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

A moment followed which was tinged with amusement. I saw it on the faces of some of the Powick folk, who likely knew Rowden and his ways… but it was the face of Abel Humphreys that caught my eye. He too was smiling - quite broadly, and making no effort to hide it. And I knew at once that, if he too were called as a witness, he would tell a similar tale to those of Eliza Dowling and Thomas Rowden: that Howell Rhys had been bewitched like his lover, and driven to take his life – which in the end, meant by the actions of Agnes Mason.

But Humphreys was not called; nor was Rowden questioned further. After Standish had thanked the man sardonically for sparing his valuable time, he dismissed him. He then muttered something to his clerk, who dipped his quill and began writing on the papers before him. Along with Boyd, I watched Rowden walk stiffly away, to be followed by Humphreys, who had left his seat and moved to the doors. They left the barn without looking back.

I looked about: at Standish, at the jury who were already putting their heads together, at the plain Powick folk who spoke low among themselves. The verdict, I knew, was already decided. And it was no surprise to anyone when, but a few minutes after being directed to consider, the foreman of the jurors rose to announce that by their findings, Howell Rhys had taken his own life, by reason of being driven to madness.

With sinking spirits, I lowered my eyes. And though I burned with anger at the way Standish had guided the jury to that conclusion – a conclusion he himself appeared to desire – I no longer had the will to protest. Having barely listened as he pronounced the inquest closed, I turned to Boyd. But before I could speak a voice rang out, causing an immediate stir.

‘Sir, we must conclude with a prayer!’

It was Woolland, the parson from Kempsey, on his feet in sermonising manner. Holding up a hand for silence, he fixed Standish with the same look I had observed at Ebbfield, when he raged against the evildoer who had driven Susanna Cobbett to madness. And as Standish blinked in surprise, he went on: ‘I beg your indulgence, sir. We have heard testimony of wicked acts perpetrated upon two innocent young people, which drove both to commit the terrible sin of self-murder. Moreover, the mortal remains of one of them lies here yet, but a short way from this place. Like others, I am concerned to know how the body will be laid to rest… if there can be any rest, that is, for one who acted as he did.’

He paused, seemingly to reassure himself that he had everyone’s attention, as if that were in doubt. Then:

‘I for one would not bury this person in my churchyard, even were he of my parish,’ Woolland went on. ‘Nor, I understand, is the Powick parson willing. What then, is to be done?’

There was silence, until Standish at last found his voice. Furious at his authority being snatched away in such a manner, he too rose to his feet.

‘Let me assure you, sir, that the deceased’s father has already been informed, by letter,’ he said loudly. ‘For the present, the body will remain in the crypt of the church until it is claimed by his family. And I object to your imputation that I’ve given no thought to the matter. More, I dislike your addressing this inquest, which has already been concluded. The time is past for further submissions-’

‘Like the one from the former Justice, you mean?’ Woolland broke in harshly. ‘You appear to have forgotten his request to be allowed to speak. Then, perhaps it would have delayed you, if you wish to make haste in going to your dinner.’

At that, jaws dropped; few had heard anyone address a Magistrate in such a manner. And though I confess to a sense of vindication at Woolland’s words, I felt no warmth towards the man. He was on the verge of ranting, as he had done at Ebbfield that morning. With interest, I waited to see how Standish would respond.

‘Master Belstrang?’ Still fuming, the justice eyed me. ‘I confess I had forgotten, for which I beg your pardon most humbly. Do you still wish to speak?’

All eyes turned in my direction; it was an opportunity, even if the inquest was over. I allowed my gaze to move from Standish to Woolland, and back to Standish.

‘Would it alter the verdict, sir?’ I asked, assuming my bland look. ‘I think not, hence I will save my evidence for another occasion.’ Seeing how that displeased him, I added: ‘But I would welcome the chance to ask Parson Woolland what has brought him here – in effect, what his interest is in this case since, as he admits, the deceased was not of his parish.’

I turned to Woolland with raised eyebrows, and saw at once that I had put him on the defensive.

‘You question my interest, sir?’ He retorted. ‘I’m a man of God, who goes wherever he is called. You yourself, I remember, were at the burial of the poor maiden who was driven to madness like the other one spoken of here - hence you will have heard my words at the graveside. We do battle with the evil one, sir, by day and by night – and I for one will not rest from my labours. Which is why…’ he turned to Standish. ‘Which is why, Master Coroner, I repeat my call for a prayer before we quit this place. So, with your permission?’

A moment passed, but it seemed there was nothing else to be done. With an effort, Standish recovered himself and gestured to the parson to do his office. I was somewhat surprised to see the fight