The Plantagenet Vendetta by John Paul Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

People like Luke Rankin don’t hang about with people like Debra Harrison.”
    She detected snobbery in his tone. “You mean because Debra was pretty?”
    “Aye, she were definitely that, but not just that: Debra were popular, even the girls went crazy for her.”
    “Did Debra have a boyfriend?” Jen had never heard one mentioned before.
    “Not that I’m aware. Not that she lacked admirers, mind.”
    “Any casuals? Dates? Anything like that?”
    Hancock shrugged. “Well, now that you mention it, there was this one fella. Wasn’t really a boyfriend as such.”
    “Go on.”
    “She were quite good friends with the Rat’s nephew.”
    “The Rat?”
    “Aye, see that’s what we call him: Richard Ratcliffe, or Lord Richard, I should say. He’s something of a bigwig round these parts.”
    Ratcliffe, Ratcliffe: she had seen the name a few times already. The church and the graveyard had been full of Ratcliffes.
    Ratcliffes and Catesbys.
    “So who is this Lord Ratcliffe?”
    “He lives in one of those big mansions,” Hancock said, gesturing with his hands. “You know that footpath what heads off down by the church?”
    She guessed he was referring to the same one she had seen Catesby heading toward earlier.
    She nodded.
    “Follow that, and you come to a lane. He lives down one of those. Lived there for years, his family has.”
    Jen allowed the information a moment to sink in. “Tell me about his nephew.”
    “Nothing to tell, really. I haven’t seen him for yonks.”
    “Yonks? What happened to him?”
    “He went away,” Gavin said, his first comment for a while. Almost immediately he returned to his pint.
    “Where?”
    Brian delayed his answer, distracted as the outside door opened. “Ey up, you can ask him yourself.”
    Jen turned, her eyes on the door. A smartly dressed gentleman had entered. He wore a black overcoat that matched the colour of his hair, a white scarf, and shoes so well polished that they practically sparkled. A vibrant smile shone from between his shaven chin and bushy moustache.
    “Evening, Lord Richard,” a bald man said from his position by a booth near the door.
    “Ah, how do, young Michael. How’s that trouble and strife?”
    The man named Michael raised his beer as a salute.
    “Good evening, Mr Ratcliffe, sir,” the next man on said.
    “Ey up, Billy lad. Ey, I just saw your missus; she was just finishing with the butcher – or maybe it was his assistant.”
    The man laughed at his own joke, as did the others. Watching from the bar, the first thing that Jen noticed was how the man attracted attention, as if a switch had been flicked.
    He headed straight for the counter, less than a couple of metres from Jen, and removed his scarf, placing it on the bar by the till.
    “How do, Lord Richard?” Hancock asked.
    “Ah, how do, Brian lad? Good result for City, wasn’t it? I mean they only lost six-nil.”
    Jen laughed, failing to control herself. The man’s charisma was contagious.
    “I say, who’s this pretty young thing sitting next to you?”
    “This is Miss Farrelly,” Brian said.
    “She’s the one with the Picanto,” Gavin said.
    “A Picanto?”
    “Don’t start,” Mitchell said, appearing behind the bar. “We’ll be here till bleeding Christmas.”
    Jen smiled, silently relieved.
    “It’s a car,” she said.
    “Is it really?” Ratcliffe replied. “Well, in that case, I’ll have a pint of the best Abbot’s for moi, two pints of your second-best Abbot’s for Brian and Gavin, something stifling for Sir William, and a sticker for the Picanto,” the man said, laughing. “Oh, and, of course, whatever Miss Farrelly’s drinking?”
    Jen smiled. “Just a Coke, thank you.”
    “Just a Coke, thank you,” Ratcliffe said.
    “Can I take one for myself?” Mitchell asked.
    “Cor, it never bloody rains, does it? Alright then, Harvey, if you must.”
    “Ta very much.”
    Ratcliffe searched his pockets for change and began to count it in his hand. “Never seen