The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,120

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Quick watched as soldiers entered into the yard and cautiously made their way to the door, some of them checking on the condition of their fallen foes as they did so. The Wright brothers must have been dead, as they were left where they lay, but Wintour was pulled to his feet and dragged back through the gate. Wintour would live to regret his survival, thought Quick, as he finally spurred his horse away from the house and its doomed inhabitants.

He rode away from the sound of muffled gunshots coming from inside the house, content at a job well done. But he should have known better than to let his guard down, for he had travelled no further than a half mile from the house when his path was crossed by a party of horsemen, who seemed determined not to let him proceed. He laid a hand on the woollen blanket lying across the front of his saddle and took comfort from the two holstered pistols concealed beneath.

“Sir, you come from the direction of Holbeach,” said one of the men, though whether this were intended as a statement of fact or a question, Quick was not quite sure. He decided on the latter, as the fellow had an interrogative manner about him – his eyes roving inquisitively, and his thin lips framing a tongue untainted by any flavour of sympathy. In short, he looked accustomed to asking questions of his fellow man and receiving answers.

“Indeed I do,” answered Quick. “But it is not a place I would recommend to the casual visitor at this time.”

“There are times when a man needs to travel towards the sound of guns,” came the response, the man briefly standing on his stirrups so as better to hear the crack of musketry still coming from the direction of the house. “And I would say from the look of you that you have soldiered yourself. Flanders perhaps?”

“Aye, I have seen service. But a man is always wise to put such excitements behind him while he still can.”

“There are many who would agree with you sir. Might I ask your name?”

“Indeed you might but I would expect yours in return.”

“A fair bargain, and as a show of good faith why don’t I offer mine first. I am Jonathan Noyce, a servant of King James, whose royal person was so rudely endangered not two days past.”

Quick knew of the man – his reputation as the country’s most successful priest taker was second to none – the mere mention of his name was enough to put the fear into any Catholic. “In which case Holbeach is most likely to be your destination. From what I have just heard, there are enough Papists hiding there to keep you in business for some time to come.”

“You are well informed sir, but alas you remain a well-informed stranger, for your side of the bargain has yet to be met.”

“I am Peter Quick, one time soldier, as you so correctly surmised, but now making ends meet in the wool trade.”

“You had cause to be at Holbeach?”

Quick shook his head. “I had hoped to discuss this year’s fleeces but found the house besieged and was informed by a soldier that the traitors responsible for the attempt on the king’s life were holed up within. In the circumstances it did not strike me as the most profitable port of call for a man in my trade.”

“And I trust you are no friend of the Catholic?”

“I care not which religion a man chooses to secure his entry into heaven but when it comes to assassination and treachery in the name of God, then that is a different matter.”

Noyce had spent the whole time studying Quick. “You certainly do not meet the description of the men we are seeking. In which case we shall let you pass. We shall not rest until we have brought each and every one of the plotters to justice. No matter where they hide, I shall find them. But be warned, sir, this is no time to be seen expressing sympathy towards Papists.”

“Your words shall be heeded, sir. As for your searches, I wish you well and would now be pleased to be let by. I have lost business already today and can ill afford losing any more.”

As Quick rode away the relief of evading capture quickly evaporated, and to his alarm there remained an ominous sense of entrapment. It took him only a little time more to realize that his involvement