Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery by John Pilkington (books to read romance txt) 📕

‘Him and Tobias Russell… a pair of thieves, if you ask me,’ Jonas Willett grunted. ‘I’ll wager the old man don’t know the half of what goes on down here.’

He was growing surly, taking longer pulls from his mug. Fearing that further refills of the Comfort’s strong ale would prove unproductive, I addressed Peter.

‘Will you say more?’ I asked him. ‘If we’re to invest in mines and foundries here, my fellows and I need to learn all we can. It could be that we might offer employment in the future, for hard-working men.’

That last remark was careless, of course, and it shames me now to think of the deception I practised. But I thought of Richard Mountford on his sick-bed… his anxious face - and knew I must press home every opportunity.

‘In truth, there’s not a lot more to say, sir.’ Peter was looking askance at me now. The old man, however, chimed in.

‘Francis Mountford’s a hard man… a true ironmaster,’ he muttered. ‘He rarely shows his face at Cricklepit, save when a large shipment’s being readied. You might ask down at Purton wharf… when he’s here, he spends more time there than he does at his foundries.’ He gave a snort, then lapsed into silence.

‘Well, perhaps I will,’ I replied. I saw that Jonas’s eyes were down, gazing at his scarred boots; I would learn nothing further. I lifted my mug and drained it, then feigned a yawn.

‘I’ve enjoyed your company,’ I said. ‘But I’m away to my bed now. Perhaps we’ll talk again?’

Peter rose, with a wary eye on his father. ‘We do thank you for the ale, sir,’ he said, somewhat formally. ‘Now I’d best get us both home to our beds.’

He offered his hand, which I shook. Then I left them, making my way to the stairs. As I climbed, I looked back to see the young man bent over his sire, who was now dozing off.

***

On the Sabbath morning I rose to the sound of a bell tolling from St Mary’s, Lydney’s parish church, where almost the entire village congregated. Meanwhile William Pride took a breakfast of porridge, bacon and small beer at the inn, before venturing forth to attend to his horse. Finding Leucippus well-cared for, I tipped the stable-boy to saddle him and bring him outdoors, then got myself mounted.

It was a short ride to Purton, along a well-used track. Soon I was beside the Severn again, though it was a very different river from the one familiar to me at Worcester: perhaps a mile wide, with the far bank barely visible. I drew rein, my eyes settling on the timbered wharf with its stacked cargo, square shapes covered with sailcloth. Moored to the dock was a fine sailing trow, its hold open and empty, no doubt ready for loading on the morrow. There was no-one in sight.

Dismounting, I left Leucippus and walked to the waterside to look at the boat: the name Lady Ann was painted on her prow. As I stood, a figure appeared abruptly from beneath the aft decking. I gave him good morning, but received no reply.

‘A fine vessel,’ I called out. ‘Are you the master?’

My answer was a brief nod; the captain of the Lady Ann, I would learn, was not a courteous man. But he walked to the landing-plank, stepped on to it and came ashore.

‘Are you the new fellow?’ He asked bluntly. He was perhaps forty years old, thin and scrawny, wearing a seaman’s toque. ‘I didn’t expect you till tomorrow.’

‘In truth, I regret I’m not the one you expected,’ I answered. ‘Just a man of business, poking about.’

A look of impatience appeared. ‘I’d advise against that, sir,’ the trow-master said. He turned away, but I stayed him.

‘I’m a friend of the Mountfords, who’s looking to invest hereabouts. Perhaps you and I might do business one day.’

He stopped to look me over, noting my sword in its scabbard. Finally, he asked which of the Mountfords I knew: would that be Francis, or his father? On impulse, I thought it wise to say it was Francis.

‘I mistook you for another,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll leave you to your walk.’

‘Are those Mountford’s cannons?’ I asked, nodding towards the covered cargo. ‘I suppose they’re bound for Bristol?’

But the man was suspicious. ‘I won’t speak of that,’ he answered. Again he made to move off, but I was eager to press what I believed was my advantage.

‘My name’s Pride,’ I told him. ‘I have iron works in the Kent Weald. Might I know your name?’

‘It’s Spry,’ came the terse reply – at which a memory sprang up at once.

‘Why, you’re the man who took John Mountford’s body upriver, to his father’s house,’ I said. ‘I heard of it in Upton… such a sad and terrible accident.’

But if I had seen this as an opening, I was thwarted. Captain Spry clammed up, turned from me and stepped swiftly away. I watched him walk up the gangplank on to his vessel, and disappear under the awning.

In doing so, however, the man had erred. For his very actions had aroused the suspicions of ex-Justice Belstrang – had they not existed already. Something was being hidden from me, and I intended to find out what.

I would return the next day, I resolved, to watch The Lady Ann being loaded – and no-one was going to prevent me.

***

That night at The Comfort I took supper alone, intending to retire early; as was my habit, I would gather my thoughts and begin compiling a report of what I had learned. But when I asked Henry Hawes for ink and paper, the landlord spread his hands sadly. There was none to be had just now, I was told… did I wish to