Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery

by John Pilkington

  It took no more than a few minutes to reach the hut.

  The last yards were easier, as Combes had said: a narrow path, marked out with stakes driven deep into the soft ground. Now he was allowed to hang back, as Parry and his men closed in. The hovel stood on a slight rise: the only firm spot for a hundred yards. The entrance had to be on the far side, with a view out to the river… and the place was eerily silent.

  As if by design the four of us halted. But the sergeant kept a cool head, directing one man to go around each side of the hut. First, however, pistols were made ready. Though my pulse was thudding I was eager to play a part, but with a frown Parry stayed me: this was his task, and not mine.

  So with a nod I kept in the rear, one eye on Combes who was squatting on the path, looking taut and wary. The silence was broken only by the distant cries of birds - whereupon quite quickly, it was shattered. No sooner had Parry and his men disappeared round the sides of the hut, than mayhem broke out.

  The first I knew, a pistol roared. It was followed by a cry, then shouts… and forgetting all notions of caution, I darted forward. In a second I had rounded the hovel, hand on sword… only to stop in horror.

  Before me, the older constable lay on his back with arms thrown wide, pistol in hand and still cocked. One glance was enough: he was stone-dead, brains and blood oozing from his skull where he had been shot at close range. Beside him, crouching in fear, the younger man was aiming his firearm shakily at the doorway - from whence came muffled cries, followed by a jarring thud as someone crashed against the flimsy wall of the hut. Heart in mouth, I lurched towards the dark interior – only to be knocked flat.

  For a few seconds I was winded, dimly aware of noises and of shapes moving wildly above me. Then came another pistol-shot: thinking the constable had found his target, I tried to rise… only to find that he had disappeared.

  Or rather, he was sitting on the grass, I soon saw: pale and wide-eyed, staring at nothing. Forcing myself on to my rump, I would have called out - whereupon he keeled over like a puppet. Then I saw the blood, and the poniard protruding from his chest…

  ‘Master Belstrang! For God’s sake!’

  I whirled about, towards the sound of Parry’s voice. A few yards away, he and Tobias Russell were locked in a kind of dance, wrestling violently. The sergeant had lost both his sword and his pistol, and both men grappled for possession of his poniard. But it was clear who was the stronger: Russell, sweating and cursing, had a hand on Parry’s throat. And even as I struggled to my feet, he threw a baleful glare at me.

  ‘Keep back!’ He cried. ‘Or I’ll slay you too!’

  Breathing hard, I dragged my sword from its scabbard. A moment later I had its point pressed against his thick jerkin, while with my left hand I pulled my own poniard from my belt. Without thinking, I stabbed Russell’s hand. He hissed with pain, and blood spurted, yet still he held his opponent’s throat - and Parry was weakening, grasping the other’s wrist. Whereupon, all I could think of was to lay the poniard against Russell’s neck, across the pulsing vein, and try to sound convincing.

  ‘Release him, or I’ll slice you,’ I ordered.

  What followed seemed to take a minute or more, though it was only seconds. Russell tried to jerk his head away, yet I pressed my blade tighter, almost breaking the skin. Only now did I realize that the man was desperate enough to die where he stood – but mercifully, Parry seized his chance. Letting go of his assailant’s wrist, he brought his hand back, made a fist and slammed it into Russell’s face with all his strength.

  To my heartfelt relief, the foundry-master sagged, then his knees buckled… and watched by the two of us, he sank to the ground. As I took a step away Parry stooped, brought his own dagger to Russell’s throat and held it there.

  ‘Stay down, and be still,’ he breathed. ‘For just now, I’d fain stick you like a pig.’

  Dazed, with blood running from his shattered nose, Russell peered up at us both. Whereupon, gathering my wits, I sheathed my own poniard but levelled my sword at his chest. Panting, he looked down at the blade, then fixed me with a bleak look.

  ‘Do it, then!’ he spat. ‘Finish it now… for I’m not leaving here – and you can go to the devil!’

  ‘Well now, doubtless that would suit you,’ I said, catching my breath. ‘But you’ll answer for your crimes according to law.’ I threw a glance at Parry, relieved to see him mastering himself… until his gaze fell on the blood-soaked body of his younger constable. With a gasp, he whirled towards Russell…

  I let out a cry, but too late.

  As in some ghastly dream, I saw the rapid movement of Parry’s dagger – a slashing stroke, which produced an immediate fountain of gore. Russell’s whole body jerked… his hand went to his neck, clutching wildly, while blood welled through his fingers. In dismay – and with mingled regret, too – I staggered back, lowering my sword as the man slumped.

  There on the salt marsh, the life ebbed out of him; and quite soon, Russell’s was the third corpse to lie on the turf, which had begun to resemble a battlefield.

  It was over. In the moment that followed sea-birds screeched, as if to condemn Sergeant Parry for what he had done. Yet, numbed as I was, one thought above all others came at once to my mind.

  With Russell dead, who would tell me of The Concord Men?

  ***

  The rest of that day remains a farrago to me. Though one thought soon occurred, a salutary lesson: ex-Justice Belstrang was too old to be engaging in hunts for murderous fugitives, let alone armed conflict. I made a resolve: that I would wear a sword when compelled to do so for formality’s sake, yet I would never draw it again, nor even my old poniard. But there will be time enough to speak of such things; in my mind’s eye I see the windswept Lydney marshes and the blood-spattered grass, and the forlorn sight of Parry’s two dead constables. I believe the sergeant changed then, before my eyes: racked with guilt and grief, it’s said that he never smiled again, and seldom spoke.

  There had been five of us, who set out on the path through the mire; now there were just three. For to my surprise Combes had kept his place, instead of turning tail at the sound of pistol-shots. Russell, of course, had fired first, I learned: alerted by the sound of someone approaching, he had shot the constable on sight. As Parry lunged at him, the man had avoided his sword and fallen back into the hut, drawing his poniard. The two then fought, which is when I appeared, only to be thrown to the ground when they careered outside. Unnerved by events, the younger constable had fired his pistol wildly and missed – and paid a terrible price. Having dealt Parry a dizzying blow, Russell had freed himself long enough to thrust his dagger into the constable’s heart, before the sergeant was upon him again…

  The rest I have already related; and God knows, to relive it once again is more than enough.

  And so, the hard-faced foundry-master I had first encountered at Cricklepit, in my brief alias as William Pride, had succeeded in slaying two armed men before he was overpowered. It would be the talk of the Forest of Dean for years: a debacle, the likes of which had never been known.

  Combes, yet in ignorance of the terrible loss of life, was chastened when he saw only Parry and myself leave the hut, mudded and grim. But he asked no questions, nor was he told what had occurred. Leaving the dead men where they lay, the sergeant and I allowed him to guide us back through the marsh. Once we stood at its edge, with the path to the Lydney road ahead, he awaited his payment in silence, prompting a bitter outburst from Parry.

  ‘Take yourself out of my sight,’ he muttered. ‘For I’ll be damned if you get another penny.’

  Combes drew a breath, his hard gaze flitting from the sergeant to me. But sensing this was no time to protest, he lowered his eyes, let out a muffled oath and walked away.

  On reflection, I believe it’s the only time I have failed to keep my word. I never saw the man again, which was a small relief.

  In Lydney, having walked there together in silence, Parry and I parted. He would speak
with his remaining constables, and find men to recover the bodies of Russell and the others. Combes was not the only one who knew the paths through the marsh, it transpired, and for a modest payment several villagers would be engaged to undertake the grim task. For myself, my only desire was to get to The Comfort, to remove my damp clothes and rest.

  When I at last walked through the door I found Henry Hawes waiting anxiously. ‘I heard shots were fired, sir,’ he said at once. ‘Down at the marsh… has Russell been taken?’

  ‘Russell’s dead,’ I told him. ‘And that’s all I’ll say. Have some hot water sent up to my room… and a cup of sack too.’

  He blinked, then turned to obey until I stayed him.

  ‘I’ll be leaving here soon. You can make up the reckoning when you please… in the meantime, you may thank God I’m forgetting what you tried to do with my horse. More, I’m choosing not to speculate as to how much you know of Francis Mountford’s business. The officers and I will be gone, along with our prisoner – and in time, you’ll likely see some changes hereabouts. As I said once, I have grown mighty tired of the company.’

  I left him, standing at the foot of the staircase as I ascended. Once in my chamber, however, a tiredness came over me, the likes of which I have rarely known. Within minutes I was asleep, fully clothed and sprawled across the bed. I never heard Hawes’s daughter when she came in with my drink. When I awoke the sun was sinking, the inn was astir below me, and a bowl of cold water stood by the bed.

  Then as I rose stiffly, a notion flew to mind that made my spirits sink. I had been away from home for nigh on three weeks, and knew nothing of events. What of Thirldon, and George’s efforts to petition the King… what of Hester and Childers, and the rest of my loyal household?

  Would I even have a home to return to?

  FIFTEEN

  The following day, the Sabbath, Parry and I made preparations to return to Worcester with our prisoner. Yet there was one matter still to be addressed: that of Captain Spry.

  It was late morning before the two of us talked, standing outside the inn in the sunlight. Much had been done already, Parry’s remaining constables having taken on the grim task of wrapping the bodies of their fallen comrades, to be tied on horseback and taken to their families. Russell would be buried in Lydney, by the parson of St Mary’s. Parry, looking pale and taut, had barely slept, yet was resolved to see this final part of his commission through.

  ‘I’ve failed already, in ways I could never have compassed,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to lose another quarry.’

  ‘You and I will go to Purton together,’ I told him. ‘Your men have enough to do.’

  It was agreed; indeed, he seemed glad of my support. Hence, a short time later we were mounted, riding the mile or so to the quay in silence. On arrival, we found a trow moored up - but it was not the Lady Ann. Instead, I was surprised to encounter my one-time rescuer, glum-faced Captain Darrett, standing on the quayside with other men. At sight of us he stood aside, waited for Parry and I to dismount, then came forward.

  ‘I do hear you’ve been in a tussle, sir,’ he murmured. ‘Blood and thunder on the marshes, and men slain. Yet here you are again, and unharmed… a lucky man, I’ve decided.’

  His greeting was warm enough, however, whereupon I made him and the sergeant known to each other. Seeing we were on business Darrett would have left us, until the name Spry was mentioned.

  ‘Well now,’ he said, ‘As to that, I fear you’re too late.’

  ‘How so?’ Parry asked at once.

  ‘Spry’s up and gone,’ came the reply. ‘Sailed two days ago in a hurry.’ His doleful look, that I recalled so well, was soon in place. ‘He had to make do with just one crewman, I heard… the others left him. Some dark business afoot… then, I never trusted the fellow.’ He paused, then: ‘What did you want him for? Was it that business of the Turk?’

  But he received no answer. Parry and I exchanged looks: he had now lost the second man for whom he held a warrant. With a sigh, I glanced past the Captain to the other men on the quayside, and thought one or two of them looked familiar.

  ‘Not that I care much,’ Darrett went on. ‘Though I pity the foundrymen… Cricklepit’s been abandoned, did you know?’ And when we both turned to him: ‘They haven’t been paid for weeks, and now their master’s gone, they’re somewhat adrift.’

  He gave a sigh, then: ‘I suppose there won’t be any cannons to ship for a while. Strange times, eh? I still say it’s due to that blasted star.’ He pointed at the heavens, as if the Great Comet were somehow visible in clear blue sky.

  ‘Do you know where Spry is gone?’ Parry asked, to which Darrett gave one of his shrugs.

  ‘From what I hear, he didn’t say. Likely he’ll head for Bristol, but who knows?’

  ‘Well, to blazes with him,’ I said, in a burst of anger. And yet, my disappointment was tinged with relief. There was no possibility of pursuing the errant Spry now, nor had I much desire for it. But Parry, I knew, thought differently.

  ‘See now, it’s only to be expected that the man would take flight,’ I told him. ‘He knew he was in peril if he stayed here. In time he may take a wrong step and be caught, yet just now you and I have more pressing business. Once my report is delivered, Justice March can decide what course to take.’ I nodded towards the knot of men, who were watching us with interest. ‘Do you see your informant there – Master Lowman? Perhaps it’s worth your speaking to him.’

  A moment passed while Parry considered my words. In truth, I saw, he was close to despair. But he gave a nod and walked off towards the group. Darrett watched him go, then eyed me.

  ‘What became of the Turk – that villain Yakup?’ He asked. ‘Is he for the gallows?’

  ‘I believe so,’ I said, not wishing to pursue the topic. ‘But what of you? Are you for Worcester again soon?’

  ‘I might be,’ the captain answered. ‘I’ve a load of timber due…’ he paused, then bent closer. ‘I did hear talk, that there might be a different kind of cargo needs carrying upriver… somewhat more precious. Word gets round quick, you see… I had half a notion that’s what you came down here for today. In which case, Master Belstrang sir, I would have to refuse. With respect, that is.’

  I met his eye, and understood. ‘You’re mistaken,’ I said. ‘The cargo you speak of will be taken on horseback, escorted by the sergeant and myself. Though in truth, I’d be glad to engage you for the task before I would any other man.’

  To that Darrett nodded, with his habitually melancholy face. Soon after, he and I took our farewells for what could be the last time. Though I do harbour a notion I may see the Last Hope one day, moored beside the quay at Worcester.

  I would not go aboard, however. I believe now that I’ll never view a Severn trow in the same way, ever again.

  A short while later, Parry and I got ourselves mounted and took the road back to Lydney. The sergeant had spoken briefly with Master Lowman who, it transpired, had decided to forgo the promised promotion and come to the harbour to seek work, along with the other men. The foundry, now masterless, had indeed been abandoned, its furnace allowed to cool for the first time in years. There would be no cannons cast at Cricklepit for the foreseeable future - whatever their intended destination might have been.

  It seemed fitting enough.

  ***

  Early the next morning our party left Lydney, with a long day’s ride ahead back to Worcester.

  There had been few farewells, nor were any villagers there to see us ride out. My feelings on leaving The Comfort were mainly of relief, tinged with a foreboding of what I might find when I at last got home to Thirldon. I had used the previous evening to finish my report for March, sparing no details save one: Tobias Russell, I said, had died in a deathly struggle with Sergeant Parry, who slew him in self-defence. That dealt with, I was most restless to depart.

  Henry Hawes, having taken his fee, busied himself at once and left me to carry my bag out to the stable, where Leucippus was eage
r to be outdoors. The boy had him saddled and readied, whereupon I lost no time in leading him out to the street. And soon, a sad little cavalcade of horsemen appeared: Parry and his constables, leading two other horses bearing the slain men, bundled and tied across the backs of their own mounts.

  In the middle, on the gelding I had borrowed from Justice March, rode Peter Willett. His hands were bound before him, allowing only enough leeway to enable him to hold the reins. For good measure his thighs were laced to the stirrups; no chances would be taken to allow the man to escape. Despite his wound, he was calm and stolid.

  Jonas Willett’s name was all but forgotten, nor did I see him again. Later I would learn that the man had sold his foundry and retreated to his cottage, where he died soon after, in pain and grief. And as our subdued group left the village, I could not help feeling that after all that had happened, the Forest of Dean would be glad of our departure.

  Yet in two respects our journey had borne fruit: if it had failed to bring back the wanted men, Tobias Russel and Captain Spry, it had at least produced John Mountford’s murderer, which I hoped would afford some comfort to his brother. And more, it had succeeded in diverting this ex-magistrate’s thoughts from the matter of his losing his home at the whim of our profligate monarch.

  I have said elsewhere that, despite King James’s titles and accomplishments - peacemaker, father of princes and author of books on kingship, tobacco and witches - I have other names for him.

  Mercifully enough, the journey up to Gloucester was uneventful. We took it slowly, occasioning stares as we passed through the villages en route, but without stopping. Rests were taken on the open road, the horses fed and watered at streams. And all the while, Peter Willett sat his mount without a word.

  In truth, I was now uncertain as to whether the man would talk, which troubled me with regard to uncovering more names: I speak of the Concord Men. It could be that Willett only knew Francis Mountford, who was unlikely to have told him more than he needed. I spoke of it to Parry in the late afternoon as we left Highnam village, with but a few miles of travel remaining. But he was uncommunicative, saying that it was a matter for Justice March, or perhaps for the keeper of the gaol. It was clear that the sergeant wished only to rid himself of his prisoner as early as possible… for which, I found, I could hardly blame him.