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

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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 such 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…’

‘And has a good eye, as well as an open mind,’ I finished. A welcome feeling, of mingled hope and relief, was upon me. ‘Not to mention one who is a true friend – the kind a man is most fortunate to have.’

The other put on his disapproving look. ‘You read far too much into the offer, Robert,’ he retorted. ‘Call it a professional interest in a case of self-murder… call it idle curiosity, or what you will.’

‘I call it loyalty,’ I said. And with that I lifted my cup, saluted him and drained it.

‘Now I’ll return to Thirldon. But if I were to call upon you about ten of the clock tomorrow, would you be free to take a short ride with me, out to Ebbfield?’

For answer, Boyd too raised his cup and drank off its contents, before setting it down with a look of resignation. But I knew him too well: he was a man of enquiring mind – he is so still. And I would swear there was a spark of excitement beneath his sober expression, even as he strove to hide it. Whether it was a rash