Vendetta
Keith was throwing things over the top of the bar—strange things. A stuffed fish. A shoe. A sword—obviously John’s. Pete sidestepped the sword. “Keith, how much bloody junk do you HAVE under there?”
“Enough. Ah-HAH!” He came up with a large rolled paper which he spread on the bar, revealing a large, detailed map of southern England.
“Okay. We’re . . . here . . . ” He traced the streets. “We were going west along Trenton . . . ”
Pete studied it. “So if you keep going . . . ” He groaned. “It only branches off in four fucking directions!”
Keith put a shot glass at the branching off point and slid his finger on the one to the far left.
“Okay, this is a pretty ritzy area. Plenty of mansions there.” He followed the next branch. “Dunno about this one.” The third one. “This one’s a straight shot into marsh.”
The fourth went straight into the next town and ended there. “So it has to be along the first one.”
“Or the second one,” Roger pointed out annoyingly.
“True, but that’s better than four,” Pete said.
Roger frowned. “That huge house in my dream . . . it was isolated. Alone.”
“Probably further out, then,” Keith said, moving north. “Up here there’s lots of country estates—some of them Victorian-era.” He met Roger’s and Pete’s surprised looks. “What? I’m not an idiot, you know.”
Roger’s eyes widened. “Wait—north!”
“What?”
“North, you said north. Keith, you had a sensory detail we didn’t have. The smell!”
“What about it?” Keith said, clearly not getting it.
“Heather! Wet heather!”
At their looks, he growled and grabbed the map. He jabbed a finger north of their position—about ten miles. “Here! Here is where the heather starts to grow! Not a lot around here, but go up north about ten miles . . . ”
“Son of a bitch!” Pete said. “Of course!”
“I still don’t get it,” Keith groused, frowning at the map.
“You smelled heather. The heather fields are heavy up north here, AND there are country estates, so it probably means he’s up here somewhere!” Pete said.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Keith bellowed.
“Nothing,” Pete said, going for his coat.
Keith ran to lock up.
They piled back into the car, Roger getting behind the wheel. Keith put up a “closed until whenever” sign in the front window and hopped in the back.
Pete came out a moment later, jogging. “You’ve GOT to do something about getting rid of your guests,” he groaned as he got in. There weren’t any guests at the moment, thank goodness, but it was hard to relax and let your guard down when at any moment a tourist or day-tripper might come down into the bar/dining room and interrupt your conversation.
“I am,” Keith said. “Next month, the Crown and Cushion is closing.”
“GOOD!” they both said as Roger pulled out. “Stanshall too?” Pete asked hopefully.
“Hell no!” Keith said. “I’m just closing it to the public. Friends and family members and all that are still welcome so long as they give notice. Otherwise it’s just us.”
“Dammit. I was hoping.” He didn’t say any more after Keith cuffed him on the head.
“Viv’s not bad, and he’s not here that often, you wanker,” Keith said. “I’ll do me best to keep his visits short.”
“He IS bad, but I’ll accept that.”
They drove in silence, each leaning forward as if that would hasten John’s rescue. Pete gnawed on his finger, worry thumping in his chest. Even the bantering and joking rang hollow without John there.
Keith’s nose wrinkled. “Wet heather!”
“We’re getting close,” Pete said. “Let’s start looking.”
John was shivering now. Aching and coughing. His swollen shoulder still throbbed, enough to almost take his mind off how much the rest of his body was hurting.
Constitution of an Ox or not, spending a day in a damp, cold well, sitting in wet clothes with no opportunity to get dry was beginning to take its toll. Touching his forehead with one damp, clammy hand confirmed it—he was already feverish. Despair was starting to lick at the edges of his consciousness, too. He knew they were coming. He knew it. But the hours and hours were taking their toll as well. He’d long before figured out that that was probably his captors’ plan; wait until he was weak and sick before confronting him, doing so only when they knew he was no longer in a position to fight back.
The two people hadn’t returned after he’d snatched trousers off the first. He’d pulled them down into the well with him, rifling through the pockets looking for something, anything that would tell him where he was. Aside from a few pence and some lint, there was nothing—no wallet, no keys, nothing. Whoever it was was smart enough to have not put anything in them.
He rolled the trousers up and stuck them behind his back, taking some of the pressure off his aching tailbone. That small bit of comfort in place, he settled back and examined his shoulder. The poker, or whatever it was that had hit him, had slid under the collar of his jacket, burning a hole through his shirt and into his skin. There was no blackened flesh or any indication that blisters would appear, but its red, throbbing anger was enough to make it miserable. Unwilling to waste the tiny bit of drinking water he had left, he tore off a small bit of his shirt and held it under the corner of the grate, where some water was still dripping down. When it was saturated, he rolled it up and placed it over the burn, using his jacket to secure it. It still hurt, but the cool cloth helped take some of the pain away. He leaned back against the filthy wall with a sigh, wondering just how his situation could get any worse—but knowing it would anyway.
He’d been smiling in the picture. Smiles were rare for his younger brother, who’d preferred the serious side of life. Still, the holiday to Brighton was enough to lighten even William’s darker moods. They stood shoulder to shoulder, the bright green roofs of the holiday camp behind them—though the photo was in black and white, so it was only Harold’s memory that was able to fill in the color.
Tears burned in the corners of his eyes and he quickly pushed the photograph away. It was held in a heavy silver frame, something which mirrored the richness and opulence of the rest of the house. For seven generations it had been in the Smythe family, from his great-great-great-great-grandfather James, who had built the center section, all the way to Harold and William’s father Henry, who had overseen the addition of a final façade with a ninth and final chimney. The interior was decorated the way one would expect an English mansion to be—fine artwork, tapestries, elegant furniture, containing a lifetime of proud family history there for whoever cared enough to look.
It was his brother William who had first met the mysterious woman who called herself Mistress. A career in the military had been cut short by an injury to his knee, one that they said would never heal fully. Yet Mistress had taken him in and within in a year William was running six miles a day. That, Harold suspected, was the act that had forever solidified his brother’s allegiance to her, though he told Harold little of what he actually did for her. He described Mistress as a benefactor and a shrewd businesswoman with dealings all over the world. Harold didn’t doubt that; William wore only the finest clothes, drove a nice car, and ate out at fancy restuarants all over Europe more than he did at home.
It was not, Harold admitted, the best life for William’s son Norman, who’d already lost his mother at an early age and then had to endure his father’s long absences, but the boy was well taken care of and educated, and when they were together, William made his love and affection clear to the boy, who was now fifteen.
And fatherless, Harold reminded himself with bitter anger—the anger borne of grief and pouring from a wound that hadn’t even begun to heal. William had been cut down in the prime of life, leaving an orphaned son and a grieving brother behind. And now, with generous, discreetly-given information from Mistress, he would have his revenge. He hadn’t contacted her; she had called upon him, offering condolences in her cold, accented voice, and asked if there was anything she could do. William had, after all, died in her service. Harold, unable to meet her gaze, had asked for only one thing.
“Help me find who killed my brother and allow me the means to bring him here. I desire only revenge.”
And Mistress had provided him with both, delivering his brother’s killer to them, unconscious. She had left no instructions, other than Harold was now free to take his revenge how he saw fit and a cryptic note asking him to please give her details when the job was finished.
The door at the far end of the room opened and Harold lifted his eyes, the sight that greeted him filling him with rage—but for a different reason.
The murderer was stumbling in, his hands shackled together and Norman prodding him with a gun to his back. He’d spun a fine yarn about studying him—and indeed he was. Studying him to see what would break the big man. What would murder the murderer.
The cold and wet had clearly taken its toll. The man—who Harold vaguely recognized from TV—was built tall and broad, with a powerful chest and shoulders. His long black hair hung damp around his face, which, despite being pale, was already glowing hotly with fever. The man looked around dully with half-glazed gray eyes, taking in his new surroundings with a bovine vacancy. He was either naturally slow or his mind had been addled by fever and sickness. At the moment Harold couldn’t quite bring himself to care which one it was.
Harold rose to his feet. The man wasn’t a threat—not sick and with Norman’s gun in his ribs. “Mister Entwistle.” He spoke clearly, gambling the man would remember his voice from the scuffle where he ended up losing his trousers.
Entwistle stopped, nearly toppling over before regaining his balance. Norman stopped as well, keeping the gun trained on his captive. His hands trembled slightly and he kept readjusting his grip, as if silently willing Entwistle to give him a reason to shoot. Any reason.
“Would you care for some tea?” Even he couldn’t quite believe that had just come out of his mouth. His grandmother’s lessons on manners must have been driven deeper than he realised.
Entwistle met his gaze with a dazed look. “If it’s not too much trouble.” His voice was deep and powerful and yet gentle at the same time—another incongruity.
“How do you take it?”
“Milk, and just a touch of suger,” Entwistle replied warily. Behind him, Norman looked ready to explode.
“Patience, Norman.” He made the tea and brought it to the captive man. “He can’t hurt us, bound and sick as he is.”
Indeed, Entwistle didn’t look strong enough to break a handful of dry spaghetti noodles as he gripped the cup in his filthy hands, drinking it in a pathetic, trembling way.
“After all,” Harold finished as he came to sit down behind the desk again. “WE aren’t murderers.”
The cup lowered. “What do you mean, you aren’t murderers? Isn’t that why you brought me here?” A pause. “You never have told me why I’m here.”
“You’re being punished,” Norman snarled, jamming the gun in further.
“For what?” Entwistle snarled, showing the first sign of anger—and that he hadn’t lost all his fire.
“Killing my brother,” Harold said coldly.
The grey eyes went wide. “Killing your . . . I haven’t killed anyone!”
“LIAR!” Harold roared, then visibly composed himself. He couldn’t let the anger show. He had to keep calm, maintain his rightness and justice, to not let Entwistle for one moment question his resolve.
“I don’t know who you have me confused with, mister,” Entwistle said. “I haven’t killed anyone and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harold turned the framed picture around so that it faced the other man. Norman’s eyes moved immediately to the floor. “My brother. William. The man you murdered.”
Entwistle took a step closer, squinting at the photograph. “I’ve never—wait a minute. He looks like that one . . . ” he trailed off.
“Go on.”
“I fought him. He’s one of Mistress’s men! We fought—I knocked him down . . . and then I went to help Keith . . . and that was it.”
“He died in hospital.”
Entwistle glared. “That’s not my fault. He and about fifty of his mates attacked US. He was tryin’ to kill me.’
“You still murdered him.”
“I was defending myself. I don’t want to kill anyone. I’m sorry he’s dead but—”
“You shut up!” Norman howled, swinging the barrel of the gun until it hit Entwistle in the side of the head.
“Norman!”
“You just shut up! You’re not sorry!” Norman snarled, holding the gun to Entwistle’s temple as the man raised a hand to his head. Blood slowly seeped out between his fingers.
“Norman, it’s not time to kill him yet.”
“So you are going to kill me,” Entwistle said.
“Don’t be naive, Entwistle. Of course we are.” He stood up and opened his desk drawer, pulling out a knife. The small dagger gleamed in the light as Harold turned it. “This was William’s. You recognize it, of course.”
“Yes,” Entwistle said warily.
“Good.” He stepped over toward Entwistle. “That’s one good fever you’ve got going on.”
He hadn’t expected the man to shrink back in fear, but the way he sat there without moving, without betraying a moment of fear, nearly made Harold hesitate. This was no common street thug or arrogant rock star he was dealing with.
But he’d still killed William.
And that thought gave him the courage to move forward.
On to Chapter Four
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