The Witching Pool: A Justice Belstrang Mystery (Justice Belstrang Mysteries Book 2) by John Pilkington (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

I turned to her, and our faces were suddenly close – whereupon I drew back, lowering my gaze. Had I betrayed my feelings? The notion brought unease, which was only compounded when Agnes laid a hand gently on my arm. But when I forced myself to meet her eye, I saw only gratitude.

‘You have my deepest thanks,’ she said.

With an effort I got to my feet, grunting a little. Agnes too rose, a good deal more nimbly than I had. But I confess that her next words came as a disappointment.

‘I pray you, sir: feel no need to come here again,’ she said. ‘Unless there are tidings you wish to bring. Though you warm my heart with your presence, there’s only sadness when you’re gone. You understand me, I think.’

With a quick smile of farewell, she faced the wall and stood motionless. And though I had an urge to reach out and turn her towards me, I did not.

Instead, with heavy heart I stepped to the door, threw it open and got myself out into the passage. Had the insolent Burton been waiting just then, I believe I might have struck the man down merely on impulse. But it was Lisle who stood nearby, regarding me without expression. With barely a nod, I walked past him to the stairway.

The next day, I resolved, I would go again to the Witching Pool, unhindered by the presence of another. There I would hunt about - for what, I did not know. But the notion of doing nothing was too grim to contemplate.

***

The following morning it rained heavily, yet I was undeterred. Having passed a restless evening and a night of broken sleep, over breakfast I told Hester of my plans. She looked somewhat askance, but passed no remark. Thankfully Childers had supped and was elsewhere, which spared me a warning about venturing out in the rain. But it proved to be only a May shower, which eased off as I rode down to Powick village.

After crossing the bridge, I followed what was now a muddy track, and a short while later drew rein at the edge of the trees. There I dismounted, left Leucippus to graze and walked through wet grass until once again the wood closed about me. Birds squawked angrily at the intrusion and somewhere an animal scurried off. I soon reached the pond, where I halted, allowing the woodland sounds to flow about me.

And quite soon, any unease I may have felt melted away. For this time the Witching Pool seemed utterly peaceful, even welcoming. Had I been a man of fanciful nature, I might have put it down to the fact that I bore neither fear nor ill-will. Whatever the cause, I found the glade tranquil and the water still, save where rainwater dripped from the trees. It might even be a place for contemplation, such as the ancients sought. And once again, I found it hard to believe that young Susanna Cobbett had come here to do what she did.

The thought was uppermost in my mind, when the peace was shattered.

From out of nowhere came the sound of something hissing towards me, prompting me to whirl round. I ducked, then let out a gasp: only inches from my head, an arrow was embedded in the trunk of a tree, its shaft quivering.

‘Who’s there?’ I shouted, reaching for my sword.

There was no response. I stared into the trees, yet saw no-one - whereupon, to my dismay, came the same sound I had heard on my last visit: a bark of laughter. But this time it came not from across the pool; it was uncomfortably close. In alarm, I turned about to see a ragged figure emerge from behind a great oak - and the next moment recognition dawned.

‘By heaven, I’ve seen you!’ I exclaimed. ‘You were up before me, when I was magistrate.’

‘I was, Master Justice Belstrang… sir,’ came the growled reply. ‘You levied a fine on me, one I was hard-put to pay. Do you recall how much it was?’

I was too stunned to answer. Instead I watched as the man came forward, stepping through the undergrowth as surely as only one accustomed to the wilder places can. His clothes were drab and patched, his hair roughly cropped, the beard tangled like briars. In his hand was a short bow, on his back a quiver of arrows fletched with hawks’ feathers. And at last the name I had heard from Edward Mason, and only the day before from Agnes, struck home: Edwin Berritt, known as Ned, poacher and occasional thief… how could I have forgotten?

‘You know me now?’ he demanded, drawing close enough to make me flinch. ‘Then, you sentenced so many poor bastards in your time, why should you?’

I struggled to gather my wits. But when I raised a hand to point to the arrow in the tree, I was cut short.

‘Calm yourself, Master. If I’d wanted to split your skull, I could have done so with ease. Let’s call it a woodman’s welcome, shall we?’

‘How long were you observing me?’ I asked, drawing a breath.

‘Heard hooves, a while back. Like that other day you came… it’s a fine horse you have.’

Our eyes met, and I was at pains to discern the man’s demeanour. I saw resentment, but no real anger… whereupon, as the memory arose, I barked a question.

‘Those birds hung about the trees. Are you the-’

‘What birds be they?’ Berritt broke in.

I looked about, seeking the sights I had observed before: the dead crow and thrush. But even as I did so an opinion was forming… somewhat ruefully I faced the poacher again.

‘You removed them, did you?’

‘Don’t know what you mean, Master