The Witching Pool: A Justice Belstrang Mystery (Justice Belstrang Mysteries Book 2) Page 3

  And when I merely stared at her: ‘It’s an old tale, at Madresfield and Clevelode and the country round about. Have you heard of Offa’s Gold, sir?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Folk used to say there’s a trove buried somewhere near our farm,’ Agnes said. ‘Saxon gold from the time of the Kings of Mercia, hidden after some battle when they were in flight. There’s no truth to it, I’m certain. But Cobbett’s a greedy man, there’s few would deny it. He’d seen some old map, he said, and…’ she shrugged. ‘In short, he demanded I do my utmost by conjuration, to divine for Offa’s Gold as some folk divine for water. He would pay me a share, he said, so that my family need never fret about rent again. Those were his words… but when I told him it was beyond me to attempt such a task, he grew angry. I believe that’s the last time he and I spoke. Now Edward always goes to pay the rent…’ Her face clouded. ‘Isabel too dislikes Cobbett heartily. She’s a daughter to me… I cannot bear to think on it now, with her carrying another child as she is.’

  She was silent, having said all she wished; indeed, to my mind there was little more she needed to say. And yet, proving her testimony would be a task of Sisyphean magnitude. My heart sank at the thought.

  For the plain fact was, Cobbett was a powerful man who, for some reason, had set himself against Agnes. He would have taken steps – and for one thing, I had little hope now that the inquest into his daughter’s death would shed much light. I thought suddenly of Boyd, and resolved to see him as soon as he returned from Powick.

  For the present I could only take my leave of Agnes, and as I had done with her family, urge her to retain what hopes she could. I would return, I promised, though I was uncertain when.

  ‘You are kind,’ was all she said. She watched as I stepped to the door, opened it and turned to bid her farewell; then she favoured me with a smile that touched my heart.

  There was a guard in the passage outside, but it wasn’t Sergeant Lisle. Instead I found myself facing a squat man with a bald pate, wearing a sneer. Having lost no time in slamming the cell door and locking it, he spat on the flagstones and eyed me.

  ‘She didn’t turn you into a toad, then?’

  I blinked, and my gorge rose in an instant. ‘Sir,’ I snapped. ‘You may not know me, fellow, but I was a Justice here. Kindly remember your place.’

  ‘Oh… I beg your pardon – sir,’ the fellow retorted. Still smirking, he made a half-bow. ‘Twas your welfare I was concerned about, nothing more. You should have taken a phial of holy water in with you. It’s not often we play host to witches – a man can’t be too careful.’

  With an effort, I held my tongue; it was a waste of breath to do otherwise. I turned to make my way back to the stairs, then paused. ‘Your name?’ I enquired.

  ‘It’s Burton, sir.’ The smirk was still in place. ‘I pray you, call upon me any time.’

  ‘Perhaps I will, Master Burton,’ I said. ‘For I intend to come again. In the meantime, be sure that you deal fairly with your prisoner – I’ll enquire of her how matters stand. And…’ this with as hard a look as I could summon: ‘That woman’s no more a witch than you are. Though I’ll not say which one of you reminds me of a toad – you may ponder it yourself.’

  Whereupon I strode to the stairs and climbed to the ground floor, into the welcome light of day.

  FOUR

  That afternoon, having taken a light dinner, I called upon Doctor Boyd at his house in Sudbury Street, where I told him of the events of the day before and of my meeting with Agnes. But he was distracted, and I would soon learn the cause: the inquest at Powick, he announced, had been an utter sham.

  ‘A comedy, Robert,’ the good doctor growled. ‘It was all over within two hours. I hardly know where to begin. Shall I tell you first, that no-one had even troubled to examine the deceased’s body? Or that no attempt was made to establish how she got to the place where she died? Or that the man who found the body was not even called? Or should I remind you that Cobbett’s seat at Ebbfield is a moated manor-house, in the old Tudor style? Yet no-one enquired as to why a maid bent on self-murder would trouble to cross the mighty Severn, venture into a wood and drown herself in a shallow pond, when she could have done the deed but yards from her own door. Can you believe it?’

  ‘What about witnesses?’ I enquired.

  Boyd spread his hands. ‘Such witnesses as were called were supporters of Cobbett, chief among them being his tenant Humphreys. A sly sort, in my opinion. He spoke of the deceased as being of frail disposition, hinting that she was likely of unsound mind too. While her poor, widowed father had struggled to bring his daughters up alone, at great sacrifice. To hear him speak you’d have thought Cobbett was a saint, instead of the grasping landowner we know him to be.’ He sighed. ‘I tell you, Robert, the whole business appeared as a paean to Cobbett in his loss, with scant attention paid to his dead daughter.’

  ‘What of Standish?’ I enquired. ‘Did he not try to uncover the true events of that night, when the girl took her life?’

  ‘Well now, that’s the oddest part of it, to my mind,’ Boyd answered. ‘For reasons best known to himself, Justice Standish appeared eager to draw proceedings to a close as swiftly as possible. Whether from mere distaste, or a lack of evidence…’ he shrugged. ‘But there was no doubt in the minds of the jury… poor villagers, mostly. The verdict, as you will have surmised, was suicide. And Cobbett emerged as a man most cruelly wronged, deserving the sympathy of all who were present. In fact, his own evidence caused a minor sensation…’ he frowned. ‘And doubtless it bodes ill for your new friend, Mistress Mason.’

  ‘How so?’ I asked, somewhat sharply.

  ‘Let me say that, for those who enjoy a play, it was a good performance,’ Boyd said. ‘To summarize, he swore that the witch had cursed him, because he refused her charity in the late hard winter. He said Mason went upon her knees and cursed him thrice in a bold and wicked manner, telling him his firstborn would perish within the coming year. All of that, he claimed, done with signs and incantations he did not understand. As I said, his testimony was most engaging, and generated dismay among those present. Why would it not?’

  I was silent then, eyes lowered as a gloom fell upon me. I knew that, in any court of law, such report from a man of Cobbett’s status would be believed, while in the absence of any witness to the contrary, few if any would believe Agnes.

  I looked up, and found Boyd’s eyes upon me.

  ‘The die is cast, Robert,’ he said gravely. ‘Whoever presides at the Assizes will dispense whatever justice he thinks expedient. But given the strong feelings against anyone accused of witchery, from the King himself down…’ he shook his head. ‘From an acquaintance of mine who was present, I gather that the Bishop himself is taking an interest in the case. John Thornborough detests witches, whether real or imagined. I fear Agnes Mason was adjudged guilty from the moment her arrest was ordered.’ He paused. ‘As for poor Susanna Cobbett-’

  ‘As for Susanna Cobbett,’ I broke in, ‘being named a suicide, her burial will be a matter of contention.’

  ‘Well, not quite,’ Boyd said. ‘The parson at Powick is unwilling to bury her, it seems, but that didn’t appear to trouble Cobbett unduly. The funeral service will take place tomorrow in the chapel at Ebbfield, with the burial to follow close by. A convenient solution, would you not agree?’

  I made no reply. Turning the matter about, I pictured Edward and Isabel Mason in their cottage, faces drawn with worry. Then I saw Agnes standing in her cell, calm and smiling. Had she compassed her coming death, I wondered, and accepted it?

  Boyd spoke again, pulling me from my reverie. ‘As a close friend, Robert,’ he said, ‘I’d advise you to step away from this business. Yet as a friend, I also know such counsel is probably fruitless. I see how the matter has affected you. And I will aid you if I can, but I suspect it is beyond us both. The inquest report will be used in the Mason woman’s trial. Whatever transpires, I fear she’s doomed to die.’

 
‘And yet,’ I said, as the notion sprang up, ‘I have a mind to attend the funeral tomorrow.’ And when my friend showed surprise: ‘As another landowner, if not quite a neighbour, it would be but a matter of courtesy to pay my respects.’

  The doctor said nothing; he was familiar enough with the Belstrang stubbornness.

  ‘I’ve not seen Cobbett for some time,’ I added. ‘And though the circumstances are not of our choosing, I’m curious to see how the man conducts himself, in the light of his dreadful loss.’

  ‘Well now…’ Boyd peered at me from beneath his untidy eyebrows. ‘I do believe you’ve taken up the accused’s cause already.’ And as another thought struck him: ‘I’ve no desire to go myself, if that’s the way your mind moves,’ he said with a frown. ‘I’ve said I will aid you, but-’

  ‘Be at ease,’ I replied. ‘Call it a whim, call it what you will, but this is something I should undertake alone.’

  My friend gave a sigh. ‘Then again, I’ll admit that your curiosity is contagious,’ he said. ‘I’d be interested to know of any movement… will you inform me?’

  I nodded, and rose to take my leave.

  But as to the matter of attending the funeral of Susanna Cobbett alone, on my return to Thirldon I would learn that Hester was of a different opinion.

  ***

  Supper was a quiet affair that evening, as my preoccupation with events weighed upon me. My steward Childers, far from being his usual dour self, was at pains to lighten matters, speaking of the birth of a foal that was somewhat late, but had passed without difficulty. More, the fruit trees were in health, and those in the know predicted a bounteous harvest. He continued in this vein for some time before deducing that I was barely listening, and ceased his prattle. It fell to Hester to draw me into speech.

  ‘You’ve been silent long enough, sir,’ she murmured, taking a sip of malmsey. ‘Would you care to tell us what kept you in Worcester all day?’

  I nodded, and pushed aside my pudding; I had but small appetite. Sharing my news with those closest to me would perhaps help me review the matter, as it had often done in the past. So, after fortifying myself with a gulp of wine I gave my account, though I confess it was somewhat brief in regard to my meeting with Agnes. Having ended with my leave-taking of Boyd, I sat back and allowed my listeners to digest at leisure. Naturally enough, Childers was first to speak.

  ‘God in heaven, sir, this is a tale most terrible,’ he exclaimed, with a shake of his head.

  ‘It is,’ I agreed, with a glance at Hester.

  ‘Witchery, but a few miles from where we sit?’ His face clouded. ‘I haven’t heard the like in years.’

  ‘I don’t believe it’s anything of the sort,’ I said, somewhat curtly.

  ‘So, what will you do?’ He asked. And when I made no response: ‘If you care to hear my opinion, it would be most troublesome to you, if you-’

  ‘Indeed so,’ I broke in. ‘Doubtless you’ll counsel me as Boyd did, to withdraw from the business and leave Agnes Mason’s fate in the hands of a hostile jury, come the Midsummer Sessions. That would be prudent, would it not?’

  ‘A hard man, Giles Cobbett,’ Hester observed, on a sudden. ‘I knew his late wife Mary… as did my mistress.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said.

  ‘Mary Cobbett was so small,’ she continued. ‘Some called her a mouse. She feared her husband – I’ve heard it said he beat her as if she were an errant servant.’

  ‘I recall hearing that too,’ I said, as the memory surfaced.

  ‘The daughters were very alike… three peas in a pod. I expect they are still - the two that remain, that is.’

  We were distracted by some chair-scraping from Childers, who stood up and excused himself. For once he was unwilling to be part of the discussion, though his disapproval was plain. But he left the table courteously, saying he had matters to attend to. Hester waited until he had gone before turning to me.

  ‘I intend to go to the funeral at Ebbfield tomorrow,’ I said, to forestall her. ‘Beyond that, I’ve made no firm resolve. Yet you saw the condition of Edward Mason. Had you seen his mother, you might…’ I left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘I’d like to come with you,’ she said. ‘If you’re willing.’

  I took another drink. ‘I doubt you’d be welcome, any more than I will. Cobbett’s not a friend.’

  ‘Yet, despite the circumstances of Susanna’s death, I say we should both go. You as a landowner and a former Justice, I to represent my mistress. You know she would have gone.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I allowed.

  ‘And while you’re exercising your powers of observation, I might have opportunity to speak to others about the girl’s tragic demise. For there are clearly some loose ends to be tied – do I hit the mark?’

  In spite of everything, I allowed myself a smile. Little escaped Hester - which thought engendered a pang of unease.

  ‘Well, mayhap the ride would suit you,’ I said, somewhat quickly. ‘And the mare could do with the exercise.’

  ‘Good, then it’s settled.’

  Soon after, we rose from table, she to go to her embroidery and I to my private parlour to attend to my letters. Only then did I realise that no mention had been made of the household accounts. It was unlike Hester to forget - had I seemed so preoccupied, I wondered, that she thought it best to postpone the matter?

  That night I went to my bed in poor humour, and sleep was slow in coming. Nor was it improved when I awoke, with the prospect of the funeral ahead. It struck me then, that the last one I had attended was that of my beloved Margaret.

  ***

  The day was fair, however, and the ride pleasant enough in morning sunshine: across the river at Worcester, then southward towards the village of Kempsey. I rode Leucippus, Hester her chestnut mare Althea, the two of us in sable attire, our hats bound with black silk. A little north of Kempsey we turned aside on the lane to Ebbfield, Giles Cobbett’s manor. There were no other travellers, which caused me to wonder if we were somewhat late for the ceremony. And on reaching the house, which was shaped like an H, its imposing entrance flanked by two-storied wings, we found the place all but deserted. We crossed the moat by its narrow bridge, entered the courtyard through its covered arch and drew rein. I recalled that the chapel, built a century ago by Cobbett’s forefathers, stood at the rear of the house. I was about to dismount when a servant appeared from somewhere, stumbled towards us and made his bow.

  ‘Your pardon, sir…’ the fellow was aged, white-haired and stooped. ‘If you seek my master, I fear I must dissuade you. The house is in mourning, and I’m loth to trouble him.’

  ‘We come to attend the funeral,’ I said.

  At that, the man looked surprised. ‘Is it so? I… in truth, sir, we did not expect mourners from outside the family. Might I know your name, that I can convey it?’

  I told him, naming Hester as waiting-woman to my late wife.

  ‘Justice Belstrang… of course.’ He peered at us both. ‘I must tell you that the service is almost over – it was my master’s wish it be done early. Yet you may attend the burial, if it please you. I cannot think there would be objection…’

  His eyes fell, his agitation plain to see. Perhaps he thought we were ignorant of the circumstances of Susanna Cobbett’s death, and feared it would fall to him to inform us. To put him at ease, I lifted a hand.

  ‘Pray, do not fret,’ I said. ‘We are aware of the tragedy that has befallen your master and his family. We’re but here to offer condolences. And we’ll wait at the graveside, if that’s fitting.’

  The old man’s relief was evident. ‘By all means, sir… Master Justice. If you’ll dismount, I’ll have your horses cared for and convey you to the place.’

  It was done, a stable lad arriving to lead our mounts away. Thereafter Hester and I followed our guide through the doors of the house, where all was still and silent, with not even a servant to be seen. Soon we had passed through the hall to a rear door which led to the ga
rdens. Some distance away stood the small chapel surmounted by its cross, with the Cobbett family’s arms. Looking towards it, I bent my ear for any sound, but heard nothing.

  ‘Are many mourners come?’ I enquired of the servant.

  ‘In truth sir, you are the only ones not of the household,’ was his reply. ‘Apart from Master Humphreys and his wife, who are tenants. The family wished for privacy, in view of…’

  He broke off. Likely he had known Susanna Cobbett all her life; it was a tragedy for everyone. Seeing him fighting tears, I laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘I pray you, leave us and go your ways,’ I said. ‘We’ll find the grave.’ But as the old man bowed and turned to leave, I stayed him. ‘One moment: the service. Who is conducting it?’

  ‘That’s Parson Woolland, sir,’ the other answered. ‘Thomas Woolland, from Kempsey.’

  The name was unfamiliar to me. I watched the old man walk away, head down, whereupon Hester and I took the path to the chapel. We would not enter, but walked past it. I was curious: something felt amiss here, though I could not have named it. Soon we stood in a grassy area, with a fence and a view of fields beyond. There were no headstones; members of the family were interred in their vault at the church in Kempsey. But a short way off was a freshly dug grave, with a mound of earth beside it. Nearby stood the solitary figure of a labourer, spade in hand, regarding us without expression.

  Just then, Hester took my hand. ‘They’re coming out,’ she murmured.

  I turned to see the chapel doors open, and drew breath: the burial of Susanna Cobbett was about to take place.

  FIVE

  The first person to emerge from the chapel was a gaunt, bony woman swathed in black. She was followed by two slight figures: Giles Cobbett’s surviving daughters, heads bowed in grief. The woman, I surmised, was their nurse. After waiting for them to draw level, she proceeded to shepherd them forward. Then the parson in his surplice appeared, walking with stately gait, followed by the coffin borne on the shoulders of four servants clad in black druggett. The unmistakeable figure of Cobbett himself followed: handsome and imposing, gazing straight ahead. Close on his heels came a stout, middle-aged man whom I guessed was his tenant, Humphreys, guiding a woman who walked somewhat hesitantly. They were followed by a handful of Ebbfield servants, men and women, dressed in everyday garb.