Killing's Reward

by Andrew Wareham

  “A word with Mr Malone, I believe. I have a feeling he might be inclined to purchase a replacement for his own little house and farm that was taken up by the coal mine. He might like to put the wife and children out to the countryside – though indeed, the children are no longer so young as they were. I believe he has it in mind for the eldest son to join him in his chambers now, in fact.”

  “Time passes, Nick. When do we expect to see Squire Tackenham in our midst again?”

  “Within the month, my lady. It would seem that he never stays more than three months in London at the time of what they call the Season there. As far as I can tell, he is known, vaguely, to a few of the nobs in London and manages to scrabble up an invitation here and there to their big functions – hanging on the coattails of the true gentry, poor little man!”

  “Thus to deceive himself that he is more than he truly is, foolish fellow! What does he hope to gain from such behaviour, Nick?”

  That, Nick could not imagine. It was beyond his understanding and limited knowledge of humanity.

  A few days of enquiry and Nick was able to talk to the manager of Tackenham’s kilns and to discover that the man loved his master not at all.

  “An old money-grabber, no more, Mr Nick. He will not spend out money on proper maintenance of the pottery and loses cash to poor quality as a result – and then he blames the hands rather than the decrepit tools and equipment they work with. The better hands go and find work elsewhere and he is left with the drunks and the sick and the idle, so that the men are to fault for some of the problems – but it is of his own making, truly. I would leave, but where would I find another place, coming from Tackenham’s?”

  “Would the pottery find a buyer if it came onto the market?”

  “Easily, Nick. A good man could see the way to make it profitable with just a few pounds spent and it is well sited, close to the river and with a big yard. If ever the river is dredged, as may well be the case, then barges will be able to tie up just here. It might be that a barge dock could make more money than a pottery.”

  Nick took the information to Samuel, saw his eyes light up.

  “Canals – that is where the future lies, Nick. Not perhaps for five or ten years yet, though. I doubt we could purchase the pottery and hold it for so long – there is a limit to our purse, I suspect.”

  Nick regretfully agreed, not mentioning that his own purse was within reason full. He had but the one child, rather to his sorrow, and had few financial demands to meet. His income from managing the gin distilleries had been comfortable and he had made a substantial amount from selling his other services to needy customers. A pottery making a return of no more than four or five hundred a year would cost perhaps three thousands, at most four, and few would bid against him when once it was known he was in the market.

  It was not impossible that he would be able to make the works far more efficient, being a man of some shrewdness, and have a fine little business to bequeath to his Josephine or give as a dowry to her fortunate husband. He wondered who that lucky man might be, glancing speculatively at Samuel – the young master was a good friend to his little girl and a brotherly affection might easily grow into something more…

  Squire Tackenham drove home from London, depressed that yet again he had not managed to turn his persistent grovelling to the fashionable into a series of invitations to the parties and balls of the Season. He was convinced that sooner or later he must be recognised as the gentleman he was – his family was old, and he was more than a mere County squire. His daughters would be of an age to come out soon and it was vital that he should place them where they could marry properly. He was determined that his grandchildren should be born into the aristocracy, could not understand why so reasonable a desire should be so cruelly thwarted. He was in a worse than normally bad temper when he reached his home.

  Next morning was no better.

  He rode into Stoke to examine the books of his pottery and discover what the damned fools had done in his absence. They would have done something stupid, that was a certainty.

  He reached the old stone bridge over the Trent and found it blocked by a small cart slewed across the narrow carriageway.

  “Get the bloody thing out of my way!”

  He could see no driver and yelled hopefully – there ought to be someone there. A donkey brayed back at him, worsening his mood.

  “I said get the bloody contraption out of the way!”

  A voice answered, its owner hidden beneath the cart where he was working.

  “A moment, master. The shaft is broken and I must just strap it up. Another minute, sir. If you could just step down and give me a hand now…”

  Tackenham peered around and spotted a smallish figure bent over the front of the cart, trying to hold the donkey and apparently wrap some sort of leather thong around the shaft single-handed. He had no wish to be helpful but knew it would take forever for the man to do the job on his own. He dismounted, tied the rein to the cart and stepped forward, demanding to know what he was supposed to do.

  “Nothing more, my dear sir.”

  A hand flashed towards his throat and he felt a sudden pain and saw his own blood spurting out before him. He collapsed in perfect silence.

  Nick took the reins of Tackenham’s horse and tied them loosely to the old iron railing at the end of the bridge and then ran back to the cart, leading the donkey away as quickly as it would trot. He needed five minutes to get from the bridge to the nearest side lane. The road was not normally busy, and the chances were good that he would be undisturbed. Luck was with him and he turned away from the road, disappearing behind the hedges. It was far better to quietly leave the scene rather than have to cut the throat of some unfortunate traveller who happened to be in the wrong place; he did dislike the casual slaughter of the innocent, tried to avoid it whenever possible. He spent two quiet hours on a meandering route to Stone where he returned the donkey and cart to the owner he had hired them from and then picked up his horse from Crabtree’s stableyard.

  He was home soon after midday, sat in his parlour with a pot of tea, all very decorous. Later he reported to Josie that he believed Squire Tackenham would trouble them no more.

  “Then we must make ready to purchase his home acres, Nick. I do not intend to make a bid for the pottery.”

  “With your complaisance, my lady, I shall. Mr Samuel made a most shrewd comment only yesterday, observing that the canal was the future. Tackenham’s pottery has a substantial frontage on the river, my lady. Ten years from now, it is possible one might build a barge dock there. A most valuable asset to leave to my little girl - or give to her on the occasion of her marriage.”

  “Wise indeed, Nick, as you so often are. Have you mentioned that intent to Samuel?”

  “No, my lady, though I suspect he might well be interested one day.”

  Josie laughed, shaking her head.

  “He would be interested now, though I suspect he would not know why. I shall be more than a little surprised if he does not beg you for her hand one day.”

  “I could hope for no more, my lady – to be connected by such a marriage to my dear master! What more could I ask for?”

  “Little indeed, Nick. May I beg a favour of you?”

  Nick assured her that she might always do so.

  “Would you take Abraham to purchase his pistols and rifles and such and then spend the next year or two with him, teaching him the ways of the gun?”

  “My pleasure, my lady. I shall gift him a knife as well, my lady, that he may be fully able to defend himself. He is growing up fast, is he not? I doubt he will wish to stay in England much beyond his sixteenth birthday and may be tempted to sign on as a cabin boy or somesuch before then.”

  “I shall find a way of restraining that urge, Nick. For the while, his new guns should be toys enough to keep him happy at home.”

  Josie called Abraham to her a few minutes after Nick left.

  “You are nearly fifteen, Abraham, and a man
grown in your body. But, my son, you are still a boy in some ways and need to learn more before you leave home. Mr Nick is to take you to Chester, to the gunsmith there to buy the long and short guns that you will need, and the knives as well. You will need to practise for some months before you can reach the standard he will demand. If you are here in this house, my son, on your sixteenth birthday, I will do more than bake you a cake. A passage on a ship out of Liverpool; a trunk of robust clothing and spare boots; two hundred golden guineas and twenty in silver; a letter to the shippers to the effect that I shall pay for your voyage eastward again if the need should arise; a set of paper, pens and ink which you may write the occasional note to me. A gift worth waiting for, I believe.”

  Abraham made his thanks properly before asking if he might perhaps be allowed to spend some time in the stables, learning more than simply to be able to ride a horse.

  She acknowledged that to be a sensible request.

  “Fifteen months, my son – not a long time to learn the skills that may serve you well in a foreign land. Will you go to the north of America, to the Canadas, or south to the Virginias?”

  That, he could not answer, not having made a decision yet. He would endeavour to learn about them in the next year.

  “If you discover anything of interest when you get to the Americas, my son, you might wish to send a letter to your brother. It could be a sensible move to build a business overseas as well as the ones we have in England. A handy little gold mine would be very useful, as an example!”

  The discovery of Squire Tackenham’s body with the throat cut roused an amount of interest in the county. He was renowned as an ill-tempered man, one who had made enemies casually and easily; general opinion – not spoken in front of the authorities – was that one of the aggrieved had paid Nick to settle his score for him. The slash to the throat was by way of being Nick’s trademark, the knowing agreed.

  The word reached Nick by way of his lady and he was mortified that he should have become predictable – such carelessness could cost him dear. He vowed to shoot his next customer. He dug out the dragon pistol he had bought when with Samuel in Chester; it would do for his next commission.

  A month and the notification was made locally that the Tackenham estate was to go under the hammer, as was the pottery, the two to sell as separate lots.

  Josie informed Mr Martin that she wished to purchase the estate, having been informed, she said, of sands which could be quarried greatly to the firm’s advantage. Mr Martin, well aware that Squire Tackenham would never have sold, thought he now knew how the poor gentleman had come to his doom. He made no comment.

  “Just short of seven hundred acres in total, Mrs Heythorne. The bulk of it pastureland, mostly in improved condition and fetching say five pounds an acre for the beef fields and three for the higher ground better suited to sheep. Shall we say two thousand nine hundred for the land and some six hundred for the big house and the Home farmhouse, cottages and barns and such. I cannot imagine that the lands would bring an income much in excess of two hundred pounds a year, ma’am. Wheat will pay a pound an acre, but cattle and sheep offer far less of an income.”

  That was true, as Josie had already calculated.

  “When we have determined exactly what we will need for the extraction of sand for our new enterprise in glass, Mr Martin, we will probably sell the remainder off. I might keep the big house and a few acres of garden land – for my daughter on her marriage. The rest can go to local yeomen in penny packets, if they wish, or to a single purchaser. I believe Mr Malone expressed an interest but from all I hear, the house is smaller than might satisfy him.”

  That word would reach Malone within the day, she suspected.

  “I much suspect that Mr Nick will stand at the auction and bid for the pottery, Mr Martin. I believe he wishes to expand his business interests, again quite possibly for the benefit of his daughter.”

  Potential bidders would hear the piece of news as well. Josie suspected that very few would bid against Nick.

  Another month and all was settled, the lands and house properly in Josie’s hands, the pottery belonging to Nick, although very soon made over to his daughter.

  “I have given thought to my estate, my lady. Was I, most unfortunately, to be convicted of a felony and to hang, then all of my worldly goods would forfeit to the Crown. Nothing would be left by way of an inheritance. To avert such a malfeasance, my lady, I have spoken to an attorney-at-law and have placed the pottery and my few acres into a trust in my daughter’s name. I have the use of it while she remains unwed and will work the pottery in her name, retaining its income, of course. In the event of my sad demise, the trust ensures that all remains hers and nothing that was mine will be lost, other than a few paltry guineas that might have happened to be in my pockets.”

  “Sensible indeed, Nick. I wonder if I might not do the same? Should the Excise Man come to call one day to discuss the taxes on the gin, then it might be well if I owned nothing and possessed no income in my own name.”

  “Wise indeed, my lady, as I have come to expect of you. My late master would have been so proud of your acumen, my lady!”

  She wondered if that was true. Sam had been a good husband to her – as well as she could remember after a dozen years – but he had been very much the man of the house and had not really wanted her to assume any prominence. She had been welcome to be of use to him, but not a great deal more than that. There was no gain to arguing with Nick and his peculiar perceptions of his late employer.

  “I am glad you think so, Nick. I try to live up to Sam’s expectations of me.”

  “As do we all, my lady. As do we all! And so we should, so fine a gentleman as he was. Not to fret, my lady! We must continue to live our lives and build upon the foundations laid by our master’s genius. To work, my lady! There is much to do.”

  Josie smiled as Nick left the house, waving him farewell as he climbed into his gig and set off down the lanes to visit the distilleries before driving into Stoke to make his presence felt in the pottery. She had long had some doubts about Nick’s mastery of his intellect; she reflected now that he was mad as a March hare, but it was a madness that was of value to her.

  “Not to worry!”

  She penned a note to her attorney, begging that he might pay a call on her at his early convenience – the following day would not be too soon. The man was only a lawyer and could hop to her whistle. The stable boy took the missive into town, happy to have a couple of hours on horseback.

  The attorney assured her that the bulk of her assets were held in trust under the terms of the Will and was able to devise a vehicle for her income which would safeguard that and her savings over the years of her widowhood from any inconvenient court orders made by the Revenue, or any other authority.

  “All will fall safely into the hands of Mister Samuel should there be any mishap, ma’am. That will include any new ventures you become involved in. I am told that there is a sandpit opening on lands which were once those of the Tackenham family, ma’am. That also will be protected.”

  “Thank you. The sand is in fact of a rather coarse grain but is very clean. Not ideal for bottle making but as good as we can locate in a reasonably close area. I believe it was desired for its use in mould-making by iron founders. Could we find a better sand for our purposes, then it could be moved on to the iron trade.”

  There would be a hefty commission for the lawyer if he could find better sand for the glassworks, both the iron founders and Mr Higgins made happy by his discovery and willing to put their hands in their pockets. Josie had no doubt that the lawyer would do his best to line his pockets, had great hopes that he would soon be back knocking on her door. For the while, it was perhaps time to pay more attention to her daughter.

  Chapter Eleven

  Killing’s Reward

  Section Two - AD 1765

  “Mary, I am to visit the Tackenham house tomorrow, in the morning. I would wish you to accompany me. There are decisions
to be made which you are to take a part in.”

  That seemed very strange to Mary. She was normally informed of what she was to do without a deal of consideration being given to her particular wishes. She was perfectly happy to go out with her mother. The chance for a drive out occurred only infrequently.

  “Is Samuel to come, Mother? Will he drive us?”

  “No. He is very busy with the building of his new glassworks. Pointer will drive us.”

  Mary did not especially like Pointer – he appeared to be a strange man, nervous and huddled into himself, but he was harmless, could be ignored in fact. He seemed to prefer being unseen, would never look her in the eye.

  “What is there to see at the Tackenham house, Mother? What do we need to talk about there?”

  “Better to see when we get there, my dear. Suffice it to say that it is of some importance. Let us hope it may not rain.”

  The weather was no more than usually inclement, occasional and light showers an irritation more than a menace. They came to the estate and up the rise to the house, passing the field where a gang of labourers were already clearing the topsoil off the sandstone ridge while others staked out the full extent of the quarrying area, removing the old hedges, trampling the bean crop that Farmer Mayland had planted while he still possessed his tenancy. Squire Tackenham’s death had determined the tenancy and Mayland was left with some sixty acres he held in freehold, insufficient to make a living on. The farmer’s problems were his own concern – the new owners of the estate had no interest in them.

  “That will be the new sandpit, Mary. It is to provide the sand for the glassworks, to make the bottles we need.”

  “It is close to the house, Mother. Barely a furlong distant.”

  “Too near, I agree, my dear – but the sand is worth money to us and the field is not directly to the front, more at an angle to the side. A plantation of trees would shield it from sight and keep the dust down.”