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

For a while nothing happened, though when I pressed my ear to the planking I believed I heard voices. I knocked again, more loudly, and was at last rewarded by a scraping of the bolt. Whereupon, as soon as I adjudged it free, I pushed the door open with some force, stepped inside the room with hand on sword… and froze.

Parson Woolland, tousle-haired, bare-legged and clad in only a shirt, was backing away from me. While behind him…

Behind him, cowering on a low bed in the corner and hiding her nakedness with a sheet, was a pale, red-haired girl no older than eleven or twelve years.

Nobody said a word. Keeping my eyes on Woolland, I moved further into the room, causing him to retreat until he was backed up against the wall. Meanwhile Boyd stepped in, assessed the situation quickly and looked to the bed.

‘Are you here of your own will, my girl?’ He asked kindly.

Plainly terrified, the young maid nodded.

‘You were not coerced in any way?’ He persisted. ‘We mean you no harm, so speak.’

‘All is well, sir – I swear it,’ she blurted.

‘Then, perhaps it’s best you took your clothes and left us,’ the doctor said. ‘Will that serve?’

Nodding vigorously, the girl hurried to comply. Wrapping the sheet about herself, she scrambled from the bed and moved to a stool where her clothing was piled. Seizing it in a bundle, bare-footed and somewhat shaky, she swerved past Boyd and fled from the room. To the sound of her feet pattering along the passage, we turned our attention upon Woolland.

‘Well now,’ I said. ‘We’re all sinners, sir… but some sins are more grievous than others. Would you not agree?’

The man made no answer. There was no hiding his guilt, and Boyd and I were witnesses to it. How many others, I wondered briefly, had knowledge of their parson’s proclivities?

‘Were it anyone else, I might ask pardon for disturbing him at such a time,’ I went on, feeling my anger rising. ‘Yet, given the age of the other party-’

‘I pray you, let me alone!’ Woolland cried, finding his voice at last.

‘I will not,’ I said. ‘I came here to ask questions of you, but now…’ I glanced at Boyd. ‘The case is altered, isn’t it?’

‘I would say it is,’ Boyd said. And at the look in his eye, the parson faltered.

‘I have done no crime,’ he muttered.

‘I doubt if that’s how an archdeaconry court would view it,’ I told him. ‘More, I wonder how your parishioners would?’

That shook the man. Until now, despite being caught as he had, I had been uncertain whether Woolland would try to bluff, or even fall back on some pious rant. Now, I confess I was enjoying the fact that he was at my mercy - an opportunity not to be missed.

‘Do they know what you get up to?’ I enquired. ‘I would think it hard to keep secrets, in a place like this. And given the eagerness many village folk have for denouncing their neighbours – even a man of God.’

‘Unless he has protection of some kind,’ Boyd said, on a sudden. I stiffened; a notion was forming. I caught his glance, then faced Woolland again.

‘Let me ask you this,’ I said, fixing him with my magistrate’s eye. ‘Since you stated plainly at the inquest yesterday that you would not bury a suicide, then why were you willing to conduct the funeral of Susanna Cobbett?’

Rapidly he sought for an answer, his eyes moving between the doctor and I. ‘The burial was on Cobbett land, not the church’s,’ he said. ‘I pitied him in his loss and his plight – I did but help a neighbour in his hour of need.’

‘No… that won’t serve.’

I took another step forward, making him flinch. ‘You speak to one who’s dealt with some of the best liars in the county. And I know Giles Cobbett’s a powerful man, the richest landowner for miles – but tell me, Master Woolland, what kind of hold does he have over you?’

And when he failed to answer, I raised my hand and pointed a finger to within an inch of his chest. ‘Speak,’ I ordered. ‘Or I’ll draw my own conclusions, haul you off to Worcester by force and swear out a warrant. I’m unsure what the charge will be, but I’ll make sure everyone in the city knows of your arrest – and half the shire, too. Whatever the consequences, you’re finished. Bishop Thornborough’s a stern man – but you won’t need me to tell you that.’

Tense as a bowstring, Woolland gazed at the floor. From below, familiar inn sounds drifted: voices, the clink of tankards. The parson opened his mouth, closed it again - then all at once he sagged, and I tasted victory. A scrawny figure, with his dirty toes and spindly legs, he folded to the floor like an empty sack and fell back against the wall, hugging his shirt about him.

‘God in heaven, forgive me,’ he whispered hoarsely.

Whereupon he looked up, fixed me with a baleful look, and spoke in what I can only describe as a snarl.

‘What a meddler you are, Belstrang,’ he spat. ‘A wastrel and a varlet at heart… one who lives in fornication with a servant, yet dares to judge me!’ And seeing my anger rise, he gave a bitter laugh.

‘Must I spell it out?’ He cried. ‘I buried the Cobbett girl at Ebbfield because she was a scarlet whore, a Jezebel unfit to walk hallowed earth, and because-’

‘You’re lying!’

Raising a fist, I could have struck the man, had not Boyd hurried to stay me. Breathing hard, I allowed him to push my arm down, and took a step back. But despite my anger, I was