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

‘That’s odd,’ March said, half-turning to me. ‘This man doesn’t seem to speak Turkish either. I asked him his name, and that of his master.’

‘Are you certain?’ I asked, non-plussed.

March’s answer was to deliver another, longer question in Turkish, which I will not attempt to reproduce. The reaction was the same, and I began to believe he was right: Yakup did not appear to understand a word.

‘Well, I’m confounded,’ I said. ‘Where did you acquire your knowledge of that language?’

‘From mercenaries… a few phrases,’ came my companion’s reply. He gazed intently at the prisoner, who stared back.

‘Shall I try some Italian?’ I ventured. ‘I hear it’s the lingua franca on the Mediterranean.’

‘You could,’ March replied. ‘But I have another idea.’ Whereupon he cleared his throat noisily, and addressed Yakup in another language entirely.

‘Cuál es tu nombre? Podemos hablar español si quieres.’

The reaction was instant: Yakup stiffened, but recovered at once – and yet it was enough. I turned to March, to see him wearing a little smile of satisfaction.

‘Just a notion, Robert,’ he murmured. ‘Can you not tell the difference between a Turk and a Spaniard? Or do all foreigners look alike to you?’

‘Good God…’ I eyed Yakup. ‘It never occurred to me. I was told by Captain Spry he was Turkish, so…’

But I broke off: Spry had told me the man’s name, yet in truth he had never actually said he was Turkish. Was it merely the silver hand of Fatima that had convinced me, I wondered?

‘It’s as good a cover as any,’ March said. ‘We may be at peace with Spain now, but old enmities don’t die. If I were him I wouldn’t want it bruited about either – not in England.’

‘In which case,’ I said, ‘I’d wager he does know some English. How else could he have got by?’

In silent agreement, the two of us turned to face our captive, who was looking somewhat taut.

‘You’re not Yakup, are you,’ March said. ‘What shall I call you - Jacobo? The meaning’s roughly the same, isn’t it?’ And when the other still made no answer: ‘Did you think I wouldn’t find you out? Your beard looks right, but your skin’s the wrong shade. I should know - I’ve been acquainted with a few Turks, but I’ve been at close quarters with more Spaniards than I care to remember.’

He paused to let our prisoner digest his words, but I was thinking fast: on a sudden, the case was altered entirely. I thought briefly on what Russell had told me, back at Cricklepit. One notion occurred at once: since the Dutch Truce, trade with Spain was legal – but surely the Mountford foundries would not supply cannons to King Philip?

Then it struck me, like a blow to the skull. I thought of the Waarheid - the Dutch merchantman at Bristol, and drew a sudden breath.

‘The Papists,’ I said, staring at March. ‘The forces of the Holy Roman Emperor. Close allies of Spain, of course… can it be possible?’

‘What… do you speak of the troubles in Bohemia?’ he asked sharply.

‘By the Christ, I do.’ I stared at Yakup – or whatever his name was. ‘You’re not overseeing shipments to the Grand Sultan, are you?’ I demanded. ‘That’s why the ordnance was put on the Dutchman, destined for Hamburg. From there it could be carried south, through Anhalt…’

I faced March again. ‘You spoke of it being illegal, supplying guns to foreign powers without leave - but this is far worse. As I understand it, the Archduke Matthias is sending troops to Bohemia to support the revolt, hence-’

‘Hence your friends the Mountfords could have struck a bargain with him,’ my fellow-justice finished. He looked shocked – and when he threw an angry look at our prisoner, the man looked away. Perhaps it was dawning on him what might befall him, if he was truly serving powers that were in conflict with the Elector Palatine: our own King’s son-in-law.

‘I think you’d better start talking to us – señor,’ March said then, laying his hands on the table.

We waited, and for some considerable time. My expectation was that the Spaniard, as I now knew he was, would continue to remain silent for fear of incriminating himself. But somehow, we had to get him to speak: the stakes were now far higher – indeed, it seemed there was a conspiracy to be uncovered, of immense proportions. I sensed March’s growing impatience, and would have spoken up, when the prisoner surprised us.

‘I am not Jacobo,’ he said, in heavily accented English. ‘If you wish, I will answer to Sebastien.’

The voice was deep, the words spoken haltingly. As both of us stirred, Sebastien’s gaze flickered between us.

‘I wish to make a bargain,’ he added.

‘Oh, you do?’ In an instant, March’s indignation rose. ‘By the Christ, you’ve got some nerve, fellow… do you not understand the predicament you’re in?’

‘Si, I understand,’ came the reply. ‘But you want things from me, I want things in return. Free passage out of England, I must have.’

‘Hah!’ With an oath, March slapped a hand on the table. ‘You’re daydreaming, my friend. Is the sentence for spying not the same in Spain as it is here? Think!’

‘Spying?’ For the first time, the man showed unease. ‘I am not an espiar, señor. I’m sent as observer, messenger…’

‘No, Master Sebastien, that will not do.’ March cut him short, raising a hand to point. ‘A Spaniard going under an alias - that alone will condemn you, do you not see? And if I were to send you to London – to the Tower, no less – you would face very hard questioning indeed.’ He paused, then: ‘It may be that, if you still maintain your defence after such treatment, someone will