“I could be wrong, but we should wait and see regardless,” Lt. Buckworth replied, peering through the trees in the hope of his words manifesting themselves.
Frederick stared out at the fallen deer, and his anger grew. His grandfather had carefully managed the Pentford estate lands for nearly a century. It was all he had left of the man that had been so dear to him, and he was not about to let a few criminals destroy his grandfather’s legacy by killing off the deer population. The King had hunted these lands with his grandfather, the late Marquess, and Frederick hoped to one day play host to the Prince Regent.
There was little to no noise alerting them to the poacher’s approach. It was as if they had emerged from the forests as ghostly shades from the trees themselves. They wore long scarves about their faces prohibiting Frederick from ascertaining their identities, but they did not appear to know that anyone watched them. They acted as if they had all the time in the world as they slowly approached the deceased animal.
One of the men kicked it with his foot to ensure that the deer was dead, then they set to work gutting the creature. Lt. Buckworth motioned for Frederick and Mr. Hanson to step forward guns raised. “Halt in the name of the King,” Lt. Buckworth commanded.
The poachers barely glanced at the three of them before going back to their work. Frederick and Mr. Hanson looked at each other with raised eyebrows, silently questioning one another as to what was happening. The sound of a cocked pistol from behind caused them to turn around, while the lieutenant kept an eye on the others. “What is going on back there?” Lt. Buckworth asked with a steely edge to his voice.
Frederick turned to find the barrel of a gun pointed at his head. “We are surrounded,” he informed the lieutenant nervously. “I would not make any sudden movements.”
Lt. Buckworth turned to the side still keeping his gun aimed at the men gutting the deer. “I see what you mean,” he replied, warily eyeing the men who held them at gunpoint. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but poachers do not usually lie in wait for their pursuers.”
“You are correct,” Frederick answered, contemplating whether to take a step back or to remain as he was. He did not wish to do anything that would cause the man to shoot him. “What do you want?” he asked him. The man did not answer.
The poachers finished gutting the deer, lifted it from the ground, and carried it off. The men holding the three of them at gunpoint remained for some time, then they too silently faded into the forest. “What was that?” Mr. Hanson breathed. The poor man was shaking as his eyes darted to and fro in fear that they might return.
The lieutenant searched the ground in the direction they had gone attempting to pick up a trail. He motioned Frederick over and pointed to a blood trail. They followed it for a short distance before it disappeared. “Where did they go?” Frederick asked, scanning the ground around them.
“I do not know,” the soldier shook his head confounded. “I have not seen such tactics used by poachers before.”
“It is almost as if…” Frederick began.
“They were veterans. There is no doubt about it, but even so, they would have had to have been a very special group of soldiers. I have not seen the like exercised by very many men in my entire career.” Lt. Buckworth scratched his head, tipping his hat back with the gesture. “They did not appear to be frightened in the slightest to have been discovered.”
“No, they did not,” Frederick agreed frowning. “I do not understand what just transpired here.”
“Nor do I,” Lt. Buckworth replied. “I will go on ahead and see what I can find, but it would be best if you returned to the safety of the manor house, Your Lordship.”
“I agree with the lieutenant, My Lord,” Mr. Hanson interjected, having calmed somewhat.
Frederick shook his head. He did not wish to leave the soldier to face armed criminals alone. “No, I will accompany you.”
“With the utmost respect, My Lord, you have not yet produced an heir. If you were to die in the pursuit of these men, there would be no one to carry on your grandfather’s legacy, and that would be a true crime.”
Frederick met Mr. Hanson’s eyes for a moment and saw the genuine concern there. He knew Mr. Hanson was right, but it bothered him to retreat. “Do not risk your life. If you feel that you are in danger in any way, return to Pentford immediately,” he instructed the soldier.
“Yes, My Lord,” Lt. Buckworth promised, bowed, and mounted his horse. He rode in the direction that the blood had been pointing before it disappeared.
“Let us return then,” Frederick sighed resigned. Frustrated at having to turn back and confused by the poachers’ behavior, he remained silent in thought on the way back to the house.
Entering the library, he walked over to the desk and pulled out his grandfather’s journals. He had vaguely remembered his grandfather writing about poaching incidents before he had died, but it had been nothing like today. He knew going back over the accounts would most likely not help him, but he remembered a name being mentioned that might. He scanned the pages and found what he was looking for. “Christopher Smythe.”
“My Lord?” Mr. Hanson inquired, coming to peer over his shoulder at the page. “I do not believe an old poacher such as Mr. Smythe would be responsible for what transpired today. He swore to give up poaching after your grandfather caught him. His family was starving, and he couldn’t feed them, so he turned to hunting for meat. Your grandfather forgave him his crimes and instead of having him arrested, the late Marquess paid him to protect the forest.”
“Grandfather was a generous benefactor to many during his lifetime,” Frederick noted with a smile.
“Yes, he was. Mr. Smythe was so grateful to be allowed to remain free and to be provided with an income that he served your grandfather faithfully until his death. He never poached another animal again,” Mr. Hanson explained, shaking his head.
“No, he is not involved, but he knows the estate, and having once been a poacher himself might be able to offer some insight into what we witnessed today,” Frederick replied. “Do you know where he currently resides?”
“Yes, I visit him on occasion. His wife passed away some time ago, and his son is away at sea. I would be happy to take you there and make the introductions, My Lord,” Mr. Hanson offered, moving around the side of the desk to take a seat across from Frederick. “In all the years I was with your grandfather, I have never seen anything like what we experienced in the forest. I believe the lieutenant is correct in his assessment of the poachers’ former occupation. It was wise to hire him, My Lord.”
“I agree,” Frederick nodded. “I believe it would be wise to keep him on for a time until this issue has been settled.” He handed Mr. Hanson his grandfather’s journal. “Take a look at the bottom of the page. Grandfather writes that Mr. Smythe used his connections within the local community to keep further poaching from occurring. Instead, Grandfather worked with Smythe to ensure that the people were cared for in other ways.”
“It is your hope that Mr. Smythe will have maintained those connections,” Mr. Hanson observed.
“Yes. I have done what I could to care for our people here at Pentford, but it has been pointed out to me that there are many suffering that do not fall under our care. I was prepared to meet a starving frightened man, not a group of well-organized criminals.” Frederick frowned in thought. “A group of that size cannot pass entirely unnoticed. Someone must have seen them.”
