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

‘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 inside 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.