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

  ‘That it does, sir… but let’s not speak of sad things. I have a jug of good ale…’ this with a wave of his hand towards the table. ‘Or would you care for a cup of sweet sack?’ He was still smiling, but raised an eyebrow when I shook my head.

  ‘In truth, I’ve not come to pay a neighbourly call. If you’ll spare me a little time, I would like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Why, of course, if you wish.’ Humphreys scarcely blinked. ‘Will you sit yourself down?’ He moved to the table, waited until I had taken a stool, then sat across from me.

  ‘Your wife,’ I said in a casual tone. ‘Will she come, or…?’

  ‘Presently, sir, presently… she’s about some trifling matter,’ came the reply. ‘Now, I confess I’m intrigued by these questions of which you speak – how can I aid you?’

  I was about to fall into lawyerly mode, but delayed it. I was beginning to find Humphreys’ smile somewhat annoying, and had a mind to disarm him. ‘Do you have children, to help you work the farm?’ I enquired, to which the other quickly shook his head.

  ‘I fear the Lord has not blessed us in that regard, sir. But we have our health, and our wits. A man must be grateful for his portion.’

  To startle him I changed the topic. ‘You’ll have heard of one Howell Rhys? A young man from the Welsh border country? I gather he was in the habit of venturing out by night, to swim across the river. The shallowest place I can think of is on your land, is it not? But a short way from Tait’s Crossing?’

  My response, however, was a look of puzzlement. ‘Rhys, you say? Nay, Master Belstrang, I’ve not heard the name. Has he done some crime, or…?’

  ‘He was, I’m given to understand, the lover of Susanna Cobbett,’ I replied. ‘He would meet her in secret… perhaps because her father forbade her to see him?’

  ‘Indeed?’ Humphreys appeared shocked. ‘Well, I know naught of that, but if Sir Giles ever took such action, I’m certain he only had his daughter’s interests at heart.’ The man’s smile had slipped briefly. ‘He is – was, a devoted father to poor Susanna,’ he added. ‘And if it please you, I prefer not to speak of that business… such a tragedy.’

  ‘It was,’ I agreed. ‘Yet it’s my belief the matter is far from over. You might say, the ripples in the pool have not ceased.’

  Humphreys blinked owlishly, but his recovery was swift. I knew that the man’s cheerful bonhomie was a mask, though I was in ignorance of what might lie beneath it. I decided to leave the matter of Howell Rhys.

  ‘You mentioned crime,’ I said, assuming my bland look. ‘And there might well be crimes yet to be uncovered. Sending an innocent woman to the gallows, for example… would you not call that a crime?’

  He blinked again, but this time made no reply.

  ‘Or are you convinced,’ I persisted, ‘as you testified at the inquest, that Agnes Mason is to blame for Susanna Cobbett’s apparent madness, and her death?’

  I waited, believing I had dented his easy manner at last. But at that moment there was a sound from the doorway. I looked round to see Humphreys’ wife walk into the room. Her sightless eyes stared straight ahead, but her steps were sure, as of a woman who knows every nook and cranny of her home. Wearing a plain black frock, she stopped a short distance away with hands clasped before her - and I knew she had heard what had passed in this room. I would have spoken, had not Humphreys seized the moment and almost leaped from his stool.

  ‘My sweet… pray, be at ease. It’s Justice Belstrang from Thirldon, come to visit. You’ll recall he was at the burial?’

  ‘So I was told.’ Sarah Humphreys turned towards me. She would have said more, I believe, had her husband not taken her arm and guided her to a stool - which guidance, I saw, was neither desired not necessary.

  ‘Now don’t distress yourself,’ Humphreys said, with mock severity. He resumed his seat, his forced smile turned upon me. ‘My wife is – indeed we are both, still somewhat raw with mourning, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’ll not speak of that woman you have named, not in my house. I believe you’ll understand.’

  I made no reply, but deliberately faced his wife, who sat between us. I sensed she was aware of my gaze, and was proved correct.

  ‘What do you want of us, sir?’ She asked sharply. ‘Surely you haven’t come to offer sympathy, as you did at Ebbfield? That was your reason for attending the burial, was it not?’

  She waited, the picture of icy calm, but her husband at once broke the silence. ‘The Justice… I should say the former Justice… is seeking answers to some questions,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m uncertain yet as to his interest in this… the recent business. Perhaps he will tell us.’

  Forcing another glassy smile, he eyed me. So, thinking it best to make what capital I could, I sallied forth.

  ‘You spoke at the inquest of the dead girl, touching her condition of mind,’ I said, falling into magistrate mode. ‘You implied she was frail, perhaps susceptible to the influence of others. Would you care to tell me how you know that?’

  ‘Because we’re close neighbours of Giles Cobbett, as well as his tenants,’ Humphreys replied. ‘I’ve known his daughters all their lives. She’s… she was a quiet girl, prone to fancies.’

  ‘What sort of fancies?’

  ‘I assure you, I’m not privy to their substance.’ The man was maintaining his smile with an effort.

  ‘What about the legend of Offa’s gold?’ I persisted, as the notion occurred. ‘Then, she’d not be alone in believing there was some truth in that old tale, would she?’

  ‘Pah! Stuff and nonsense!’

  It was Sarah Humphreys who spoke. She was scowling; more, her fists were clenched, her upper body taut with anger.

  ‘There’s no gold, and never was!’ she added. ‘Only a prize fool would think so – though we’ve no shortage of those.’

  Whereupon a dead silence fell. My gaze flitted between the two of them… and then I saw it, with stark clarity.

  This woman loathed her husband with a bright hatred, from the very depths of her being.

  EIGHT

  I quitted the farm soon after, with questions still unanswered. I had grown weary of the couple; an invisible cloud of something distasteful seemed to hang over the two of them. I had meant to probe further, but lost my appetite. And though Abel Humphreys attempted to play the cheerful host to the very end, the sham was thin and tawdry. Making a brief farewell, I put Leucippus to the trot as I left the yard, with no appetite to return ever again.

  As I rode I turned the matter about, but could not come at any conclusions. A visit to Doctor Boyd in Worcester, I knew, would lift my spirits, and within the half hour I was back in the city, on foot and making my way to his house. But on this occasion, I was disappointed: my friend was absent, his servant informed me, and not expected home until the evening.

  I decided to take dinner at the Old Talbot to mull things over. And it was there, surrounded by townsfolk – some of whom glanced in my direction – that I came to a resolve: one that flew in the face of what I had told Hester and Childers the day before. I would throw caution aside and go to Justice Standish - the legal authority, as well as a chief source of my unease. I was reminded starkly of it when I realised that some of the looks I had attracted were less than friendly, if not downright hostile.

  It was time enough, I thought, after fortifying myself with two or three mugs of ale. I would beard my old rival in his den – his fine town-house close to the Corn Market – and have matters out with him, for better or worse.

  It was not the first time I had dismissed the advice of Hester and Childers; I hoped I would not regret it.

  ***

  To begin with, my visit to the Justice’s house went cordially enough. Standish, grizzled and unsmiling in his black gown, received me coolly but courteously, given my former rank. I was admitted to his private closet, lined with books and hung with portraits, and invited to take a chair facing him across a table piled with papers. But the moment I began to state my business
, the man grew defensive.

  ‘By God, so it’s true,’ he grunted. ‘I did harbour a forlorn hope that you came for some other cause, but I see I was mistaken.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Once a meddler, always a meddler, Belstrang. Even in retirement… have you naught to busy yourself with, on your estate?’

  ‘I have,’ I replied, keeping my temper. ‘But when a family in turmoil comes to beg my aid, I’ll not refuse them. Would you?’

  ‘Doubtless the family you refer to is that of the witch, Mason,’ Standish said. ‘May I offer you some advice on that score?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ I replied. ‘You would merely be adding your voice to those of others, who have already advised me to avoid the affair like the plague.’

  ‘Then they were wise to do so. Surely a man of your experience can see that the case against the woman is strong? Besides, I cannot and will not discuss it. You know well enough that I won’t preside at the trial. It’s a capital crime, and a matter for the Quarter Sessions.’

  ‘Then will you discuss the inquest into Susanna Cobbett instead?’ I enquired. ‘Since that’s now a matter of record. I gather your sympathies were entirely with the girl’s father, with little thought for the deceased.’

  At that, Standish’s anger rose quickly. ‘I don’t recall you being present on that occasion,’ he retorted. ‘Is this mere hearsay, or…’

  ‘My good friend Doctor Boyd was there,’ I broke in. ‘He reported the substance to me – and I should add, he was most dissatisfied with the way the business was conducted.’

  Standish paused, sitting rigid in his high-backed chair – and then exploded.

  ‘How dare you, Belstrang! Do you forget to whom you speak? If you mean to accuse me of some malpractice, then lay it forth now – indeed, I demand that you do.’

  ‘If you wish,’ I answered. Though a little startled by the man’s reaction, I confess to some satisfaction at having ruffled his feathers so easily. ‘For one thing, I heard that no-one examined the body of the deceased, to confirm whether or not she died by drowning,’ I continued. ‘Moreover, that pool is shallow and not easy to find in the dark. Given the distance from Ebbfield too, it seems unlikely that-’

  ‘Enough, sir!’ Eyes ablaze, Standish cut me short. ‘I’ll not have you coming to me with these theories, not to say accusations. Do you suggest I had motive in despatching the affair without proper scrutiny? It’s intolerable!’

  ‘Is it so?’ I fixed him with my bland look. ‘Then you’re not interested in hearing fresh evidence? If I had any, that is?’

  ‘What evidence?’ the other demanded. ‘By God, Belstrang, it appears you’ve been poking your nose in, further even than I was told. Visiting the witch in her cell for private conference - and that’s not all, some say.’ A sneer appeared. ‘Then, it’s no secret you’ve taken your late wife’s woman as your bed-maid, out at Thirldon… perhaps you were seeking a little diversion here? Some small reward, for promising to take an interest in this woman’s case? Even one who consorts with the devil? Shame upon you!’

  Well now, as Childers might have said, that blew the cask open. In truth, I see now that I had gone to Standish for a fight, one that was long overdue. Why else had I fortified myself at the inn? Resisting the urge to get to my feet, I leaned forward and lifted a hand.

  ‘I’ve heard it said there are many sorts of witches,’ I snapped. ‘Men as well as women. Yet Agnes Mason has never harmed anyone, and as for driving a maid to madness, the notion is preposterous. Yet, along with most of this town, you seem to have condemned her before she even comes to trial. You question my motives – what of yours? Will you be hosting the Assize Judge here in your house, as you’ve done before? It would be a fine opportunity, would it not, given the King’s interest in such cases, to lift your reputation? For heaven knows, you could do with it.’

  ‘Good God - you vile old rogue!’

  It was Standish who got up. ‘Always a blunderer - intemperate and stubborn, as was your father!’ he cried. ‘Why in God’s name should the fate of this wretched woman matter a jot to you? Then, you never could be dispassionate, which is why you were unfit to be a magistrate! I said so then, as I say it now…’

  He stopped himself – but too late. In the taut silence that followed we stared at each other, while in my mind memories flew up and rearranged themselves into a clear pattern.

  1612: those meetings of the City Fathers… a letter from the Attorney General in London… the mutterings in corners, at the Assize Sessions… the Mayor too is displeased, it was said. Then that gloomy day when I was called before the Council and asked, most politely, if I would step down from my place as magistrate. I could plead ill health… the burdens of office were becoming too much to bear… for the good of the city, it was for the best - was it not? And seeing how they were resolved, on that occasion Robert Belstrang set aside his stubbornness and, to his shame, acquiesced.

  I had regretted it ever since - more deeply, I realised, than I ever allowed myself to think. And standing before me was one who had been instrumental in bringing it about: a man who had appeared sympathetic at the time, even as he stepped so readily into my shoes.

  ‘Well now, that’s clarified matters somewhat,’ I said finally. ‘I believe now, that I always knew you were one of those who contrived to have me ousted.’

  I was about to go, but decided to take a parting shot. ‘As for the evidence I spoke of, I’ll keep it to myself. I’m no longer confident in its being heard dispassionately.’

  And I left him, still on his feet. He was no longer looking at me, but down at his cluttered table.

  ***

  I walked after that, for the rest of the afternoon. I neither knew nor cared which way, but allowed my legs to carry me where they would. In the end I found myself by the river, watching two boys fishing from the bank and half-wishing I could join them. Years fell away: the pair could have been Boyd and I, laughing and exchanging jibes as we cast our lines, two frisky lads without a care in the world. Naturally enough, and in need of a friendly ear, I at last began making my way back through the city towards his house. If he had not yet returned, I decided, I would wait.

  In fact, Boyd was at home. And though weary from the day’s business, he was pleased to have me join him and take a cup of sack. There I spilled my tale, telling all that had transpired since our last meeting. It was a relief to unburden myself, even if my friend was somewhat subdued by it all.

  ‘I’ll admit I’ve heard mutterings myself, in the city,’ he said, after some thought. ‘They say the King likes to be kept informed of such cases. Which suggests to me that a man of stern, if not fixed opinions might be sent to try Mistress Mason – even some notorious witchfinder. Had you considered that?’

  ‘In truth I had not,’ I said, with a frown. ‘But given James’s loathing for supposed witches, it could be so.’

  ‘Have you read his book, Daemonology?’ My friend enquired. ‘It’s poorly written, in my view. More to show off his learning than to shed any new light on such matters.’

  ‘I have not,’ I answered absently. I was mulling over the day’s events, particularly my visit to Humphreys’ farm. I would have spoken further of it, whereupon by some instinct Boyd forestalled me.

  ‘At the risk of letting fancies get the better of me, I’d say there’s another sort of witchery going on behind all of this,’ he said. ‘Giles Cobbett, for example.’ Seeing he had caught my attention; he added: ‘They say his tenant Humphreys is an idle fellow, who’s far in arrears with his rent. Yet Cobbett allows him to continue, with little sign of censure. Odd, don’t you think, for a landlord who seems eager to squeeze his poorer tenants, like the Masons?’

  I frowned, as a picture formed of the smiling farmer with his scowling wife sitting beside him. ‘It is… but they’re tight together. I thought it might have had something to do with the business of Offa’s gold.’

  ‘That’s a myth,’ Boyd said scornfully. ‘Half the country folk in England tell suc
h tales, yet precious little treasure seems to come to light.’

  ‘Yet, after all that’s occurred,’ I said, ‘I still can’t fathom why Cobbett’s so set against Agnes. To accuse her of such a heinous crime, punishable by death? She pays her rent - why would he hate her so?’

  ‘Only he can answer that,’ Boyd replied – whereupon, seeing my expression he frowned. ‘You’re not thinking of confronting him? That would be unwise – especially at this time.’

  ‘Likely it would,’ I agreed. But I took a drink and allowed myself to compass the notion. Whatever might be the cause of Cobbett’s false accusations against Agnes, I realised, I was not going to uncover it by avoiding the man. Though I had no relish for another visit to Ebbfield…

  ‘By the Lord, Robert.’ Boyd was frowning at me. ‘I know you’re not one who shirks a risk, but…’

  ‘But what?’ I broke in. ‘I seem to have few other choices in the matter of gathering intelligence, which I promised to do.’

  ‘Yet what use would it be? The case is set for the Assizes… you’ll only bring further opprobrium on yourself.’

  ‘So speaks the man who disapproved of the hurried inquest into Susanna Cobbett’s death,’ I countered. ‘What was it you called it – a sham? Or was it a comedy?’

  Boyd opened his mouth, then closed it. He generally enjoyed an argument, but this time the stakes were somewhat high. He took a pull from his cup, then eyed me.

  ‘This Welsh lad, Rhys… the supposed suitor of Susanna Cobbett. Do you have evidence that her father knew of his visiting her? Or that he forbade her from seeing him?’

  ‘I do not,’ I admitted. ‘That, too, is something Cobbett himself might answer.’

  My friend paused a while, then let out a sigh. ‘Well then, if you propose to go to Ebbfield,’ he said finally, ‘you’d be well advised to take along a witness.’ And when my I raised my brows, he added: ‘Someone he can’t bully – who’s not without influence in this city…’