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

along the blood-stained floor, coughing and wheezing. Whereupon, coming to my senses at last, I found myself looking down at another corpse: that of Eliza Dowling, now slumped beside a pew with her eyes open, staring at nothing.

‘Bring her out,’ I ordered. And when Lockyer hesitated, I pointed. ‘Go on – I’m unhurt.’

He turned to obey, while I got myself to the doors which were wide open, letting in a breeze to fan the flames. Once outside, breathing fast, I found Lisle sitting on the ground, pressing a bloody hand to his side. Meeting my gaze, he managed a nod.

‘It’s but a shallow wound… I’ll staunch the flow.’

I was about to go to him when I heard running feet, and turned to see Elkins hurrying up with Matthew behind him. Seeing flames licking at the edges of the broken chapel window, the old man stopped in horror.

‘God help us,’ he cried, his face haggard. ‘Where’s the master?’

Nobody answered. Two bodies were being carried from the doomed building: those of Cobbett and his devoted servant, the woman who had hoped in vain to become his wife. The constables laid them together on the grassy patch, close to the grave of Susanna. Meanwhile my servants came to attend me, relieved that I had taken no harm. I mumbled words of reassurance, whereupon quite quickly a weariness came upon me: one of sheer relief.

‘He’s paid for his crimes,’ I said, drawing deep breaths. ‘Not in the way I hoped, but…’

I trailed off, allowing myself a last look at the man who had done such terrible deeds; even now, it chills me to think on the evil that went on in his house – and at last, in his chapel. That too was now destroyed: there was a well near the stables, but it was too late to save the building. Within a half-hour, by which time some order had been established, the arresting party could only watch as flames leaped through the roof, shooting skywards as the wind took them.

When we made our way back to the courtyard to arrange our departure, only Matthew remained with head bowed, weeping silently at the chapel’s destruction, and the end of the once-noble house of Cobbett.

Since the man left no sons, his name would die with it.

* * *

It was a sombre group which eventually made its way out of the courtyard and rumbled over the bridge, to take the road to Worcester. A cart had been found, and two ageing horses to draw it: the last ones left in the Ebbfield stables. Cobbett’s fine hunting horse was gone, likely stolen by one of his grooms. In the cart were the covered bodies of Cobbett and Eliza Dowling. Lisle, against advice, insisted on riding, his body bound tightly with cloths taken from the house. In fact, once some of the men ventured inside, they had found the place stripped of almost everything of value, from plate and hangings to candlesticks. The manor had a forlorn air, as if life had departed - which in truth, it had.

I rode behind the cart with Elkins and Lockyer. We had said little since watching the chapel burn, but I now took occasion to praise them for their actions. Without their aid, I realised, matters might have taken an even darker turn.

‘Cobbett meant to die, sir,’ Lockyer said, after a while. ‘I’ve seen men make their last stand, when they know there’s no other way out.’

‘Yet, it was a coward’s way,’ Elkins muttered, with a shake of his head. ‘He couldn’t face up to what he’d done, so chose to cheat justice as he’s cheated the hangman.’

I said nothing: on a sudden, I thought of Boyd and his views on self-murder. Did Cobbett’s final acts amount to such, I wondered - suicide by the action of constables? Doubtless it would serve for a topic of debate, one day.

‘What do you mean to do with him, sir?’

Lockyer nodded towards Matthew, who was sitting in the cart with the bodies: a shrivelled figure, his arms wrapped about him.

‘I mean to offer him a place in my service,’ I replied. ‘He’s honest and loyal, even if his master was unworthy of him.’ I found a wry smile forming. ‘Though heaven knows what Childers will say.’

The other two exchanged looks, but made no reply.

And by the afternoon we were riding through my gates, all duties discharged, content to let the peace of Thirldon envelop us one again.

TWENTY-FOUR

May was over, and June came in with clear skies. King James, we heard, was still riding about Scotland, destined to end his sojourn in Glasgow and then return south by way of Carlisle. Childers wondered if he would pass through Worcester, which turned out not to be the case. But see now, I digress.

There was much to be done in the days following the death of Giles Cobbett. I spent time in my chamber, penning a report of what had occurred along with letters to various parties, Boyd among them. I was uncertain as to what would happen now that Cobbett was gone; but in the end, matters seemed to arrange themselves.

The first news to bring comfort was that the charge of murder against Agnes Mason was to be withdrawn. The surprise was that the tidings came to me from Standish himself, brought to Thirldon by his clerk.

‘The Justice is most troubled by these events, Master Belstrang,’ the man said stiffly, as we stood in the courtyard that morning. ‘He intends to conduct further investigations, but I can tell you that the ferryman and the farmer, Humphreys, have been put to question and have confirmed your testimony. They will face trial soon, the likely outcome of which you may anticipate.’

He paused, noting my evident relief, then continued: ‘The Justice also wishes me to convey his heartfelt thanks