The Killing Man

by Andrew Wareham

  Abe reluctantly agreed.

  “Tom would never do well in that trade, Sam. They would see him as a weakling, one to be pushed into paying high and not querying quality. Truth be told, Sam, there’s not much backbone to the boy - he would damned soon be buying brass for gold, for being too nervous to argue!”

  Sam could not but agree. Tom was growing up to be a poor imitation of a man.

  “Has he made any mention of what he wants to do with himself, Uncle Abe?”

  “Never a word, Sam. Content to sit in the back room or walk the horse and cart into town for me. The effort he had to put in with the coals very nearly exhausted him, he told me. It was dirty as well, which he did not like. He had to fill the wicker baskets and lift them about; he has no wish to do that again, I believe.”

  “Might be an idea to have a word with him, Uncle Abe. If he ever comes to taking over the White Horse, he’ll need to start working for his living. It will come as a shock to him when he finds out just how much you do.”

  Abe spoke to Sam a few days later.

  “I had a long talk with Master Thomas yesterday, Sam. A discussion, you might say, touching upon his future and exactly what he proposes to do to earn a living. To cut the story short, Sam, when he had recovered from the shock of discovering that I actually expected him to pay his own way, he was not best pleased. He had rather fancied the life of a gentleman of leisure and is not at all sure that he knows anything about working, as such. He might like ‘something with horses’, he thinks. But not as an ostler. The first thing I can think of is to put him on as a delivery driver, if you will take him, Sam.”

  “No, Uncle Abe. My two carts are known now. People know what’s tucked away in the back and some few must be thinking about stopping one of a dark morning. They don’t do it because they know that I’ve got men who was soldiers sat on the bench, and they got bangers tucked away against the need. My two drivers look like what they are, Uncle Abe, hard men. What do you reckon Tom would look like sat up holding the reins?”

  Abe knew the boy would be no more than a target.

  “He’d be dead within the week, Sam. You’re right. I should have thought of that. What do you suggest?”

  Sam had nothing to offer, could not imagine anything the boy could do.

  “All of the jobs I have demand reliable men, Uncle Abe. Watching a still and running off the bottles is no job for a man who won’t stay awake and alert. Even scrubbing out after a mash and readying the next needs a man who will be thorough – for a bit of dirt, of old mash rotting in the bottom of a still, might be enough to turn the batch to poison. I have nothing for him, Uncle Abe.”

  Abe reluctantly came up with his only alternative.

  “I could use him to make the delivery down to my friend in Birmingham, Sam. I pick up bits and pieces of silver and oddments of gold - rings and such – and the occasional watch or snuffbox which I need to sell on. There is an old acquaintance of mine down in Brummagem – you don’t need to know his name - who takes them off my hands and moves them in his own pair of jewellery shops, distant from here. I could send Tom down on horseback, and he could possibly move stuff along to other towns, delivering for my friend as well, making a big circle through the Midlands of England over a week or so. All he has to do is walk the old nag along, quietly like.”

  Sam tried to keep a straight face as he replied that he thought Tom might be good at that.

  “Which is to say that he’s no damned use for anything else that’s more like working for a living, Sam. He probably won’t like having to look after himself for a week at a time, but he can get off his good-for-nothing backside and start to pay for the food he eats.”

  Tom blamed Sam when he was forced out of idleness; life had been easier before Sam came upsetting things, he said.

  Sam said nothing but suspected he might have to watch his back in future. Thinking on the matter, Tom had already sent the three villains up to his bothy by the pit, he was almost certain – there was no trusting the boy, that was for sure.

  He watched Tom ride out on his first trip, waved a hand to him, turning with his greatcoat open so that the butts of his pistols showed between the flaps – just a discreet warning, he thought. He made his way up to the distillery on Parson’s land, stopped his own driver as he left on his morning delivery.

  “I’ve had warning that things are getting a bit out of hand in town, Maurice. Watch your back. Talk with people you know, see if you can pick up any word. If needs be, we can put up a guard to sit next to you for a few weeks.”

  “Might be, Master Sam. I were thinking of ‘aving a natter with thee about what I heard one way and another. There’s folks what know I carry a shooter under the bench, and they might be inclined to cut loose at me from behind without sayin’ nowt first. Might be an idea to ‘ave a second man aboard, sat in the back and lookin’ out over the tail. Doubt it will come about this week, for they are no more nor thinkin’ just at the moment, and most of they sort thinks bloody slow! But, just maybe, within a few days, Master Sam.”

  “Go out today, if you’re happy it’s safe. I’ll find a soldier by morning.”

  Maurice geed up the horse and set off, alert to his surroundings but within reason satisfied he was not likely to be shot yet. Sam went into the barn, to confer with Amos.

  “We need two guards, one for each cart, Amos. Soon as can be. Soldiers will be best, men who’ve been up the hill and over the mountain. Pay will be high. Carrying long gun, horse pistols and sabre, sat in the tray and looking over the tail for back shooters.”

  “By when, Master Sam?”

  “Today?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “First thing?”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “Good. I need a wideawake man, Amos, to sit in a small shop in Leek and make all sorts of customers welcome, buying as well as selling, so that they don’t go to the White Horse no more.”

  “Ah! I heard Mr Makepeace was becoming a busy man, Master Sam. What sort of shop have you in mind?”

  “An ironmongers, perhaps? Maybe carrying a gun or two beneath the counter? For hiring out?”

  “Paying, Master Sam?”

  “Maybe five quid in a week. Say three and a cut on anything besides? Three parts to us, one to you on the profits?”

  “That will do me, boss. Living in?”

  “If I can buy the right little place, for sure. Rooms for you and a missus, if I can lay hands on them. No rent, out of course.”

  “Just give me the word, Master Sam, and I shall have me traps packed. Young Jarge can take over from me on the stills. Clever sort of youngster, that one. Got a head to ‘im.”

  “You tell him, Amos. Better he reckons he owes you a favour or two. Might be I shall move on from here, as soon as we have the trackway in place, so I shall need a sensible man to keep an eye on things. If you have a man who looks to you, it will make it easier for you to run things for me.”

  Sam had decided that he must bring his people closer to him – rather than just being wage labourers, some of them must feel obliged to him. Starting with Amos, they could between them bring half a dozen men in as confederates as much as employees, almost in the same way that the men in Wakerley’s Troop had looked after each other as well as obeyed orders.

  Abe intercepted him as he came back from the distillery.

  “Message from Josh Banford, Sam, begging that you might call this morning. His boy’s going, I think, and wants to farewell you for some reason.”

  Sam could not imagine why that might be.

  “So his man said when he brought the message, Sam.”

  “I’ll go now.”

  Miss Josephine was waiting as Sam dismounted.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr Sam. My father is sitting with Charles, asked that you come straight upstairs.”

  Sam passed his cob over to the lad, presumed so far as to take Josie’s arm as she walked beside him. She relaxed against him, glad of comfort and warmth.

  �
��I do not think he has long, Sam.”

  Sam noticed the lack of formal title and all that it implied.

  “I shall try to comfort him, if I can, Josie. Then, afterwards, as soon as is proper, I would wish to speak with you?”

  She managed a smile and nodded.

  He was committed now and told himself he had no regrets – she was a fine young lady. That was for another day, however; for the while he must compose himself for a deathbed.

  Josie led him into her brother’s room, over-hot and smelling of illness, windows tight closed and a coal fire in the little hearth despite the season.

  “He feels cold, needs the warmth.”

  Josh Banford rose and shook Sam’s hand, waved him to the head of the bed. Charles was awake, but as white as if he was already dead, spoke in a whisper.

  “Hullo, Sam, old fellow! Thank you for coming.”

  “I am glad to have had the chance…”

  “To say farewell? I am glad to have known you… Look after little Josie, won’t you, Sam.”

  “I shall. You need have no fears for her, Charles.”

  A deathbed pledge. There had been little choice previously, was none at all now; he was committed for his whole existence, could not conceivably break his word given to a dying man.

  “Good. I was sure you would. It is a comfort to know for certain… Look after the old house, Sam… Goodbye now, old fellow.”

  Charles tried to raise his arm to shake hands but lacked the energy; he started to choke, coughed up a gout of blood and collapsed into death.

  Sam touched the artery in his neck, found it still.

  “He is gone, Josie, Mr Banford.”

  Both began to weep and Sam backed out of the room, giving them privacy in their grief.

  The housekeeper met him at the foot of the stairs.

  “Mr Charles has departed, Mrs Cumber. Can you set the arrangements in hand?”

  “Got a coffin ordered up, sir. Vicar was supposed to be ‘ere, but they got others dying in town, for the scarlet fever coming around again. I’ll send the boy and fix a day for the service, sir.”

  “Well done. I shall wait for Mr Banford to come down.”

  “Aye. Poor man, ‘e’ll need somebody to talk to. And Miss Josie. Six months in blacks for a brother, sir.”

  “I know, Mrs Cumber. A wedding soon after, I hope.”

  “Good. That will please the poor lass, seeing as ‘ow she’s got her heart set on thee, sir. Mr Banford will be happy too.”

  “So shall I be, Mrs Cumber.”

  “I’ll wet a pot of tea, Master. They’ll both be better for a cup, and thee too.”

  Nothing could be said until the funeral, and little for days thereafter, but in good time Sam sat down with Josh Banford and presented him with a sheet of paper outlining the profits of his business.

  “You have an income of the better part of four hundred pounds, Mr Heythorne, and with the expectation that it will grow. Do you expect to take a deal more coal from my pit as soon as the trackway is working?”

  “No, Mr Banford. I hope to come out square on that enterprise. To be honest, sir, it is no more than a trial, to see if the whole idea is sensible. If it is, then one day I would expect to build a trackway from a new pit to an established and large set of pottery kilns or a foundry even.”

  Mr Banford shook his head, ironmasters did not smelt with coal.

  “They do over in Shropshire, somehow, sir, having turned their coals into some different form of charcoal, so we are told. When that is more commonly known, then there will be a great increase in the use of coal, and I will be to the fore, with good fortune. For the while, the winters will be warmer locally for having coals to burn.”

  “You are looking to the future, I see. Not a bad thing, Mr Heythorne. I approve. I shall write my Last Will and Testament, as I pledged. On my death, or on my dotage if I should fall into decay, then the estate shall pass into the hands of my Josephine’s oldest boy, the income vested in her until he is of age. As the husband has the use of his wife’s income, then it will be yours, free of encumbrance, until you have a son of one and twenty years. That, of course, is to assume that you will marry Josephine.”

  Sam grinned, said that was his intention and he hoped it was still hers.

  “When her six months in full blacks is over, sir, then I would wish to stand at the altar with her. Not merely for the pledge I made her brother, I would add.”

  “You have my permission, and I believe you will easily obtain her consent. I think you might well speak to her today, in fact – although it might be seen by some as early. There is no harm in your paying your addresses, despite her blacks. Will you live in this house?”

  Sam had given no thought to housekeeping, apart from a vague awareness that he should not continue at the White Horse.

  “Would it inconvenience you if we were to do so, sir?”

  “No. The house is great enough for you to have rooms separate from mine, for you will need some privacy. Better you should dwell here than in town. Josephine is a country girl, used to fresh air and open expanses, and you do not have the cash spare to buy or build new out of town.”

  “I shall speak to Josie and be guided by her, sir.”

  Abe congratulated Sam on his decision but was far more concerned about the state of the town.

  “Rufus is losing his grip, Sam! There are small gangs going their own way, owing allegiance to none, and wild in their behaviour as a result. Some of the largest merchants in town have been inconvenienced, their houses broken into, business incommoded. The upright man is expected to ensure that his people do not tread on the wrong toes, and Rufus is not doing his job. There have been complaints made to the mayor and burgesses, and word has reached the Lord Lieutenant of the Shire that all is not well in the area. There will be a battalion of Militia posted upon us if something is not done, and soon, and that will be little short of disaster.”

  Militia commonly enforced the law by shooting any man – or woman and child if they were in the wrong place – who might be criminal. Criminality normally was shown by malicious poverty; by living in the wrong part of town; by being obviously unemployed; by sneering at the militiamen and running away from them; by displaying arrogant contempt in not running from them; by being in the wrong place at any time. In the nature of things, the Militia often shot the petty criminal, and even more commonly the unfortunate and foolish. They very rarely had any effect on the professional thief or burglar who had the sense to keep well clear of them.

  Militiamen were commonly light-fingered as well, particularly when in the vicinity of pubs or bottle shops.

  Bringing in the Militia was to be avoided, was normally ordered by the wealthy who lived outside of the unfortunate town experiencing disorder and who would measure success by the number of corpses displayed and rounds fired.

  “What is to be done, Uncle Abe?”

  “I’m damned if I know, Sam!”

  Jarge called Sam out of his little office one bright morning.

  “Visitor for thee, master.”

  Casual callers were not entirely welcome in an unlawful distillery and Sam made good speed to the door, finding Mr Parsons waiting there.

  “Good morning, sir. A fine morning too!”

  “So it is, Mr Heythorne. Perhaps you would care to take a turn with me in the sunshine, sir.”

  They walked along the lane, Parsons choosing to go towards the moors, well distant from traffic or possible ears.

  “I am deeply worried, Mr Heythorne, at the condition of my town.”

  Sam recalled that Mr Parsons was mayor, a position almost without effective power, but making him as it were the figurehead of the town. If order broke down, the Lord Lieutenant would ask him to explain why, and might then dump a battalion upon him. The mayor and burgesses would, among other things, have to provide, and pay for, billeting, always costly. If Horse Guards, in command of the Army, chose to send a regiment of cavalry rather than Militia, then the cost cou
ld be very substantial – fodder and stabling for upwards of four hundred horses not easily or cheaply found. In effect, the authorities would punish the local worthies for losing control of their people.

  “I am also disturbed, Mr Parsons. As a man of affairs, I cannot wish to see my deliveries stolen, my people assaulted, possibly killed.”

  “Something, Mr Heythorne, must be done!”

  Easily said, Sam thought, but not simple of achievement.

  “My acquaintance, Captain Wakerley, is resident in his local estate just at the moment, Mr Heythorne. When paying him a visit, I naturally mentioned the sad state of the town, and that the gentleman, if such he may be called, who might be expected to have all in hand seemed most ineffective. It seems, in fact, that it would be only appropriate to replace the fellow… Captain Wakerley made mention of you as one who could take drastic action when the need arose, saying in fact that he was under some considerable obligation to you, though not specifying exactly why.”

  Parsons was proposing that Sam should remove Rufus, it seemed. That could best be done by killing him, but he would never say the actual words, that was a certainty.

  “The Corporation – the mayor and burgesses – would find themselves in an equal state of obligation to the man who relieved their minds of their current worries, Mr Heythorne.”

  “No doubt they would, sir. I must point out that was the existing upright man to, shall we say, step down from his post, it would be essential to replace him. The new man would by necessity be already known, a figure of respect; he could not be a young outsider, sir.”

  “Very true, Mr Heythorne. A more senior man, possibly, as an example, the landlord of a respected inn would be the ideal figure.”

  Sam winced; he must warn Uncle Abe that he was known to the authorities.

  “I understand that there is a new venture going forward on Mr Banford’s land, Mr Heythorne. Some sort of thing referred to as a ‘trackway’, I believe?”