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

retorted. Still smirking, he made a half-bow. ‘Twas your welfare I was concerned about, nothing more. You should have taken a phial of holy water in with you. It’s not often we play host to witches – a man can’t be too careful.’

With an effort, I held my tongue; it was a waste of breath to do otherwise. I turned to make my way back to the stairs, then paused. ‘Your name?’ I enquired.

‘It’s Burton, sir.’ The smirk was still in place. ‘I pray you, call upon me any time.’

‘Perhaps I will, Master Burton,’ I said. ‘For I intend to come again. In the meantime, be sure that you deal fairly with your prisoner – I’ll enquire of her how matters stand. And…’ this with as hard a look as I could summon: ‘That woman’s no more a witch than you are. Though I’ll not say which one of you reminds me of a toad – you may ponder it yourself.’

Whereupon I strode to the stairs and climbed to the ground floor, into the welcome light of day.

FOUR

That afternoon, having taken a light dinner, I called upon Doctor Boyd at his house in Sudbury Street, where I told him of the events of the day before and of my meeting with Agnes. But he was distracted, and I would soon learn the cause: the inquest at Powick, he announced, had been an utter sham.

‘A comedy, Robert,’ the good doctor growled. ‘It was all over within two hours. I hardly know where to begin. Shall I tell you first, that no-one had even troubled to examine the deceased’s body? Or that no attempt was made to establish how she got to the place where she died? Or that the man who found the body was not even called? Or should I remind you that Cobbett’s seat at Ebbfield is a moated manor-house, in the old Tudor style? Yet no-one enquired as to why a maid bent on self-murder would trouble to cross the mighty Severn, venture into a wood and drown herself in a shallow pond, when she could have done the deed but yards from her own door. Can you believe it?’

‘What about witnesses?’ I enquired.

Boyd spread his hands. ‘Such witnesses as were called were supporters of Cobbett, chief among them being his tenant Humphreys. A sly sort, in my opinion. He spoke of the deceased as being of frail disposition, hinting that she was likely of unsound mind too. While her poor, widowed father had struggled to bring his daughters up alone, at great sacrifice. To hear him speak you’d have thought Cobbett was a saint, instead of the grasping landowner we know him to be.’ He sighed. ‘I tell you, Robert, the whole business appeared as a paean to Cobbett in his loss, with scant attention paid to his dead daughter.’

‘What of Standish?’ I enquired. ‘Did he not try to uncover the true events of that night, when the girl took her life?’

‘Well now, that’s the oddest part of it, to my mind,’ Boyd answered. ‘For reasons best known to himself, Justice Standish appeared eager to draw proceedings to a close as swiftly as possible. Whether from mere distaste, or a lack of evidence…’ he shrugged. ‘But there was no doubt in the minds of the jury… poor villagers, mostly. The verdict, as you will have surmised, was suicide. And Cobbett emerged as a man most cruelly wronged, deserving the sympathy of all who were present. In fact, his own evidence caused a minor sensation…’ he frowned. ‘And doubtless it bodes ill for your new friend, Mistress Mason.’

‘How so?’ I asked, somewhat sharply.

‘Let me say that, for those who enjoy a play, it was a good performance,’ Boyd said. ‘To summarize, he swore that the witch had cursed him, because he refused her charity in the late hard winter. He said Mason went upon her knees and cursed him thrice in a bold and wicked manner, telling him his firstborn would perish within the coming year. All of that, he claimed, done with signs and incantations he did not understand. As I said, his testimony was most engaging, and generated dismay among those present. Why would it not?’

I was silent then, eyes lowered as a gloom fell upon me. I knew that, in any court of law, such report from a man of Cobbett’s status would be believed, while in the absence of any witness to the contrary, few if any would believe Agnes.

I looked up, and found Boyd’s eyes upon me.

‘The die is cast, Robert,’ he said gravely. ‘Whoever presides at the Assizes will dispense whatever justice he thinks expedient. But given the strong feelings against anyone accused of witchery, from the King himself down…’ he shook his head. ‘From an acquaintance of mine who was present, I gather that the Bishop himself is taking an interest in the case. John Thornborough detests witches, whether real or imagined. I fear Agnes Mason was adjudged guilty from the moment her arrest was ordered.’ He paused. ‘As for poor Susanna Cobbett-’

‘As for Susanna Cobbett,’ I broke in, ‘being named a suicide, her burial will be a matter of contention.’

‘Well, not quite,’ Boyd said. ‘The parson at Powick is unwilling to bury her, it seems, but that didn’t appear to trouble Cobbett unduly. The funeral service will take place tomorrow in the chapel at Ebbfield, with the burial to follow close by. A convenient solution, would you not agree?’

I made no reply. Turning the matter about, I pictured Edward and Isabel Mason in their cottage, faces drawn with worry. Then I saw Agnes standing in her cell, calm and smiling. Had she compassed her coming death, I wondered, and accepted it?

Boyd spoke again, pulling me from my reverie. ‘As a close friend, Robert,’ he said, ‘I’d advise you to step away from this business. Yet as a friend, I