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

It was a bluff, I knew: March had no desire to send the prisoner to London. I glanced aside, met his eye and understood that he wished me to chime in, perhaps playing the more lenient role. Since I still smarted from Sebastien’s attempt on my life, however, I had other ideas.

‘Who ordered you to kill me?’ I snapped. And when the man hesitated: ‘I know Captain Spry passed a message to Captain Darrett when they met on the river, telling him to take you aboard. You knew what to do, didn’t you?’

After a moment, the other lowered his gaze. ‘It was a matter of business,’ he admitted. ‘I have no quarrel with you.’

‘Business?’ I echoed, my anger growing. ‘I think Spry knew what had to be done, to stop me prying. He took it on himself to act, knowing his masters would approve – so I’ll ask again. Who would give such an order?’

Whereupon, to my satisfaction the admission came at last, if unwillingly. Sebastien drew a breath, then: ‘He is capataz… master of la fundición – the foundry. His name is Tobias.’

Russell, of course: now, I believed I had known it all along. Leaning forward, trying to rein in my eagerness, I then asked who Russell took orders from. But the answer was a shake of the head, and a firm denial.

‘I only know the capataz. And Spry, and the sailors.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ I retorted. ‘And I demand here and now that you answer this: who are the Concord Men?’ Whereupon I watched him closely, only to be disappointed.

‘I don’t know what you speak of.’

His face was blank, and he appeared to be telling the truth, yet I was unconvinced. With a sigh of impatience I leaned back, letting March take the reins again.

‘Well, Master Sebastien, you are in difficulty still,’ he said calmly. ‘Whether under orders or not, attempted murder is a capital crime for which there is only one penalty, as a rule. You will hang - and without the chance to make your last confession, let alone receive the rites you would wish for. Do you compass that?’

There was another silence, which brought satisfaction to both March and myself: as Justices, we knew when we had begun to breach a man’s resistance. For the first time Sebastien showed fear, whereupon I strove to drive home our advantage.

‘Indeed… I suspect no priest in England would assist you, if he learned you pose as a Mahommedan,’ I added. ‘You even wear the hand of Fatima about your person. I wonder, do you have a blessing for what you do?’

But at that Sebastien gave a start - and on a sudden his face contorted in anger.

‘I have blessing, I do!’ He cried. ‘You think to shame me? My masters do God’s holy work in aiding our Emperor!’ Breathing hard, he lifted his bound hands in a gesture of helpless rage. ‘There is a war beginning, sirs – are you so stupid you do not know it? What happened in Prague has lit the flame… our armies are gathering, and will march in glory against the enemies of Christ. I would be proud to lose my life in that cause… and you may use threats as you please!’

With that he backed to the wall and sat down, lapsing into a sullen silence. It seemed we had misjudged him… or had we?

‘Very well, I concur.’

To my surprise, March relaxed. Turning to me, he pretended to murmur a few words in my ear: mere gibberish, for the prisoner’s benefit. Finally he whispered: ‘One more shove and we’ll have him,’ before facing our quarry again.

‘You have made your choice, Master Sebastien,’ he said. ‘I will not question you further. Instead I’ll have you sent back to the cell. There you’ll remain, with the other prisoners… I suspect by now you know what sort of men they are. However, I’ll let it be known to them that you’re a Spanish spy, awaiting sentence.’ He put on a grim smile. ‘There are ex-soldiers among them – and among the guards too, I seem to recall. Let’s see what happens then, shall we?’

There followed a silence. Sebastien had tensed in every limb, his eyes on the floor. Yet we waited, allowing the notion to strike home. The man knew this was no idle threat, for it was achieved with ease - and what fate might befall him come night-time, at the hands of half a dozen ruffians who hated Spain, could be readily imagined.

At last he lifted his head, threw a baleful gaze from me to March and back, and spoke.

‘You mistake, señors,’ he said, speaking low. ‘For you know not what trouble you bring, if you go against such people. I speak of los Hombres de la Concordia.’ He paused, then: ‘You are small men - but they are big, and would destroy you. And yet, I spoke of a bargain, so I offer this: there is one I know, because he came to la fundición often, and to the port. He is Francis Mountford… a cruel man. He slew his own uncle.’

Whereupon, with a slicing gesture, our prisoner signalled that he had told all he knew, adding: ‘Now I ask one thing in return: that I remain Yakup the Turk in the prison. Will you not grant me this one mercy?’

We were both silent, exchanging looks. Sebastien was an enemy - yet he had his code and his faith, and no small degree of courage. Finally, March threw him a nod. Rising from the table, he threw the door open and called the guard. Whereupon, both on our feet, we watched as the servant of the Concord Men – that cabal of ruthless investors, who dared treat with England’s enemies –