The Witching Pool: A Justice Belstrang Mystery (Justice Belstrang Mysteries Book 2) John Pilkington (top 10 ebook reader TXT) 📖

There she was to await trial at the next Assizes, which would be at Midsummer. This much her son learned from the sergeant-at-arms, a man called John Lisle whom I knew. Lisle was an officer of good character, and would have carried out his orders with efficiency, though I doubt he relished the task.

‘See now, the evening draws near,’ I said at last. ‘Will you stay to eat supper? Then I’ll take you back to your farm, if you care to ride double on my horse. He’s a strong beast.’

‘With all my heart, sir,’ Mason answered. ‘And I offer you my thanks-’

‘Well, I’ve done nothing to earn them,’ I told him. ‘I’ve yet to decide what course of action to take. But I’d like to pause on our ride and reacquaint myself with that infamous pond, if you’re willing. There should be enough daylight left, if we don’t tarry long.’

At that the man gave a start. ‘The Witching Pool? Why would you wish to see it?’

‘Call it curiosity,’ I replied.

‘But, Master Justice…’ he grew agitated again. ‘It’s not a wholesome place… we never go near it. And with what’s happened-’

‘What, do you think the ghost of Susanna Cobbett haunts it?’ I asked. But seeing his expression, I relented. ‘See now, there’s nothing to fear. I would merely like to look upon the scene of the alleged crime. If I’m to assist your mother, I need to gather as much intelligence as I can. Do you see?’

Mason blinked. ‘Then, you will aid us?’

‘Let’s go to supper,’ I said.

***

It was a ride of about five miles to Mason’s smallholding, a journey we undertook in silence. In the still evening, with my passenger pressed against my back, I rode Leucippus southwards towards the River Teme, crossing it via the old bridge at Powick. Here, I recalled, the inquest into the Cobbett girl’s death was to take place on the morrow. And now, I found myself revising my decision not to attend with Boyd. In the light of what I had learned, it could be worthwhile after all.

The village was quiet as we passed through, following the west bank of the Severn before turning on to a track which led to Newland Wood. We were now on the border of Giles Cobbett’s land, which lay on both sides of the river. His own manor of Ebbfield was on the far side, but could be reached by a ferry. On this side was the small farm of one of his tenants, a man named Abel Humphreys. Bordering Humphreys’ farm on the west was the tiny smallholding of the Mason family, which we now approached. After proceeding another hundred paces, with the trees to our right, I reined in.

‘I seem to recall that the pool is just through there,’ I said, turning in the saddle to point. ‘Is it not?’

Somewhat glumly, Mason nodded. ‘There’s a path just ahead, though it’s seldom used.’

‘Let’s dismount,’ I told him, being in some discomfort.

We did so. And leaving Leucippus to await my return, I allowed the other to lead the way through the long grass until we were among the trees. The ancient wood, rich in oaks and beeches, soon closed about us, the air alive with birdsong. After a short time, the ground dipped and the pool appeared – dark with weed and, I have to admit, somewhat forbidding. It was no more than thirty or forty paces across, overhung with alders and willows. Pond skaters skittered across the surface, but otherwise the water was like glass. Curiously enough, the birds had ceased to sing by the time I walked to its edge. Mason hung back, his unease plain to see.

‘Do you know if anyone has searched hereabouts?’ I asked him.

‘Searched for what, Master Justice?’

‘For anything untoward. Signs of a struggle, a scrap of clothing, or…?’

He was shaking his head. ‘I know nothing of that, sir-’ on a sudden he stiffened, his eyes on a tree behind me. Turning sharply, I found myself looking at a dead bird hanging from a branch - I should say tied to a branch by its feet, head downwards. It was a crow, a common enough sight – but what was uncommon was the plaited cord about its neck. Woven into the cord was what looked like a lock of hair. I took a step forward to observe the object more closely, when a cry from Mason made me stop.

‘Don’t, Master, I beg you. It’s a thing of evil - a token.’

‘Do you truly think so?’ In full sceptic humour, I turned to face him. ‘Then what, pray, do you think it signifies?’

‘I know not, sir… a warning, perhaps.’

He lowered his gaze. Worcestershire folk are of course well-known for their old superstitions, my own servant Childers included. I sighed and was about to make some further remark, whereupon Mason raised his arm and pointed, this time to a spot further off.

‘See, there’s more!’

I followed his gaze and saw another dead bird – a thrush - bound to a twig, with something about its neck.

‘Well, this is most curious,’ I said. ‘It’s almost as if someone placed these tokens, as you term them, to frighten people away. Is it not?’

The man met my eye. ‘Well sir, I’ve seen things myself… when I was younger, and came a-fishing here with a friend.’

‘Fishing, you say? Did you catch anything?’ I enquired, meaning to divert him from these gloomy thoughts. His answer, however, caused me to frown.

‘Nothing we could eat. A great newt, which took my worm most greedily. But it was what came after that frighted me – frighted us both.’ He paused, discomforted by the memory, until I urged him to say more.

‘Something moved in the pool… something so big it made the water swell, dashing a small wave upon the bank.’ He drew