A Killing Too Far

by Andrew Wareham

  Sam applauded his father’s ambitions, wondering the while whether his rather slow brothers would be able to maintain it.

  “Land be going to young Fred, Sam, by my Will what I got the attorney over to Derby to write out for me. Paid for and attested proper as all will see. Fred gets the house and the acres. His brothers ‘ave each got a good cottage, and a wife inside it, and will work for their new master, as is only right, for they neither of them got nothin’ worth talking about between their ears. T’aint as if we was gentry what got to give all to the eldest even if ‘e do be thick as two short planks. Fred will look after ‘is brothers, and find work someplace for their boys, and make sure ‘is sisters ‘ave a quid or two in their pockets if they go to get wed, as well as what they makes for themselves from the chicken and the ducks and geese, as is proper. I shan’t be ‘ere to see it, for I ain’t no spring chicken meself, but the family be going up in the world, Sam! Now, tell me, just ‘ow be you getting on down in the big town, our Sam?”

  Sam told him, explaining that he was to inherit from Josie’s father, as he knew, and that he was earning the better part of five thousand a year from the gin and his new coal mines and by assisting his Uncle Abe.

  “I am heir to the White Horse as well, for my Cousin Thomas having died, as you know.”

  “Bad business, that were, Sam. Did you ever find out the rights and wrongs of it?”

  “Between us, we did, Uncle Abe and myself. We dealt with the miscreants who brought about Thomas’ death.”

  “Better they should have stood before a judge at Assizes, Sam. Then they could ‘ave been hanged as what is proper.”

  “Courts of law are not for the likes of us, old man. Judges are for men with money and fancy names – we look after our own.”

  That was obviously true, even though it was not the way things should be.

  “Got no liking for you killing and burning out those you reckon are no friends to you, Sam. I did ‘ear just about what ‘appened in Stafford, and ain’t at all sure it’s right, boy. ‘Do unto others as ye would be done by’, that’s what I say. Won’t find it in the Bible, but it’s a rule to live by. No matter! It’s over and done and it’s what you thought to be right at the time. Can’t change it now. Tell us about my grandsons. Missus, do you come in from the kitchen and listen too!”

  Sam did not like to take his father’s orders and could not but feel that his ambitions were petty. To take over from the squire in a couple of generations seemed a very limited aim compared to his own desire to make a grandson into a lord, a Peer of the Realm, no less.

  He returned after three days of inspecting the fields and enjoying a couple of beers of an evening while trying to talk to his old neighbours and rabbiting companions. The evenings had been especially hard as the young men he had once seen as close friends now had nothing for him – they were small farmers and he was, in their eyes, a rich townsman with no interest in common with them.

  Banfords was a quiet, subdued household with an unfamiliar gig in the stable yard

  “My father, Sam, retired to his bed as normal on Tuesday night but has not come downstairs since. He was found on the floor beside the bed, as if he had fallen when rising. Doctor Keith tells me that he has suffered a seizure of the heart and shows every sign that there will be another, which he will not likely survive. He is here now and will tell you more, no doubt.”

  Sam knew the doctor to be an old-fashioned gentleman, one who would not trust the lady of a house with any unnecessary information. He waited a few minutes for him to come downstairs and begged him to take a seat in his working room.

  “It is past noon, doctor. Could I persuade you to take a glass?”

  The doctor would never drink in the morning, believing it to be bad for the constitution.

  “A nip of gin and water, if you would be so good, Mr Heythorne. It clears the tubes I have found.”

  What the tubes were, Sam did not know, but he did know to provide a rummer that was long on gin and short on water.

  “Now, Mr Heythorne, you will want my opinion of your father by marriage. It is not good, I fear. He has had one heart attack and shows a high colour and a restlessness of the constitution that makes another almost a certainty. He is enfeebled, sir, and was, in my opinion, fortunate to survive the first seizure.”

  “A second will kill him, you say, Doctor?”

  “Almost for sure, Mr Heythorne. I am treating him with foxglove tea, but only the weakest of infusions, for I dare not present a strong dose to a man of his fragile habit of body. The foxglove – digitalis, as we medical men know it – is a powerful medicine and has been known to kill rather than to cure.”

  “So, sir… if you do not treat him, he will have a heart attack and certainly die. And if you do treat him with foxglove sufficient to prevent the heart attack, what then?”

  “The digitalis may possibly stimulate his heart to such an extent that it will fail, having been damaged by the first attack and by his general weakness of body. So I must attempt to tread a careful line, neither too little nor too much. I doubt I can succeed, sir.”

  “Then you shall do your best, as I know you will, Doctor. At least, you can make him comfortable in his last days, sir.”

  “I can, Mr Heythorne, but it is more like to be hours, I fear.”

  Sam could do no more than try to comfort his wife and children, and wait patiently, which he was not very good at.

  “We should send for the vicar, Sam.”

  Sam knew his lady wife was in the right, but he had no love for the cloth, was unwilling to call one of the fraternity into his house. There was no choice, however, if he was not to scandalise the neighbourhood. He sent the groom off to demand the instant presence of the reverend gentleman.

  “Who is the current vicar, Josie?”

  His wife went to church every Sunday, feeling it incumbent upon her to show an example to the local folk.

  “Another curate, for the rector, who lived in Derby, dying just two years ago, you remember, Sam, and the living in Leek purchased by the rector in Stoke, the Reverend Smart. He holds the two livings now and is said to be looking for another purchase to further fatten his pocket.”

  “I would not have thought Leek to be so rich, Josie.”

  “Possibly as much as three hundred pounds a year from tithe and glebe, Sam. He pays the curate his sixty pounds and the rest comes into his clutching hand. He will have laid out something in the nature of two thousands for the living – which can only be purchased by a clergyman - and will take a return of about twelve per centum – which is usury by any name!”

  “Not entirely desirable for a churchman, I believe.”

  “Wicked, Sam! Sufficient that if there was an alternative to the Church, I should cleave to it. But there are no congregations of dissenters in our little neighbourhood, Sam.”

  “Perhaps as well, my dear. There can be no disorder between church and chapel if the latter do not exist.”

  That seemed both reasonable and obvious to Sam – they wanted no religious arguments on their streets.

  “Perhaps. I shall make tea for the curate and provide him with beef and bread as well. He will enjoy few such comforts in the ordinary way of things.”

  The curate arrived on foot two hours later; he could not afford a gig on his income.

  Josie led the young man upstairs to perform his clerical duties, brought him down a while later, reporting her father to have been in a doze the whole time.

  “He was not really here, Sam. I do not believe he was aware of the presence of Reverend Summerhaye.”

  The curate agreed that the poor old gentleman was only barely still in the land of the living.

  “I much fear that he will not be here in the morning, ma’am, sir.”

  Josie wept quietly while Sam merely looked uncomfortable.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, ma’am. We must give our thanks to the Lord that he shows his mercy to those whose lives have come to an end. Better
perhaps to fade away than to drag on a life of pain and anguish.”

  They agreed, as they must, and sat the curate down to a substantial high tea, feeding him more than he was used to, they were sure.

  “I see few of your colliers in church of a Sunday, Mr Heythorne. In fact, I think I could say that none come down the dale to attend Divine Service as would be best for their future salvation, and indeed a comfort to their lives on Earth.”

  “Pitmen and religion do not seem to mix, Reverend. I cannot order them to church on their one free day of the week. I know that most turn their hands on a Sunday to the heavy labour of their gardens, for every one of the cottages they dwell in has a garden on the moorside behind it, the men at liberty to till all of the land they can bring in. It is not the best soil but can be improved and persuaded to yield a good crop of roots or beans, to the great benefit of their families. Some few of the men spend their Sundays in the beerhouses instead, I fear, but about that I can do nothing, much though I deplore the excesses of alcohol in the ordinary folk.”

  Reverend Summerhaye showed his most earnest face, which was not a very prepossessing sight, Sam thought, The gentleman was still young, in his early twenties, and somewhat underfed, his countenance thin and lined and his teeth particularly poor, crooked and one at least showing blackened. His lank, mid-brown hair would have benefitted from cutting, and showered dandruff on his clerical bands. His eyes were a watery bloodshot blue, so much so that Sam suspected the Reverend might be one of his own customers, a friend to the gin bottle.

  The curate joined Sam in deprecating the behaviour of the habitual drunkard.

  “Not that I would condemn gin as such, Mr Heythorne! A virtuous tipple, taken in proper quantities to aid in relaxation after a hard day’s labour, but too often permitted to become the master of the drinker’s passions, and not just among the men. There are unfortunate, depraved females to be seen, the gin bottle too much their friend. While sitting my terms at University I and a number of my acquaintance often took the Gospel to the back alleys of Cambridge, with little effect other than to provoke drunken harridans to shower us with abuse, and other, more tangible objects as well.”

  Sam tried to keep a sombre face, despite the image of the spotty youth and his similar friends fleeing in horror from the pelting of the backstreet whores. Josie kicked him under the table, suggesting that he had not succeeded in keeping a smirk from his lips.

  “How sad, Reverend Summerhaye. One might hope at least for respect for the efforts of their betters to bring them to Salvations.”

  “True indeed, ma’am! However, ‘pearls before swine’, you know, ma’am.”

  She did know the expression and did not approve of it. She made no response, other than to ask whether he wished a third cup of tea.

  “No, ma’am. I feel I should return to the sickbed before making my way to my humble abode for the night. I shall return after breakfast, with your permission, for I suspect I may be needed, ma’am.”

  The young man made his way upstairs, Bible in hand, to offer his final prayers over the dying man.

  “Josie, when he comes back down again, do I give him a tip, a gratuity, as it were?”

  “No! Most ill-mannered. After the funeral service it is appropriate to offer a substantial fee for his efforts, and you will place a sum in gold in the plate as it circulates, but his prayers for the dying are not to be rewarded with cash.”

  “Sorry! I did not know.”

  She reflected that it was what a wife was for. Where the husband lacked the trappings of gentility it behoved the wife to provide them.

  “I must go to the children, Sam. They are upset for knowing that something is wrong with their grandfather.”

  He nodded, offering to join her. They went together to the nursery where the maid, a young girl of twelve or so, was looking to the children’s needs.

  “We shall sit with them while you help Cook with their dinners, Jenny.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The girl trotted downstairs obediently.

  “She is new, is she not, my dear?”

  “A good girl, a week with us and showing very well. Her father is one of your colliers from the dale. He thought she was too frail to work the coal with her brothers and sisters, asked if we could take her instead.”

  “Makes a change – the most of them will work their children almost to death to earn an extra copper a day.”

  It was inevitable, she thought – money was tight in even the best-run cottages. There was no place for a mouth that could not earn its own food.

  “Somewhat of a peculiar sort of fellow, that curate, Josie.”

  “Not in front of the children, Sam!”

  He apologised and returned to the business in hand, begging young Samuel to show him his copybook. The boy displayed a fine round hand, his alphabet copied repeatedly and clearly.

  “Do you know any words yet, Samuel?”

  “Yes, sir. I can write my name and read in my own book.”

  He displayed a Child’s Compendium of Gospel Stories, opened at halfway and proceeded to read a page of large print in a flat, wholly uninflected but genteel tone.

  “Well done, Samuel. That is better than I could have done at your age. You will be a far finer scholar than ever I was.”

  “No, sir. I am to become the land holder and owner of our collieries.”

  Samuel showed sufficient ease in pronouncing the long word to make it clear that he used it often, or heard it very frequently at least. Josie showed embarrassed where she sat with the baby on her lap.

  “Has Samuel other children’s books, my dear?”

  “Not yet, Mr Heythorne.”

  “Then we must purchase some – he needs more books than just one.”

  He said no more on the subject, content to talk then with his daughter who had much to say about the desirability of purchasing a dog.

  Later he asked of Josie whether she thought a dog to make sense for the children.

  “On the edge of the wild moorland as we are, Sam, there can be no harm to having a guard dog to play with the little ones when they are outdoors. I think it sensible, in fact.”

  “I shall put the word out that I wish to buy a safe dog, or two perhaps. A pair could be seen as even more wise. What of the curate, Josie?”

  “Not the most prepossessing of gentlemen, Sam. As well, I have more than once sniffed a little of gin on his breath.”

  “I can hardly complain to Reverend Smart that his curate is a customer of my own distillery, my dear. There is such a thing as hypocrisy, you know.”

  “I must agree, husband. You will be able to see more of him in the morning. I suspect he may well have a headache when he arrives. I think he may be one of those who cannot find a penny for a loaf of bread but may always discover tuppence for a bottle of gin.”

  “In that case he will not live long. He will not trouble us for too many years.”

  “My father at least will not notice his condition. I do not think he will wake again, Sam.”

  Sam held her as she wept, trying to find rational words to offer her. There was nothing to say, he found – she had lost her only brother and now her father was going. No words could lessen her grief, nor perhaps should they – her family was no more.

  Reverend Summerhaye returned at first light, seeming to stumble through the door. Possibly he was hungover, or even still drunk from his evening’s potations, but he performed his duty, sitting by the bed while the unmoving figure breathed increasing shallowly and slowly and finally fell wholly still. The doctor appeared and decided that Josh had experienced not one but a series of lesser heart seizures that had ended his life.

  “When will you hold the funeral, Mr Heythorne? I should wish to attend. I could not be of use to Mr Banford in his life; I can at least pray at his death rites.”

  “Reverend Summerhaye will set the day, Doctor Keith.”

  They agreed for four days hence, the weather not being hot.

  “Time
to procure a coffin and all of the essentials, Mr Heythorne, and to inform his relatives and give them the chance to attend.”

  “I do not know that he had any family remaining, Reverend, I shall enquire of my lady.”

  There were none left of the Banfords – there had been no brothers and a sister had died young. Of cousins, she knew none – they had moved away if ever there had been any. The family was gone, Josie believed.

  The funeral was well attended, in respect to Sam, he did not doubt. The mourners included Josh’s attorney from Stoke who begged the courtesy of an interview with Sam after the event.

  “The Last Will and Testament of Mr Joshua Banford, Mr Heythorne, made on the occasion of your marriage to his daughter and not modified since.”

  “It leaves all to me as trustee to my wife, Mrs Josephine Heythorne, does it not?”

  “No, sir. Mr Banford had considered that course and discussed it with me but had finally decided to simply leave all to you in your own name. He did so on condition solely that you should rename the estate on becoming its master. He suggested that it should become Thornehills, in respect to your name and to the moorland itself. When last I spoke to Mr Banford, some six months since, he informed me that he had never divulged to you the extent of his holdings in cash with Mr Martin’s Bank; nor had he mentioned the strongbox in his workroom. I have the key to the strongbox, sir and you should speak to Mr Martin at your convenience.”

  Sam led the way to the study, looked around for the strongbox, never having noticed it on the frequent occasions he had conferred with Josh in the room.

  “In the bottom drawer of the writing desk, sir. On the right.”

  Sam pulled the drawer open, noticing it to be surprisingly heavy. The drawer was fitted with a recessed iron lid with a large keyhole. Opening it disclosed a cavity with a dozen or so of leather money bags inside.