The Killing Man

by Andrew Wareham

  Sam was happy to allow the conversation to be turned, to describe the innovation and invite Mr Parsons to inspect it.

  “The result will be, I much hope, to cut at least a penny from the price of a hundredweight of coals, Mr Parsons, and that can be no bad thing. It will also permit more to be moved while damaging the roads to a far lesser extent.”

  The Corporation paid for the repair of the roads. Mr Parsons was instantly in favour of the innovation and begged to be permitted to inspect it.

  “We are in trouble, Uncle Abe!”

  Sam outlined the conversation he had just had.

  “He knows me, you say? Suggested me as successor to Rufus? I could not do better than Rufus on my own, Sam. There would have to be a man in town, and perhaps three or four to stand at his shoulder and create a proper discipline in the streets. Your Amos could do much of the business from his place in Leek – better that be out of town, in my opinion. But there would have to be a known man in the proper place, one who could be spoken to at any time of day, Sam.”

  “Me?”

  “You, for there is no other to hand. For a year or two, perhaps longer, until you had a deputy to stand in your place. Myself to be the patriarch, in the background, known to a few by name; yourself to be far more visible, held in respect by the many, in fear by the foolish. Mr Parsons already knows you, and he will be able to talk to you, while he must never be seen in my company. It is the only way, Sam. You must open a distillery in Stoke, tucked away where it is not obtrusive, but may be found by any who need you.”

  Sam was persuaded, he must postpone his venture into the coal business and instead accept his responsibilities throughout the local towns. The alternative was to see the authorities trying to take action, and in the process destroy all of those people most likely to do any good. Always best to keep the gentry out of the towns – they did not understand them, it seemed.

  “What of Rufus, Uncle Abe?”

  “I shall speak to him, Sam, and suggest that he goes into retirement. He could buy a small cottage in one of the villages, perhaps, or even go far away to live on the coast in some comfort. He cannot be a poor man, for he has never spent money. He lives on his own, has no wife nor family, nothing to drain his purse. He is no longer a young man, must be pleased to sit back in his old age and enjoy the fruits of his years of labour.”

  “Very good, Uncle Abe. If he won’t do the sensible thing, then I shall just shoot the old bugger.”

  Abe shook his head in dismay; it was the probable outcome, but he far preferred to dress up harsh reality in more elegant terms.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Killing Man

  “We are going to have to do something, and quick, Uncle Abe. I’ve just been given a note asking me to visit Johnny Higby at his foundry, ‘for to discuss a problem what has just come up and will be adding to his costs’. His boy who brought the message implied that it was protection, and at a higher rate than ever before. A new gang, and vicious.”

  “Talk to him, Sam. If it is as you think, then I shall speak to Rufus and make him understand that he must do a lot better, or get out of the way and let another man step in.”

  “He won’t like it, Uncle Abe. Will you be safe on your own with him?”

  “Why ever not, Sam?”

  “He must know that you would be the man to replace him, Uncle Abe. Not too great a step from knowing to doing something about it… He might well put you down on the spot.”

  “Surely not… We have known each other these many years, and I have never known him to lift his hand personally against another. He is one to pay for his killing and beating to be done, Sam, not to perform himself. It is not in him, I think…”

  Abe’s voice tailed off. He sat silent for a couple of minutes, then gave a short laugh.

  “I don’t trust him any longer, Sam, which is not sensible on my part, I agree. I am thinking of betraying him, so I instantly suspect him of turning against me! What a sorry person I must be! But the idea once discovered, it remains strong in me. Come with me if we need to speak to Rufus. I will feel happier with you at my side.”

  “I shall be at your back, Uncle Abe.”

  “Johnny, what can I do for you?”

  “Dunno as anybody can do anything, Mr Heythorne. I got visited yesterday. You sees the sand moulds for your wheels? I left they as they was then they left.”

  Sam blinked and sorted his way through the ‘theys’. Johnny’s rustic dialect reminded Sam of how improved his own speech had become. Nodding cautiously, he looked across at the four moulds set out in front of the furnace, ready for the molten iron to be run. They had been ready, at least. Heavy boots had kicked the sides down, left them useless, two days of painstaking work casually destroyed.

  “Who?”

  “A gang of them, said they was taking over in this part of town, Mr Heythorne, and either I paid up every week or this would only be a start of what they did. Then they laughed and said I’d got a daughter, hadn’t I. Five shillings a week, they said. Put it up in a little bucket, tucked in behind the gatepost, Friday evening after dark, and it would be collected. They said that everybody was goin’ to do the same in the whole area.”

  “You know their names, Johnny?”

  “Chippy next door says that one of them’s the son to Bob Paish, what lives two streets away. Useless bloody object, from all what I heard, never done a day’s work in his life.”

  “I shall pay him a visit, Johnny. For the while, send your girl up to the White Horse with her bag. She can stay there for a few days, out of the way.”

  “I’ll get her mother to walk her up, Mr Heythorne.

  Sam returned to the White Horse, spoke to Abe and then spent the afternoon visiting the six men who had assisted him with the Tappers. Each was happy to spend a few profitable hours with him again.

  Sam picked up the delivery trap and they called at Bob Paish’s house soon after dawn next morning, Sam thinking that his son would not be out of bed at that time of day, not if he was an unemployed layabout.

  Sam knocked on the door, shouldered it open as Paish answered his summons.

  “Where’s your son, Paish?”

  “Whass it to do with you, mister?”

  Sam shoved the muzzle of a dragoon pistol into his belly – big and vicious seeming, much more frightening than a little pocket pistol, though no more deadly.

  “I ain’t asking twice.”

  “Upstairs, in the front.”

  “Pick him up, lads.”

  The house was tiny, two up, two down and a lean-to kitchen tacked on the back; the staircase was flimsy, shuddered under the weight of two men running up.

  The boy had appropriated the front room as his own; his three younger sisters were jammed into the smaller back room, his parents downstairs, out of the way. The two grabbed him from his bed and kicked him down the stairs, rolling him down to the bottom wearing just the shirt he slept in. Sam glanced at his exposed crotch and thoughtfully booted him, not cripplingly hard, just sufficient to double him up.

  “Right, you horrible piece of shit! I need the names of the rest of your gang, and where to find them. Talk now or I start kicking again, and I don’t stop while you got anything left.”

  He burst into tears and talked immediately.

  There were five others, four who were muscle, like the weeping thing on the floor, and one who was the leader, the intellect of the gang.

  They tied their informant and threw him up into the cart and then set out round the streets, picking up the leader first and then the other four. They lived in two streets, side by side, and it took only a few minutes to collect the gang members.

  “Into town, lads, to the Court House.”

  Abe was waiting, as he had arranged, with three magistrates, hauled incontinent from their beds and not at all sure what was happening, mute at his side.

  “Gentlemen, would you wish to seat yourselves on the Bench?”

  Constable and clerk were waiting inside,
pre-warned, and the Court was called to order.

  The six men with Sam were sworn in formally as constables and proceeded to do their duty as officers of the court, hauling in their captives and arraigning them in the dock. The clerk read the piece of paper Sam put in his hand.

  “Six men, Your Honours, charged with affray and with extortion of money by threat.”

  The Chairman of the Bench scowled and ordered the six to name themselves and make their plea.

  Five of them said their name was Smith; Paish was forced to admit his actual name. All six admitted the offences, their leader clever enough to know that ‘Not Guilty’ would send them to the Assizes for full trial and an almost certain death penalty at the conclusion, for it was obvious that the decisions had been taken and they would never secure an acquittal.

  All had been arranged, ‘Smith’ realised, and it was now just a question of saving his neck. He turned his head a little, whispered down the line to shut up, to say not a word, to take what was coming and be thankful it was no worse.

  The Chairman of the Bench glowered mightily as he read the note slipped in front of him.

  “You will be flogged. Fifty lashes. You will then be marched to the town boundaries and will go down the road. If you are seen in or around Stoke on Trent again, then you will be in breach of this court’s order and will go for trial before a High Court judge or to Quarter Sessions, whichever may be convenient.”

  The magistrate knew very well that they would not be seen again. He did not know who had set up this affair, but they would not be satisfied with a mere public flogging, not after going to such lengths as they already had.

  The country was at war and recruits were hard to come by; Abe had arranged for a sergeant and his party to be waiting at the boundary of the borough and they would be in the Army before noon.

  It was market day and there was a substantial audience to watch as the six took their turns at the flogging post; a few cheered as the whip was applied, laid on hard by the newly appointed constables, blood spurting in a spray around them. Sam tried to see who the enthusiasts were, presuming they were early victims of the gang. He spotted Johnny Higby at the edge of the crowd, walked across to his side.

  “Are those the men, Johnny?”

  “They was, Mr Heythorne. Don’t look so proud of theyselves now, singing out and dancing under the lash, do they?”

  “No. Cut them down to size. Nothing like the cat for making that sort feel small. There’s a recruiting sergeant waiting for them as well. They won’t be back bothering us for a few years, if ever.”

  “Good thing too, Master. Do Mr Rufus know what’s going on, sir?”

  “Good question, Johnny. He damned well ought to.”

  Abe came into the market square and joined Sam; together in public, shoulder-to-shoulder, they stood and watched as the six were chivvied into line, and their hands were tied and a cord strung from neck to neck. Sam made a show of asking Abe if all was well and then waved to the constables. The six were driven out of the square, each of the constables with a stick in hand and swiping at the felons to make them trot, despite their flayed backs. The crowd watched in silence, becoming sullen at a level of brutality they considered excessive.

  “They know now, Sam. We will not put up with that sort, or any others like them. If their sons think to misbehave then they will get the same, and they will warn them so over the years. Better far to drive the lesson home on those six animals, Sam, so that there will be none of their kind surfacing in future years.”

  Sam was fairly much convinced; he was not sure he liked what was happening, but it made sense, more or less.

  “What of Rufus, Uncle Abe?”

  “He will have heard of this day’s work, Sam. Leave him to stew. Let him sit and wonder what we are about. Better that he should send a message to us, I think.”

  “It gives him the chance to arrange for something to happen to us, Uncle Abe.”

  “Two of your men to come to the White Horse for a few days, Sam. The others to take it in turns to guard you as you go about your business. I much doubt that Rufus will try to kill us, but they will discourage his people if he does.”

  Four days later a boy arrived at Sam’s office with a note from Rufus, begging Mr Heythorne to pay him a visit.

  “Beg pardon, Master Heythorne, but I took a note to the White ‘Oss, too. The landlord told I to tell you to see ‘im, if you would.”

  Sam found a shilling piece – he had to be seen to be generous to lesser mortals, it went with the position, he believed.

  “Thank’ee, boy. I’ll go now.”

  “Cor, be that a bob, Master? I ain’t never ‘ad one of they afore.”

  “Keep it out of sight in your pocket, boy. They’ll pinch it from you if they see it.”

  “They ain’t goin’ to, Master. Take it ‘ome to mam, so I shall.”

  “Have you walked all the way from Stoke, boy?”

  “Ain’t goin’ to get this far any other way, Master. Better start off again now, be dark afore I gets ‘ome if I don’t.”

  Six miles in each direction, a little more probably, and the boy thankful for the opportunity.

  “Off you go.”

  Sam saddled up, took the horse down to the inn, expecting to go into town with Abe.

  “Go now, Uncle Abe?”

  “Might as well, Sam. We just look silly, petty minded, if we wait till tomorrow. Are you carrying your pistols?”

  “Dragoons in the saddle holsters, Uncle Abe, pocket pistols tucked away in the greatcoat.”

  “Good. I have a single barrel of my own, just a little murderer that hides out of sight in my breeches.”

  They rode the horses quietly into town and directly to Rufus’ pawn shop. There was no sign of any hard men waiting for them in the street. Sam unstrapped the big holsters and hung them over his shoulder – no sensible man would leave pistols unattended out in the roadway.

  “Gentlemen. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  Rufus locked the front door and led them into the back room, Sam taking a quick glance, ensuring it was empty before entering.

  “I will sell for two hundred pounds, Abe. The deeds in your hand and me gone, within two days. The premises and all of my stock, there being no great sense in trying to sell everything off. There is no place for me in Stoke, not any longer. It has not worked out for me and I must not stay.”

  “Where will you go, Rufus?”

  “North, Abe. There is a village south of Fleetwood, on the sea and pleasantly secluded. I shall retire there with your two hundred and more of my own. I cannot be doing with recruiting gangs and running the town and all of that nonsense. I shall quietly disappear, and none to know my going. I wish you luck with it.”

  “Best you should go, Rufus. The town is falling to bits for lack of a strong hand to hold it together. I shall put a man in here, day after tomorrow. I will bring your money to your attorney tomorrow and pick up the deeds then. Goodbye, old friend.”

  Rufus made no reply.

  “Two hundred quid, Uncle Abe, is a lot of money, in some ways…”

  “He will have another couple of thousand, I doubt not, buried in the back yard, probably. He will dig it up to take with him when he gets my money as well. Tom is back from his ride around the country. He can take the two hundred down for me.”

  “A pity to wave farewell to all that cash, Uncle Abe.”

  “As you say, Sam. Could do a lot with that amount of money, Sam.”

  “We could indeed, Uncle Abe.”

  Sam wondered whether Abe was referring to the two hundred or Rufus’ two thousand.

  Abe displayed the deeds next day, handed over by Rufus’ attorney against the two hundred agreed.

  “Shows good faith, Sam. The attorney told Tom that Rufus will give us the keys in the morning, at nine o’clock. I shall send Tom down to collect them.”

  Dawn came at five o’clock on a damp, drizzly morning. Sam watched from the cover of an alleyway as Ruf
us pulled up outside his shop in a one-horse light wagon with a high canvas tilt. He might carry his personal possessions in that, Sam thought, but none of his furniture. Rufus stepped down from the bench, hand to his aching back – he was no longer a young man. He opened the front door, the only door to the premises, turning keys in two locks in the iron grille that protected his valuables. Sam peered and saw Rufus heave a pair of weighty leather bags, one then the other, to the door, ready to carry them out and load up. He left them inside while he brought out another four bags, canvas and leather variously, far lighter and presumably carrying his clothing and a few household effects; he put these directly into the wagon, obviously less concerned for their safety.

  Sam was satisfied with all he saw. He took a glance up and down the narrow roadway and pulled a muffler up over his mouth and nose, tugged his hat down low over his forehead. He ran across the road and into the open door.

  Rufus had a short-barrelled shotgun on the counter, but he was slow reaching for it – he had probably not handled a gun in twenty years. His outstretched hand gave Sam the little justification he needed. Sam thrust the pocket pistol forward, touching Rufus’ chest, pulled the two triggers one after the other, the sound partly muffled by Rufus’ body. There was only a small splash of blood and none splattered Sam’s clothing.

  He let Rufus fall and grabbed a heavy bag and trotted across to the alleyway, dropped it and came back for the other. He pulled the door to behind him and scurried back to his alley and then through it to the road at the rear, taking the bags one after the other to his delivery trap. Five minutes and he was gone.

  He pulled into the yard of the White Horse an hour later, having made a deliberately slow journey, the horse at little more than a walk as might be expected of a delivery man.

  Abe was busy in the barroom, as was normal first thing in the morning with the tables and floor to scrub down and mugs to wash up and empties to clear out to the shed next to the stables.