Killing's Reward Read online

  Nick had returned to his cottage and his lady and their baby – the delight of his life, far the finest thing that had ever happened to him.

  He made his way to Thornehills and reported to Josie.

  “A most wicked man, crew on a slaving ship, no less, was the hand which killed your noble husband, my lady. He will assassinate no more. It seems almost certain that Sir Charles Wakerley commissioned him to perform the dastardly act. The mayor of Stoke, Mr Parsons, may have been aware of the intention to commit the act, might perhaps have had a hand in paying for it; that is unclear, my lady. I will speak to Mr Malone – himself quite innocent of the crime, I know. He may have some knowledge of others who refused to sully their hands with the despicable act. If so, they will be able to tell me who made the awful offer to them.”

  “I shall be pleased if you will do so, Nick. It occurs to me that you have been to some expense on my behalf, Nick. Might I perhaps pay you for those costs you have incurred?”

  He refused most earnestly – he had failed his late master and dear lord – he must be permitted to make such amends as was possible.

  Josie bowed to his sincerity.

  “I have given some thought to your suggestion that we should build another distillery, Nick. It does make sense, I agree. Where do you think might be best? I had considered using some of that land we bought from the farmer, Palethorpe. There would be coal close to hand for firing the stills and bought from ourselves. There is water on the hillside which might sensibly be diverted away from the pit, which would be a bonus, as it were. There is a pottery in the way of building as well, and which could fire earthenware flagons for us. So many gains to us in locating just there, Nick, that I am amazed we did not consider it before.”

  He was amazed, awestruck at her genius.

  “There could be no other possible location, my lady! Close to the town of Stone and within reach of Stafford so that sales might easily be made. A goldmine, my lady! A positive Eldorado or Golconda!”

  She could not but admire her own genius.

  “I must be away, my lady. I wish to speak with Mr Malone this very day and will also just take a peek into the newer distillery, to be sure that all is well. Tomorrow, of a certainty, I will ride to Palethorpe and commence the necessary procedures there. Will you speak to Mr Richard Rowlands, or shall I, my lady?”

  “I will, Nick. Should I go to him or might it be better to send a letter begging his attendance at Thornehills?”

  Nick thought a short while, suggested it might be better that she should visit the site of the pit and pottery.

  “I might perhaps, my lady, inform him tomorrow that you will do yourself the honour of paying a visit on Thursday?”

  “I shall be pleased to do so, Nick. Not with Samuel, I think. There might possibly be a need for some hard talking on Thursday.”

  “Possibly to his wife more than himself, my lady?”

  “You think I should speak to the man of the house, Nick?”

  He applauded her wit and perception.

  “A pleasure to greet you at my place of business, ma’am! The first time we have met since the funeral obsequies for your late and much missed husband, ma’am.”

  Mr Richard Rowlands was well in the way of developing a corporation – he was well-fed and showing definitely plump. It suggested idleness to Josie, a willingness to sit on his laurels. The pit he was responsible for was displaying a healthy profit, but no more this month than last – it was not expanding, unlike his belly. The pottery was well on its way to making money, the first of its kilns complete and already in production.

  “The Palethorpe enterprise contributed a little less than one thousand pounds to our income last year, Mr Rowlands, after paying all costs, including your income.”

  “It did indeed, ma’am! A very pleasing achievement, I believe.”

  “A good start, without doubt, Mr Rowlands. What are your intentions for the future?”

  “Ah… intentions, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Mr Rowlands. What are your plans for expansion? When may I expect one thousand to turn into two, and then more?”

  “But, ma’am, my customers are all satisfied. I could not sell more coals to them.”

  “Are there no more customers to be found in this world, Mr Rowlands?”

  He detected irony in her voice, thought she might be holding him up to mockery. How dared a mere female speak to him, a man of affairs, in such a way?

  “I do not know, Mrs Heythorne, whether you are familiar with the local world of business, but I must assure you, ma’am…”

  She cut him short, rising to stand in front of his desk and then leaning down over him, almost, he thought, in menacing fashion.

  “Mr Rowlands! I have spent many hours learning about the world of business and was for some years privy to all my husband’s accounts. I would venture to suggest, sir, that I have an awareness that at the very least matches yours. I expect to be informed of your plans to increase the production and sales of coal and for the expansion of the new kilns. Within six months I expect to see those plans turned into actuality, sir. I shall be making use of some of the acreage here, sir, to build another distillery and to sell gin into Stone and down the road to Stafford.”

  He wondered if he should stand in his turn but feared that she might slap him if he did – she seemed a veritable termagant.

  “Yes, ma’am. I shall inform you of my plans within the month.”

  “You will not, sir! You will deliver a full proposal by the end of next week. You will include an explanation of just how you will increase the cutting of coals – stating how many men will be required and how they are to be housed and where. I will speak to Bragg, the overseer of your colliery, now. After that, I find I have not paid your lady wife a visit of courtesy since you were wed; I shall remedy the error this morning, sir. Good day to you.”

  Mr Richard Rowlands buried his head in his hands. He had been so much enjoying his new life at his office desk and close to his own house with a complaisant wife who was a fine cook as well as pleasing him in other ways. Now his idyll was broken, he was forced back into the world of hurrying and scurrying and, as the son of a gentleman, he was not really fit for it. It was indeed an imposition to demand that he should behave as a mere businessman would; he was the son of the landed squirearchy and had his rights. His intentions of six months previously, to make himself rich, were forgotten – comfortable would do. He saw through the window that the Harridan had discovered the peasant Bragg. He trotted out of the back door to his house, to warn his wife that the enemy was about to descend upon her.

  “Bragg, will you be able to return to the pit at Thornehills or must you stay here?”

  “Can’t go nohow, missus. Got two good men at Thornehills what can run the place, with just a bit of watching from you, like. Got the one man here what ain’t no bloody use for nothing, begging’ your pardon for language, ma’am. Got no know, ‘e ain’t, not about nothing at all. Best thing for ‘im, missus, be to put him up on a horse and send ‘im out to talk to buyers for coal. Might be ‘e could be useful that way. Might be better still if you just told ‘im to bugger off for being no bloody use to man nor beast.”

  “I can’t get rid of him, Bragg. He has a contract given five years ago, that he will earn a part of the profits on mines he discovers. There is, however, nothing which says he must run those mines. I shall put him to work elsewhere, Bragg. Can you find men to run this pit in the way you have arranged at Thornehills?”

  “Easy enough, missus. Always good men what have got a lot of know and no money and are willing to work all the hours of every day to put a few pennies together.”

  “Find them, Bragg, and set them on. Then I want you to spend part of the week here, part at Thornehills, your job being to make both pits bigger, producing more. What do you earn, Bragg?”

  “Two pound a week and a big cottage and garden free and a pony and trap what the pit looks after for me.”

  “You still live
at Thornehills village, do you not?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you will still need the pony and trap – though we might make that a gig, as looking more the thing for a manager. I shall see to that. Three pounds a week, starting today. Do the job I want and it will rise again, and quickly, Bragg.”

  “I’ll take it, missus. Tell you yourself what I wants by way of spending and men and tools and that, do I?”

  “Report to me at least once a week, Bragg, more often if needs be. You are master of the pit, below and above ground, Bragg.”

  “So be it, missus. Do you want to go underground to see it all?”

  “Why? I have you to do that, and I trust you, Bragg. What you tell me is all I need to know.”

  She saw she had hit the right note – he was showing proud and determined both. He would do the job.

  “I must pay Mrs Rowlands a visit, Bragg, and discuss much with her.”

  “Do that, missus, and get her to light a fire under her husband’s arse, begging your pardon for language, ma’am. Nothing less than that’s likely to get ‘im moving.”

  “Perhaps not that exactly, Bragg, but I shall do something like, I assure you. Report to me towards the end of next week, please.”

  “I will do that, missus, see if I don’t! With permission, missus, I could sit in the office to do my writing and accounts and such, if so be the present occupant finds someplace else to be.”

  She smiled, showing strong teeth and making him wonder what the fabulous tiger looked like.

  “That will take a day or two, Bragg. By Monday, I would hope.”

  He lifted his cap in respect.

  “Oh, one last thing, Bragg - the cap will never do. Go into town and buy a proper round hat.”

  Only managers and upwards wore hats. She had declared he was no longer a common working man.

  He agreed to do so, fervently.

  “Mrs Richard Rowlands? My name is Heythorne.”

  “Ooh, yes, I do know that, ma’am! I be Hepzibah Rowlands, ma’am, and at your service. Do come in, ma’am.”

  Josie was amused to see just how flustered the young Mrs Rowland showed. She knew her to be a capable young woman, in many ways more able than her husband, and born to a yeoman father of the same social standing as the elder Mr Rowlands. Mr Palethorpe did not have the same aspirations towards gentility as the Rowlands father and son did, and he was poorer in land and cash, or had been before the discovery of coal on his acres.

  “Is your father at home, Mrs Rowlands? I must talk to him about the new pottery kilns.”

  Palethorpe owned the clay pit and one half of the new pottery, his cash insufficient to finance the whole.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am, but he’s in Stone this day, talking with the keeper of the hardware store there. He is to carry much of our output of earthenware, ma’am – the jugs and bowls and such for the ordinary folk. Ain’t no sense to making fancy wares until we knows we got it working right, ma’am.”

  Half an hour and Mrs Rowlands had recovered her composure and was showing herself to be able and quick in her mind, more so than her husband. Josie found herself in a position to move the conversation onto the matter of Mr Richard Rowlands’ future.

  “Ah, now that be a question, ain’t it, ma’am? Best we should be talking over all he could be doing, like. Got the gift of the gab, so he has, ma’am, can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Best for my Richard should be selling the coals to new folks, ma’am, and perhaps finding men what has got more ideas than money.”

  “I don’t quite follow your last, Mrs Rowlands.”

  “Ah, ma’am, there are always fellows what has got good ideas, and not enough in the way of cash to follow ‘em through.”

  Josie understood that.

  “And, ma’am, many a man what has ideas don’t know nothing about money and goes into debtor’s prison for not understanding how to go about running his business.”

  “I see. You suggest that we should identify those men and either buy them out or put more cash and a manager in to aid them?”

  Mrs Rowlands was pleased to be understood.

  An hour and Josie stood to go, awash with Mrs Rowlands’ tea but having come to an agreement with her.

  “Your husband then is to go in search of customers, for coal and crockery alike, ma’am. If it can be arranged, then we shall look as far south as Birmingham for the sale of earthenware platters and bowls which can be transported with fewer breakages than for finer chinaware. For coals, more to the north of Stone than into Stafford, if possible.”

  “So be it, Mrs Heythorne. He will do better for taking up a more active way of life. I shall persuade him to it, I doubt not.”

  “It is in his own best interests, I do not doubt, ma’am.”

  “It is, Mrs Heythorne. Ah, one other thing, ma’am, the man Nick. Will we see much of him here?”

  “Not if you do not wish to, Mrs Rowlands. He is very busy for me. He will take an interest in the distillery, it being inappropriate for a female to be involved in such, you know. He will steer clear of your interests in the coal and pottery. I do know that he can be a disconcerting fellow to some people, though never to a woman.”

  They exchanged smiles, Mrs Rowlands accepting the unspoken pledge that her husband’s throat would not be cut - just as long as he behaved himself, she did not doubt.

  “Hey ho! Another problem solved, Pointer!”

  “Glad to hear it, ma’am. Do we delay in Stone, ma’am, or will we drive into Stoke to make a stop?”

  “I should like to call into one or two of the stores in Stone, Pointer. Pull into our inn, if you would be so good.”

  Mr Crabtree would not perhaps have liked the concept of ownership, but he had become very much a client of the Heythornes, as he knew. He had discovered Pointer, a soldier whose regiment had been disbanded at the end of the war in America and who was capable of driving and of using the pistols and fowling piece tucked under his bench against need on the road.

  “Not so fine a town for shopping as some, ma’am.”

  “I know, Pointer, but I wish to discover the prices of earthenware platters and dishes and such.”

  “Like the ones we makes at the kilns at Palethorpe, ma’am? Good idea to know what they might be selling at, just in case that Mr Rowlands do forget what the right figure might be.”

  “An unfortunate implication, Pointer. I certainly had no such concern in my mind.”

  “No, ma’am, nor would you be mentioning such concerns to Master Nick, I doubt not.”

  “I would not care to, Pointer, unless I was utterly sure of the case.”

  “Nay, ma’am, capable of taking matters into his own hands, is Master Nick, and for sure, I am not one to say him nay when he does so.”

  “I might, Pointer, but not too often. He has a great value for me, does Nick and I might be able to persuade him to take a different tack, as one might say.”

  “Most men would have a value for a fine lady such as yourself, ma’am.”

  She wondered if there was not a certain earnestness in his voice; that would never do! Even if her bed was a lonely place since her husband’s death, she did not need him as a warmer, or any other yet.

  Thinking on it, she needed no man to share the family income, either. She wondered if she might ask Nick to remind Pointer of his place. Second thoughts suggested Nick might be excessively vigorous in any conversation he had with Pointer – he would be quite capable of turning him into a eunuch to serve his lady faithfully. For the while she would do no more than ignore Pointer, failing to notice anything out of the ordinary.

  On reaching Thornehills she changed her mind; she would certainly not encourage Pointer and would as well carry about her person a weapon, in case he should try to force himself upon her. There were men, she had been told, who might think that an overpowering boldness would win the day for them.

  She walked briskly upstairs to the cupboards where she had placed her husband’s personal possessions, unwilling
to sell them but not wanting a daily, visible reminder of her loss. There was a pair of double-barrelled pocket pistols, together with two small powder flasks and a leather sack containing a score of balls. Beside them was a wooden box containing thin patches to be used when ramming the load.

  All very well, but she had never loaded a pistol in her life. She could think of no source of advice, no man to show her how. It would have to be Nick, in which case she must explain why she wished to carry pistols, unless, perhaps, she simply said she thought it wiser as she sometimes carried sums of money with her…

  Nick thought her wise to display such forethought. He loaded one pistol for her, showing her the simple process, then watched as she tipped in powder and patch and rammed, then ball and a patch and rammed again in to each barrel. Priming was even simpler, a matter of filling the pan with powder.

  “Then, my lady, the hammer, as it is often called, to be laid flat and the pistol is within reason safe. Do not drop a loaded pistol, my lady, and do not let it swing about in your reticule. Keep it dry!”

  She promised to be good.

  “To fire, my lady, thumb the hammer back to full cock, push the barrel close to the body of the man you must kill, and pull the trigger. As close as can be, my lady. Do not try to aim at even five yards. Wait until you are touching if at all possible.”

  She nodded, slightly nauseous at the prospect, but excited as well. The pistols gave her power – she was no little woman, not with four barrels in her purse.

  There was a list on her desk. She ticked off Richard Rowlands and glanced down the remainder of the tasks to be performed. An interview with Mr Martin at the bank should come next, she decided – just to make it clear to him that she was to take an active role in the management of her money and that she was well capable of totalling a column of figures and then of calculating the interest payable on the whole. It was not impossible that Mr Martin believed women to be unable to run their own financial affairs; she must relieve his mind of his delusion.

  Next week would do for Mr Martin. She must discover what Nick had found out from Mr Malone and then decide what, if anything, that demanded of her.