The Witching Pool: A Justice Belstrang Mystery (Justice Belstrang Mysteries Book 2) by John Pilkington (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📕

Alison, barely raised her head. Both were stricken with grief, their eyes wet with tears. Neither of them knew me; then, I had not set eyes on them since their mother was alive, when they were small children. The only person to recognise me was Cobbett himself, who stopped in surprise.

‘Belstrang… Good God sir, is it you?’

‘It is, sir,’ I answered. ‘I’m come with my late wife’s companion, to offer our sympathies.’

Cobbett glanced at Hester, but barely acknowledged her. ‘Indeed? Well then, I must bid you welcome.’

And yet, though the words were spoken smoothly, I stiffened: there was suspicion in the man’s cold grey eyes. Hester saw it too, and lowered her gaze.

‘I pray, come into the house after… later,’ Cobbett added quickly. ‘A funeral table is prepared.’ With a nod he moved off, leaving us to follow as we wished.

We waited, our attention now on Abel Humphreys and his wife. For a farmer, I thought, he was an odd sort: heavily-built and fleshy of face, with little trace of the permanent sunburn common among men of the land. He saw us, but looked away quickly, while his wife… his wife, I now realised was blind. Her sightless eyes stared ahead, though there was no mistaking the tears which ran from them.

It struck me then, with some force, that of all those present, Mistress Humphreys and Cobbett’s two daughters were the only ones who showed any sign of real sadness, apart perhaps from the servants. But the thought receded as the burial service began - for it was the most discomfiting I have ever attended.

At first matters proceeded as expected. Parson Woolland, a grim-faced man, intoned the words while the mourners stood with bowed heads. The coffin was then lowered into the earth, to the muted sound of sobbing from the Cobbett girls. Their nurse, meanwhile, stood like stone - a hard woman, I decided; then her master was a hard man, as Hester had said. Cobbett, for his part, stood with the air of one whose main concern was to get the business over with. I turned to Hester, the two of us standing at the rear, and caught her glance.

‘I never saw a father so unmoved,’ she whispered.

But we were diverted, for there came a restlessness among those present: an air of anticipation, or even of unease. Its cause, I realised, was the parson who, having closed his prayer-book, now drew himself to full height and glared round at what was become his congregation.

‘Evil was done to this innocent maiden,’ Woolland said, in a voice of doom. ‘An evil that many might fear to confront - yet I shall not shrink from my task.’ He paused as if daring anyone to speak, but there was only silence.

‘Madness comes in many forms,’ he went on. ‘Some may mock, while others weep at the plight of the afflicted. The heaviest burden is borne by the families, who are oft driven to torment by the trial God has seen fit to place upon them - and yet…’ This with a fierce gaze at every person in turn. ‘Yet this trial, this cruel visitation came not from God, whose purpose is beyond our understanding. It came from a servant of Satan, albeit one in human form: the form of a woman who dwelt but a short way from where we stand, before she was taken. I name her not – I have no need, for you know of whom I speak.’

He stopped, closed his eyes and muttered what I assumed was a prayer. The listeners were still, heads bent low. Cobbett appeared impassive, while beside him the shoulders of both his daughters shook with silent sobbing…

And then I saw something: something that sat most starkly with the occasion. Abel Humphreys turned his head to Cobbett, who returned his gaze - and to my astonishment, the two exchanged private smiles.

The smiles were gone almost at once, both men assuming an attitude of close attention as the parson opened his eyes. But I had seen it, and would not forget.

‘Yea, you know full well of whom I speak!’ Woolland thundered, his voice loud on a sudden. ‘That one, that cursed demon, now faces due process of law - and if justice prevails, she will go to the pit that is prepared for her. I need say nothing further, yet I will remind you of those words from Exodus, in the eighteenth verse of the twenty-second chapter, that show us the will of God in such matters: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’

Whereupon, to murmurs from some of the servants, he ended his sermon – for such it was. It was no eulogy, no plea for mercy or understanding for the girl who had committed the grave sin of self-murder, but a sermon, which he now concluded with an amen before turning to walk away. He was followed by Cobbett, Humphreys and his wife and the servants, who dispersed in silence. Soon only the two sisters remained at the graveside, standing close together and a little apart from their nurse, who appeared ill-at-ease with their grief. The labourer, meanwhile, stood ready to do his work.

‘I’d like to go,’ Hester said. ‘Yet, if you wish to tarry at the house-’

‘I don’t,’ I said.

I was still struggling with the picture in my mind: of Cobbett and his tenant, whose wife had stood beside him in ignorance, smiling over the bowed heads of the other mourners. After a moment I offered Hester my arm, but as we began to take our leave a female voice called out. I looked round to see the older of the Cobbett daughters coming towards me.

‘Sir… might I know your name?’

I told her, and was about to summon some words of sympathy, but her response cut me short.

‘You were the Justice, in Worcester?’

‘I was. I… we knew