Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery

by John Pilkington

  I frowned, but held my peace.

  ‘A clever man, my brother,’ he went on. ‘He knows – I mean, he knew - the foundries intimately, for he went there often to oversee our properties. Down to Lydney, that is. If there was danger of an explosion, he would have seen it. Besides, we’ve never had such an incident before.’

  I drew a breath. ‘You imply-’

  ‘I’m not sure what I imply,’ my friend broke in. ‘But I’d bet my entire estate that things are being kept from me – by Francis, that is.’ He sighed, then: ‘I’d have gone down there myself, the moment the news came, summer chill or no. But my son forbade me. John’s body was already being shipped up here, on a sailing trow… the captain was a man I know, name of Spry. So I relented; I was downcast, as grief-stricken as I was when my wife died. You know what I speak of.’

  I was silent, for I understood - and on a sudden he put out a hand, to grip my arm fiercely.

  ‘Will you look into this matter, Robert? I know it’s asking a great deal… perhaps too much, for one of your years. But I know you and, well…’ he gave another sigh. ‘I feel the reins slipping from my hands - it’s driving me to distraction. I need reassurance, that there’s not some scheme afoot to edge me towards oblivion!’

  And at last, I discerned something in his gaze that I never expected to see: fear, pure and simple. In truth, I saw, my friend was no invalid: he was as good as a prisoner, in his own home. I shifted my hand to return his grip.

  ‘Tell me all you know,’ I said. ‘Then leave me to act – I’ll not rest until I’ve done my utmost to piece this matter out.’

  And so he did, with much relief, the two of us in close conference for a good part of the afternoon. By the time I left him he was in better spirits, though I confess I cannot say the same for myself. Thereafter I spent some time walking in the nearby woods, to settle my mind and make a decision.

  Only then did I realise that Mountford’s troubles had driven away my own worries about Thirldon. It was something to be thankful for.

  ***

  Supper that evening with Francis and Maria Mountford was an uncomfortable affair for me, though neither of them appeared to pay any mind to my demeanour. I was alert, careful not to give away my unease concerning their treatment of Sir Richard. After I had assured Francis that the two of us had spent the afternoon reminiscing about old times, without mention of the death of his uncle, he seemed content to play the benevolent host. But I watched him, wondering what drove this unsmiling man… and what secrets he was keeping from his father.

  For I believed my old friend, and found myself eager to get at the truth of what had happened to his brother, far down the River Severn. But if I was to investigate, I thought it wise to do so anonymously – that is, under an invented name. With hindsight I might call it reckless or even foolish, to take the role of a spy. But I needed to busy myself, to keep my fears about Thirldon at a distance. I had formed my resolve, and would stay with it.

  Meanwhile, I allowed my hosts to believe that I would return home the following morning.

  ‘So soon, sir?’ Maria Mountford murmured languidly. ‘What a pity… we understood you to be a keen angler. Francis could have invited you to fish the lake that lies on our land.’

  ‘Alas, I must forgo the pleasure on this occasion,’ I replied. Francis made no comment – and now I saw it, plainly enough: he was relieved at the prospect of my departure.

  ‘Can you not at least delay your ride until the afternoon?’ His wife persisted. ‘As you know, Sir Richard sleeps late… you could take dinner here, then bid him farewell.’

  ‘Much as I would like to, I fear not,’ I told her. ‘There are matters at home requiring my attention.’

  To which the mistress of Foxhill was about to utter some further protest, had she not been silenced by her husband.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Madam,’ Francis said sharply. ‘Belstrang has stated his intention, and he has his reasons. I pray you, let the man be.’ Turning to me, he said smoothly: ‘We are delighted to have had your company, sir, which I’m certain will have cheered my father a good deal. You leave with our warmest thanks, and our affection.’

  It was all I could do to manage a polite nod. For in truth, my growing dislike for this man had hardened into something else: a deep distrust. I saw no hint of the affection he had spoken of. It merely stiffened my resolve to discover what had happened, down in the distant Forest of Dean.

  I left Foxhill early the next day, riding back into Upton where I re-crossed the Severn. But instead of turning northwards towards Worcester, I took the road south towards Tewkesbury. A much longer ride lay ahead, into a part of rural England I barely knew.

  And the man who now set forth on that journey, was no longer ex-magistrate Robert Belstrang of Thirldon: he was William Pride, a man of business. That was my integumentum – my cover name, if you will, plucked out of the air. I hoped the diversion would bring results; at the least, it would continue to distract me from fears of losing my home.

  ***

  The day was sunny, the early cloud having lifted. Leucippus took the road at a good pace, and we reached the bustling town of Tewkesbury well before mid-day. We had crossed the border into Gloucestershire now, and I stopped to rest the horse, letting him eat from the nose-bag while I took a light dinner at the nearest inn. Here I called for ink and paper, and penned a brief letter to Hester informing her of my intentions, paying the host to send it to Worcester by the first carrier available.

  Then I was back in the saddle, crossing the river again on to the road to Tirley. Thereafter it was a steady ride, south-west through the villages of Haffield and Rudford. By late afternoon we were in Westbury, where I watered the horse again. The country was rich and green, yet unfamiliar to me. I pressed on past the great bend in the river, to enter the ancient Forest of Dean. The roads were fewer and narrower now, and I was obliged to stop and ask a carter for directions to Lydney: another four or five miles. Whereupon at last, as evening drew in, I reached the village and drew rein.

  It was quiet, little more than a hamlet

  on the River Lyd, with the great forest at its back. I knew the mills and forges Mountford had described to me were upstream, in the woodlands which stretched away as far as I could see. A track led off towards the Severn, which was but a short distance from here. Tomorrow I would venture forth, posing as a man with money to invest in iron works. But for the moment both Leucippus and I needed rest and sustenance. To my relief there was an inn close by: The Comfort, the sign read. I was soon inside, ordering a room and board and stabling for the horse.

  The host was one Henry Hawes, a ruddy-faced Forest of Dean man with an accent I could barely penetrate. But he was courteous, and it was a relief to ease the stiffness from my limbs over a supper and a mug of locally-brewed ale. In response to my casual questions, however, he grew somewhat wary. The Mountford family were indeed well-known, he allowed: one of the biggest employers at their foundries, the nearest being up the Lyd, a mile and a half away. But they were not great landowners hereabouts, like the Catholic Wintours with their noble connections. What, he wondered, was my interest?

  I assumed a casual manner, mentioning a small share in iron mines elsewhere, which I might be seeking to increase. William Pride, I decided, should be something of a free-wheeler, prepared to take risks with his money; I believed it would open a few doors. My host having left me to attend to his customers, I finished my drink and surveyed the room, with its thickening fug of tobacco smoke. The drinkers were all working men, downing their ale after a hard day’s toil. Feeling wearied, I rose to go to my chamber, only to be accosted by a heavy-bearded fellow in dusty clothes, who barred my way.

  ‘I heard what you were saying to Henry Hawes, sir,’ he stated. ‘Do you know the Mountfords well?’

  I told him I had some slight acquaintance with the family.

  ‘I ask because there’s some here would be glad to have news,’ the other continued, jerking his thumb over his
shoulder. Several other men, I saw, were now looking in my direction. ‘Like, when they’re likely to get paid again.’

  ‘I’m unable to answer that, my friend,’ I told him, with a shrug. ‘I’m here to look about, nothing more.’

  ‘Is it so?’ The man regarded me, noting my good clothes and my sword, then: ‘Foundry business, is it?’

  I gave a nod, suppressing my distaste at his impertinent tone; here was a potential source of intelligence. ‘Is that your trade?’ I asked, and received a nod in return.

  ‘It is. I worked at the Cricklepit Foundry for nigh on ten years – that’s Mountford’s, under Tobias Russell. Not any longer, though.’

  ‘Might I know your name?’

  ‘Willett, sir. Jonas Willett.’

  ‘Well, Master Willett…’ I glanced from him to the other men, who were listening attentively. ‘I might pay a visit to that foundry tomorrow, and seek out your old master.’ I made no mention of the fact that I already knew the name of Tobias Russell, from my talk with Sir Richard back at Foxhill. ‘In the meantime, will you and your friends take a mug with me?’ Whereupon I called the host, drew shillings from my purse and handed them over, bidding him serve everyone forthwith.

  It was rather un-Belstrang-like, to treat the entire company in such a manner. But I suspected it might prove a good investment.

  The next day, however, I would find my initial impression had been a false dawn, with a somewhat rude awakening to follow.

  ***

  I did not take Leucippus from the stable, but decided to walk the short distance upstream to the Cricklepit Foundry. The day was cloudy, with a breeze coming up the Severn. In the distance, a woodman’s axe rang out as I ventured up the track; the sound would be repeated often, as I walked through the woods. At last, ascending the rushing stream, I reached the mill: a solid, oaken structure with a huge waterwheel. And some distance away stood the foundry: brick-built, with steam issuing from its chimneys. The noise of hammering had been growing louder for the past few minutes, and here was its source: a busy workplace, with men moving about. There were cabins too, and a pen for horses, and nearby a great heap of coarse iron ore.

  I stood for a while, taking in the sights and sounds of the foundry, the likes of which I had never seen. Then I remembered why I was here, and grew alert: if this was where the explosion had taken place in which John Mountford had been killed, would there not be some signs of it?

  I began to walk towards the main building: the furnace-house, I guessed, from its distinctive shape. Soon I began to feel its heat, and recalled what Francis had said about the process needing a lot of charcoal. Glancing about, I saw one or two men had paused at their work and were eying me curiously. I was about to approach them, when I was challenged abruptly.

  ‘That’s far enough, if you please.’

  The speaker was a stout man in a thick leather apron. I checked my stride, allowing him to draw near, then assumed a smile.

  ‘Good morning to you… am I addressing Master Russell?’

  He halted, looking me over with undisguised suspicion. Finally, having noted my rank, he managed a curt nod.

  ‘You are, sir. But I must ask you to turn about and retrace your steps. The foundry is in the King’s service, and not to be visited.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I maintained my smile. ‘That’s unfortunate. I’m acquainted with the owner, Sir Richard Mountford… I have an interest in iron.’

  But the other was impassive. ‘Even so, you cannot stay. You might apply to the office of the King’s Founders of Ordnance.’

  ‘But I’ve already done so,’ I lied, replacing my smile with a look of pained indignation. ‘Has no instruction reached you?’ And when no answer was returned, I added: ‘I am William Pride, from London. I have a share in an iron works in Kent, and am considering investments hereabouts. In truth, I expected a better welcome than this.’

  At that, Tobias Russell took a step closer. ‘No-one’s said anything to me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Well, these things take time,’ I told him. ‘And your habitat is somewhat remote… but there it is. If you insist on turning me away, I’ll have to report to my fellow-investors in the city - as well as informing Francis Mountford.’

  To my satisfaction, the bluff appeared to work.

  ‘See now, that’s not necessary,’ Russell said, after a moment. ‘If your desire is but to view our workings…’ He glanced aside, to where men were still watching, and waved a hand to assure them that all was well. As they went off to their business, he faced me again.

  ‘Investment, you say, sir? Does that mean you intend to establish a new build here, for the casting of iron? The mines are already working to capacity, and the river’s power is taxed. You would need to harness another stream.’

  For a while I said nothing. Falling into old ways, I met his eye and tried to look behind the gaze… and a notion sprang up.

  ‘It’s cannons I’m concerned with,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘I have customers waiting – and I do not mean the King. Such trade, as you will know, is most profitable - do I make myself understood?’

  But I had erred: I saw it at once, and regretted my words. Instead of approval, I was rebuffed.

  ‘I haven’t the least idea what you mean – sir,’ Russell answered, his expression hardening. ‘And on reflection I’ll ask again that you quit this place, and leave me to my work.’

  Whereupon he folded his arms and stood, a solid bulk of a man. And William Pride, unscrupulous investor, was obliged to turn about and walk away.

  FOUR

  I did not go directly back to the village.

  Instead I wandered up the Lyd valley for half a mile or so, and thence up a branching stream - the Newerne, it is called. Here I was surprised to find another iron works almost hidden among the trees, a good deal smaller than Cricklepit. Having drawn close, I found the place occupied by just two men, labouring by a glowing furnace which was visible through the open doors. Half-prepared to be made as unwelcome as I had been earlier, I hailed them from a distance. Then, when one turned about, I recognised him as the man from the inn.

  ‘Jonas Willett?’ I stepped forward. ‘Well met… I did not expect to find you here, so far upstream.’

  ‘Master Pride, is it?’ He came forward, dusting off his hands. He was dripping with sweat, clad in rough clothing and the leather apron common to foundrymen. ‘How can I aid you?’

  I told him briefly of my visit to Cricklepit, and of my reception. I was curious to note Willett’s reaction, and was somewhat surprised by the bitter smile that appeared.

  ‘You’ll get nothing out of Russell,’ he said. ‘Tight as a clam, with a hard shell to match.’

  I made no reply, but glanced over to his companion who had not stopped working. Following my gaze, Willet said: ‘That’s my son. We work together, casting small guns for merchantmen down at Bristol… falconets and such. They like to carry their own protection, against pirates.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’ I said. ‘That must be hard work.’

  He gave a shrug. ‘It is, but I’d rather be my own man than serve the Mountfords as I used to.’ A pause, then: ‘Old Sir Richard was a good master, though we saw less of him after John took over…’

  He looked away, but it was enough: I seized the moment.

  ‘I know about the explosion,’ I said. ‘A terrible event… I heard Sir Richard was in anguish over his brother’s death.’

  The answer, however, astonished me. When Willett turned to face me again, he was frowning.

  ‘Explosion?’ He shook his head. ‘Nay, there was none. John Mountford was found in the woods, crushed by a fallen tree.’ And when I showed surprise: ‘He too was a good man… I’m certain Crickepit would be a happier place, had he lived.’

  Though eager to speak further, I held back; this was not the time, and he was eager to return to his work. I asked him if we might talk further in The Comfort that evening, when I would stand him a mug or two.

  ‘You�
��re a generous man, sir,’ he said, after a pause. ‘And most enquiring… I’ll attend you, if you wish. Though I’ve no desire to speak of the Mountfords – I left their employ soon after Francis started coming here. Do you know him?’

  I hesitated, then said that I may have met the man once. To which the foundryman gave a nod, and took his farewell.

  But as he walked away, my pulse quickened. There had been no explosion: John Mountford had been killed by a falling tree. It was not unknown, I supposed, for a man to perish in such a manner – and yet, my Belstrang scepticism had possessed me.

  In short, I did not believe it.

  ***

  That night at the inn was an unexpected turning point. It would send me further away than I expected, on a trail that would confound me. But I leap ahead in my account, and must tell of my conversation with Jonas Willett and his son, in a quiet corner of The Comfort Inn after supper.

  I had not expected young Peter Willett to be there, but I was not displeased. Though at first somewhat guarded, after a while he began to speak with pride of his gun-founding. I was soon being overwhelmed with descriptions of small cannons: minions, which threw a ball of four pounds; falcons, which are three-pounders, and falconets, two-pounders. They were nimble shipboard weapons, cast in good iron, Peter said. The Willetts, it transpired, had no license from the King to supply his army with ordnance. That was the Mountfords’ business, at Crickepit and at their other foundries like Soudley, deeper in the forest.

  ‘We don’t have the means to make bigger cannon,’ the older Willett said. ‘Culverins, say, with a bore that can take an eighteen-pound shot. Or even demi-culverins. I learned my trade casting those… great heavy things.’

  ‘I would be interested to watch the process,’ I said, though in truth I was eager to turn to the topic of John Mountford’s death. But I let the conversation flow for a while, plying both father and son with ale until I felt their tongues had loosened enough. The inn was almost full this night, the next day being the Sabbath; the talk was loud, with here and there voices rising in song.