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

I said nothing; and noting my humour, my friend sighed and changed the topic. ‘See now, have you thought on how we might approach the parson this day?’

‘In truth, I had not,’ I answered. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he refuses to receive us. I can’t forget that huddled conference yesterday with Standish and Dowling – especially as he and the Justice had been at loggerheads a short while earlier. Curious, was it not?’

Seemingly pondering the matter, Boyd gave a nod. Side by side, we rode down the Tewkesbury road on the three-mile journey to Kempsey, passing carts heading into Worcester. ‘Moreover,’ he said presently, ‘what should one think of Abel Humphreys, in private talk with the nurse? Such a friendship also looks odd to me.’

I made no observation on that. Since Humphreys was Giles Cobbett’s tenant, there was nothing odd about his knowing Eliza Dowling. But Woolland’s apparent closeness to them was another matter. And why, I wondered, had he been willing to preside over the burial of Susanna Cobbett, yet refused to bury Howell Rhys, since both had been adjudged suicides?

I would have voiced the question to Boyd, even as the tower of Kempsey’s church loomed ahead, but I was distracted by his next remark. ‘Did I mention that he was also at the inquest into the Cobbett girl?’ He enquired. ‘Woolland, I mean.’

‘You did not.’ I turned to him. ‘Had it slipped your mind?’

‘I suppose it did,’ the doctor allowed. ‘What with Cobbett’s performance, and Standish hurrying things along, I didn’t think it important. He was not a witness, and never spoke… a far cry from his pious intervention yesterday.’

‘Though you did say that he’d agreed to perform the burial service at Ebbfield.’

‘I did,’ Boyd nodded. ‘It was much talked about, among those who attended.’

We fell silent as we entered the old village of Kempsey. The church with its tall tower was ever prominent, and here we reined in. The place was quiet, the morning’s service done. Having dismounted, we led our mounts to a horse trough and allowed them a drink. A few people paused to look our way, whereupon I hailed the nearest one, an old man, and asked the whereabouts of the parsonage.

‘Behind the church, Master,’ he replied. ‘But you won’t find parson there just now. I would try the inn.’

He jerked his thumb towards it, whereupon I gave him thanks… and on a sudden, I thought of Woolland as he had appeared that day in the courtyard at Ebbfield, mounted and clad in hunting attire. It sat poorly with the fiery rhetorician I had heard at the burial, and at yesterday’s inquest. As for his being at the inn… well, many a parson is in the habit of quenching his thirst after a sermon, I told myself.

Without further word, the two of us led our horses the short distance, found a post and tethered them. On entering the inn, we paused to look about. The place was almost empty, save for a sweating drawer hefting a barrel on to its cruck. There were few tables and fewer drinkers, and the man we sought was nowhere to be seen. As I scanned the room, the inn’s host finished his task and turned to us. Noting our swords and our attire, he grinned at once.

‘Welcome, sirs. I pray you, be seated… have you come far?’

‘Not far,’ I replied as he came closer, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘We seek Parson Woolland. Is he not here?’

I too wore a smile, but it faded as the inn-keeper stopped and lowered his gaze. ‘I… the matter is, sir… your pardon, but he is not.’

A moment passed, in which neither Boyd nor I spoke. Had the man known who we were, I thought, perhaps he might have made a better fist of lying, but as it was…

‘I think he is,’ I said.

The other looked up. ‘Nay, sir, I do assure you…’

‘You do not assure me. I’m a former Justice of Worcester, who takes a poor view of liars. Do you care to think again?’

The fellow gulped, glanced at Boyd then back at me, busily wiping his hands. ‘Now I think on it, he was here,’ he said, making a show of looking around. ‘Likely he’s out the back… if you’ll seat yourselves, I’ll go and see while someone serves you.’

‘Yet, it looks as if there’s no-one serving apart from yourself,’ Boyd put in, raising his brows. ‘Is there no wench here?’

At that, I felt inclined to smile; my friend had gone straight to the nub of the matter, causing our host to falter. Pointedly I looked at the stairway in the corner, then up at the ceiling.

‘Perhaps the parson prefers a private room,’ I suggested. ‘Do you have one?’

‘Well… I do, sir,’ the inn-keeper admitted. ‘But it’s-’

‘Taken?’ I finished. ‘No matter. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to view it anyway.’

The poor man appeared quite miserable now. ‘Nay, sir, I pray you… likely the room is bolted, and my guest is engaged upon some private matter…’

He broke off as I laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yet I mean to go up there,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to hinder a former Justice, engaged in lawful investigation.’

It was not the first time I had been on tenuous legal ground, but it was enough. With a sickly look, the host could only watch as Boyd and I strode past him to the stairs.

There were two doors on the upper floor, beneath the sloping roof. The first stood open, so I walked to the other one and knocked, the doctor close behind me. Almost at once, we heard muffled sounds from within. I tried the door, but as the inn-keeper had said, it was bolted.