The Killing Man

by Andrew Wareham

  Sam expanded his leased premises – his landlord raising neither objection nor rental – and he put fifty pounds into Johnny Higby’s hands. Additional stills appeared, fabricated from the best copper sheet and all without an ounce of lead; the smith was available immediately for any repair work, and set his mind to improving the pot stills and arranging and controlling the flow of cold water across the worms. Sam began to give thought to producing a better product, a whisky of sorts, that would attract a better-off customer and bring in a higher profit. Not the gentry, he thought, but the men who bought the occasional bottle of brandy from France and might buy more of a good but cheaper English product.

  “As we said, whisky, Sam, must have colour – it must be adulterated with a safe agent to turn it brown. Traditionally, that it is done by storing it in port barrels for a couple of years, or even longer. The port wine stains the wood of the barrels, and the spirit takes up that residual brownness. Long and slow, and port barrels are not so easily come by.”

  “Keeping it for two years and more is costly as well, Uncle Abe. A lot of warehouse space to be paid for, and watchmen to stand guard, for the booze is a sore temptation to the thirsty poor.”

  “Just so, Sam. I am told they make the stuff in the mountains of Scotland and in Wales – where people are few and far between, so the theft is less easy. If you can’t do that, and we can’t, because even the High Peak is no more than twenty miles from big towns, then we must find a quicker way – and there is none which is wholly safe.”

  “Then we don’t do it, Uncle Abe. Killing people with bad drink ain’t the right way to go on.”

  “So be it, Sam. I agree. I was told recently that you can steep tea leaves in a little warm water and leave them three or four days and then pour the mess into a barrel through cheese-cloth as a colouring. The man who told me said the taste was ‘not too bad’. I reckon the best bet is to stick to gin, Sam, and pile up the pennies as they come in.”

  Sam agreed, and the profits of supplying the whole town were very substantial, but he would have liked to have produced something better for his own satisfaction. He drank very little but there would be a satisfaction in putting a bottle of his own stuff on a sideboard in his dining room, one day.

  Bottles – that was a thought… Made from glass, and there were a couple of glassworks in the region between Stoke and Stafford, and more just to the north. It would be possible to work out a way of sealing the narrower tops of bottles, and they might be safer than earthenware jars, less chance of air getting in. He must talk about bottles, perhaps pay a visit to one of the glass makers. Rufus would know which owner would be well-disposed to new business.

  “When does Miss Josephine return, Sam?”

  “Within the next fortnight, I should expect, Uncle Abe. She sent a letter which came last week, by the carrier to Derby and then across to here. She wrote it five weeks ago, when they reached Newcastle. They expected to stay a month in the town, being tired by the long journey. They intend to return by the quicker way they have been told of, taking a coaster down to Hull and then picking up their carriage at the docks there. If they send the carriage off a week before them, it should be waiting for them.”

  “It won’t work. Nothing ever goes right when travelling, Sam. They’ll end up waiting another week in Kingston-upon-Hull, for a wheel breaking on the carriage, or a horse going lame. A certainty!”

  Possibly, Sam thought, but in any case he had no wish for Josie to return too soon. Better she should not come back until the inevitable rumours about the deaths of the Tappers had died down. She might not understand the logic of his actions, being a sheltered young miss and perhaps having the idea that killing was necessarily a bad habit.

  “How is her brother, Sam?”

  “Showing paler and weaker, Uncle Abe. The pallidity of his flesh frightens me now, you know. It’s almost as if he had a layer of thin ice over the top of the skin. He cannot stand for five minutes at a time. I visit in the house whenever I go to the old stills at the Banfords, and he is polite and courteous as ever, but it takes a real effort for him to stand as I walk into the room… He knows it, as well, Uncle Abe, that’s the sod of it, he is as aware as I am that he is running down, his days are becoming shorter. He wondered yesterday whether he would see his father and sister again. He may not.”

  Abe was sympathetic – the boy had not lived yet; it was hard on him to die.

  “A pity. Bad luck for the young man, but at least he is going well, keeping his dignity intact.”

  Sam agreed, it was important to face death calmly, to show respect for oneself.

  Abe turned back to the original topic of Miss Josephine.

  “Will you wed her, Sam?”

  “That is the agreement, Uncle Abe… If she is still willing, then why not?”

  Abe tried to be tactful, to avoid offence, which was easily given when talking to a man about his future bride.

  “I wondered if you were willing, that was all. A clever, busy young woman, inclined to help you in your daily round.”

  Sam could not quite understand why she should not be – an active wife would be a useful acquisition to a businessman.

  “Much to be said for a clever young wife, Uncle Abe, and a house to live in. Besides, we might invite my little sister to stay with us. She could learn her letters and meet a better sort of man down here. On the farm, she will grow up to drudgery; as my sister here, she will meet men in a more prosperous way of life, perhaps.”

  Family was important, Abe agreed; one should look after them. He decided to say no more about Miss Josephine and any proclivity she might have towards running her husband’s life for him.

  “On that topic, family, what of your brothers, Sam?”

  Sam was less than sanguine – he doubted he could do a lot for them.

  “One day, maybe, I can buy some more land up there, and a herd of cattle, milkers for making cheese to sell in the towns and bring some money in. Neither of the older two is fit to be more than a small farmer, Uncle Abe, for lack of much between the ears. Good enough fellows, little of malice in them, but they know nothing else, can do nothing else. Bring them to town and they would be lost. Maybe if either gets wed and knocks out a son or two, I could fetch one of the boys down and teach him something with more money in it, but not if they turn after their fathers. My young brother, Fred, might be a bit brighter, I might be able to do something for him.”

  “What of your own sons, Sam? Josh Banford wants for them to become gentlemen.”

  “Maybe. There’s gentlemen, and there’s gentlemen, as you might say. It ain’t necessarily what I want, and I don’t see buying up land so they can ride about the farms turning their noses up at folks there. Buy them a scarlet coat and put them in the Army? Not what I want for sons of mine… Might be I want boys who could know the value of a gold guinea, and how to make more of them, rather than gentlemen who don’t know much more than how to spend their coins. What I saw of gentlemen during the Rebellion don’t incline me much in their favour, Uncle Abe. There was a few like Captain Wakerley, what was men of honour and would look after their men, but the most was just care-for-nobodies what looked after themselves and flogged and hanged the soldiers for having contempt for them. I don’t want boys of mine, if ever I father them, to grow up to be that sort.”

  Abe was inclined to agree with that idea, briefly commented that he wished his own Tom was stronger in money-making than at money-wasting.

  “I don’t see him doing much with the old White Horse when I’m gone, Sam.”

  “Some have got it in them, some ain’t, Uncle Abe. That’s the way they are, so I reckon, and not much to be done about it. Was I you, Uncle Abe, I might look about my acquaintance for a man with a daughter who ain’t afraid of getting her hands dirty. A strong, bright lass who could run her man and the inn and maybe make both somewhat the better.”

  “Find him a wife, you say, Sam… Another Miss Josephine, you might say… That might not be so bad an idea,
either. He’s not the hardest-working of young men, might be thankful to have the labour of discovering a missus done for him!”

  They chuckled, two confident men together, and wandered into the bar for a quiet pint before eating a meal.

  Abe busied himself in the cellar for a while afterwards and then behind the counter before going into the kitchens to confer with his wife and ensure all was well there. Tom spent the time sat in the back room, staring into the fire and thinking of his own private affairs, so Abe assumed; whatever, the boy did nothing for the business of the inn.

  Sam rode into town and paid Rufus a call, more for courtesy than with the expectation of utilising his services. He felt it was wise to speak to the gentleman at least once a week, to show that he was available if required.

  “Flooding in the pits over on the west side of the town, Mr Heythorne. Too much rain of late. No loss of life, but two of the pits closed for a week at least, and the price of coal rising as a result.”

  Sam was displeased to hear that – he burned an increasing tonnage of coal and had no wish to pay more for it.

  “What’s to be done, Mr Rufus?”

  “Not a lot, Mr Heythorne. Dig a water channel, a wide drainage ditch, parallel to the river and half a mile distant, perhaps, to clear the surface water more quickly – but that would be no small undertaking, and who is to pay for it?”

  Sam shook his head – not him, that was for sure. The Mayor and council might, but that would mean extra taxes, which he had no desire to pay.

  “No, not so fine a notion after all, sir. What else can they do? The mine-owners themselves, that is.”

  “There is talk of atmospheric steam engines, Mr Heythorne, to work water pumps, and that is not impossible, maybe. Newcomen engines, such as already exist in the county, which will drain a pit, so long as it be not too deep. Not dog cheap, one might say, but less costly than seeing a pit shut for being full of water.”

  Sam had heard of engines but had never seen one; he could not imagine that he would have much to do with them in the gin trade.

  “Is all well in town generally, Mr Rufus?”

  “Very much so, Mr Heythorne. You might be interested to know that an inquest was held over the bodies discovered at the Tapper warehouse. Twelve of them, a round dozen, and all were found to have died in the blaze, asphyxiated and burned to death, which was a misadventure – the Crowner brought in ‘Act of God’.”

  Sam was perplexed, not quite understanding how burning might account for bullet holes in the corpses; to his limited understanding, God rarely used a shotgun or pistol.

  “Falling masonry, Mr Heythorne, landing on the bodies after death.”

  “I see. Was that what the doctor reported, Mr Rufus?”

  “Oh yes, Dr Simmonds had no doubts at all that the deaths were all occasioned by natural causes.”

  “No witnesses to say otherwise, sir?”

  “No witnesses at all, Mr Heythorne, being the middle of the night. There were several barrels of spirits in the warehouse, all burned out, naturally, and it seemed most likely that the men were all drunk and set fire to themselves with a careless candle and died in their sleep. Very tidy!”

  “So it is, Mr Rufus. Expensive?”

  “Not at all, Mr Heythorne. The Mayor and Aldermen were pleased to be reassured that there had been no outbreak of criminality in their fair town, and that they needed spend nothing on restoring the reign of law and order. The Crowner himself is one of them, of course. The inquest spent longer on establishing the names of the deceased than on the cause of their deaths.”

  It was Sam’s first close acquaintance with the processes of government in the small towns of England. He realised that it really was none of his business – the way the town was run was the affair of the townspeople, and he lived and worked outside its boundaries.

  “Very convenient, Mr Rufus. There was, of course, nothing to hide, but it is as well that we do not have the Sheriff or his Deputies poking their nose about and interfering with folk going about their ordinary business.”

  “They would not do so, unless ordered to by London, Mr Heythorne. If the suggestion had been made that there was a Jacobite hand in the fire, then there might have been investigation and a desire to hang a few evil-doers, but not otherwise. The question of treasonous doings was raised of course – it is at the front of men’s minds still and traitors are to be found hiding behind every bush at night, or so imagination insists – but it was soon discovered that the Tappers were not of the wrong sort. Indeed, the Mayor was insistent that no Jacobite ever was to be found locally, all here being the most loyal of men. He cried ‘God Bless the King’ more than once in his evidence, while refuting the possibility of traitorous doings.”

  “Quite right too, Mr Rufus. I do not believe I know the name of the Mayor, Mr Rufus?”

  Rufus laughed aloud for the first time in their acquaintance.

  “Oh, but you should, Mr Heythorne! He is Mr Parsons, the landlord of your distillery.”

  Sam could see the humour in that circumstance, but he was not sure it was a matter for laughter.

  “Did the fire spread at all, Mr Rufus? I would not like to think that people living nearby might have been harmed.”

  “No. The walls of the warehouse were of good red brick, very strong – the Tappers not wanting to feel vulnerable. The roof was tiled – no thatch to float burning down the wind. No damage done at all to neighbours, for which we may be thankful.”

  “All for the best, in fact, Mr Rufus.”

  “Very much so, Mr Heythorne. Have you considered the possibility of expanding your trade further, sir? A distillery in another of the local towns, perhaps?”

  “No. It would not work, Mr Rufus. Best to keep within the local area, rather than spend half of my days travelling on bad roads and spreading myself too thin. Supervision, and perhaps quality, would become poor in all three distilleries, and that is a risk I will not tolerate. I had thought perhaps to buy into a local inn, or a hotel in town, as a sensible way of investing my spare cash.”

  Rufus shook his head.

  “Not a good home for your money, Mr Heythorne. In the nature of things, one must ask why an inn or hotel, or even a pottery, might need an investor – and the answer must be because they are in trouble, losing money. Why will that be so? Nine times out of ten, because the existing proprietor is no man of business. Unless you take over the running of the premises, he will still be as incompetent as ever, and will proceed to lose your money as well as his. You will not have the time to spend doing his work for him, I suspect.”

  Sam accepted the argument.

  “No great gain to investing in another man’s business, it would seem. I shall wait to see what the Banfords have to say on their return from Newcastle, Mr Rufus. They may well have some ideas which will occupy my days, and my cash.”

  “The trackways, Mr Heythorne – long in existence in the place where seacoals come from, along the River Tyne. London has taken its winter fuel from those workings for two centuries now and they have conquered the problems of transport.”

  Josh Banford was pleased with all he had discovered. He had introduced himself at mines and docks and had talked to their owners, while Josie had trailed along behind him, as a young girl should, and had made sketches in her commonplace book, as was expected of the gently-born maiden. That those sketches had often partaken of the nature of an engineering drawing had occurred to none of the northern gentry. They had explained all she had seen, delighted at her precocity, amazed that she might be interested – they would not have expected their own daughters to show any understanding of business.

  “Aye, Mr Heythorne, I talked to them and explained that I was looking to exploit a coal seam on my land, in Derbyshire, on the borders with Staffordshire and near to the rich clays where pottery was being fired by the hundreds of tons. They saw that I was no competitor – my coals would never go to London, and theirs could never be transported to Stoke or Stafford. Of a consequ
ence, they were happy to talk and give advice, one gentleman to another.”

  Sam was glad to hear that – he did not doubt that Mr Banford had learned a great deal that would be useful to them.

  “I did, Mr Heythorne. Most especially about their trackways, and their costs, and how to build them. There is an argument, a great debate, at the moment, about the use of iron. I shall explain all, but it will be easier if you first look at Miss Josephine’s drawing book.”

  Sam and Abe were happy to do so, took in the sketches of the old town and harbour and of the old bridge across the Tyne, all very mediaeval in appearance. There were boats of a peculiar sort and many strong brigs of two or three hundred tons.

  “’Keel boats’, they call them, and the brigs are colliers which work the German Ocean south to London. The keel boats are loaded upriver and bring the coals to the colliers and the sea. They load at staithes, the coal being tipped into them from the trackways, which is what is important to us.”

  They looked at the next pictures, fascinated by the simplicity of the invention, wondering when they saw it why they had not thought of that themselves.

  “What sort of wood, Mr Banford?”

  “Cheap deals, Mr Heythorne.”

  There were three different sorts of trackway, they saw.

  The simplest was no more than ruts in a roadway, worn deep and cartwheels fitting, trapped almost, inside them.

  “No good when it comes to turning a bend – the cart has to be heaved out and pulled round to the next set. Straight line only. And they only work through stone – on ordinary ground, the ruts turn to mud. We only saw two like this, next to each other, and no more nor half a mile long.”

  The wooden trackways were made up by carpenters, and must cost money, Sam saw.

  One sort was like a pair of ‘L’ shapes, facing each other, the wheels resting on the flats at the bottom and held in place by the vertical guides, nearly eight inches high, he estimated.