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

He blinked again, but this time made no reply.

‘Or are you convinced,’ I persisted, ‘as you testified at the inquest, that Agnes Mason is to blame for Susanna Cobbett’s apparent madness, and her death?’

I waited, believing I had dented his easy manner at last. But at that moment there was a sound from the doorway. I looked round to see Humphreys’ wife walk into the room. Her sightless eyes stared straight ahead, but her steps were sure, as of a woman who knows every nook and cranny of her home. Wearing a plain black frock, she stopped a short distance away with hands clasped before her - and I knew she had heard what had passed in this room. I would have spoken, had not Humphreys seized the moment and almost leaped from his stool.

‘My sweet… pray, be at ease. It’s Justice Belstrang from Thirldon, come to visit. You’ll recall he was at the burial?’

‘So I was told.’ Sarah Humphreys turned towards me. She would have said more, I believe, had her husband not taken her arm and guided her to a stool - which guidance, I saw, was neither desired not necessary.

‘Now don’t distress yourself,’ Humphreys said, with mock severity. He resumed his seat, his forced smile turned upon me. ‘My wife is – indeed we are both, still somewhat raw with mourning, sir,’ he said. ‘And I’ll not speak of that woman you have named, not in my house. I believe you’ll understand.’

I made no reply, but deliberately faced his wife, who sat between us. I sensed she was aware of my gaze, and was proved correct.

‘What do you want of us, sir?’ She asked sharply. ‘Surely you haven’t come to offer sympathy, as you did at Ebbfield? That was your reason for attending the burial, was it not?’

She waited, the picture of icy calm, but her husband at once broke the silence. ‘The Justice… I should say the former Justice… is seeking answers to some questions,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m uncertain yet as to his interest in this… the recent business. Perhaps he will tell us.’

Forcing another glassy smile, he eyed me. So, thinking it best to make what capital I could, I sallied forth.

‘You spoke at the inquest of the dead girl, touching her condition of mind,’ I said, falling into magistrate mode. ‘You implied she was frail, perhaps susceptible to the influence of others. Would you care to tell me how you know that?’

‘Because we’re close neighbours of Giles Cobbett, as well as his tenants,’ Humphreys replied. ‘I’ve known his daughters all their lives. She’s… she was a quiet girl, prone to fancies.’

‘What sort of fancies?’

‘I assure you, I’m not privy to their substance.’ The man was maintaining his smile with an effort.

‘What about the legend of Offa’s gold?’ I persisted, as the notion occurred. ‘Then, she’d not be alone in believing there was some truth in that old tale, would she?’

‘Pah! Stuff and nonsense!’

It was Sarah Humphreys who spoke. She was scowling; more, her fists were clenched, her upper body taut with anger.

‘There’s no gold, and never was!’ she added. ‘Only a prize fool would think so – though we’ve no shortage of those.’

Whereupon a dead silence fell. My gaze flitted between the two of them… and then I saw it, with stark clarity.

This woman loathed her husband with a bright hatred, from the very depths of her being.

EIGHT

I quitted the farm soon after, with questions still unanswered. I had grown weary of the couple; an invisible cloud of something distasteful seemed to hang over the two of them. I had meant to probe further, but lost my appetite. And though Abel Humphreys attempted to play the cheerful host to the very end, the sham was thin and tawdry. Making a brief farewell, I put Leucippus to the trot as I left the yard, with no appetite to return ever again.

As I rode I turned the matter about, but could not come at any conclusions. A visit to Doctor Boyd in Worcester, I knew, would lift my spirits, and within the half hour I was back in the city, on foot and making my way to his house. But on this occasion, I was disappointed: my friend was absent, his servant informed me, and not expected home until the evening.

I decided to take dinner at the Old Talbot to mull things over. And it was there, surrounded by townsfolk – some of whom glanced in my direction – that I came to a resolve: one that flew in the face of what I had told Hester and Childers the day before. I would throw caution aside and go to Justice Standish - the legal authority, as well as a chief source of my unease. I was reminded starkly of it when I realised that some of the looks I had attracted were less than friendly, if not downright hostile.

It was time enough, I thought, after fortifying myself with two or three mugs of ale. I would beard my old rival in his den – his fine town-house close to the Corn Market – and have matters out with him, for better or worse.

It was not the first time I had dismissed the advice of Hester and Childers; I hoped I would not regret it.

***

To begin with, my visit to the Justice’s house went cordially enough. Standish, grizzled and unsmiling in his black gown, received me coolly but courteously, given my former rank. I was admitted to his private closet, lined with books and hung with portraits, and invited to take a chair facing him across a table piled with papers. But the moment I began to state my business, the man grew defensive.

‘By God, so it’s true,’ he grunted. ‘I did harbour a forlorn hope that