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

the sound of a scuffle, then of someone falling over. I gained the stairhead, finding myself in a bed-chamber which took up the entire upper floor – and stopped.

My first reaction was of alarm: there was blood on the floor. But it quickly turned to one of relief, that Parry was apparently unharmed. He stood with his back to me, looking down at a figure hunched in a corner. Beside him stood his constables, pointing their firearms. As I came up, somewhat out of breath, the sergeant turned to me, then nodded towards the man who was now their captive.

I had assumed it was Russell – but it was Peter Willett.

‘The pistol-shot,’ I exclaimed in confusion. ‘I thought…’

‘He missed me, thanks be to God,’ Parry replied, sounding breathless himself. ‘What’s worse, I lost him…’ he pointed to an open window at the back. ‘The varlet got out.’

And even as I turned to look there came shouts from outside, from the rear of the house. At once, Parry grasped the shoulder of the nearest constable and gave him a shove.

‘After him, both of you,’ he ordered. ‘And fire no shots - I want him alive.’

His men ran to do his bidding, whereupon I at last turned my attention to the sprawled figure of Peter Willett… and found myself frowning. This was not the young man I had last seen at the inn, talking in animated fashion of falconets and minions: he appeared as a stranger, pale and taut, looking balefully up at the sergeant.

‘Of course he missed you, dimwit,’ he said harshly. ‘The bullet was meant for me!’

He shifted suddenly, wincing with pain, and his eyes went downwards. Following his gaze, I saw a red stain beneath his armpit, soaking through his rough shirt.

‘And by the Christ, you’ll have your hands full if you catch that one,’ Peter breathed.

He meant Russell… my mind whirling, I looked at Parry.‘What in God’s name happened?’ I asked.

‘I think you can guess,’ came the reply. ‘They were hiding Russell… mayhap until he could get clear.’

He took a breath, then frowned at his prisoner. ‘It’s all coming apart for you, fellow,’ he said. ‘But first I’ll have your wound treated… I want you in better shape, to tell your tale.’ To me he said: ‘Your foundry-master’s a desperate sort, right enough. Threw his man to the wolves, once he saw he was about to be caught. But he can’t get far… unless there’s another bolthole he uses.’

I made no reply; in truth, I was speechless. Now I saw it, as if a mist had cleared - to reveal not sunlight, but a darker cloud beyond. Ideas that had soared freely came into focus and settled - for I had recognised the voice of my assailant, on the night Thomas Peck had been killed.

‘It was you who attacked me,’ I said to Peter Willett. ‘As it was you who killed Peck…’

I trailed off: the young man’s eyes had closed, and his breathing slowed. In consternation, I turned to the sergeant.

‘I doubt there’s a surgeon in this backwater,’ he said. ‘But there might be a healing-woman… will you help me get him on to a bed?’

I nodded, still gazing in disbelief at the fair young man: a most unlikely assassin. Here, I knew, was the one Henry Hawes had spoken of… the one Francis Mountford used to despatch anyone who threatened his business; who must live close by, the landlord had said…

And yet the matter was far from over. Russell was at large, as I would learn soon enough: the fugitive had squeezed through the window and leaped to the ground, at the very feet of Parry’s constables. But to their shame, he was a match for them: he had downed one, then used the butt of his pistol to break the head of another, before vaulting a fence and running off into the forest.

In the meantime, however, Jonas Willett and his son were in custody, facing a bleak future. And provided the younger man was able to talk, I vowed privately to draw every last scrap of intelligence from the two of them, before choosing my next course of action.

For the biggest question of all remained, as to the identities of the true begetters of the treason; the men who traded shamelessly with England’s enemies.

The Concord Men.

THIRTEEN

The following afternoon – a Friday - Parry and I questioned the prisoners in their own home.

It had been a tense thirty hours, but the time was not wasted. Parry had raised a hue and cry, and half the inhabitants of Lydney were now scouring the countryside for the fugitive Tobias Russell, led by two of his constables. A third constable was laid up at his billet, recovering from a severe blow to the head. The fourth man was with us, keeping close guard over Jonas Willett and his son.

Peter Willett’s wound had been cleaned and bandaged by a village woman; fortunately for him, the pistol-ball had passed through flesh, grazing a rib but not causing mortal harm. He had lost much blood, but after taking some physic and resting he was able to talk. Not that he was willing, any more than was his father, now shrunken with fear and bitterness. The two of them sat in the parlour of their home, sullen and silent; or rather Jonas sat, while his son lay on a pallet propped up with pillows. Not a word had passed between them the entire night, Parry’s constable swore. When the sergeant and I entered, both men refused to look at us - but we were ready.

‘I advise you to tell all you know,’ Parry said, without preamble. He found a stool and pulled it up, close enough to make both men tense. I, on the other hand, chose to stand.

‘The charge will be murder of