Believe or Die (27 page)

Ketch heard the horseman approaching and slowly moved to the door. He tried to peer through a window glass but the material was of poor quality and made any attempt at identifying the rider futile. Likewise, the candleholder he held aloft did nothing but play tricks with the shadows and help to conceal the pistol he held behind his back. Was this indeed Buckly? Surely it must be so. The rider coughed chestily, hawked and spat. Dimly, what light there was picked out the man’s battered old Dutch Coat and a red Monmouth cap sporting a moth-eaten feather. Buckly for sure! Ketch relaxed. Only Buckly wore such threadbare rags out of choice. Ketch opened the door and stood on the porch. He waved Buckly forward before turning and re-entering the house. Instantly he found himself with a sword at his throat and a pistol at his head.

“Drop the pistol Ketch,” ordered Mead prodding meaningfully with his blade and the flintlock clattered to the floor.

Rough hands grasped Ketch and propelled him into the firelight drawing room. ‘Buckly’, alias Poulton, took up position by the door.

A host of conflicting emotions coursed through Ketch’s very being. Fear vied with fury. The humiliation of being duped, outwitted, by a fool like Richard Mead and his worthless followers! Ketch’s ego rebelled at the very notion of it! Yet adversity can cause curious reactions in a man, even one so evil and devious as Ketch. He had lived by his wits for many a long year so surely his cunning must be up to the challenge of outwitting these oafs. He would survive!

“We could come to some arrangement could we not?” he suggested as calmly as he could.

“You made an ‘arrangement’ with Buckly; it did him no good. And yonder pistol suggests you meant to renege on it anyway. Why would I trust one such as you?”

“Money, Richard?”

“You mean to pay us what you would have given to our assassins? Is that your thinking?”

“No, more, I have more, much more! But it is well hidden I promise you and … ”

Mead held up a silencing hand and shook his head.

“If my comrades here decide to practise their manifold skills on you, your money will not remain hidden for very long, on that you may depend. You must come up with a far better reason than coin for us to spare your miserable being.”

Ketch was aghast. Surely anyone could be bribed! It was the way of the world, even in the pious pretensions of Cromwell’s domain! He looked wildly about him. His eyes alighted on the table of scrolls.

“Land!” he exclaimed. “I have deeds. You could make a fresh beginning, all of you! Think on it, land, money … ” He stopped abruptly. He had suddenly recalled Richard Mead’s documents were amongst that tally.

“We will consider it,” said Mead, “But firstly … ” And he opened a large satchel from which he withdrew a sheaf of papers.

Ketch glared at them.

“You mean there really is a letter? Paper with my name on it? It wasn’t a ruse, a deception to get to me?” Was the blackmailer about to be blackmailed?

“Master Ketch, all these letters and lists you see here have your name upon them. They are honourable discharges for my men and myself. They are dated, as you will observe, a month ago. You will sign them now and then, and only then, will we discus your future.”

Ketch simmered silently cursing and desperately looking for a way out. Mead pushed him down into a chair, passed him pen and ink and indicated where he should sign. Hitch stood close by gently caressing his war hammer. Doggett loomed by the door, hands on weapons, eyes watching every move. The signatures having been grudgingly carried out, Ketch leaned back in the chair and glared at his oppressor’s over steepled fingers.

“And now?” he sneered reaching for his wine glass once more.

“And now, after we have taken payment from you, we shall depart.”

“Ah yes, payment, of course,” Ketch sneered again. “And pray just what is the nature of this payment Master Mead?” There it was at last! Greed! Just as he had known it would be; greed had won over scruples and vengeance! “So then, what is it to be? Money? Land? A little of both mayhaps?”

“No, just this,” smiled Mead and he drove his sword straight into Ketch’s chest. With such force did he do so, the blade went clean through the astonished man’s body and splintered the chair back. Impelled by the impact, the chair toppled over backwards and Mead was obliged to put his boot on Ketch’s chest to withdraw the sword. Richard wiped the blade on Ketch’s coat and turned to his impassive companions.

“Check the house quickly and as quietly as you can. Start here. If this louse did indeed have money around it is most likely here, close to hand, where he can keep an eye on it. Failing that, look for a priest’s hole under the stairs and suchlike. We shall not loiter though, if we find something quickly so be it, if not then we get out hastily anyway.”

Hitch disappeared upstairs kicking each riser as he did so in case of hollows concealed therein. Doggett and Mead briskly but methodically examined the drawing room, but nothing did they find. Hitch returned with a disgusted frown and shook his head.

“It’s too much awry Captain. I reckon he’s only just started moving in properly. Everything is in boxes and crates, most of it sealed tight for travel. We could search for a week and find nought.”

“Maybe he never meant to pay Buckly at all,” opined Doggett. “Maybe he’s got it buried or something like.”

“Aye,” shrugged Mead. “That would be no surprise with him being the kind of devious-hearted animal he was. Well then, our task is done lads. Let’s tidy up and be gone afore anyone gets curious. I’ve no wish to make the acquaintance of a hangman’s noose and that’s a fact.”

Hitch looked puzzled.

“Tidy up Captain?”

“That’s right Corporal. A nice fire should do it. Poor Master Ketch, got pissed, fell over unconscious, knocked over the candles onto the curtains and all this finery, and suddenly all was ablaze!”

“Tragic,” grinned Hitch, “And there’s a pot or two of paint upstairs that might help,” he suggested.

“Aye, and fresh straw in the stable near where we hid the horses,” added Doggett.

“Get to it then boys. I’ll see to the tinder and by the time all is an inferno, we shall be in the next county. Having never been here in the first place you understand.”

Mead heaved Ketch’s body nearer the curtains and carefully placed candlesticks and wine decanters. Then he began liberally redistributing the copious amounts of paper round about into more productive heaps. He spotted a collection of scrolls on and near the main table and remembered something Ketch had said about ‘Land’. He unfurled one at random and held it under the candlelight but the legal jargon made no sense to him. Nevertheless, the documents looked important, perhaps too important to burn out of hand. He gathered a number of them up and stuffed them in his satchel for future examination. Lastly he noted a large map, previously invisible under the scrolls. It was now much blood splattered, but nonetheless, Mead soon realised that he was looking at a chart of the local area. Long forgotten memories flooded back, all of them painful, as he traced out the borders of the nearby parishes. What had Ketch been scheming? Certain localities had been ringed in ink. Were they targets for his avarice?

“So what poor bastard’s farm were you after eh?” he asked the corpse and picked up the last scroll which lay separate from the rest. Curiosity overcoming him, he unfurled it and was about to wade through the legalese in order to link it to the map, when he realised there was no need. His parent’s names almost jumped off the paper at him as indeed did his own. He started trembling slightly and renewed his scrutiny of the map. Sure enough, a little hard now to decipher through the blood and spilled wine, was Northcote Farm in the Parish of Ruislip. And not only was it ringed, it was double ringed! Mead turned his cold eyes back to the body.

“I wish you were still alive Master Ketch. Just so I could have the pleasure of killing you again!”

Hitch returned carrying paint and broken sticks of furniture. Doggett followed him in with such a ridiculous large amount of straw as only a man of his build could heft. The three of them arranged the incendiary mix to their satisfaction, ignited it, then stood back to let it draw and encourage the flames if necessary. Or rather Hitch and Mead stood back. The changing patterns of light now within the room had caused Doggett to become interested in one of the wall panels behind them. He cocked his head on one side, scratched his chin, and ambled over to the wall.

“Bloody poor workmanship in so fine a room,” he muttered tracing his finger around the edge of the walnut. Then he took a pace back and launched a huge boot at the woodwork which splintered asunder to reveal a considerable cavity. Within this hollow were stack several bags. The sacks, when hefted, clanked with a pleasing, currency-like ‘chink’.

“Well lads, it looks like Master Ketch paid us after all,” remarked Mead.

A year has passed. Following the ‘incident’, Hitch and Poulton had immediately headed north and were not seen again. Mead had taken up residence, legally, for he had all the necessary paperwork, in his family’s rundown farm. Doggett had stayed there too for a week or so. The big man wandered silently around the land, deep in thought, and examining every aspect of the holding.

“Needs a might of work,” was his considered opinion as he leant on a railing and viewed the dilapidated ground.

“I’ll be needing someone to run it Peter. It was once a good holding with pasture, orchard and woodland. Even had a decent fishpond,” said Mead.

Mead was feeling guilt ridden. In his mind, all the ruination he surveyed was to be layed at his door. He bitterly regretted not doing more to keep in contact with his mother. Even when he learned she had died, the information left him strangely indifferent, yet another symptom of the poison within he suspected. The decline of the farm had been a matter of complete indifference to him, and there were times when he found it hard to even recall his father’s face. At other times, he felt fully and morally justified in blaming all these woes on Wil Pitkin. In Richard’s mind, it was Pitkin’s actions of all those years ago that had commenced the train of events that led to this. The thought of killing him was the only emotion that lived with any spark of energy within Richard, and the cursed Moors had denied him release from the torment that gnawed away at his innards. The notion of working on the land left him apathetic to say the very least. Doggett, unaware of Mead’s mental twists and turns, began talking again.

“Needs a family does this. Whoever runs this place for you would need a family about him to give him strength and the will to see things through when the bad times come.”

“You foresee more bad times Peter?”

“There’s always bad times when you ‘um a farmer. Life’s a struggle most of the time for them as work the land, and the bloody wars ain’t helped any that’s a fact.”

“I’m thinking that even so it could be a decent life for one such as yourself. It would need to be planned properly, invested in with thought, and run right.”

“Aye, it could be so. You’d do the planning you speak of and handle the money side of things?”

“I would. Then with yours and the Lord’s guidance, I believe we might prosper. We’ll need to invest carefully and build up slowly. I’m thinking our days of rushing headlong into things are long gone. We’re not bloody Cavaliers are we! Also, it wouldn’t do to attract attention. We’re just two old soldiers home from the wars with a wee bit of back pay to keep body and soul together, initially anyway.”

“And you and I would be contract bound? All legal like?”

“Do you think I’d boot you out old friend?”

“No, I don’t believe you would. But a man needs security in his dotage and this would be my last roll of the dice.”

“I understand Peter. A proper, legally binding contract shall be drawn up between us.”

“Let me think on it Captain.”

“As long as you need.”

“I’ll be back Captain,” said Doggett, “My word on it.”

The following morning, Doggett was gone.

An inquiry of sorts was finally held by the local magistrate into the death of Ketch and the burning of Brackenbury House; that same magistrate who had been in league with the deceased. The Inquiry therefore was cursory to say the least and no conclusions were arrived at. The servants were manifestly uninvolved and in his short time in the area, Ketch had made himself a very unpopular figure. The magistrate himself, that corrupt worthy, was unhappy about his loss of income and promptly secured the rights to the Manor though he lacked the funds to either rebuild or repair the house itself. Instead, he contented himself with increasing and collecting the rents for the estate to set himself in good stead with whomsoever took over the reins of power in the future.

Richard Mead, on the other side of the diminutive River Pinn, discreetly reviewed the leases and mortgages he had ‘liberated’ form Brackenbury House. Adopting the guise of a weary soldier returning home to his roots, he began calling on his neighbours with their various contracts in his mind. For the main, they proved to be smallholders just trying to get by. They were clearly nervous of what the implications of Ketch’s death might be to their livelihoods, but none were ready to confide in a stranger, even one who might be vaguely familiar to some. But Mead knew fear when he saw it, it having been his constant companion these many years past. He also recognised people close to desperation. It was clearly visible in the haggard looks of the women, the exhaustion of the men, and the stick-like limbs of the children. Four families he soon found in such conditions. And, ignoring a tinge of shame, it wasn’t long before he was considering how they might be of use to him. There was one other family he briefly noted but dismissed them out of hand almost immediately. Former Ranters, they believed the world owed them a living and had no notion of reward through industry. The man was a drunken sot, the wife a huge and belligerent slattern, and the seemingly numberless offsprings feral beyond help. None looked particularly hungry though their hovel would have been shunned by any self-respecting pig. This disgusting dynasty were clearly preying on others. When the time was right, they would have to be dealt with for the benefit of others - for the common good as it were.