Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery John Pilkington (story reading .TXT) 📖

‘I’ll decide who’s a felon and who isn’t!’ The Justice roared. ‘The interrogation was to be at ten of the clock – so my friend Justice Belstrang was told, and he is expected.’

With a gulp, the guard glanced at me. ‘I know naught of that… I have my orders, and-’

‘And I’m giving you new orders,’ March broke in. ‘You will convey us to where the prisoner is being questioned without further delay, or answer for the consequences. Do you understand?’

The man managed a nod. ‘Very well, sir… but we must leave the castle and walk some distance.’ Seeing we did not understand, he added: ‘Master Gwynne sometimes questions prisoners at his house nowadays, for privacy’s sake. It’s by St Michael’s - If you’d care to follow me…’

But once again he was obliged to break off, as March gave an impatient sigh. ‘I know where he lives,’ he grunted. Turning to me, he said: ‘Let’s make haste, shall we?’

And so we did, walking briskly through windswept streets, swords rattling and cloaks blowing in the best traditions of gentlemen in a hurry. Within a short time we had made our way to the other side of Gloucester, with the East Gate ahead. Here we stopped outside an imposing enough house, on the door of which March knocked loudly. Turning to me, he said:

‘Do you recall that devil Topcliffe, Queen Elizabeth’s interrogator?’ And when I nodded: ‘Kept a room in his own house, I heard, fitted out with irons and Christ-knows-what implements of torture. They say he enjoyed it – I’ve half a mind to think Daniel Gwynne is following his example.’

I was about to make some rejoinder when the door was opened by a servant. Henceforth, after a few curt words from March, the two of were conveyed to a chamber at the rear. The lackey was on the point of knocking at the closed door, but to his alarm March pushed past him and threw it open. We entered - and stopped in our tracks.

The room was bare, without windows or adornment, lit by candles and an iron brazier in which coals burned. Against one wall was a rough bench with a number of tools upon it: pincers, hammers and the like. While in the centre was a heavy chair to which the familiar figure of Yakup, now dishevelled and looking far less dangerous than when I had last seen him, was bound tightly, his legs shackled. As March and I entered, there came a muttered oath, and a man in shirt sleeves whirled about.

But it was not Gwynne. Instead we saw a hard-faced man with the look of an ex-soldier, his long hair tied back. He would have spoken, but at sight of our garb he hesitated - whereupon another voice sounded from close by.

‘Master Justice… and Master ex-Justice. What an honour.’

I looked round sharply to see Gwynne himself, seated on a stool and regarding the two of us with his lizard’s gaze. As we faced him, he rose and gestured vaguely towards the man who was now his helpless victim.

‘You’re somewhat late… did I not say that I would begin work at nine of the clock?’

‘You know perfectly well you did not,’ I returned, my own indignation growing. ‘Nor did you inform me that you meant to remove the prisoner from the castle and bring him here. I demand an explanation-’

‘Save your breath, sir.’

It was March, standing beside me, who cut me short. Casting a gaze from Gwynne to his interrogator and back, he held in his anger with an effort, then:

‘I intend to question this man,’ he said, pointing. ‘I demand that you release him at once into my charge, and have him returned to the gaol. You may protest your rank, or employ any argument you choose, but I will answer to the High Sheriff for my actions. At the castle we’ll do things properly, in the room generally used for such purposes – and I don’t need any help from this one.’

He indicated the interrogator, who was watching us stonily. There followed a brief silence, but the matter was settled. Though Gwynne’s resentment was plain, he knew he was on unsafe ground. Wordlessly he signalled to the ex-soldier to release his charge, then watched blank-faced as Yakup stood up, his eyes fixed on me. Perhaps, I reflected later, we had arrived not a moment too soon: the man looked unharmed, even if his clothes were grimy and soaked with sweat.

Yet there was no hint of gratitude or of relief in the dark eyes that met mine: only a defiant stare. It would be some time, I knew, before this man made a confession. How that was to be achieved, I was uncertain - but I did not intend to give up until he did.

TEN

An hour later, in a bare, cramped room at the castle, the interrogation began.

There was no guard present: March had ordered it, as he had demanded that he and I alone should examine the prisoner, much to Gwynne’s annoyance. But seeing how determined we were he relented, seemingly washing his hands of the affair. Hence, I at last faced the man who had almost succeeded in killing me, fixing him with a hard look which seemed to trouble him not at all. Standing before us as we sat behind a small table, his hands still bound, he assumed an air of passive calm.

‘So, you speak no English, I’m told?’ March enquired in a bland tone. And when the other did not react: ‘How do you talk to your masters - in Italian?’

Again there was no response, whereupon my fellow startled me by uttering words I did not recognise. It sounded like ‘Adin ne?’ And when Yakup merely blinked, he added: ‘Efendin kim?’

A moment passed, in which I