Believe or Die

by M. J. Harris

  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.

  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 Buck
ly? 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 o
f 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.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  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.