Believe or Die (26 page)

“
Grenadoes
!” his brain advised him “
Musket and pistol shots
!” it added. Then Buckly’s world went dark.

Seven assassins lay dead, piled in the ditch. Some bore wounds caused by the grenades, but most had been shot and run through. Others had made the acquaintance of Hitch’s hammer or Poulton’s axe. Buckly tried to focus. A kaleidoscope of lights orbited his brain and he vomited copiously. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, which was small wonder as it was now spread over the rest of his face. He spat launching a spray of blood, teeth and mucus.

Vaguely he recalled the hidden stiletto in his boot-top, but he had no feeling in his feet or legs. Then he realised that the blurred figure perched on a tree stump before him was cleaning his nails with it. Buckly shifted his pain-racked limbs, or rather he tried to, but he was trussed up good and proper. His eyesight clearing a little, he glared around at his captors. One of them was going through his coat and saddlebags but then stopped and with a curse, pulled something from a pocket. The man showed it to his companions but Buckly couldn’t make out what the item was. The other men now turned cold, hard eyes on Buckly. One of them, a huge oaf of a creature, took a step forward but was halted by another, clearly the Captain of the band. This latter walked slowly over and squatted before Buckly.

“I am going to ask you some questions. You are going to answer,” the man explained.

Buckly sneered. Mead pulled out a knife then put his hand out to one side and received Poulton’s axe. Buckly’s arrogance wavered. Mead continued.

“Every time you tell a lie, which is a sin and an affront to God, I am going to maim you a little. I will start with your toes, then your ears, then your fingers, then your balls, then your eyes,” he explained.

With a terrified start, Buckly realised that his boots had already been removed in preparation.

“Even if I tell you all I know, you will butcher me anyway!” he accused.

“Oh sirrah,
I
will not kill you. On that you have my word. But answer me swiftly; my patience grows thin. Speak to me of a Master Ketch for I believe it is he who you serve is it not?”

Buckly’s jaw dropped releasing more blood and dribble. Mead nodded to himself.

“I thought so,” he said tiredly. “So then, tell me of your arrangements with him. Tell me just what exactly you and your now deceased comrades were to do. And tell me also how the play was to end, you having successfully murdered my companions and myself. Tell me true or suffer the consequences.”

Buckly talked. Indeed, it was impossible to stop him talking. He revealed everything he knew in a verbal avalanche. Yet eventually all was said and he dissolved into a fit of self-pitying sobbing.

Mead stood up, sheathed his knife and handed the axe back to Poulton. Buckly felt a momentary glimmer of hope. Then Mead’s snakelike eyes turned on him again and it was dispelled instantly.

“Hitch,” said Mead quietly and the former corporal handed over a small, linen wrapped package. Buckly frowned at it then suddenly realised what it contained. Mead slowly unwrapped the item. Inside were two small twist-barrel pistols. Shalley’s pride and joy.

“We had to kill him!” blurted Buckly. “He ran straight into us on the road!”

“He were just a lad,” growled the big oaf.

Buckly began shaking and wet his breeches.

“Who did it?” asked Mead.

“I don’t recall. It all happened so quick.”

“No it didn’t. He was strangled. Strangled with a garrotte.”

“Aye, a garrotte. A garrotte just like this ‘un,” snarled Poulton. “It were in his coat Captain and I’d say he’s no stranger in its use.”

“You said you wouldn’t kill me!” shrieked Buckly.

“And I will not,” stated Mead. “Peter,” he said nodding at the big man.

Doggett strode forward and put his huge hands around Buckly’s throat. He picked the squirming man up and stared into the assassin’s eyes as he slowly began squeezing.

When it was done, Buckly joined his companions in the ditch. Horses were gathered up and loads redistributed. All was done in complete silence. Mead rubbed his eyes. He felt drained.

“Well, now we know the way of it,” he sighed. “Let us put an end to this sorry business once and forever. Are we agreed on our course?”

Hitch and Poulton nodded but Doggett looked at Mead with tearful eyes.

“We need to pray Captain. Afore we go, we needs to pray.
I
need to pray!”

“I believe you are right Peter. It seems a long time since our path seemed so clearly marked by the Lord, a very long time indeed.”

The four removed their hats, sank to their knees and sought guidance from above. Mead felt a shiver run through him. Who or what might be listening to their prayers? Was the Lord God? Or was it another kind of deity altogether?

Ketch was feeling smug. In an uncharacteristic example of benevolence he had merely dismissed his farm bailiff, Ralph Wingfield, from his presence with no punishment decided upon. Brackenbury Manor had changed hands without violence several times in the last twenty years or so, but the bailiff had always remained in situ.

The main building of eight bedchambers, gatehouse, dovecote, brewery and stables, was fast becoming decrepit but its potential was abundantly clear to Ketch. Wingfield had had the effrontery to come to regard the place as pretty much his own domain, but his new master soon disabused him of such a notion. Now he was to reside, not even in the gatehouse, but in a tumbledown, damp ridden, wattle and daub cottage close by at Pynchester on the banks of the River Pinn. Also, his position, indeed his life’s employment as bailiff hung in the balance. Maybe Ketch would keep him on, his local knowledge being useful, maybe he would not. The estate itself was extensive and included numerous farms and smallholdings, notably Copthall, an apparently very productive piece of land. Beyond the estate’s boundaries, particularly across the River Pinn in the parish of Ruislip, there were a number of interesting possibilities for development. There was pasture and meadowland aplenty, good woods and a number of well-built houses. The same applied northwards to Harefield and westwards towards Uxbridge, but powerful men and influential families held sway in both areas and Ketch was not yet in a position to conspire either with or against them.

Although outwardly an ardent supporter of the Lord Protector and the dismal, miserable, joyless world, which England had now become, Ketch could sense opposition and dissatisfaction growing. The Puritan ‘dream’, this new Jerusalem, was draining the lifeblood out of the nation. People had forgotten how to laugh; they knew not how to enjoy themselves anymore. Indeed, they dare not! Such behaviour was tantamount to heresy. All thoughts and deeds must be orientated to the will of God, as interpreted by the Puritans and their pious, ruthless, and utterly single-minded spokesman – Cromwell. Yet even the Lord Protector, as he now styled himself, even he could not live forever and he had no serious successor. His son was weak and incompetent with few followers, and his underlings, for all their piety, were largely self-serving hypocrites. What then did the future hold, and where in that maze was Ketch’s place? Would a new King appear, Charles’s exiled son perhaps? Who could tell! For the time being it must be a game of biding one’s time and discreetly building up a flexible power base, in other words, wealth! And ‘wealth’, with the future uncertain, needs must mean property. Such assets must not be brash. Not enough to attract unwelcome interest from his betters. But they must provide an income, and such must be drawn from diverse sources so as to evade audit. Thus farm rents and leases appeared high on Ketch’s list of procurements and he had already made some shrewd acquisitions to that end. He pondered a large map set out on the table before him then glanced across to a side table whereupon sat a number of rolled scrolls. Ketch frowned at the map again and began tapping his fingers irritably. Something was eluding him, flitting around the edges of his memory. The names of the fields and holdings on the chart seemed somehow familiar, as if he had somehow known them once upon a time. He traced a fingertip up and down the boundary divisions and paused over one Northcote farm. Why should such an inconsequential heap of cow dung irritate him so? He pursed his lips and began to rummage amongst the scrolls. They represented deeds and titles to properties he intended to garner into his estate and by whatever means necessary. If a man had gone missing from his property, as countless numbers did during the Wars, and his kin could not pay the mortgage, loan, or debt consequentially involved, the property became forfeit. Ketch looked up from his delvings for a moment or two remembering the Levellers, men like John Lilbourne, who had protested so vehemently against such policies. Still, Cromwell had settled their hash for them! Forfeit properties could be sold off directly or auctioned as appropriate and there was no place in the new Commonwealth for Radicals who thought that the end of war meant a redivision of wealth. Ketch smirked to himself. By means of the Law, intimidation, or threat, he had already accumulated numerous such contracts and even had an absurdly corrupt magistrate in his pay to ensure facility in his transactions. And so, back to Northcote Farm. Why did that seem to stand out amongst all the others on his list of forthcoming acquisitions? He located the relevant scroll, spread it out on the table, and weighted down the corners. Then he poured himself a glass of fine wine, a grossly un-Puritan thing to indulge in, he smugly reflected. He leaned back in his chair and began reading. Then he stopped, glass halfway to his lips, before leaning forward abruptly and rereading the text. It couldn’t be! He read yet again, half silently, half out loud.

On the death of James Mead …
blah, blah, blah …
to his beloved wife Verity
… blah, blah, blah …
whereupon on her departing this vale of tears … to her surviving child … Richard
. Richard?
RICHARD MEAD!!!!!

Ketch dropped the scroll, stared into space for a while, and then began sipping his wine. After a while he got up and prowled around the room. He raised his glass, found it to be empty and refilled it. Then he stood still for several minutes, unmoving other than for a rapid flickering and blinking of his eyes. Then he let out a gleeful chuckle and executed a little jig in the candle glow before snatching up the scroll once more and scrutinising the dates listed: Mead’s last correspondence to his then ailing mother; the mysterious death of the farm manager hired to run the mother’s affairs in Mead’s absence; the woman’s actual demise. All these dates were important and all had been orchestrated by Ketch without his even being aware of the significance of the surname involved. It had just been an agreeable business opportunity to be seized by whatever means. And now? Ketch did some rapid mental calculations based on the template advised by his ‘hired’ magistrate. Yes, there was no doubt. Within a sennight, Mead’s farm would be forfeit. And Mead was dead! By now, Mead would be rotting in the ground! Oh, it was utterly perfect! Ah, but was it really so? Where was the confirmation that Richard Mead was no more? As if in answer to this unspoken question, a nervous knocking came from the chamber door.

“Come!” snarled Ketch testily, his mind altogether too busy for domestic trivia.

A housemaid entered and curtsied. “Well?” he demanded.

“By your leave Sir, a boy has just come up from Tickenham with a message. A man bid him give you this,” and she handed over a small canvas purse. Ketch snatched it from her and turned away to open it.

Inside was a brief, grubby note, poorly written, that read:

‘Duty donne. Payment due.’ And enclosed within the folded paper was the jaggedly cut half of a silver penny. Ketch groped in a pocket and withdrew the matching other half. This was the sign agreed between him and Buckly, the token that denoted success. A warm glow crept over Ketch then he realised that there was something else scrawled on the note.

‘Found letter. Yor name onnit. Will bring.’

He cursed vehement but inaudible blasphemies; a complication and a most unexpected one at that. But if Buckly had come across a letter with his name upon it, he had to know what it contained. Would Buckly then be looking for more money, was that the way of it? No doubt it was. The worm had spotted an opportunity to increase his profit. Well. Ketch would see about that! After all, greed was a sin was it not? He turned back to the girl.

“Is the boy still here?” he demanded.

“Yes Sir.”

“Very well. Here is a twopence, give him it and tell him to return to the man who sent him here. He is then to tell, nay, ASK, the Gentleman to come up here immediately. Do you understand me?”

“Yes Sir,” bobbed the girl.

“And you girl, tell me who else is in or about the house this moment?”

“Just me Sir; cook’s back at sun up. You dismissed both the boys yesterday and the new un’s ain’t arrived yet. And Alfred is helping the Wingfield’s move their belongings like you ordered.”

“Very good. Here is a coin for you as well. Leave now and do not return before cockcrow.”

“But where shall I … ?”

“I care not. Just go. NOW!”

The maid sobbed and fled. Ketch watched her flee down the muddy path with her threadbare shawl clasped tight around her, and then he reread the note.

“So then,” he reflected. “Is this a good thing or a bad? Fortuitous or dangerous? But wait, it says ‘Duty Donne’. So Mead must be dead. Also, Buckly was instructed to dismiss his hirelings before returning, so he will be on his own. Clearly then he intends to line his pockets a little more at my expense and by means of this letter he speaks of. Well, he will come to regret his temerity, if only very briefly! Nay, this is but a tiresome loose end to be secured, an inconvenience, no more.”

Ketch returned to his table and sat in the fast descending dusk sipping yet another glass of wine. After some reflection and another self-satisfied smirk, he rose and opened the superb new walnut cabinet he had recently ‘acquired’. From this fine example of the cabinetmakers art, he withdrew a brace of pistols, then sat down once more and methodically began seeing to their priming and loading.