A Killing Too Far

by Andrew Wareham

  “Yes, master. The two best in the stables for ye, sir. A day’s hire, and the groom, master, must come to eight shillings, master.”

  “Let’s see the nags.”

  A pair of well-mannered and not too old riding horses, saddled and ready for the road; Sam nodded his acceptance and produced a crown and three shilling pieces. He thought the price to be high but would not haggle – it would not suit his dignity to argue over a few pennies.

  “We got the wrong buggers, Uncle Abe. Pankhurst was no more than bailiff or agent to one Bottomley, who has lately set up for a gentleman in a great house outside town. That, of course, we did not discover until talking with onlookers in the night as Pankhurst’s store and house burned down, with him and all his still inside. How is Tom, Uncle Abe?”

  Sam thought he must ask, though the answer was obvious. The inn was closed to customers and the shutters were bolted; the curtains were drawn in the house behind.

  “Dead since yesterday evening, Sam. He was injured too much to survive.”

  “As you feared, Uncle Abe. I am sorry, sir. I did not dream that the people from Stafford would offer such unnecessary violence. I cannot imagine why they should have, in fact.”

  “Nor me, Sam. To destroy the carrier of a letter – so foolish a thing! How will they ever be able to talk to us?”

  “They cannot, Uncle Abe, that is for sure. We must watch carefully these next weeks, I fear. The padding groom will tell them where I am to be found – which is why I did not choose to use a stage. They must come to fear us, I think, Uncle Abe. They seem to believe in fear, so they must experience it themselves. I shall speak to our folk in Stoke, warn them to keep a weather eye open for parties of strangers seeking to burn them out in revenge – though how they would ever tell on a Saturday night, I do not know.”

  There had been discussion of a bucket and hook brigade since a group of thatched houses and stores in the town centre had caught alight a fortnight previously. There had been no great wind and the flames had not been able to jump roads or alleys to catch in the next block, but in even normally breezy conditions half of the town on one side of the river might have been lost. Hooks on long poles to pull down burning thatch and buckets of water to extinguish the flames were the traditional answer to town fires, though they rarely actually worked to prevent blazes spreading. Drunken Saturdays were renowned for fires, though why was a matter of some dispute; perhaps people were careless with their pipes when taken in drink, Sam thought.

  The debate had foundered on a number of practical points, such as finding a sufficiency of sober men to actually be safe with the hooks or not to fall in the river and drown when filling their buckets. The idea of hiring men to stand watch on a Saturday had been mooted, but had been shouted down by those burgesses who might have to pay tax to meet their wages; the thought of having to find as much as ten pounds a week had raised the ire of the ratepayers and their representatives.

  Sam came back to the vexed question.

  “How much would a wagon and four horses and a hand pump and water barrel and six men actually come to, Uncle Abe?”

  “With stables and grooming and fodder besides, and perhaps a fund for the women and children of those firemen who died, Sam?”

  He reluctantly agreed that would be necessary.

  “Strong running horses and a wagon – no change from one hundred pounds, Sam. A pump and water and hoses – say twenty? Six men at a pound a week apiece, for we must have reliable working men, not street corner idlers. Stables and groom and fodder – a lot!”

  “Too much, Uncle Abe, for us to foot. The burgesses must demand a Town Rate for so huge an outlay. Can’t be done, sir!”

  “As you say, Sam – impossible. The burgesses would rather take a small chance, as they see it, of losing everything to the flames than the certainty of paying a tax every year. I have heard that there are ‘fire companies’ in London, that will offer to pay for damage done by fire in exchange for an annual sum of money; they have their own fire wagons as well, to save the property of those who pay them. The word, though, is that they sometimes burn down the premises of any who will not pay for their services, or who choose to use another such company.”

  It immediately struck Sam as a profitable idea. Was the White Horse Fire Company to be brought into existence, then there would be a certain source of income, for very few of the wise would refuse their services in their own town. He put the argument to Abe, sure he would see the wisdom of embracing respectability.

  “A Fire Company, Uncle Abe, must be virtuous in the eyes of all beholders. A group of fine men dedicated to the service of their home town. We could give them a uniform, indeed, thus to show that they are soldiers, as one might say, protecting the people from the ravages of untrammelled fire. A small fee is as nothing when compared to the benefits they bring to all, Uncle Abe.”

  Abe was not entirely convinced, worried that there might be practical difficulties.

  “In London, so I am told, fee-payers are given a brass plaque to affix to their walls, in plain sight, so that the fire company shall know they are to be protected. Naturally, if an engine attends a fire and discovers that the plaque is not its own, then it will not extinguish the blaze but will go away again, for having no business there. In our small town, we might attract public opprobrium for so doing.”

  Sam shook his head, a small smile on his thin lips.

  “But, Uncle Abe, how should there be any other fire company in so small a community as ours? There could be but one White Horse and all would be glad to seek its services, paying willingly for the pleasure of accepting our generous aid in their times of distress.”

  Abe had not thought the matter through thoroughly, he confessed.

  “I shall leave the business in your capable hands, Sam. For the while, I am too much distressed by the fate of my poor son, and erstwhile heir, Sam. I shall seek to step back from the demands of our enterprises for a week or two, or perhaps a month, Sam.”

  That was another consideration, Sam realised. Abe’s only son, his only child in fact, was dead. He had no heir of his body and a wife who was, at a glance, beyond the age of producing another, yet still with twenty years in her. Sam wondered whether Uncle Abe had a brother, his possessions in the ordinary way of things being passed down in the male line, if such existed. In the absence of such a natural inheritor then his sister’s family stood to benefit. Sam was third son, but that need not matter too much as he was also Abe’s partner in business, so having, it could be argued, a prior claim to the bulk of his possessions. None of those considerations would count if Abe was to make a proper Will. It might well be appropriate to turn his mind in that direction, in a few months, when the first shock of bereavement was passed; the White Horse was a thriving inn, and Abe’s great new house was an attractive property and he could not be short of funds, tucked away in Martin’s Bank and in his strongbox.

  Sam was not at all sure of the ins and outs of Wills, and Testaments too, he recalled. Better he should confer with Josie, and perhaps with her father – they would know more of such matters of law and attorneys and such.

  “Best I should make my way home and leave thee to thy grief, Uncle Abe. Shouldst thou need aid in anything, call and I shall come to thy side, sir.”

  Tragedy and mourning demanded the most formal of language, as a sign of respect. Sam was not wholly at home with the tongue of grief, but he was obliged to give it his best try. Josie would tutor him, would ensure he knew how to comport himself at the solemn interment – and that was a point, he must be present and properly attired.

  “When is Tom to be laid in the ground, Uncle Abe?”

  “On Thursday, Sam. The rector will bury him here in Leek. The crowner had thought to hold an inquest, but I have been able to persuade him that is not necessary.”

  And quite right too, Sam believed – what business had a crowner interfering in the affairs of his betters?

  “Has the word been passed in Stoke, Uncle Abe?”r />
  “I have sent the ostler into town to speak to those who must know and will in turn tell all who wish to attend.”

  The funeral would be a parade in effect, the followers and clients and customers of Abe and Sam massed in strength, to be seen, and assessed no doubt, by others who might be interested in their affairs.

  “The burial on Thursday and today is Tuesday, Sam!”

  Sam could not understand the panic in his lady’s voice.

  “We must be dressed in our blacks, Sam! In our best! No time to visit tailor or dressmaker, we must make do with what is already in our wardrobes, but all must be refurbished, brushed and pressed and brought to seem new, even if it is not. Lucky indeed I am not increasing and needing to let out at the belly! As for you, Sam, you are not spreading yet, despite my feeding you up as best I can! The suit of clothing you wore to my poor brother’s obsequies will do yet, Sam. I would that I had jet beads, or a proper mourning brooch, but neither is to hand. We must prepare ourselves for the need, Sam, for folk die with a remarkable frequency these days, you know.”

  Sam had been married long enough to know the proper reaction to Josie’s words.

  “Yes, my love. You are right, I do not doubt. I must polish my best shoes, and put a shine on the buckles. For the moment, business demands that I ride into town. Are we to borrow your father’s gig or should I hire a closed carriage from the livery while I am there?”

  “A carriage with two horses and a driver and a mute in black to sit at his side, and black plumes as well, and crape ribbons to display our grief as close relatives, all of that would not come cheap, Sam. If it is to be done, it must be thorough, Sam, for half a job will reflect badly on us… better the gig, perhaps, of which nothing is expected.”

  Sam shook his head; they must make a proper show.

  “Four horses would be better, Josie. I shall go to the livery immediately, before we can be forestalled, for he will have but the one coach and few driving horses spare.”

  “Four guineas, Master Sam, and so low as that only for the love of thee, sir.”

  It was a huge sum, Sam reflected, and mostly for display, to demonstrate that he was a powerful figure, a great man of the locality. He could not afford not to pay the price now that he had asked it; if he backed out, it would soon be known that Master Sam could not find four guineas to mourn for his cousin.

  “To Mr Banford’s, for first thing in the morning.”

  “Aye, sir. All of the finest, too. A mute to sit beside the driver and a pair to walk behind the coffin. Part of the service, sir.”

  Sam made his way into the centre, to the location of the most expensive of the few dozen shops of the town. There was a jeweller, just the one, serving the local County and the merchants more often; if he bought from a pawnbroker, it would become known and would be seen as slightly discreditable – not quite respectable. Being a villain, it was important that he should pursue respectability.

  “Mourning, sir? Ah, yes, sir. The son of the White Horse, sir, a terrible affair, sir, I venture to suggest. In jet, sir, of the finest from Whitby, a brooch, intaglio, of a female figure, in weeds, draped elegantly over a sepulchre. Very fine, sir, at twelve guineas, sir.”

  Sam winced and paid up. There was no choice, literally; he could not ride to Birmingham and back in the available time, and no lesser town would have anything better.

  Josie approved – grief must be displayed properly.

  “The funeral is of the highest importance, Sam. The poor departed soul must be shown all respect. I must be seen, and heard, to weep bitterly, and a tear or two would do you no harm, Sam.”

  “Splash a little water from a hip flask, perchance, my dear?”

  “No, shockingly overt, Sam! You might wish to rub a half onion on your pocket handkerchief, however, to supply the need.”

  It was an appealing thought; the dishonesty could be amusing.

  “I think not, my dear. I might wish to wear the breeches upon another day and an odour of onion about my nether parts could occasion surprise.”

  She giggled, and then told him to be serious – funerals were not the place for levity.

  “Very true. What do you know of the laws of inheritance, Josie? And of Wills, and such?”

  “Little, Sam… Ah! Your poor Uncle Abe is deprived of the natural heir of his body, is he not. You have elder brothers, Sam. Two of them, besides your dear father, of course. It would be as well to consult Papa – he must have knowledge of such matters, they being relevant to his case, after all, having no son to follow him.”

  Banford knew all about inheritance, he said.

  “In the male line, first and foremost, applying rigidly when it be a title, of course. Not relevant to us, but a baronetcy or lordship may fall even to a distant cousin on occasion. A Will is the best course rather than leaving all to the chance that a forgotten gentleman, descended from a grandfather perhaps, may appear from the blue and claim every last penny. The entail exists, but not for our sort of people; its rules do not apply in our case. While the Will does not disinherit an obvious, close, heir who has a claim to land for having worked it, as an example, then the possessor of the property may leave all where he wishes. He does not have, for example, to gift his monies and land to the eldest of a family, or to the males.”

  “Thus Sam’s Uncle Abe has a degree of freedom in leaving his all, Papa?”

  “Very nearly absolute, my dear. He would wish to leave a provision for his lady, no doubt. Otherwise, he would be wholly free to do as he wishes. He might choose to leave his property to the church, or to some other good works, with none to say him nay. He could divide his estate between old friends rather than relatives. He might leave all to a favoured individual.”

  It seemed to Sam that he would be wise to remain in Uncle Abe’s favour.

  The funeral was most satisfactory in Sam’s opinion. The cortege consisted of four closed carriages and a dozen of open gigs, a very satisfactory train of vehicles proceeding at walking pace from the White Horse and down to the village. Uncle Abe had hired mutes as well as those Sam had provided. The mutes were all unemployed in the ordinary way of things, looked naturally lean and underfed and properly grim, six in total in ostentatious black misery, a living reminder of mortality, most impressive, the villagers thought. Sam had bade Nick to whisper in their ears that absolute sobriety was expected on this occasion; just rarely there had been instances of the mutes toppling dead-drunk into the grave and lowering the tone of the funeral, but Nick would have made very sure that would not happen today.

  The church was full, at least a hundred of men from Stoke who had walked the miles to be present, to display their loyalty to their patron. The bulk of the villagers from Leek stood at the graveside, making a great crowd to see Thomas on his way. Few had known the young man and of those not many had a good word to say for him; they had come to express their loyalty to Abe and Sam.

  They ate the vast meal provided and drank the beer and gin set out and disappeared quietly homewards by mid-afternoon.

  “A satisfactory display, Uncle Abe. Did you note any absent faces?”

  Sam was concerned that Bottomley might have suborned some of their people in Stoke.

  “No. the great bulk of our people spoke to me after the interment, Sam. Almost none of any importance missing. One or two, indeed, sufficiently unwell in themselves that they could have stayed at home in all honesty but made the effort to show willing. I did not see the Irishman, Malone, but he must be the sole absentee, and he may have been taken ill.”

  “Satisfactory, it would seem, Uncle Abe. We must now wait, hoping that nothing will happen.”

  “For how long, one wonders, Sam?”

  Sam’s parents had come to the funeral, duty-bound. His father wanted to know what and who.

  “Thomas had fallen out with people in Stafford over a matter of business, father. The how and why of it is unclear to me still – and I suspect, not to be mentioned aloud, that Thomas had sailed close to the
wind in his dealings with them. Neither I nor Uncle Abe know all that he was involved in, father. He was given a beating, and was marked up, deliberately, so that he would carry scars for all of his life. I suspect they went further than they intended, not expecting him to die as he did, not realising him to be somewhat frail of body. Be that as it may, we know too little to be sure that this is the end of the affair. We must wait and see.”

  They were not satisfied, knowing nothing of such dealings, but asked no more.

  “How are you faring at home, father?”

  “Well, Sam. The extra land is paying a good few pounds into my purse each year, and the boys and your sisters are making their share from the dairy, and from chickens as well now. Besides eating well, I doubt not that I shall see one hundred guineas this year, Sam. Better than ever I had expected in all my life.”

  “Hard work, no doubt.”

  “Sunup to sundown, but that is farming, Sam. The work is never ending, but honest and true.”

  Sam shrugged – he would clear more than twenty times as much on his year and had every expectation of doubling that again in the not-so-distant future. For less work as well.

  “I am glad you are doing so well, father. Our little concern down here is paying me a good living. We are doing well as a family.”

  “Except that Abe has no family left, Sam.”

  “The Lord giveth…”

  “And the Lord taketh away. You are right, Sam, and we are not to query the workings of Providence. A pity, even so. I believe Abe has no brothers or sisters of his own, Sam – neither kith nor kin in the land of the living.”

  “I do not know for sure, father but I believe mother to be his sole living relative now.”

  “So be it, Sam. The White Horse must pass on somewhere…”

  “It must indeed, father.”

  Chapter Six

  A Killing Too Far

  “Liverpool, Uncle Abe, or Bristol, or even, just possibly, Glasgow? Which would be best for our purposes?”