighting Cock, Mr Sam. On our right, perhaps a hundred paces. On the edge of the market square, a little back. There is a small store opposite, a wine merchant, I believe. Windows with curtains above, Mr Sam, but the casements shut.”

  The windows would have been open if there were men behind with long guns at the ready.

  “The street seems clear.”

  “Two men crossing the road, Mr Sam. Coming up from the market. Youngish men, of working age, dressed prosperous but not gentry.”

  Bottomley’s pair, to stand their sentry-go with his, Sam thought.

  “Jacky, take Henry and stand this side of the door. First sound of trouble inside, kill the pair of them.”

  “Right, Mr Sam.”

  They came to the door, nothing more said. Bottomley’s two stood watchful, eyes busy and picking out the lumps in pockets that signified concealed pistols, no doubt. Sam could see the same in their coats. Jacky remained on his toes, ready to go; Happy Henry hunched up in the big warm overcoat that hid the sawn-off fowling piece. Sam led Nick through the door and stepped to his right, Nick jumping to his left, ready for anything.

  Two men were stood in the doorway to a private room, side by side, empty-handed. The elder, in his late forties, Sam supposed, stepped forward. Sam inspected him quickly – balding, showing a little belly, bloodshot blue eyes – a drinker perhaps. He was dressed normally, in a blue frockcoat with green waistcoat showing under a starched white cravat; brown breeches and riding boots. All very ordinary, except that the right pocket of the frockcoat seemed larger than one might expect and sagged a little under a weight inside. He spoke briefly, without smiling a greeting.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mr Heythorne. Will you come inside?”

  Nick stepped forward, entered first, eyes scanning the room.

  “Safe, Mr Sam.”

  “After you, gentlemen.”

  Sam ushered the pair before him, taking junior place but ensuring there was no pistol at his back.

  The room was old, panelled in dark wood with a single oak sideboard and a long dining table with four chairs drawn up. There were bottles and glasses on the sideboard, nothing else of interest, no places for men to stand in concealment. The windows looked out onto an empty yard.

  “My name is Bottomley, Mr Heythorne. My man is unimportant.”

  “My man is my friend and trusted employee. His name is Nick.”

  Sam thought he might have scored a point there.

  Bottomley continued, making it clear that he had called the meeting and it was his to guide. He was the senior man, he implied; Sam must take his cue from his better. Sam was immediately irritated – as far as h
e was concerned, Bottomley was no more than an old fool.

  “My associate, Mr Pankhurst, was responsible for the death of Mr Thomas Makepeace. It was done without my knowledge and would not have received my approval. Mr Pankhurst died with his whole family in a blaze soon thereafter. You were in Stafford at that time.”

  Sam leaned back in his chair, showing casual, unconcerned. He managed a sneer.

  “That is correct, Mr Bottomley. Tom Makepeace was a messenger for his father, and me; he knew nothing of our business, was wholly innocent. He was tortured and died badly. I was, and am, very angry at that. I can accept that you may have had no knowledge of Pankhurst’s actions, but you had previously sent a pair of housebreakers to rob shopkeepers under my protection and you attempted to establish a house of ill-fame in my town. Why?”

  “A mistake, Mr Heythorne. I had to an extent withdrawn from the business, living in my new house at a distance from town. I left the day-to-day affairs in Mr Pankhurst’s hands. I was not aware of the attempt to expand into your manor until after the action was taken.”

  Sam nodded; everything was to be blamed upon the dead Pankhurst. Convenient for drawing a veil over the whole affair but not necessarily true.

  “And are you to take full responsibility for your people in future, sir?”

  “I am, Mr Heythorne. There will be no repetition of these recent errors.”

  “Then so be it, sir. I will tell you now that should there be any further such ‘errors’ then I shall deal with you as I personally did with Pankhurst. I was tempted to drive my message home by shooting one of your family – any one conveniently to hand – but your request for a meeting pre-empted me.”

  “That would have been most unwise of you, Mr Heythorne. I have friends in this county and can assure you that the Militia would have come to assist in your arrest and rapid hanging.”

  Sam sneered again, making a play of being the younger and stronger man.

  “I do not need friends, Mr Bottomley. I can do my own killing without needing the services of soldiers and a judge.”

  Mr Bottomley evidently decided that he must show himself at least as fierce as Sam.

  “I can look after my own interests when the need arises. I need no help from the authorities if the occasion arises. I was warned, Heythorne, that you are more likely to savage and kill than behave like a rational human being. If you wish to be seen as a mad dog, then so be it!”

  Sam knew that mad dogs were to be shot out of hand, immediately assumed that to be Bottomley’s intention.

  “If mad dog I am, then so I am, Bottomley! Nick!”

  Sam drew a pistol, marginally more quickly than Mr Bottomley, who was carrying a long-barrel that snagged in the lining of his pocket. Sam fired twice into Bottomley’s head, the pocket pistol outstretched across the table, barely a foot from its target. He saw blood splattering onto the table beside him. A glance showed the throat of Bottomley’s companion gaping scarlet; Nick had preferred his silent little friends to a pistol. There was shooting outside, pistols and a heavier double explosion.

  “Check at the front, Nick. That sounded like Happy Henry clearing up.”

  Nick ran out; there was a single pistol shot. He came back in after a few seconds, running.

  “Two of Bottomley’s dead, Mr Sam. One of them got a shot off and killed Jacky. Blew his head half off, Mr Sam, like as you did to Bottomley. Henry was weeping and said he would not leave his brother, more or less, that is. I told him to come with me and he cried ‘No, no’. So I shot him, sir. Dead men tell no tales, you know, Mr Sam.”

  “He is dead?”

  “Very, Mr Sam. I found time to cut his throat while he was down, so as to be quite certain. Poor fellow, he would never have got on without his brother, so it was a mercy to him, Mr Sam, an act of Christian kindness. We should go, sir. Quickly!”

  “Back door. Is the landlord in sight?”

  “Not him, Mr Sam. Bottomley would have paid him to keep out of sight and hearing. Not so much as a potboy in the house, Mr Sam. No customers. No staff. No witnesses whatever might occur.”

  They ran to the back of the public house, past the empty bars and out into a small back yard that opened onto an alleyway, just wide enough for a horse and cart to make deliveries.

  “To the right, Nick.”

  Five minutes brought them to the stable yard of the White Hart and their coach, the team in harness and ready for them. Sam whistled to the landlord, waiting to be paid and expecting a gratuity for his silence. He held out thirty guineas

  “Five guineas apiece for your stable lads, Crabtree. They saw no coaches this morning. Twenty for you.”

  The landlord had thought to receive a guinea, hoped for two; the best and busiest of months would not net him as much as ten guineas in his pocket. His loyalty was bought.

  “Didn’t never see nobody not never, thank’ee, sir. As for coming four strong and leaving as a pair, I didn’t never know nothin’ about that, sir, seeing as ‘ow you wasn’t never ‘ere at all, sir.”

  “Very good. If you find yourself in any trouble for this, or if you need to send a stable lad safely out of the way, you know where to find me. I shall not let you down.”

  “Perish the thought that you might, sir! I saw nothing, I know nothing. I do ‘ave, sir, I might say, a son of mine own, my second boy. Fourteen years old, so ‘e be, and the eldest to inherit the inn, like…”

  “Has he got his letters?”

  “Six years in the Dame School, sir, and staying on the extra two acos of ‘ow he could read and write and wanted to learn his sums as well.”

  Literate and numerate workers were rare. A boy of that age could grow up to be a very useful man.

  “Send him across to the White Horse outside Leek, Crabtree. On Monday next would be convenient. I shall find him a place that uses his letters and his sums. Not an apprenticeship as such but clerking in my offices. His keep and a pound a month besides for the first year. After that, if he is useful to me then I will make him up in the distilleries. If he does not quite fit, as you might say, then I shall find him a place in the New World with the chance to make his fortune by his own endeavours.”

  The landlord thought he was doing very well by his boy. He promised to put him on the carriers cart on Monday without fail.

  Sam and Nick took the carriage back to Stoke and picked up their horses at the livery yard, discussing the morning and wondering what might come next. It was obvious that Sam’s name would be known; Bottomley’s people would let slip that their master had been meeting Sam and the authorities would feel obliged to do something. The deaths of six men by shooting, and in the middle of the town, must cause some unease.

  “The Lord Lieutenant must bend the Sheriff’s ear, as one might say, Mr Sam, and suggest that all is not well in the shire. Dead bodies littering the streets must be seen as unacceptable. Against that, Mr Sam – Happy Henry was not unknown to the constables of Stoke and they will be relieved, one might suggest, that they will never have to come up against him in the course of their duties.”

  “True indeed, Nick. We must also consider that Bottomley told us that he is known to the authorities, and implied that he had put more than a few pennies into their pockets. They will know him to be, to have been rather, of an adventurous nature, inclined to make his money in what might be regarded as a clandestine fashion. With Bottomley dead, he can pay off no more of officialdom. As such, they will regret his loss but not declare a day of mourning for his passing, or so I suspect.”

  “As ever, Mr Sam, you express yourself so elegantly and genteelly – such wit, sir! No, I do believe that they will make some very positive action; they will be seen publicly to be busy, but also, they will wash their hands of the whole business. One criminal kills another? Why, sir, that means there is one criminal fewer to disfigure the county’s gutters – all in all, a very satisfactory outcome! They will do nothing, Mr Sam, not that has any meaning. I would wager my all that they will send a company of the Militi
a to patrol the streets and ensure good order. But, Mr Sam! It will be the streets of Stone they pacify for the crimes were committed there. They will know that victims and perpetrators both come from elsewhere, and will not be returning, but that makes them even wiser, does it not, Mr Sam?”

  Sam began to chuckle as he perceived the ramifications of Nick’s solution.

  “They will be seen to take action. There will be no further murders on the streets of Stone, thus proving that they have made all peaceful again. They will need to do nothing else that might disturb the source of their own incomes. The Militia will not be forced to actually do anything, which is a very good thing as they are incapable of taking useful action but will be seen to have justified their existence. Which battalion have we in the shire just now, Nick, do you know?”

  The Militia were never used to keep the peace in their own county, and normally not in a neighbouring shire either.

  “They are a Welsh battalion, sir, and very small in number. Monmouthshires, I believe. Fewer than three hundred of them, Monmouth being thinly populated.”

  “A company of thirty or forty men, then. Just right. They will look busy in Stone and be utterly harmless. We will not want them in Stoke, so it will be wise to avoid excesses there, Nick; nothing that might demand a force to be placed on the streets. What are we to do about the Saturday night randies, Nick? They become more outrageous every week, or so it seems.”

  “We might wish to take them out of the town centre, Mr Sam? Was we to talk to the owners and suggest that they paid their men in a more obscure part of town, then we might, as it were, shift the location of their celebrations.”

  Sam was inclined to agree that it might be a good idea, but many of the owners had bought the pubs where they paid their men. It would be very difficult to make them buy another in a back alley to serve their purpose.

  “No, Nick, there is nothing we can do, I fear. Perhaps the government in London might pass a law to forbid the payment of wages in public houses – other than that, I can imagine no solution.”