The Witching Pool: A Justice Belstrang Mystery (Justice Belstrang Mysteries Book 2)

  THE WITCHING POOL

  John Pilkington

  Copyright © John Pilkington 2020.

  The right of John Pilkington to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in 2020 by Sharpe Books.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ONE

  In the spring of 1617, following that tempestuous Year of Astonishment, I reached my sixty-second birthday. Henceforth, after a hard winter - though tempered by a pleasant Christmas when Hester and I were joined by my daughter Anne and my beloved grandchild Kate - I was resolved to spend an untaxing year enjoying life on my modest acres. Fishing the Severn, of course, reading and sometimes riding to visit friends for cards and discourse. Life at Thirldon was pleasant enough, I decided, a far cry from the stench and corruption of London that had so disarmed me the year before.

  The King, I heard, was now in Scotland, his first journey to his homeland since his coronation fourteen years earlier. Here in balmy Worcestershire all was quiet - until once again, by quirk of fate, an incident occurred which would throw my life into disarray. I wonder at times whether former magistrate Robert Belstrang is destined for a peaceful decline into slippered dotage, but must forever be leaving his fireside to undertake some further quest. But that Maytime I found myself caught up in a fearful business, that I feel it my duty to record. I speak of a dark cloud that passed over our corner of the county, whereby my peace of mind – let alone that of many others - was shaken to the core.

  It began with the tragic death of a young maiden who was found drowned, only four miles south of Thirldon.

  The news came to me on a visit into Worcester, where I had ridden to see my merchant about a consignment of French wines. I took dinner with my old friend Doctor Boyd, that dry and phlegmatic Scots physician whose company I had always enjoyed. We were leaving the Old Talbot Inn by the Minster, intending to take a stroll along the river before I collected Leucippus from the stables. Whereupon the good doctor, who had been silent for some minutes, mentioned that he intended to attend an inquest the following morning: that of a drowned girl, the eldest daughter of a landowner I knew Boyd heartily disliked, Giles Cobbett.

  ‘But that’s dreadful,’ I exclaimed. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Two days ago, I believe. It seems a man whose dog had strayed found the body. It’s said that the girl took her own life. Susanna Cobbett – she was but seventeen years old.’

  As I took in the grim tidings he added: ‘A matter of the heart, perhaps. My own daughter was given to such extremes of feeling at that age, before she saw sense and married.’

  ‘Well, I barely know the family,’ I said. ‘And from what I do know of Giles Cobbett, he’s a cold-hearted man. Even so, such an event would be hard for any father to bear. Yet knowing your opinion of him, I wonder at your interest.’

  ‘The act of self-murder has always been of interest to me,’ my friend answered. ‘What drives people to such desperation – or wickedness, as some would term it? In truth I’ve never had much sympathy for those who stoop to it, but I’m curious to hear the evidence.’

  I asked him where the proceedings were being held.

  ‘In a tithe barn at Powick,’ came the reply. ‘It’s close to where the crime was committed – that is, a pond on the edge of Newland wood, a mile or so south of the village.’

  I stopped. ‘Good God, do you mean the Witching Pool?’

  ‘The very place. But I’ve no more patience with such superstitious chaff than you have.’

  ‘Well, this will set tongues wagging,’ I said. ‘The pool’s reputation goes back a long way.’

  ‘It may well do,’ Boyd said. ‘Though I never heard of anyone drowning themselves there.’

  As we began to stroll again, I pictured the tree-shrouded pond from memory: a gloomy place. ‘As I recall, it’s shallow enough to stand up in,’ I said. ‘Of little use to a sporting man - unless you’re fishing for minnows.’

  ‘That’s another reason the case interests me. The girl must have been most determined, to see the business through.’

  He wore an expression I knew well: Boyd had long been a sceptic, and hence a man after my own heart. After pondering the matter, I slowed my pace. ‘I should be getting home. Hester has been at the Thirldon account books. She likes me to look them over, not that I can ever improve on her handiwork.’

  Boyd nodded, and we turned about to retrace our steps. ‘If the verdict tomorrow is that the Cobbett girl took her own life, it will pose difficulties for her father,’ he observed.

  ‘Because a suicide may not be buried in consecrated ground?’

  ‘Indeed. And as I’ve said, I’m curious to hear the circumstances.’

  ‘Well, you’ve aroused my curiosity too,’ I told him. ‘I’m almost tempted to ride down to Powick with you tomorrow. Do you know who will hold the inquest?’

  ‘I believe Justice Standish will preside,’ Boyd answered, with a sidelong glance at me. ‘He’s not merely magistrate, he’s acting coroner at present.’ When my face fell, he suppressed a smile. ‘No friend of yours, as I recall.’

  I made no reply. It was no secret that Matthew Standish and I disliked each other. Back in 1612, when I was obliged to step down as magistrate, the man had pretended sympathy at my downfall. Yet I had never trusted him: a sour-faced pedant. To be in his company was the last thing I desired.

  ‘Hence, I’ll understand if you prefer not to ride to Powick with me in the morning,’ my friend murmured.

  ‘Now I think upon it, I meant to speak to my gardeners tomorrow about the fruit trees,’ I said.

  Boyd nodded sagely.

  ***

  It was a warm afternoon, and I rode Leucippus at a leisurely pace back to Thirldon. The blossom had flown now, and the trees were in full leaf. In truth, the topic of Susanna Cobbett’s sad death had all but slipped my mind by the time I entered the courtyard. As I dismounted on the cobbles my groom Elkins appeared, wearing what I termed his ‘important’ face: news awaited me.

  ‘I trust you passed a pleasant time in town, sir,’ he began. And as I handed him the reins: ‘There’s a fellow waiting to see you. Been here all day, he has.’

  ‘Someone we know?’ I enquired.

  He shook his head. ‘He’s from downriver, towards Clevelode. Cottager, I believe.’

  ‘Have you an inkling what it’s about?’

  ‘I haven’t, sir,’ Elkins answered. He placed a hand on Leucippus’s neck, ruffling his mane; they were old friends. ‘But he had a face as long as a pikestaff.’

  I sighed, and left him to his work. It was not unknown for people to seek me out for advice, though they knew I’d long since quitted the magistrate’s bench. I seldom saw payment beyond a clutch of eggs, perhaps, or a gamebird at Christmas. Given the poverty of most smallholders, I expected nothing from my visitor. But I was curious. And when I got myself ins
ide the house, to be greeted by Hester, I grew alert.

  ‘The visitor’s name is Edward Mason. He walked all the way from Newland. It’s a grave matter – he’s a frightened man.’

  ‘Did he say what it’s about?’

  ‘Very little. You’d better let him explain.’

  I turned to walk towards my private parlour, whereupon she stayed me. ‘He waits in the kitchen. We gave him a bit of dinner, for which he was most grateful.’

  Without further word I went to the rear of the house and entered Thirldon’s kitchen. The wenches bobbed and proceeded to look busy, while Henry, my cook, greeted me briefly before jerking a thumb towards the corner of the room. As I turned, a shambling figure in rough countryman’s garb jumped up from a stool and made a clumsy bow. He stood awkwardly as I came forward, meaning to put him at ease.

  ‘You are Edward Mason?’

  ‘I am, Master Justice. I’d be most obliged if you would… that is, I need to know what to do, and… well…’

  He broke off, tongue-tied as could be. Did I truly strike such a forbidding attitude nowadays, I wondered? I offered my hand, which he shook vigorously.

  ‘I hear you’ve waited most of the day,’ I said. ‘Your pardon for that. It’s pleasant outdoors - shall we walk together?’

  The man’s look of relief was answer enough. And no sooner had he and I ventured out into the kitchen garden than he began to speak, his words tumbling over themselves in haste.

  ‘It’s my mother, Master Justice - Agnes Mason. Lives with me and my family on our bit of land, over Newland way. She’s a healer… folk come to her for salves and such. You might have heard of her – Mother Agnes?’

  The name may have struck a distant bell, but I shook my head and bade him continue.

  ‘The matter is, sir…’ the man looked away. ‘I’m almost afeared to speak of it, but I must.’

  ‘Indeed, since it clearly troubles you,’ I replied. ‘Has something happened to your mother?’

  ‘It has, sir…’ he gave a sigh. ‘She’s been took, by the constables. There were three of ‘em - as if she’s the strength to resist any man, being in her sixtieth year. But it was so ordered – and now she’s imprisoned, in Worcester!’

  ‘On what charge?’ I asked, with a frown coming on.

  The man hesitated, then: ‘They’re calling her a witch.’ And when my frown deepened, he added: ‘In fact, ‘tis worse than that, sir - she’s accused of causing death by witchery. That’s murder, is it not?’

  He was most agitated - indeed, he was close to tears. For myself, I was silent. Our time is one of dread for some people – mainly women, and often elderly, like Agnes Mason – who find themselves accused of witchcraft. In almost every case, to my mind, the charge is false, but the outcome is seldom in doubt: severe punishment for a first conviction, then death by hanging for a second. In some countries, they burn the poor creatures alive.

  ‘Causing death…?’ On a sudden a thought struck me, as my conversation with Dr Boyd came flooding back. ‘Whose death is she accused of bringing about?’ I demanded, somewhat sharply.

  Mason swallowed, then made his answer - but even before the words were out, I knew.

  ‘One by the name of Susanna, sir… a well-bred maid, the daughter of Giles Cobbett of Ebbfield. She’s gone and drowned herself in the old pool on the border of our land – and they’re saying she was bewitched by my mother, and driven to madness. Now, we fear Agnes will face the gallows!’

  He stared at me. ‘In God’s name, Master Justice: Cobbett is our landlord, and a gentleman. What am I to do?’

  TWO

  I clearly recall that conversation with Edward Mason, as he and I walked about the garden in the waning sunlight. After he had told his tale he appeared spent, hanging his head in mingled fear and anguish. The matter was stark: the very day after his daughter’s death, Giles Cobbett himself had brought a charge of murder by witchcraft against his own tenant, Mason’s ageing mother, claiming he had evidence of conjuration. Agnes had been taken not to the prison in Worcester but to the Guildhall, where the cellars were sometimes used for confinement. There she was to await trial at the next Assizes, which would be at Midsummer. This much her son learned from the sergeant-at-arms, a man called John Lisle whom I knew. Lisle was an officer of good character, and would have carried out his orders with efficiency, though I doubt he relished the task.

  ‘See now, the evening draws near,’ I said at last. ‘Will you stay to eat supper? Then I’ll take you back to your farm, if you care to ride double on my horse. He’s a strong beast.’

  ‘With all my heart, sir,’ Mason answered. ‘And I offer you my thanks-’

  ‘Well, I’ve done nothing to earn them,’ I told him. ‘I’ve yet to decide what course of action to take. But I’d like to pause on our ride and reacquaint myself with that infamous pond, if you’re willing. There should be enough daylight left, if we don’t tarry long.’

  At that the man gave a start. ‘The Witching Pool? Why would you wish to see it?’

  ‘Call it curiosity,’ I replied.

  ‘But, Master Justice…’ he grew agitated again. ‘It’s not a wholesome place… we never go near it. And with what’s happened-’

  ‘What, do you think the ghost of Susanna Cobbett haunts it?’ I asked. But seeing his expression, I relented. ‘See now, there’s nothing to fear. I would merely like to look upon the scene of the alleged crime. If I’m to assist your mother, I need to gather as much intelligence as I can. Do you see?’

  Mason blinked. ‘Then, you will aid us?’

  ‘Let’s go to supper,’ I said.

  ***

  It was a ride of about five miles to Mason’s smallholding, a journey we undertook in silence. In the still evening, with my passenger pressed against my back, I rode Leucippus southwards towards the River Teme, crossing it via the old bridge at Powick. Here, I recalled, the inquest into the Cobbett girl’s death was to take place on the morrow. And now, I found myself revising my decision not to attend with Boyd. In the light of what I had learned, it could be worthwhile after all.

  The village was quiet as we passed through, following the west bank of the Severn before turning on to a track which led to Newland Wood. We were now on the border of Giles Cobbett’s land, which lay on both sides of the river. His own manor of Ebbfield was on the far side, but could be reached by a ferry. On this side was the small farm of one of his tenants, a man named Abel Humphreys. Bordering Humphreys’ farm on the west was the tiny smallholding of the Mason family, which we now approached. After proceeding another hundred paces, with the trees to our right, I reined in.

  ‘I seem to recall that the pool is just through there,’ I said, turning in the saddle to point. ‘Is it not?’

  Somewhat glumly, Mason nodded. ‘There’s a path just ahead, though it’s seldom used.’

  ‘Let’s dismount,’ I told him, being in some discomfort.

  We did so. And leaving Leucippus to await my return, I allowed the other to lead the way through the long grass until we were among the trees. The ancient wood, rich in oaks and beeches, soon closed about us, the air alive with birdsong. After a short time, the ground dipped and the pool appeared – dark with weed and, I have to admit, somewhat forbidding. It was no more than thirty or forty paces across, overhung with alders and willows. Pond skaters skittered across the surface, but otherwise the water was like glass. Curiously enough, the birds had ceased to sing by the time I walked to its edge. Mason hung back, his unease plain to see.

  ‘Do you know if anyone has searched hereabouts?’ I asked him.

  ‘Searched for what, Master Justice?’

  ‘For anything untoward. Signs of a struggle, a scrap of clothing, or…?’

  He was shaking his head. ‘I know nothing of that, sir-’ on a sudden he stiffened, his eyes on a tree behind me. Turning sharply, I found myself looking at a dead bird hanging from a branch - I should say tied to a branch by its feet, head downwards. It was a crow, a common enough s
ight – but what was uncommon was the plaited cord about its neck. Woven into the cord was what looked like a lock of hair. I took a step forward to observe the object more closely, when a cry from Mason made me stop.

  ‘Don’t, Master, I beg you. It’s a thing of evil - a token.’

  ‘Do you truly think so?’ In full sceptic humour, I turned to face him. ‘Then what, pray, do you think it signifies?’

  ‘I know not, sir… a warning, perhaps.’

  He lowered his gaze. Worcestershire folk are of course well-known for their old superstitions, my own servant Childers included. I sighed and was about to make some further remark, whereupon Mason raised his arm and pointed, this time to a spot further off.

  ‘See, there’s more!’

  I followed his gaze and saw another dead bird – a thrush - bound to a twig, with something about its neck.

  ‘Well, this is most curious,’ I said. ‘It’s almost as if someone placed these tokens, as you term them, to frighten people away. Is it not?’

  The man met my eye. ‘Well sir, I’ve seen things myself… when I was younger, and came a-fishing here with a friend.’

  ‘Fishing, you say? Did you catch anything?’ I enquired, meaning to divert him from these gloomy thoughts. His answer, however, caused me to frown.

  ‘Nothing we could eat. A great newt, which took my worm most greedily. But it was what came after that frighted me – frighted us both.’ He paused, discomforted by the memory, until I urged him to say more.

  ‘Something moved in the pool… something so big it made the water swell, dashing a small wave upon the bank.’ He drew a breath. ‘There’s no creature large enough to do that, sir - not in a pond like this.’

  ‘Did you try to see what it was?’ I asked. ‘The water’s not deep - a man could wade across.’

  ‘Do you jest, Master Justice?’ Mason shook his head quickly. ‘We did no such thing, but turned tail and ran! This is a grim place – do you not feel it? Why, it’s been said…’ He broke off, which naturally aroused my interest further.