“A parish far distant, then, sir? Perhaps in the Sugar Islands? Possibly in the East Indies? Not, I would beg, on my doorstep.”
Sam was in the end forced to explain just who and what he was and why he felt able to make such demands of an archdeacon. He implied that he was not unknown to men of some power in the county and suggested that the archdeacon might wish to mention his name to people in the know. They agreed on a second meeting, later in the week.
The archdeacon was in conciliatory mood when they met again, had clearly been given the word to make concessions to Sam. It was agreed that Mr Summerhaye should be removed from Leek, and accepted that almost of a certainty he must go overseas, probably to the East Indies, where the archdeacon had some slight family interest.
Sam came home satisfied, unaware that he had left a simmering resentment behind him and an archdeacon who had the ear of the Lord Lieutenant and a determination to make use of that proximity to power.
Chapter Twelve
A Killing Too Far
“I’m back, Josie. Spoke to the archdeacon. Had to tell him what was what in the end, but he finally understood what time of day it was. Summerhaye will be gone inside a very few days, and Reverend Smart can find a curate who will be more the thing.”
“I trust you were not too overbearing, Sam.”
“No! Not at all, explained it, that’s all. Just put it to him that in my towns people did I what I told them to, and he was to be no exception simply because he was looking to be a bishop soon. He understood me. The curate will be making a sea voyage soon, he agreed. Possibly to the East Indies – it seems that the old man knows a member of the board of the Honourable Company and should be able to get him a place out there, never to come back again.”
“Did he seem happy, when you left, Sam?”
Sam stared blank-faced at her.
“Do what? Happy? Who cares? He did what he was told, that’s all that matters.”
She hoped he might be correct.
“Your Uncle Abe is none so well, Sam. His lady sent a message yesterday that you should visit him on your return. She did not say why, nor did she imply that she feared for his life, but I am inclined to wonder what the purpose of the message might have been.”
Sam’s first impulse was to claim fatigue. He had been long in the saddle and had endured an irritating week, on his best behaviour in the company of clerical gentlemen, who were not quite the companions he might have wished for. Second thoughts said that he must go – it might be essential.
“Bugger it, Josie! I’ll try to keep the visit short. Are the children well?”
“They are, Sam. No excuse there. You must go!”
All was quiet at the White Horse, subdued almost.
“Master will be glad to see thee, Mr Sam,” the potboy announced, and would say no more.
Abe was sat in front of a big log fire in his back room, huddled into himself, wearing a heavy woolly and still looking cold.
“Shut the door, Sam. You’re letting all the warmth out.”
The room was sweltering hot.
“Not feeling so spry, Uncle Abe?”
“Tired, Sam, and my belly aches and I can’t keep a morsel of food down. Damned if I know what’s the matter with me. Called Dr Keith to me yesterday. Poked and prodded and ummed and ahed and at the end of it had nothing sensible to say, except to suggest laudanum and add a brandy for me supper, so as to sleep the night away. Which I did, for what it was worth.”
“What else did he say, Uncle Abe?”
“Nothing useful, other than to be back tomorrow, and that will be another crown in his pocket, which is why he is doing it, I doubt not. Did you get rid of that bloody curate, Sam? Not the sort I want putting me to bed with a shovel.”
Sam explained all he had done. By the end of five minutes Abe looked whiter in the face, and was less able to sit comfortably.
“When did you last take your laudanum, Uncle Abe?”
“At two o’clock.”
It was a few minutes short of four.
“I shall see you again in the morning, Uncle Abe.”
“Do that, Sam. In my desk drawer, Sam, in my office room, you will find the deeds to the cottage where my young lady resides. Give them to her, ensure they are legally transferred, Sam. A hundred guineas in coin in the drawer, as well. Be sure she gets them, Sam. Good little girl, she has been, and I can hardly name her in the Will.”
Sam promised to do as he was bid. It was, he thought, a waste of money, but he would seem mean-spirited if he claimed the cottage for himself and ousted her. He returned to Thornehills in a sombre mood.
“Uncle Abe believes he is dying, Josie. He looks bad. Sat shivering over a roasting fire. The doctor has seen him and prescribed laudanum.”
“Then he is on his way, Sam. A pity, for he is not yet an old man.”
“He has forty years on me, Josie.”
“I suppose so… On another topic, I was told this week that Mr Malone has purchased another public house, an inn one might say, for being one of the biggest in Stoke.”
“There is money in coal, my dear. He is a reliable man, and I am glad to hear of him prospering.”
“He is an Irish man, and there are others of the Protestant persuasion who have followed him from his home county. I am told that there are a number of families who look to him as their natural protector.”
Sam was unmoved; he believed Malone to be a trustworthy gentleman and a reliable partner in business.
“I trust he may continue to be, Sam.”
“I shall pay him a call in a few days, Josie, to congratulate him on his new venture. Has Nick returned from Bristol, do you know?”
“I saw his wife in Leek just yesterday, Sam. Unless I am much mistaken, she is carrying her belly before her.”
“A child? I must presume that Nick will be delighted. If a boy, I trust he will not prove too true to his father.”
“One of that sort quite sufficient, Sam?”
“More than, my dear. I dread to think of the state of our little universe was there to be a pair of Nicks inhabiting it.”
“You have never told me exactly what Nick does for you, Sam.”
Since the Mad Knifeman affair, she was quite certain that Nick was a paid assassin; she hoped perhaps to be told that she had misunderstood the matter.
“No. I have not. Does young Samuel progress in his lessons?”
She accepted the message, said no more about Nick.
Mr Malone was glad to see Sam in his new premises, insisted that he join him in a nip of the true poteen, sent across from Ireland by a cousin who remained still in the old country.
“A whiskey, of sorts, Mr Malone. Powerful, but soft on the throat, sir. A virtuous and enjoyable spirit. It would be very easy to drink far too much from this particular bottle, you know!”
“Too many of my countrymen do, Mr Heythorne, but the fault lies with them, not with the liquor itself.”
“Well said, sir!”
“The venture in coal is doing well, Mr Heythorne. So much so that I am thinking to put money into a set of kilns, to dip my toe in the water of pottery, one might say.”
“I am doing the self-same thing, Mr Malone. To the south of Stone, where I have an interest in a pit newly opened. There is a deposit of clay to hand that promises to be good for firing. I shall know this weekend whether we have the go-ahead, a knowing man from Stoke going down to examine the substance of the clay and decide for me if it will do. I hope so, for Farmer Palethorpe seems to be a far-thinking gentleman and we may do more together.”
“Will you be needing another investor, would you say, Mr Heythorne?”
“Why, I had not considered that possibility, Mr Malone. I think I can bear the costs, but I shall remember you if I find I cannot. Have you good clay near your own pit?”
Malone had not considered that possibility, being a man who preferred to follow others rather than start up on his own.
“Was I perhaps to distil my own po
teen, Mr Heythorne, would you be having any objections?”
“Well, I do rather like the possession of my own little monopoly, Mr Malone. Was you to set up in Stone, shall we say, and sell there and in Stafford, I could have no grounds to complain, but I should be upset was you to take my customers in Stoke.”
Malone smiled and said that seemed only just. Sam thought no more of the proposal and busied himself in his own affairs for the next week.
“Your Uncle Abe is not at all well, Sam, and worsening fast. Doctor Keith has sent a message to meet him at the White Horse.”
“I must go, Josie.”
Sam walked his horse through the village, saw that the rectory was undergoing some repair, the builders in and the doors open so that he could see them plastering in the front entry.
“Mr Summerhaye gone, Jack?”
The master-builder himself appeared in the garden, tugging his forelock as he looked up at Sam.
“Yesterday as ever is, Mr Sam, sir. All of a sudden-like and Reverend Smart begging me to come in and patch the place up and put a lick of paint on before the new Reverend comes in, next week, or so ‘e says. Reverend Smart says no service on Sunday, for being no vicar to hand, but will be for next week, Mr Sam. I says to ‘ee, so I do, Mr Sam, as ‘ow what we like to have a burial afore then and ‘e do say as ‘ow ‘e can come out and do that ‘is own self, so long as you do send for ‘ee.”
The word was out that Abe was on his deathbed, Sam realised.
He must pass the message in Stoke that the old order was changing, but that nothing was different. Mr Abe was gone but Mr Sam had stepped into his shoes must be the word. It would not be unexpected, and there was no chance of any other outcome, he told himself. He need not take any action out of the ordinary.
He passed Nick’s cottage on his way up the road to the White Horse, saw a pair of riders in the distance, heading out on the moorland road. They were too far off for him to be sure, but he thought it might have been the Mayor, Mr Parsons, and possibly Captain Wakerley. He wondered what had brought them to Leek, decided they were probably no more than passing through on some sort of county business.
He reined up at the White Horse, nodded to the ostler to take the gelding into the stables.
“Might be some time. Is that the doctor’s trap in the yard?”
“Been ‘ere a couple of hours, Mr Sam.”
“Pity. Put the nag up, looks like I must stay a while.”
The ostler knew far better than Sam what to do for the horse – there was no point to giving him orders for the animal’s care.
Doctor Keith had seen Sam arrive, was waiting for him downstairs.
“Good day to you, Mr Heythorne. You are in time to speak with Mr Makepeace, but not for long. He is going, Mr Heythorne, and it will not be an easy passing. I am using laudanum to aid him, but it is doing little for him. Some sort of griping in the gut, but what its cause may be, I know not. He cannot live, being unable to keep down even a cup of water and more of the laudanum coming back up than staying down.”
The sickroom stank of incontinence - vomit and the contents of unruly bowels fighting each other to taint the air. Sam swallowed and tried to calm his own guts.
“Hello, Uncle Abe! Not so good, sir?”
“Dying, Sam.” The reply was whispered in the faintest thread of a voice. “Look after Dottie, Sam. As I told you how. My wife will go to her younger sister. Arranged already, Sam. Money as well. Do what you want with Inn and house, Sam. In the Will. Now, bugger off, Sam! Ain’t going to be pretty, the next few hours. No need for you to watch. Paying the bloody doctor, he’s going to get his money’s worth! Goodbye, Sam. See your mother and give her my kindest. She’s in the Will. Get it to her.”
Sam made his promise to do as he was bid. He left the room with considerable relief, glad that Doctor Keith had heard Abe’s order, that he would not be thought to have deserted his uncle in his last hours.
The barman was waiting at the front of the house.
“Mr Sam, master gave I the letter to give thee. Said it was the Will inside, all signed and sworn for thee to see.”
He passed across a sealed parcel, canvas tied in twine and with red wax on the knot.
“Thank you. Stay and watch while I open it. Can you read?”
“Not got me letters, sir.”
“Send the girl up for Doctor Keith.”
Sam opened the packet in front of the two men, proof of his honesty and fair dealing. He read the short document and passed it to the doctor.
“Best that all is seen to be above-board, Doctor Keith.”
It was not an uncommon procedure where an attorney was not present. Doctor Keith read the contents of the Will and confirmed that he regarded it as entirely ordinary. He would let it be known in passing through the area that all had been dealt with honestly.
“As was to be expected, Mr Heythorne. You are to be the heir with normal bequests as well. Mrs Makepeace to be pensioned at two pounds a week with one hundred in cash to her hand. Mrs Heythornethwaite, Mr Makepeace’s surviving sister, to receive five hundred guineas. All else to fall to your hands in freehold with the right to do as you will with the properties. Nothing mentioned to staff of the White Horse or any other, shall we say, employees.”
Sam put a finger to his lips, calling for silence. It was obvious that Doctor Keith knew of Miss Dorothea.
“I shall look after barman and potboy and ostler and his boy, Doctor Keith. There is also a freehold to be passed over, with a sum of money, to a young lady who we need not name. All arranged prior, sir, so as not to make a public fuss. There is no need to offend Mrs Makepeace.”
Doctor Keith bowed his head in acknowledgement; that was as it should be.
Sam turned to the barman.
“Close the White Horse until the funeral, Amos. You will all four be paid, and cook and the chambermaid. The same for the staff in the house. I shall look to sell the White Horse, as a going concern. If you keep your jobs, that will be it, other than five guineas apiece from the master. If you lose your employment, then I shall find you a place, all of you.”
Amos made his thanks. It was too often that the death of the master left his servants all out on the street and he had been fearful for his future.
“Thank’ee, Mr Sam. You be careful how thee goes, sir.”
Sam hardly noticed his words, assuming them to be no more than merest courtesy.
Doctor Keith returned to Abe’s side and Sam sat in the back room to wait out the long-drawn process.
He returned to Thornehills late that night, told Josie of his uncle’s passing.
“Nick sent a message in that he would wish to see you, Sam. He asked that you might meet him tomorrow.”
“I hardly know how to say this to you, Mr Sam! The thing is, sir, I much fear for your esteemed life! It has been put to me that with Mr Abe gone there will be none to, as one might say, temper your natural desire to be master in your own demesne. There are those in what might be regarded as a high position in life who are of the opinion, quite wrongly in my mind, Mr Sam, that you might wish to be Caesar in Stoke. I have spurned, with a degree of indignation, the offer of twenty guineas to bring your natural term to a curtailment, Mr Sam. There are others of lesser degrees of honour who might well be inclined to accept such a sum, sir.”
Sam tapped his pockets and smiled – he had no fear of the assassin, he implied, not while he carried his own insurance in the form of four short barrels.
“Your honour, your personal integrity, means that you cannot give me the names of those who made you the insultingly small offer, Nick. I appreciate that. You might wish to send back word that other, cheaper, villains will not be possessed of your scruples. Should I discover the names of those who wish to buy my life, perhaps from the lips of a dying, incompetent hard cully, then I shall be more than a little upset.”
Nick smirked his best and agreed that to be very reasonable. He would indeed pass the message that Mr Sam was forewarned and mu
ch displeased.
Sam thought that he knew now why Captain Wakerley and Mr Parsons had been riding together through Leek. He was disappointed in them, wondered what might have brought them to their desire to remove his presence from the area. Reverend Smart unwittingly provided him with the answer when he arrived to conduct the service over Abe’s mortal remains.
“I am informed that the Reverend Summerhaye has taken ship, Mr Heythorne. He is bound for Bombay where he is to serve with the Honourable East India Company as chaplain. The Mayor, Mr Parsons, told me that Captain Sir Charles Wakerley’s lady is a niece of Archdeacon Summerhaye and received a letter from him, mentioning her cousin’s translation, and of the family’s distress that such an end had come to his ambitions for preferment in England. He had hoped for a family living, expected to come vacant in the next five years, but such is now quite impractical.”
“Bearing in mind his habits, Rector, one might have considered such a position as thoroughly undesirable. One would have thought the family would have been glad that he is to disgrace himself, and them, at far.”
“Perhaps, Mr Heythorne, but blood is thicker than water, you know, sir…”
Sam thought that to be a particularly foolish comment; he said no more, expecting the matter soon to be forgotten and its offence to die away. He presided over Abe’s funeral and the feast that followed, noticing that all of his followers who should be present were to be seen and that all appeared to be well in his little world.
It was not, he thought, impossible that his enemies might hire an unknown outsider to kill him. He could not be entirely certain that he might not be taken unawares – any man might be shot in the back. He visited Nick.
“It might be the case, Nick, that I could be shot. I am no more immortal than any other gentleman.”
Nick protested that it should not be so, not while he lived and could do his best to protect his patron.
“You cannot always stand at my shoulder, Nick, though I know you would wish to. I have spoken to my attorney, Nick, and have placed a provision in my Will that you shall receive two hundred pounds a year, while you live. In return, Nick, you are to watch over my lady and children. She will own the pits and the distilleries and our land and other interests – and there might be those who might attempt to cheat and defraud her and my young ones.”
A Killing Too Far Page 24
