The Killing Man

by Andrew Wareham

  Thick flannel shirts were easily come by at sixpence apiece for the best in a reach-me-down shop, and they returned to the White Horse.

  “Still time for us to get across to Josh Banford, Sam, and talk about using his barn. Might be Miss Josie will be there.”

  “Better for me if she ain’t, Uncle Abe. Like you said, she ain’t for the likes of me.”

  Josie had called into the yard of the White Horse once or twice a week over the winter, made no bones about her liking for Sam’s company.

  “Maybe so, Sam. You might just be talking to Josh first, before you says or does anything daft. Things ain’t quite what they used to be in his household.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Killing Man

  “What’s the word, Uncle Abe?”

  “Josh ain’t said a thing to me, Sam, but you got eyes – use them, when we get to his place.”

  They walked the mile across to Banford’s farmhouse – it was not really big enough to be called a manor, both thought, but any yeoman farmer would be proud of it. It was of local stone rather than the more normal red brick, a massive kitchen downstairs with a separate dining room and a big sitting room and a smaller that Josh used as an office. Upstairs there were five large rooms, and an attic above for the cook and maid who lived in. There was a single-storey set of outbuildings to the back, wash house and pantries and gardener’s shed. Distant downhill by a few yards there was a brick-built privy, a rare edifice in that area.

  “Fair old house, Sam. One of these days, with a bit of luck and good management, I’m going to build the like of that behind the old White Horse, Sam. Likely to be more for Tom’s use than mine, I suppose, for he is the only heir I’ve got.”

  That was the closest Abe had ever come to expressing disappointment in his son. Sam said nothing.

  Abe led them to the front door, not the back that Sam would have used unthinkingly.

  “We don’t put ourselves down, Sam. Nor does Josh expect me to – so you ain’t getting into the habit of knocking on the back door.”

  Sam nodded – it was another lesson.

  The maid opened the door and led them through to the office. Sam saw that the house was furnished as well as any of the gentlemen’s places he had rummaged through in the aftermath of the rebellion – old oak pieces, well waxed, cared for, with cushions carefully embroidered. It was warm and comfortable, he thought – the sort of place he might like to own, one day, if he made the money.

  Josh Banford welcomed them, formally shook hands with Sam, this being the first time he had met him rather than seen him in the distance. He sent the maid for his son, saying that Sam should meet Mister Charles.

  Sam wondered why; he smiled and nodded, politely agreeing.

  “I am told, Mr Heythorne, that you would like to take a rental of the barn over by the stream at the back of my woodland.”

  “My Uncle Makepeace tells me it will be suitable for my purposes, Mr Banford. I need a premises for the little enterprise I ‘ave in mind.”

  Sam was making an effort to change his everyday speech, at Abe’s strong suggestion. Businessmen were judged to an extent on the front they put up, and more formal speech was important to many people.

  “Good. The barn is dry and in good condition. Mister Charles will take you across to inspect it before you make any decision.”

  Charles entered the room, walking slowly as if he were tired. Sam wondered if he had had a late night on the bottle, until he took a longer, searching look at him. He was pallid rather than pale, an unhealthy grey tinge to his skin, and the bags under his eyes were of long duration; there was no weight on his frame, and his coat hung loosely where he had lost flesh. He was younger than Sam by two years, at a guess, but could have been far older for his walk and habit of body. He was ill, Sam thought, and not the sort of disease a man recovered from.

  They walked slowly across to the barn, a quarter of a mile along a grass track, flat and wide enough to take a farm wagon but little used in recent months. The roadway turned a bend, into a shallow valley, the moors rising a few hundred feet to the rear. There was a plantation of pine trees, a few years from felling and obviously making use of an area of poor soil. They followed a ten feet wide stream, a path to one side, small boulders fallen off the hill on the other, down a few yards to a large barn, effectively hidden from view. Sam glanced at the roof, saw that it was slated, covered in the local stone, an expensive luxury for a farm building.

  “My father tells me that the barn was built a century ago, Mr Heythorne.” Charles caught his breath, spoke again after a few seconds panting. “He thinks that the men who built it, the common workers, were prisoners taken in the Civil War, soldiers of the King forced to labour for a year or two before they were made free. The quarrying and masonry came without charge as a result. The house was roofed with the same local slate, the thatch replaced at much the same time.”

  Sam was impressed – a sensible way of taking advantage, of making a gain from the disaster of civil war.

  “Word is that the Jacobite villains have, many of them, been sent out to the Sugar Islands and to Virginia, Mr Charles, to pay for their sins at hard labour in the plantations. Very much the same sort of thing, and well-deserved.”

  “Any loyal man must say so, Mr Heythorne. My sister tells me that you were a soldier in the Rebellion?”

  “Yeomanry, after the Scottish men stole our cattle and destroyed the Squire’s manor and family, most wickedly. There was a need upon me to pay them back for their cruel and wanton behaviour, sir.”

  “We heard of their doings, Mr Heythorne. I believe you did very well, sir.”

  “I did what was right, I think. Mr Charles.”

  “I wish that I could have done the same, sir.”

  Charles began to cough, was forced to sit for a few minutes, gasping for air.

  “I am sorry, Mr Heythorne, but I find breathing increasingly difficult, just of late.”

  Sam could think of no answer, looked interestedly at the barn instead.

  It had a stone floor, laid presumably by the prisoners; it was large, some fifty feet long by twenty or so wide, and was empty. It was inconveniently distant from the house and yard, could not be used for animals without a thick layer of straw because the hard floor would soon damage their hooves; it was, in fact, a rather pointless structure.

  “There was some thought, Mr Heythorne, I am told, of growing flax, for linen, which requires a large barn and fresh water for the retting, but it came to nothing in the end. So the barn has sat empty, but conveniently out of sight for your purposes.”

  “It is very much the sort of place I want, Mr Charles. I must speak more with your father.”

  They walked back, very slowly, talking quietly about the state of the world, as they knew it. Charles was obviously almost exhausted by the excursion. Sam could not see that the young gentleman could live much longer. A pity, he thought, for he was a pleasant lad, sensible and well-mannered, one who could have grown into a good man.

  Sam joined the older men while Charles drifted away, probably to his bedroom, if he could make it up the stairs, Sam thought.

  “I have looked at the barn, Mr Banford. It would be very satisfactory for my needs. I would wish to put a barrier across the stream to create a mill pond, and that could be done very simply, I believe. There is loose stone to the side of the watercourse, easily shifted with just a few days of labour.”

  Banford agreed that the location was ideal. Sam waited for him to make his financial demands, was surprised by his next words.

  “You have met my son now, Mr Heythorne. You will have observed that he is unwell.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam sought for words, trying not to be cruel. “He suggested that he was not getting any better.”

  “He is dying, Mr Heythorne. Hard to say it, but there it is. He was as fit and active a young fellow as you could hope to meet up with three months ago, riding his horses and learning the estate. Now? I cannot see he will get to nex
t harvest. The doctor calls it a ‘galloping consumption’, whatever that may mean. The truth is simple – my son will die. I had plans for him, Mr Heythorne, and for the family – but they perish with him. Now, I must hope for a grandson who will rise in the world and end his days as a gentleman. For that to be, then my Josie must wed with a strong and clever man, one who will make his way and who will put his son into a position to rise from. That man might be you, Mr Heythorne, if you show willing and able. Make a success of your business endeavours, and two years from now, Josie will stand in church with you. Fail, and we shall look elsewhere. I can’t be plainer than that, I would say. You have shown you know how to work, and hard work is three parts of what is needed for success. You need what they call ‘flair’ as well. We can discover whether you’ve got that.”

  Sam was inclined to be irritated by Banford’s lack of concern for his own wishes, and his assumption that Josie would obey orders.

  “Before you say owt, young man, I know well how Josie feels about you, and I would hope you had a liking for her, from what little she has said. I doubt I am forcing either of you against your will.”

  Sam grinned, said that it would be no hardship to him to wed Miss Josie.

  “Nor it should be. The decision is mine, and hers, for her mother died many years since, and I could never face taking another wife and perhaps siring another son. Maybe I should have… But I am still unwilling to put a second in her place. Enough of that! Are you willing to take the barn – no rent, not in the family – and make a go of your enterprise?”

  “I’ll do it, sir. I’ll have the still set up and the stream dammed within the next few days, and I shall cut some loads of coals myself as well. A month from today and I shall be selling, sir.”

  “Good! There’s still half a day’s light left, so I shall not hold you back from your labours.”

  It was abrupt, but Sam had a suspicion that Mr Banford was holding back tears, for his dead wife and his failing son. He nodded and walked back towards the barn. Josie was waiting for him in the garden.

  “My father said you were to come today, Mr Heythorne. Some matter of business, he said. Charles, my brother, spoke to me just now. He said that he had met you, and that he felt you would do well.”

  “A likeable young man, your brother, Miss Josie. I am sorry to see him so unwell.”

  “Will he get better, Mr Heythorne?”

  “I am no doctor, Miss Josie. It is not for me to say…” He could not get away with avoidng the issue. “But, I do not like the looks of him, poor lad.”

  “Nor me, Mr Heythorne… He will die soon, will he not?”

  Sam nodded, offered his shoulder as she began to weep. It was wrong for a young man to be so close to a respectable maiden, but she needed comfort. He kept his hands well clear – he was not the sort to take advantage, he believed.

  “I am sorry… What of your business, Mr Heythorne, what is it to be?”

  “Gin, ma’am. I shall set up a still in the barn here, and possibly a second, if the first goes as well as I hope. I must put a wall across the stream, to obtain a head of running water, and then install a cast-iron pipe to the cooling pot, before I can do anything else. That done, I can build my little furnace, and bins for the barley and malt and a strong iron safe for the sugar, to keep flies and mice and rats at a distance. I need a sink as well, for washing the jars. I am inclined to use earthenware jars for the gin, rather than glass bottles, for being easier to scrub out – their shape being better for the purpose. Next year, maybe, I shall look at a higher class of spirits – perhaps I shall attempt to produce the Highlands’ whisky. More likely might be the Irish poteen, which I have been told about lately. It is a spirit from the American potato, which is being grown hereabouts lately, and is said to be more palatable than ordinary gin.”

  She was not sure in her own mind that the production of gin was a particularly genteel occupation, but her father had long made it clear that the making of money was a highly desirable endeavour, and that the cash in hand was more important than its provenance.

  “Will you confine yourself to the stills in this barn, Mr Heythorne?”

  “I hope not to, Miss Josie. It is my intention to learn the trade here, and then to grow far larger, possibly in Stoke, perhaps to the south in Birmingham or even up in Manchester. The towns are growing, Miss Josie, and there are opportunities there for men of enterprise. Then, of course, ma’am, I must look to establish myself…”

  She caught his meaning and blushed.

  “I must hope that you may be successful, Mr Heythorne.”

  “That gives me another reason to be determined to make my way, Miss Josie.”

  “Then I shall trust that you will satisfy my father, sir. I hope, and expect, that you may.”

  “So do I, Miss Josie. I have every intention of achieving that aim, within, say, two years, in the spring, which is always, they tell me, a good time to be setting up house.”

  She blushed again, murmured again that she much relied upon him to achieve his aim; she would be disappointed indeed if he did not.

  “I shall aim never to disappoint you, Miss Josie.”

  She returned to the house, knowing that she must not go out of sight with him, behind the plantation where the path took its bend.

  Her father intercepted her as she came indoors.

  “I have told that young fellow that I shall permit him to ask for your hand if he makes a go of his business in the next two years. I shall not try to force thee to him, Josephine, but I shall say that you could do far worse than him.”

  “I shall need no forcing, Father. I much hope he will achieve his success – for I have an affection for him, sir, as you have noticed. But… I do not believe I would wish to be tied to a failure… In fact, sir, I know I should not want to stand at the side of a weak man, aware that I must make allowances for his failings and inability to thrive. A strong man, sir, is not too much to ask for… is it?”

  He was pleased with his daughter, and proud of himself that he had taught her properly – this ‘love’ business was no doubt important to females, but marriage was about family, and that meant a house and a proper income to maintain it, and that must come before this romantic stuff.

  “You are in the right to do so, my dear. There are weaklings in plenty to be found – but if you want to rise in the world, then you will do so only at the side of a true man. Your Heythorne may well be that sort. I feared that he might be no more than a hard man, but I think that he may be better than that. I suspect that he has seen his share of blood, mind you, but there are worse sins than that; he does not strike me as mean-minded.”

  She was inclined to be upset at the reference to blood on Sam’s hands.

  “He was a soldier, sir…”

  “So he was, and many a soldier finds the means of being placed well back from the fighting line. He took some care to be right at the front, from all his uncle has said. He is a man who will stand his ground. I will tell thee, Josephine, that I much suspect that the so-called poachers we heard up on the moors were villains who had been told that he had made a bounty and prize-money and thought to take his hundred or so of pounds from him. He is here and has his money with which to start his business, and they have not been seen since. Three of them, it was said, and the strong possibility that they went up to the moors armed of a dark night…”

  She came indignantly to Sam’s defence.

  “Then one cannot hold him at fault, sir!”

  “Anything but, my dear. I hold him in considerable awe for being willing and able to defend himself. That is the sort of man I respect, and I will tell any man that is the case if they ask me.”

  “Should I ask him what happened, Father?”

  “No. He will tell you, if the need arises, but there is no need to push him, I think. If you wed him – well, a wife cannot give testimony against her husband, so he can tell you anything at all then, but not before, I would suggest.”

  She nodded – she had n
ot considered the legal aspects, had not known of them. She took a deep breath.

  “What of Charles, Father?”

  “He will not dance at your wedding, Josephine.”

  “A pity indeed, sir…”

  She shook her head, able to accept that people died, that very few illnesses could ever be cured. It was luck, no more, that said who lived and who failed to make old bones.

  “Perhaps my son will one day take his place, sir.”

  “None can take a dead person’s place, Josephine, but they may make a substitute, if you will name him. I shall miss my Charles but hope to see yours thriving and growing strong and proud like you, and young Heythorne. I will promise you that I will write my Will when Charles goes, and it will name you and yours in perpetuity as my heirs. Provided, that is, that Heythorne does the job, that he is a successful man of affairs. I think he will be.”

  Sam worked from first light to last over the next few days, the hard physical labour of setting up his place of business. He did the job on his own, unwilling to pay out for the hire of a casual labourer who might have a big mouth and talk of his employer’s business. He was aware of the need for care as he levered stones weighing two and three hundredweights out of their beds on the bank of the stream and guided them into place to make his dam; one slip could mean a broken leg, and that might never heal clean, and cripples rarely prospered.

  The dam did not have to be perfectly watertight, it merely had to back up a head of water, but he did the job as well as he could for the principle of the thing – any man could be slack and careless in his work, but that was not his way. He built up his curving bank across the waterway and then dredged up bucket loads of gravel, throwing them into the gaps in the stones on the upstream side, so that the run of the water would thrust them inside and fill in the holes. As he worked he selected the best and flattest stones and hauled them to one side, taking them to the barn one by one as he had occasion to go down. Some would set in place as the bed for his furnace, others could make pillars for the benches he would need.