Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery

by John Pilkington

  ‘Why, it sounds as if we are to become homeless,’ Hester said. ‘I’ve heard the King can be parsimonious, but surely he would offer a fair price for the estate?’

  ‘He might offer it,’ I told her. ‘But when, or even if he would pay up, is another matter entirely.’

  Childers let out a long breath; he was looking even older than his years, which were approaching seventy. ‘The Great Comet,’ he said gloomily. ‘I knew it boded ill – I said so, did I not?’

  ‘That’s fluff and flummery,’ Hester retorted. But her eyes were on the floor, and the words carried little conviction. Once again we lapsed into silence, until with an effort I managed to summon some spirit.

  ‘See now, it’s not done yet,’ I said. ‘There will be papers to draw up… George Bull is an able man, and not without influence. He offers to petition the King on my behalf, which would at least spare me travelling to London, cap in hand. The business could be delayed, at least long enough for me to find some other suitable property, not far away. Even if it comes to renting-’

  ‘By God, sir!’ At that, Childers looked aghast. ‘Are you to be reduced to house-hunting? It’s intolerable, for a gentleman of your standing…’ He trailed off, struggling to master himself. And even Hester, who was sometimes impatient with my oldest servant, was moved to pity him.

  ‘I cannot believe it will come to that,’ she said. ‘Master Justice will speak with friends from his Inns of Court days… there must be some who can offer advice. Is it not so?’

  Meeting her gaze, I managed a nod. ‘Indeed… I will begin writing letters, first thing tomorrow. Including to Sir Samuel Sandys – why should I not? Our High Sheriff is a man of ability and integrity. He may be able to shed some light on the matter… or then again, he may not.’

  I paused, glancing at each of them in turn. ‘In the meantime, nothing must be said to the servants about this,’ I added. ‘All should appear as normal – I’ll not have them distressed. If anyone has heard a rumour, it must be denied with force. I’m counting on you both.’

  We exchanged looks, but there was no need for further words. When it came to Hester and Childers, my trust was as firm as it had always been. Soon afterwards we went to our beds, but I doubt if either of them slept, any more than I did. How the coming days and weeks would pass, we could not know.

  But two days later I was interrupted at my desk to receive another letter, of a very different nature to the one from my son-in-law. I had no inkling then that it would prove to be pivotal with regard to my future - but so it was.

  ***

  It was Wednesday, and I seemed to have done little but send out messages since the fateful news had arrived from George. Naturally I asked him to petition the King as he had offered, and to keep me abreast of all that occurred. I also wrote to lawyers who had been fellow-students in my days at Gray’s Inn, though with little hope that they could offer any assistance. Hence, I was somewhat irritated by the distraction of hearing from a friend I had not seen in years: Sir Richard Mountford, a landowner who lived downriver, near the village of Upton. He and I had little in common these days, Mountford having invested heavily in such commodities as iron ore and timber, by which means he had built a substantial fortune. My first thought, preoccupied as I was, had been to set his letter aside, until I saw the black tags which adorned it. So I broke the seal, and read the sad news: Mountford’s younger brother John, whom I too had known, was dead, killed in a tragic accident. The man was broken with grief, and appeared to be reaching out to those he knew, for whatever comfort they might offer.

  At dinner I showed the letter to Hester. Childers was elsewhere, striving to keep himself busy; it was all he could do, to ward off the gloom that threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘Mountford invites me to visit his manor, Foxhill,’ I said. ‘It’s impossible just now, of course… I can only send him my condolences.’

  ‘It’s only a two-hour ride away,’ Hester said, alert on a sudden. ‘The diversion would take your mind off your troubles. Surely you’ve written to everyone you know by now?’

  ‘I suppose so… but I’m hardly the one to cheer a bereaved man at such a time. We would merely be fellows in misery.’

  ‘He’s in want of a sympathetic ear,’ Hester said. ‘You can offer that, at least. It’s precisely the distraction you need, instead of losing sleep and fretting while George acts on your behalf in London.’

  As always, she was winning the argument. And now that I turned the matter about, there was nothing to prevent me riding down to Upton to spend a day or two. I took up Mountford’s letter again and looked at the final paragraph… then gave a start as I read his parting words.

  ‘Good God.’ I raised my eyes to Hester’s. ‘The man fears that he too is dying, though he does not say why.’

  ‘Then that settles it,’ she replied. ‘You must go to him… he would value your presence.’

  I dropped the letter on the table. ‘Yes… his troubles are far worse than mine. I suppose the two of us can get drunk, at least.’

  ***

  I left Thirldon the following morning, riding Leucippus at a steady pace into Worcester, then southwards on the old Tewkesbury road. The day was fair, and as Hester had suggested, it was a relief to feel the breeze as I rode, and to clear my mind of worry for a while. The harvest was in train, men toiling in the fields as I passed. Striving to put aside thoughts of Thirldon and the King’s desire to take it from me, I began to recall Richard Mountford in the days when we were drinking companions in London, long before he had been knighted. He was good company, a jovial fellow who generally took things in his stride; the contrast between the man I remembered and the tone of his letter was stark. Then, grief may enfeeble the stoutest of hearts; like me he was a widower, and doubtless the loss of his brother, with whom he had always been close, was a severe blow. I hoped that his son, whom I had not seen since he was a boy, was of some comfort to him.

  On that score, however, I was about to be disillusioned.

  I arrived in Upton towards mid-day, having crossed the old stone bridge to the Severn’s west bank, where the village fronted the river. A mile or so of further riding brought me to the sprawling manor of Foxhill, set amid woods where deer browsed and fields where sheep grazed. It was a fine house, wide-fronted, gabled and imposing; Mountford had done well for himself. In the courtyard I was met by a servant in livery, who called a stable-boy to take care of Leucippus. Then I was escorted indoors - to be greeted not by my old friend, but by a tall, well-groomed man who announced himself as his son Francis.

  ‘I’m confounded, sir,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘The last time I saw you, you were a lad of thirteen or fourteen years.’

  ‘Is that so, sir? I confess I do not remember.’ Francis Mountford eyed me, somewhat coolly I thought, and dropped my hand. ‘A good deal of water has flowed under the bridge since then.’

  I looked him over, noting a tautness in his manner. ‘That’s true. But pray, how does Sir Richard? I’m eager to see him.’

  ‘In truth, he’s unwell,’ Francis replied. ‘He sees few people at present. My wife and I have urged him to rest, given the dreadful blow he has suffered, with my uncle’s untimely death.’

  ‘Of course…’ I stiffened slightly. Instead of welcoming me as a friend of his father’s, who might offer some cheer, this man seemed almost to disapprove of my coming.

  ‘So, you are married?’ I made an effort to smile. ‘I’m eager to meet your good lady.’

  ‘And you shall, sir,’ the other said briskly. ‘Now, I understand you have been invited to stay with us, hence a chamber has been made ready. Would you like to make yourself comfortable, before joining us at dinner?’

  ‘Gladly,’ I answered. ‘But might I attend Sir Richard first?’

  ‘He is sleeping, sir.’

  This time there was little doubt: Francis Mountford’s tone was forbidding, if not quite hostile. I met his eye until, with some effort, he assumed an easier manner.

&nb
sp; ‘I meant not to dissuade you,’ he said. ‘It’s better we wait until after our dinner, when he will be recovered. I will tell a servant to advise him of your arrival.’

  ‘Very well…’ I gave a nod, glancing about the well-appointed hall with its hangings and display of fine plate. Iron mines and timber, it seemed, had paid for all of this. I was still mulling over the matter as I was led upstairs to my chamber, with its eastward view towards the town. On the landing I had passed a number of doors, all closed. Behind one of them, it would appear, Sir Richard Mountford was sleeping - at mid-day. Was that, I wondered, the cause of the unease on my part?

  I decided to put a few questions to his son over dinner.

  It was a sumptuous meal, which far exceeded my appetite. Francis and his wife Maria were good hosts, clearly accustomed to entertaining on a grand scale. Attentive servants hovered, ready to refill my cup at any moment until I declined. Meanwhile I observed the couple, especially Mistress Mountford: a delicate, fair-haired young woman of pale complexion, with deep-set eyes.

  ‘I understand you have put aside the burdens of a magistrate, Master Belstrang,’ she said, peering at me over the rim of her silver chalice. ‘That must be a relief.’

  ‘Some years ago, Madam,’ I replied. ‘But that’s not how I view it. I believe I may yet be of service to our county.’

  ‘Is it so?’ The lady raised an eyebrow. ‘I would have thought that, as a man of similar age to my father-in-law, you would appreciate having the time to enjoy your estate.’

  ‘I do. But I also try to occupy myself when I can.’

  Francis gave a perfunctory nod of approval. ‘Your sentiments do you justice, sir.’

  ‘And what of Sir Richard?’ I enquired, keen to change the topic. ‘Does he not enjoy life here at Foxhill? For he has clearly prospered. The timber trade must be proving fruitful.’

  ‘Not nearly so fruitful as the foundries,’ Maria Mountford said, with a smile that was close to a smirk. But at once, she appeared to regret her words: her husband’s glance was forbidding. Sensing an opening, I spoke up.

  ‘That’s most interesting – where are they situated? I hear the Weald of Kent is most abundant with regard to iron.’

  ‘Our family used to have interests there,’ Francis said, after a moment’s pause. ‘We have since transferred business to the Forest of Dean, down in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘It’s more discreet,’ Maris put in airily, which occasioned another disapproving glance from her husband.

  ‘Well, I know of the forestry down there,’ I said. ‘I thought the mines were the lesser industry.’

  ‘The new furnaces have brought great improvement,’ Francis replied. ‘But they need a lot of charcoal. The proximity of wood and iron ore serves the foundries well.’

  ‘And what do they produce, your foundries?’ I asked.

  For a moment, however, no reply was forthcoming. I saw Francis catch his wife’s eye again. Finally, when the silence had grown somewhat long, he gave his answer.

  ‘Cannons, sir, for His Majesty’s armouries. Though it’s not something I normally discuss with guests. I would beg your discretion in the matter.’

  I allowed my surprise to show. ‘Well now, I had no inkling that Sir Richard was involved in such activity.’

  ‘He’s one of the King’s Founders of Ordnance,’ Maria Mountford put in, with another smirk. It struck me that the lady had imbibed somewhat too liberally of the good Gascon wine we had enjoyed. Sensing her husband’s growing irritation at her loosening tongue, I was about to make some remark, when a notion sprang up unbidden.

  ‘Your uncle… John Mountford,’ I said, turning to Francis. ‘Was he too concerned with the casting of guns?’

  This time a silence fell, which even the man’s spouse did not break. In a very short time, the atmosphere had grown taut. I waited, glancing from one to the other, until Francis chose to enlighten me.

  ‘He was. And the tragedy is, he died while engaged in that very activity, at our works at Lydney. An explosion… a terrible event.’ He put on a sombre look. ‘The work has always carried risks, as my uncle well knew. It seems harsh that he should have perished in such a manner.’

  ‘It does indeed,’ I said. ‘Please accept my sympathies.’ I drew a breath, and added: ‘And now I’m most eager to speak with Sir Richard, to offer him my sympathies.’

  Francis nodded, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. ‘I will accompany you forthwith.’ He glanced at his wife, then: ‘There’s no need for you to come up, Madam.’

  Maria Mountford had been about to speak, I saw, but at his words she merely pouted; it was another awkward moment. Somewhat wearied by her behaviour, I rose from my chair.

  ‘With your leave, I will await you by the staircase.’

  Which I did, standing in the hallway until Francis came out. As we began to ascend the stairs together he spoke readily enough, with an attempt at levity which I found false.

  ‘I pray you’ll indulge my wife, sir - she is not quite herself. She is still unnerved by John’s death. It’s barely a fortnight since the burial… the body was sent upriver by boat, so broken and maimed that we were advised not to view it. I’m sure you understand.’

  I gave a nod. ‘It must have been a distressing time for all of you. I remember how fond your father was of his brother.’

  He said nothing further, but stopped outside a closed door. Unsure what to expect, I now found myself ill-at-ease, which Francis appeared not to notice. He knocked, then opened the door and entered, bidding me follow. The room was dim, heavy drapes covering most of the windows. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I discerned a great four-poster bed, its curtains drawn. At our appearance, a figure rose abruptly from a stool nearby.

  ‘Is he awake?’ Francis asked.

  ‘I believe so, sir.’ The elderly servant bobbed quickly. ‘Shall I tell him you’re come?’

  ‘No, you may leave,’ came the terse reply.

  In silence the woman walked past us, head lowered. As she went out, closing the door, Francis faced me.

  ‘I must beg your discretion, Master Belstrang,’ he said, speaking low. ‘We take every care not to alarm my father, nor trouble him in any way. Despite the efforts of his physician, he is weak – and, I might add, prone to delirium at times.’

  I gave him no reply. My eyes were on the bed, from where I believed I heard a faint stirring of pillows.

  ‘And more…’ Francis leaned closer, obliging me to meet his eye. ‘We never speak of the accident. It distresses him.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ With some impatience, I gestured towards the four-poster. ‘Well, may I see him now?’

  Still the man hesitated, seemingly unwilling to leave me alone. Why was that? But at last, he gave a nod and stepped back.

  ‘I ask you not to stay too long, for discourse tires him,’ were his final words. Then he turned and, to my relief, got himself outside. Whereupon, at the sound of the latch, there was a sudden flurry of movement, and the bed-curtains parted.

  ‘Has he gone?’ Came a voice, so familiar that it threw me back many years. And when, in mingled surprise and hope, I replied in the affirmative, there came an audible sigh.

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ Richard Mountford muttered, even as his head appeared through the gap. ‘Now come here, you old dog, and embrace me.’

  THREE

  It was an afternoon of surprises.

  My first emotion was relief, that my old friend was not as sick as I had feared. He had aged, but no more than I expected for a man of his years. In truth, he appeared a somewhat unlikely invalid.

  ‘I rejoice to see you again,’ I told him, when we had done with the greetings. I drew up the servant’s stool and sat close. ‘I half-expected to find you lying prone – even near to death.’

  ‘Well, I’m not quite the full shilling,’ Mountford said, sitting propped against his pillows. ‘I had a summer chill, but that passed. I would rather be up and walking the gardens, but I’m ordered to r
est. My physician’s a dry old stick, who does little but prescribe sleeping draughts. I often pour them into my piss-pot.’

  ‘At least you’re being well looked after,’ I said, smiling – at which a slight frown appeared.

  ‘Indeed… you might say, too well.’

  ‘Given what you said in your letter, surely no care can be too much?’ I replied, with some surprise. ‘Do you truly fear you might be close to death?’

  ‘Robert…’ he gave a sigh. ‘You’re a man I trust. I knew that if I expressed such a notion, I could count on your coming here. Hence, I must beg your forgiveness if I exaggerated.’

  ‘So, you are not dying?’ I said, after a pause.

  ‘I hope not.’ He fell silent for a moment, then: ‘In truth, my friend, I need your help. There are few others I could call on just now, with your abilities.’

  I confess I was non-plussed; Mountford had always been his own man, decisive and vigorous. But now he appeared troubled: a restless presence, in his sweat-stained night-shirt. I saw uncertainty in his eyes, which was unlike him. I nodded, inviting him to continue.

  ‘My brother John,’ he began – and seeing me stiffen, he held up a hand. ‘I heard what my son told you, but it’s untrue. I’m eager to speak of his death, yet they won’t let me. Francis and Maria, I mean… they treat me as if I’m in my dotage.’

  There was an edge to his voice now. Lowering his gaze, he added: ‘I dislike saying this, but I believe they have designs… secrets…’

  He broke off, and I recalled Francis saying that his father was at times prone to delirium. Could it be true? Yet I saw no signs of feebleness of mind – only of worry.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘If I can aid you, I will.’

  He looked up, his relief plain to see, and unburdened himself. ‘John’s death,’ he said heavily. ‘I do not believe it was an accident.’