Demon and Demeanour. Book 4 of Poacher's Progress - Cover

Demon and Demeanour. Book 4 of Poacher's Progress

Copyright© 2016 by Jack Green

Chapter 3: Out of mind

Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 3: Out of mind - Vengeance, like duty, is a hard taskmaster, and Jack Greenaway's humanity, and mental robustness,is tested to the full in the search for the killers of his family. Rewarded for his past services to the Crown Jack is then given other tasks, one that will eventually take him away from England, but not before he learns some peculiar facts about cider making. A gas lit meeting leads to partnerships, corporative and corporeal, which restores his faith in himself, but not in God.

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Mult   Consensual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Historical   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Violence   Prostitution   Military  

R

ob and I spent the night in the coach. The seating was remarkably comfortable and we slept like logs, once we had disposed of the corpse.
In the grey light of dawn we found Metzendorf’s garments strewn over the floor of the coach. The indications were he had divested himself in a great hurry; several buttons being lost from his shirt and tunic, and his breeches were turned inside out. In a pocket of his discarded jacket I found a ‘wrap’ of Satan’s Breath. Rob and I exchanged looks of concern; it would seem the demonic substance had entered England, and being used at the orgies hosted by Lord Wycombe.

“There is precious little interior space for such a large coach,” Rob noted “The seats are over large, probably used as beds, and for copulation, but I would think six people would be the total capacity, whereas a Royal Mail coach of similar dimensions could easily fit up to ten passengers inside.”
He stepped outside the carriage, and then slowly walked around the vehicle, peering under the chassis, tapping the side panels, and generally behaving like a Revenue Man looking for smuggled brandy.
I left him to it, and went into woods to scrap a hole, into which I tumbled the remains of Sigismund von Metzendorf – whom I noted had the rearing horse tattoo of the Westphalian Royal Guard tastefully inked on his left buttock.
It was a mean and shabby grave, fit for a no less a mean and shabby man. After the burial I returned to the coach and found Rob with a huge grin on his face.
“Look,” he said, and pulled a recessed handle under the postilion’s perch.
A hidden door at the rear end of the coach opened, displaying a compartment large enough to carry six persons, albeit manacled to the sides of the coach. This compartment would ensure any abducted females would remain undiscovered the few times the coach was stopped and searched.

We took the coach and the two horses into High Wycombe and sold them, Metzendorf being no longer in need of coach or horses. Rob and I shared the money accrued from the sale. I was no longer a rich man, although I still had the annual interest from my investment. Rob was saving his money so in a year’s time he could wed Bridey Murphy – the intrusive thought butted into my mind, but again vanished before I could examine it more closely – and any extra guineas were welcome to us both.

Next morning we set out for London.
“We can stay at Queen Street tonight, Rob, and in the morning appraise Stafford and Colonel Slade of our findings. I am looking forward to spending the night with Caroline. It seems months since...” I stopped abruptly when I remembered I had no home in Queen Street, and Caroline was dead.
Rob looked at me with sadness and sympathy in his eyes. “You can say with me, Jack. I have taken over Colonel Slade’s rooms in Haymarket since he moved into Zinnia’s residence in Bloomsbury Square.”
I nodded silently and sorrowfully. Caroline – I miss you so much.

 
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