Killing's Reward

by Andrew Wareham

  “Yer Honour, we do find the stiff…” There was an outraged hiss behind him, followed by a prod in the back and a mutter. “Deceased, that is, Yer Honour, to ‘ave been killed to death unlawfully by persons unknown. We do find him to ‘ave been a traitor. God Bless the King!”

  All stood and repeated those loyal words.

  The Crowner recorded the verdict and informed all present that their wise words would be conveyed without delay to the office of the Lord Lieutenant of the County. He thanked the jury for their service, assuring them that they displayed their loyalty and honesty by giving their time to their King.

  Four men in the audience disclosed themselves to be tipstaffs, bailiffs in the service of the Lord Lieutenant and present to carry out their lawful duty. They sat in the carriage which had brought them and left for the Porter house, there to evict the family without delay and to take possession of all goods and chattels and money to be discovered. The traitor’s wife and children and widowed mother were ordered out at pistol point, left at the side of the road to make their own way to shelter, if they could find any. It was still raining and had grown no warmer.

  Nick reported back to Josie – being official business, the presence of women had not been permitted.

  “What will happen to the family, Nick?”

  “I do not know for sure, my lady. The eldest son is of sixteen years or thereabouts and there is a younger brother and four sisters of descending age. The eldest, a young female of eighteen or so years, was wed a few months since to a squire over towards Derby. One must trust her husband will not cast her out.”

  They agreed that was unlikely as he would be left unable to obtain a divorce and remarry, thus childless, without an heir.

  “Mrs Porter is second daughter to the Nankivell family, who live near Chester, I believe, my lady.”

  The Nankivells were well-off and could afford a cottage and subsistence for the Porters on their estate, if they were willing to accept the burden of six children still to be provided for and the stigma of treachery that accompanied them.

  “It is a long walk, Nick.”

  “Two days on the road, ma’am. The old lady will be hard-pressed to manage, but no local man will lend them his carriage, and even the carrier’s cart would refuse them. There is no love for traitors, ma’am, and the fear that those who show complaisant to them will be tarred with their brush.”

  Josie feared that to be true; she doubted the Nankivells would be inclined to offer hospitality for any length of time.

  “Was I them, Nick, I would purchase passage to the Virginias and a sum of money in hand and be rid of them. Always an embarrassment, such a family hanging around on the estate, neither genteel nor mere farmhands and carrying scandal that all will remember whenever they see them. The girls as well would hardly find genteel husbands or occupation – for who would take a governess born to a traitor? They might well be forced upon the town, there to bring more shame to the family. As for the boys – what will they do at all?”

  “True, my lady. They are better far at a distance from their father’s doings, in a land where they will be unknown. I do not doubt that Sir Charles Wakerley will be hearing of their plight very soon. I would expect him to be a little disturbed.”

  Sir Charles was in fact much distressed. He was quite certain in his own mind that the dramatic, flamboyant nature of the killing was an indication of revenge. It was not the way that the government’s less overt servants might be expected to behave. He did not have far to look for an aggrieved person who might be moved to an act of extreme violence. He did not know what to do for the best and could hardly ask for advice from his attorney or from the Lord Lieutenant’s people. Was he to go to the authorities and say that he feared he was next to be killed, they would certainly ask why - he had no wish to tell them just what he and Mr Porter had so unwisely chosen to do.

  He could not imagine in retrospect why he had been so foolish as to take part in the procurement of Sam Heythorne’s killing. It had been wholly unnecessary, for Heythorne had offended so many in his final months that another had been bound to kill him before too many more weeks had passed. The man Malone, as an example, had been increasingly exasperated by Heythorne’s behaviour, and there were the people in Stafford who must one day have reappeared in their anger.

  He had jeopardised his prosperity for sure, and his life most probably, unless he could somehow make amends.

  He sat and thought and counted up his savings and wondered just how to buy his safety.

  Just two days later there was a knocking at Nick’s front door at an early hour.

  Nick was still at home, having no urgent reason to commence his day’s business so soon after dawn. His lady craned her neck and peered through the window of the kitchen, just in sight of the front gate.

  “Riding ‘oss, Nick. Gentleman’s nag, so it be, tall and well-looking with a flash saddle. Just the one.”

  “Step back from the door. You know what to do if it is trouble, my dear.”

  She knew that she was to take the babe and to run back into the scrubland on the daleside and then make her way concealed to Thornehills and my lady.

  Nick walked quickly from the kitchen into the short passageway leading to the front door, unhooked the heavy chain and turned the key in the lock. He pulled the door inwards, knowing that the rattling of the chain made it impossible that he could jerk the door suddenly ajar and take the caller by surprise. If it was a man with a gun, he was dead.

  “Sir Charles!”

  He pitched his voice loud enough so he could be heard in the kitchen, just in case.

  “Nick! Good morning to you. I wish to talk to you, Nick. I am known to be visiting you this morning, though I have not given a reason for so doing.”

  Nick smiled at the warning that Sir Charles could not be made to disappear.

  “But you are so very welcome to the hospitality of my humble abode, Sir Charles. I regret only that my dear master cannot also bid you enter. Will you take tea, sir?”

  “Thank you, no, Nick. I would prefer to speak with you privately. Perhaps we might take a walk along the lane?”

  “Of course, Sir Charles. Up the hill, perhaps, although that does lead us towards the fatal spot where Mr Porter met his condign end.”

  Sir Charles was not pleased at this unsubtle threat, this reminder that his partner had already been killed.

  “’Condign’, Nick? Hardly a worthy fate, I would have thought.”

  “The man was a traitor, Sir Charles. All such should suffer death. You, sir, achieved fame as a soldier of the true king while he skulked in the shadows offering money to the wicked rebels. You cannot, surely, have any sympathy for such a one, or for his fate.”

  Sir Charles found, to his amazement, that he agreed with Nick. Had he known Porter to be a Jacobite, he would have spurned him.

  “I have no affection with his treason, as goes without saying, Nick. I was unaware of his contemptible leanings. It does, however, seem to me possible, Nick, that Mr Porter died for reasons other than his vile treachery. Should such be the case, then we might discuss the cause of his taking-off, and how to obviate the need for any other.”

  Nick begged him to say more, to empty his mind of any worries or fears that might beset him.

  “Mr Porter was an important man in these parts, Sir Charles. He was the owner of the freehold of my master’s second distillery, for example.”

  Sir Charles recognised the bait and took it gratefully.

  “It would be possible, Nick, to ensure Mrs Heythorne was given the freehold, and of the acres surrounding it, gratis, as a recognition of her late husband’s place in our little society.”

  Nick was amazed, had not known that such could be possible, assured Sir Charles that he would, personally, be delighted was such a gift to be made.

  “Within the month, Nick?”

  “Very satisfactory, Sir Charles. You did mention a number of acres surrounding the distillery? It is some of the better wh
eat land in this area, Sir Charles.”

  Sir Charles attempted a kind smile.

  “I should be so pleased to negotiate a transfer of ownership with the Lord Lieutenant, Nick.”

  “Excellent, Sir Charles. I am sure my lady will be delighted to be told of the gift. It will do much to restore peace and tranquillity to our little village and its environs, sir.”

  “For many years, I trust, Nick?”

  “For my whole lifetime, I am sure, Sir Charles.”

  “So be it, Nick.”

  They made their farewells and parted, Nick to tell the mother of his precious child exactly what a clever man he was, Sir Charles to raise the wind, to find all the cash he could to make the purchase of every acre of Porter’s land that the Lord Lieutenant would release to him.

  Sir Charles’ attorney spoke to Mr Martin towards the end of the following month, placing a set of deeds in his hands. Martin in his turn sent a letter to Josie and she called for Nick.

  “Mr Martin is holding the papers that make me the owner in freehold of the distillery, Nick. As well, we have forty acres of good land abutting to the building, as well as the disused clay pit and some twelve acres of scrubland on the hillside overlooking the pit. How does that come about, Nick?”

  “I believe that Sir Charles Wakerley was moved by kindness towards a poor widow, my lady. He was much distressed by Mr Porter’s death, I know.”

  “It is in my mind, Nick, to offer the wheat lands to you, to sell them for a pound in total – sixpence an acre. You deserve a proper reward.”

  “No, my lady, that would not be right. They must go to Master Samuel as part of his inheritance. The scrubland must be cleared and put down to sloes, I believe, my lady. It will be of value to him when he comes of age.”

  “As you will, Nick. I will ensure he is aware of his indebtedness to you.”

  “Duty, and pleasure as well, my lady.”

  There was some talk among the local folk, surprise that some of the best land locally had fallen into the hands of the Thornehills Estate. None were inclined to raise a query in public. Even conversation in the inn and pubs was quiet and remarkably restrained.

  One of the oldest present in the White Horse, John Burton, only a farmhand but respected for the clarity of his thought, spoke for all in the bar.

  “If so be, Mr Malone, our local widow lady has risen in the world, then who are we to begrudge her good fortune?”

  Young Mr Malone, the host of the White Horse and cousin to its owner, could only agree.

  “A fine lady, so she is, our John. I am not one to object to her good fortune. Her husband may have had his faults – but who has not? Sure, and am I to be claiming that I am perfect? She has kept the mine open up the dale, and it is said that she is to enlarge it further and provide work for even more of our young men and women. The stills are to continue to produce a fine and healthy jar for all to enjoy, and she is, I know, building of another such down below Stone. With money like that, you can be sure she will not be forgetting her duties to us all in a hard winter or time of dearth. We must all of us give thanks that we are so fortunate as to have her like among us.”

  The drinkers in the bar heard all he said and understood all he did not. Conversation turned to the weather and the prospects for the harvest. There was no mention of Nick, or of the late Mr Porter, or of his family, once so important in the neighbourhood and now utterly eclipsed.

  “Mr Rowlands, ma’am, what ‘as come to pay a call.”

  “Ask him to come in, Betty. Then put the kettle on for cook.”

  Josie, a widow lady, could not properly offer alcohol to a male caller; he must be given tea.

  Squire Rowlands made his entry to the morning room, noting the open ledgers on the table in front of Josie. She was not occupying herself with knitting or embroidery, it would seem.

  “How do you do, ma’am?”

  “Very well, Mr Rowlands, thank you. And you, sir?”

  “I am well indeed, ma’am, the better for the news I am come with.”

  She thought that was rather clumsy – he had not quite mastered the speech of the truly genteel, it would seem.

  “Do take a seat and tell me, sir. Will you take tea?”

  “Please, ma’am. My son, my eldest, is to take a wife to his bosom, ma’am!”

  “What an excellent thing, sir. Who is the fortunate lady? Is she known to us hereabouts?”

  “She is niece to the Lord Lieutenant, ma’am. Miss Abigail Trimmer, the second daughter of his younger sister.”

  It was a thin relationship, and not an eldest, but the connection was certainly valuable to him – she was of higher status than the Rowlands.

  “Mr George Rowlands is to be congratulated, sir. The family must all benefit from such a marriage. When is the happy event to take place?”

  “After the harvest, ma’am. In Stafford.”

  She would have been widowed for less than a year and should not go to social events outside of the immediate family before the twelve months were past.

  “It would not be correct for me to be present, Mr Rowlands, but my very best wishes must attend the event. Please pass my kindest words to Mr George Rowlands. I would be happy indeed to greet the bride after the wedding, when she pays her visits. Will they dwell at your house, sir?”

  “I shall make over the West Wing, ma’am. It is better for George to remain in what will be his own house. I understand that Mr Richard is in the process of changing his occupation with your firms, ma’am?”

  She smiled innocently, well aware that this was the true purpose of the visit. She said nothing while Betty came in with the tea tray and a large cake, showing cherries and sultanas, a not inexpensive dried fruit and not to be found in every kitchen.

  “I like cook’s fruit cake, sir. I wish I had the skill of baking it myself.”

  He made the appropriate comments, showing them to be honest by the evident enjoyment with which he polished off a first slice, and the alacrity with which he accepted a second.

  “My mother used to bake for us, ma’am, but her recipes were lost with her. I doubt I have enjoyed a cake so much since.”

  “Cook does not have her letters, Mr Rowlands, and cannot write it out for you, but were you to send your own down, she could show her, I doubt not.”

  He was pleased to accept the offer.

  “Now, Mr Richard Rowlands has shown himself better suited to search out new customers for our coals, and perhaps to discover another working of coal, than he is to engage in the day-to-day management of an enterprise. He is, as no doubt he has told you, to take to the road again and use his talents to their fullest, sir.”

  She smiled, kindly but firmly.

  “I am sure you are right, Mrs Heythorne. He is better with people, perhaps.”

  “Every man to his own, sir. Mr Richard has done well by us in his discovery of the Palethorpe mine. He will continue, naturally, to receive his proper share in the income of the pit, as was agreed in his contract.”

  That, clearly, was Mr Rowlands’ greatest concern; his son’s income was safe. He began to discuss the well-being of the parish, and of the unfortunate increase in the numbers of the indigent poor.

  “Eight elderly couples, no less, ma’am! Their children gone away, to the Americas or off to the wars and never to come back again. All of them demanding the Poor Law for being unable to earn their own bread the more.”

  “Have they roofs to their heads, Mr Rowlands, or do they demand alms houses?”

  “Now, ma’am, there is our problem! The alms houses are taken, all of them! The eight are all tenants of tied farm cottages, and the farmers want them out to put working men into them. The Bench has begged the farmers to delay their evictions while we discover an alternative for the poor old folk, but we have nowhere to put them! We are at a loss - except we build a workhouse for them.”

  That, she appreciated, would not be inexpensive. A workhouse with room for perhaps sixteen elderly people, and space for more to
come in future years, would not come in under two hundred pounds, perhaps more. A large building with two sleeping wards, one for each sex, and a kitchen and a work room and presumably some place for them to sit in their hours of leisure. A cottage besides, for there would have to be a master as well, and his wife to care for the females, in all decency, and that would see at least eighty pounds a year in wages, in addition to the cost of foodstuffs and fuel for the kitchen, and perhaps a fire in the lounging room. There would have to be a minimum of clothing and blankets and such purchased for them as well. The apothecary would require an annual fee to visit at least once a month, for the elderly would not remain healthy. Then there would be the recurrent cost of burials – for they would die with an expensive frequency.

  “The Bench must levy an additional Poor Rate on the parish, Mr Rowlands, and not in a small amount.”

  “It must, ma’am, but the Rate will not come in before harvest and we need to break ground for the workhouse in the summer months, when building is possible.”

  The sole answer was an initial public subscription, for there was no other source of money. She wondered how much she should commit. Too great a sum would lead to jealousy, no doubt, while too little would be unpopular with the poorer freeholders who would also be expected to contribute. There was a way out, if Rowlands would swallow it…

  “I have been thinking of a memorial to my poor, murdered husband, sir. Were I to find as much as one hundred guineas, would it be possible to inscribe his name on the front? ‘The Samuel Heythorne Home for the Indigent Poor’, perhaps? In large letters.”

  It was a deal to tolerate, but one hundred guineas was five times as much as he had hoped from her, and she would be obliged to drop another ten or so each year, possibly more at Christmas to pay for a goose and puddings for the elderly. The Bench could be persuaded, he expected, especially if he could mention Nick’s name as Sam’s old retainer.