The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  She nodded, left the room on the instant.

  “Mr Barney – get out of this house, now! Go to the Hall and Mr Quillerson will give you a few sovereigns to help you on your way – you will be nowhere to be seen on this estate by nightfall. Do you understand me?”

  To raise a hand against a Peer of the Realm was a certain death sentence – not even a chance of commutation in such a case – and Alfie Barney was not too drunk to realise that. He walked out, silently, stood outside in the yard, waited five minutes till his mother came outside and threw a bag at his feet.

  “You said you didden care if I was your mother, bloody old gypsy hag that I was! Well, you got it right, boy, I ain’t no mother to the likes of you. If I don’t never see you no more I shall be the ‘appier, now bugger off and be damned to thee!”

  She turned her back, slammed the door on him.

  “Thank you, my lord – if I was a Romany true I’d put a curse on that changeling get, but I wouldn’t know where to start. When do you want us out, my lord?”

  “I don’t, Mrs Barney. I liked your husband and I am sorry he is dead, ma’am. I would wish you to stay in your house.”

  Quillerson was in the back kitchen, talking to Joshua, came through at Tom’s call.

  “All arranged, Quillerson?”

  “Yes, my lord. Joshua will take the tenancy. He has his father’s strongbox – he had a key, his brother did not after money went missing – and will be able to run the farm comfortably, he says. I will help him as he needs, as he knows.”

  “When is the funeral, Mrs Barney?”

  “Still to be arranged, my lord – Alfie ‘ad not bothered ‘is ‘ead with that this morning.”

  “Send me word, when all is known – I shall wish to attend.”

  “A messy business, Quillerson! Will you talk with the other tenants over the next day or two; explain why Alfie is out in the street. I would not like them to think that the same might happen to their boys.”

  “I will, my lord, but they will all know the reason why. They were none of them here this morning, for knowing what sort of welcome they might have received from Alfie, but they will all visit as soon as they have heard what has happened.”

  Alfie made his way to the Hall, snatched the coins he was given, stamped his way out, slamming the door behind him in weak man’s spite. He tramped into Finedon, the hour-long walk giving him a thirst, or so he told himself, and leading him straight to the Mulso Arms, discovering the pub to be shut in respect to his father’s death on the premises. He could not understand why they had done anything so bloody stupid, walked the quarter mile to the other end of the village and into the unnamed beer house there – they sold a better pint but it was a low establishment, not fit for a prosperous tenant farmer to drink in. There were three men in the bar already, nursing the dregs of a pint, unable to afford a second; casual labourers, all three, very poor, single, and not above opportunist theft and occasional poaching, not very good at either. He had money in his pocket and no thought for the future, bought a round in, and then another and a third in short order, found he had spent barely eighteen pence of his fifty sovereigns – nothing to concern him!

  Two hours of drinking and bewailing his fate left him even more full of his grievances, the other customers and the landlord agreeing wholeheartedly while the money kept passing across the counter.

  “I woulden put up wi’ it, Alfie, you got rights, ain’t you!”

  “Don’ matter what me rights are, that scar-faced old bastard got the money and there ain’t sod-all else do count in this country!”

  “And that arse-creeper Quillerson don’t be no better! They’s all out to get the likes o’ we!”

  They nodded and winked and cheered him on, agreeing with all of his insistence that it was none of his fault, they were all against him. By evening he could barely stand and was hell-bent on revenge, would have taken a shotgun to them both, if only he could get at his old dad’s fowling piece, but they had taken that away from him too, probably because they knew just what a dangerous man he was!

  Johnny Peachey had a poacher’s gun, a short twenty bore that had belonged to his grandfather, incautiously mentioned it. There was an insistent demand that he should lend the gun. The landlord shrugged and nodded.

  “Let ‘im ‘ave it, Johnny, ‘e’s too pissed to load it, let alone shoot straight. Anybody says ‘owt, tell ‘em you was drinking with ‘im and took ‘im back to your place when ‘e fell down, you livin’ on your own, and ‘e must ‘ave made off with the gun in the night, you bein’ no more sober yerself. Best thing you can do is sell it to ‘im – if ‘e wants it bad enough ‘e’ll pay through the nose for it.”

  Alfie handed over twenty sovereigns, belligerently demanding if that was good enough, staggered off into the night with the gun and a dozen loads and leaving the more sober landlord with very unpleasant second thoughts and calling hastily for his fourteen year old son.

  “Jimmy! Get yer boots on, boy, and run up to the Hall and knock ‘em up. Front door, don’ go botherin’ with servants at this time o’ night, they’ll be locked round the back. Tell ‘em Alfie Barney’s stolen a shotgun and is comin’ after ‘em, pissed as a fart. Watch out for ‘im as you goes, boy, ‘e won’t be fussy what ‘e shoots at tonight.”

  The boy ran and the landlord turned to his wife as she gathered in used mugs.

  “This way they can’t say we was any part of it, even if me lord do get shot. Tain’t my fault if ‘e gets drunk and as soon as I knew ‘e’d got a gun I called the alarm, see.”

  “Go and tell the constable, George, let ‘im go out with those three soldiers of ‘is, on the chase, like, then we done everything we could.”

  “Right, old gal, makes good sense, like you allus do, lass. I’m off.”

  The ancient constable called his three young helpers to the chase, sent them off to do their duty, the three glad of the excitement - life being very tedious in the village.

  Morton answered the hammering at the front door, calmed the messenger and extracted the gist of the communication, called the boy into the hallway to wait while he found Tom.

  “I am informed, my lord, that Alfie Barney is taken by liquor and has procured a scatter gun, with which he proposes to rid the world of yourself and Mr Quillerson. He is, apparently, on his way here for that purpose, having left the village a little more than an hour ago.”

  “Send the word to Mr Quillerson, please. He is to lock himself indoors, wife and family with him. What sort of shotgun has he? Loaded ball or birdshot?”

  Morton did not know, called the boy to the library.

  “My name be Jimmy, sir, dad do ‘ave the beer house back end of the village, on the Wellingborough road. Alfie’s got a little twenty, sir, and loads for pheasants, sir.”

  “Poacher’s gun, then – he’ll need to be within thirty feet, or less, to do harm with that. You will stay here, young man, until we know all is safe – you do not want to run into him in the dark, drunk and armed as he is.”

  “I come up on the back path by the stream, sir, I could go back that way, it ain’t too dark.”

  “Better not, he might be close to the Hall by now.”

  Tom trotted to the gunroom, loaded his pistols, debated his best course. It was tempting to go out in the dark, hunting – the man was drunk, should be noisy, not difficult to pick up, but there would certainly be shooting if they met and he had no wish to kill any of his own people, not on his own doorstep. Of course, he thought, he could always miss and let Alfie bring his pointless existence to an end – very unfortunate, the children could not see it as suicide, scandal would be slight and he would be at peace. Verity would regard it as cowardice, however, would be distinctly upset – he could not do it.

  Alfie was feeling unwell, had just vomited into the bushes at the side of the Thrapston road – he had been running too fast, he told himself.

  He could not remember whether or not he had loaded the gun before leaving the village – he kne
w that Johnny would have kept it empty in the house. He walked most of the mile remaining before convincing himself that he had not. He crept along the verge of the drive, in the shadow of the beech trees, stopped in a patch of moonlight, pulled out the powder flask and poured in a generous measure – he was not sure exactly what the load was and did not want to put too little in. He rammed vigorously and tipped in one of the brown paper twists of shot, ramming again. He spilt powder into the pan, not noticing that it was full already, that the new priming was falling onto the ground.

  The Hall was brightly lit, the lanterns at the doorway both kindled – Alfie had never been there at night before, presumed it to be normal enough. He did not want to be close enough to be grappled at hand-to-hand so, very cleverly, he thought, he picked up a couple of big stones, threw them, one then the other, at the door, as if someone was loudly knocking.

  The door opened and Tom stood forward, looked about, picked up movement a good thirty yards off at the edge of the circular carriageway.

  It was too dark to take an aim with a pistol, and was close to the random carry of the small scatter gun’s range.

  “Who’s there?”

  If the drunken fool would talk then he might be persuaded to put the gun down. It was worth a try, and attempting to avoid violence would look better when he gave evidence at the inquest.

  Alfie preferred not to identify himself and rather liked the safety of the shadows. He lifted the gun to his shoulder, tucked it close to his cheek to get an aim and stop the barrel from wobbling – the gun was no bloody good, it wouldn’t stay still! He snatched at the trigger.

  The barrel lifted, well away from his target, as the double-charged old breech exploded and blew the right half of his face to shreds. Luckily, it was generally agreed, a larger piece of iron carved its way through his throat, ripped his windpipe open so that he drowned in his own blood within the minute.

  Tom walked across, inspected the still, messy figure.

  “Bloody fool!”

  He went indoors, called to Charlotte and Miss Robinson who had come to the noise that all was well but a bit untidy, they would be better advised not to go outside until all was made clean.

  “Jimmy?”

  “My lord?” Morton had evidently had a word, informed the boy of the correct form of address.

  “Whose was the gun?”

  “Dunno, my lord.”

  “No, nor you should, thinking on it. Go home, tell your father that all is well, that Alfie Barney will cause no more trouble, thank him for the warning. Tell him that enquiries will be made tomorrow about the gun – he will, I have no doubt, think of the best answer between now and then. You might wish to suggest that the owner of the gun will not be pursued if he chooses to leave Finedon, but that he will be lucky not to hang if he stays. Alfie had some fifty pounds in his pocket, I believe?”

  “Yes, my lord – ‘e spent the best part of a sovereign buying beer for himself and everybody who came in, my lord, and handed over twenty for the gun. The rest ought to be in ‘is pocket, my lord.”

  “If you want it, go and get it, young man. It’s yours, if you can do it.”

  It would do the boy no harm to face the reality of violent death, might well teach him a useful lesson.

  “Mine or me dad’s, my lord?”

  “You do the job, you earn the money. If you are worried about keeping it safe, take it to Mr Quillerson in the morning and he will look after it for you. On second thoughts you should stay here tonight in any case – you can sit by the kitchen fire or there may be a bed for you.”

  Morton caught his eye, nodded – there would be a bed.

  The boy took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and marched across to the corpse in the pool of blood, ran his hands quickly through its pockets, came up with the gold coins and a couple of silver shillings and some copper. He gulped the bile back, walked steadily across to the front door.

  “Well done, young man! Have you got any plans for your life? What do you intend to do when you are a bit older?”

  “Go to America, my lord, that’s what they all say. No sense staying ‘ere, my lord, not just to keep a beerhouse. Me brother can do that, fat, lazy bugger, ‘e is.”

  “When you go, come to me first for the price of a ticket. Go off to the kitchens now, get a bite to eat.”

  Tom waited until the boy was out of earshot.

  “Strong lad, that one, Morton. Get the word to the stables to go down to Finedon tonight, tell the boy’s father that he is well and Alfie is dead and that there will be questions asked in the morning. Inform the constable of all that has happened, as well. Also a message to a magistrate – we should keep to the forms, I think, who should it be?”

  “Mr Hunt has recently been appointed to the Bench, my lord, and he is nearer to us than Sir Charles.”

  Morton met Tom’s eye, showed not a flicker.

  “Certainly, Morton – I can think of at least one reason why that is a very good idea.”

  “So can I, my lord.”

  Book Four: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Seven

  “Four months past, Papa, and you are into half-blacks now – it will be correct for us to attend the Assembly in Kettering, though we should not actually dance till six months are gone. Courtesy to our neighbours demands our presence, however. Miss Robinson, being a distant connection, will wear black gloves and may stand for country-dances, though she should not waltz.”

  Tom grimaced. “Must she come with us?”

  “She really should, Papa. Why? Do you not enjoy her company?”

  “Not sufficiently to wish to be coupled with her in public, Charlie! In this matter, possibly solely so, I rather feel that your mother’s wishes cannot be paramount. I do not like the lady enough to wish to raise any expectations in her, or any of the local community.”

  “Good! I am glad, sir. She is in many ways a pleasant companion, but there is a certain abrasiveness to her character that I cannot be at home with. She knows her own mind too well and can be rather forceful in expressing it.”

  “My word, now just who does that remind me of?”

  Tom’s grin was innocent, his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling.

  “Thank you, Papa! I shall have to make very sure that Captain Star does not come to believe he is henpecked!”

  “You are quite right, my dear and two in the family would be excessive – I do not want a down-trodden, obedient young lady who will echo my every word – evidence your mother! But I cannot abide a termagant, either, and I suspect that she would become such before too many years were passed. I do not think I could even stand a wife such as poor old George Mason became possessed of, or by, gentle, kind and loving though she may be.”

  “I know little of her, Papa.”

  “A fine, Christian lady who has given him a pair of strong, healthy and bright children. She keeps house in the best of fashions and I truly believe she has a great affection for George – but she knows better than him what is good for him – at all times!”

  “Oh dear!” She began to giggle, seeing far too much of herself in the good lady.

  “So, our Miss Robinson is not for me, Charlie!”

  “She has a not insignificant portion, Papa – certainly enough to make her attractive to, for example, a local baronet, who, having his title and his patron, must now lay hands upon a suitable lady to provide him with an heir. She is a Masters by connection, after all.”

  “So she is! Can I leave the matter in your capable hands, my dear?”

  Two evenings later saw them in the Rooms – red-brick but embellished with a white-plaster façade in best classical mode – accepting the greetings of the local worthies, bowing to all those who would not present themselves to a peer, seeking the company of Sir Charles Latimer immediately before the first dance was called so that in good manners he had to turn to the ladies of the party for his partner.

  “I do not dance yet, Sir Charles, but our cousin, M
iss Robinson, would be glad to step out, I am sure!”

  Later in the evening the men met at the buffet table, Sir Charles idly commenting that he had not realised Miss Robinson to be related, had assumed her to be a hired companion.

  “Her mother is a Hawker, sister to the current Viscount, and the family thought it better that there should be a relative with Lady Verity, as you will appreciate. Miss Robinson had been espoused to a military man, but he fell in the wars and she retired from fashionable life, indeed, I have never known her to dance before.”

  Sir Charles preened himself – he had never previously known such a reaction in any female, and a Hawker was no ordinary miss!

  They danced again that evening and Sir Charles made a morning call two days later and then found local business early the next week, seeing Miss Robinson quite naturally on each occasion. Both enjoyed equestrian exercise, it transpired and a series of rides followed before Sir Charles came to Tom to enquire whether he might be permitted to pay his addresses to Miss Robinson. Interpreting the question correctly, Tom mentioned that she was possessed of a significant income in her own right, her father having placed her portion into the Funds and made her free of the interest, amounting, he thought to more than six hundred a year. Twenty thousand pounds brought an extra gleam to Sir Charles’ eye. The mother’s income normally was secured to younger sons and any daughters and would be very welcome indeed, leaving aside its obvious day to day advantages.

  The next question was of how he should make contact with her parents, a courtesy only, she was obviously well of age.

  “Miss Robinson will be married before you, by the looks of things, Charlie.”

  “As it should be, Papa – after all, she could hardly dwell in your house in my absence, not at all proper. Will you go to London in April?”

  “Should I?”

  “I think you should, sir – immediately after I wed Matthew, I think you should spend two months in Town, just to see what might eventuate, sir.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “A wedding in September would be entirely convenable, sir, a full year after Mama had passed away. I think you would be far more comfortable then, sir.”