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

his men closed in. The hovel stood on a slight rise: the only firm spot for a hundred yards. The entrance had to be on the far side, with a view out to the river… and the place was eerily silent.

As if by design the four of us halted. But the sergeant kept a cool head, directing one man to go around each side of the hut. First, however, pistols were made ready. Though my pulse was thudding I was eager to play a part, but with a frown Parry stayed me: this was his task, and not mine.

So with a nod I kept in the rear, one eye on Combes who was squatting on the path, looking taut and wary. The silence was broken only by the distant cries of birds - whereupon quite quickly, it was shattered. No sooner had Parry and his men disappeared round the sides of the hut, than mayhem broke out.

The first I knew, a pistol roared. It was followed by a cry, then shouts… and forgetting all notions of caution, I darted forward. In a second I had rounded the hovel, hand on sword… only to stop in horror.

Before me, the older constable lay on his back with arms thrown wide, pistol in hand and still cocked. One glance was enough: he was stone-dead, brains and blood oozing from his skull where he had been shot at close range. Beside him, crouching in fear, the younger man was aiming his firearm shakily at the doorway - from whence came muffled cries, followed by a jarring thud as someone crashed against the flimsy wall of the hut. Heart in mouth, I lurched towards the dark interior – only to be knocked flat.

For a few seconds I was winded, dimly aware of noises and of shapes moving wildly above me. Then came another pistol-shot: thinking the constable had found his target, I tried to rise… only to find that he had disappeared.

Or rather, he was sitting on the grass, I soon saw: pale and wide-eyed, staring at nothing. Forcing myself on to my rump, I would have called out - whereupon he keeled over like a puppet. Then I saw the blood, and the poniard protruding from his chest…

‘Master Belstrang! For God’s sake!’

I whirled about, towards the sound of Parry’s voice. A few yards away, he and Tobias Russell were locked in a kind of dance, wrestling violently. The sergeant had lost both his sword and his pistol, and both men grappled for possession of his poniard. But it was clear who was the stronger: Russell, sweating and cursing, had a hand on Parry’s throat. And even as I struggled to my feet, he threw a baleful glare at me.

‘Keep back!’ He cried. ‘Or I’ll slay you too!’

Breathing hard, I dragged my sword from its scabbard. A moment later I had its point pressed against his thick jerkin, while with my left hand I pulled my own poniard from my belt. Without thinking, I stabbed Russell’s hand. He hissed with pain, and blood spurted, yet still he held his opponent’s throat - and Parry was weakening, grasping the other’s wrist. Whereupon, all I could think of was to lay the poniard against Russell’s neck, across the pulsing vein, and try to sound convincing.

‘Release him, or I’ll slice you,’ I ordered.

What followed seemed to take a minute or more, though it was only seconds. Russell tried to jerk his head away, yet I pressed my blade tighter, almost breaking the skin. Only now did I realize that the man was desperate enough to die where he stood – but mercifully, Parry seized his chance. Letting go of his assailant’s wrist, he brought his hand back, made a fist and slammed it into Russell’s face with all his strength.

To my heartfelt relief, the foundry-master sagged, then his knees buckled… and watched by the two of us, he sank to the ground. As I took a step away Parry stooped, brought his own dagger to Russell’s throat and held it there.

‘Stay down, and be still,’ he breathed. ‘For just now, I’d fain stick you like a pig.’

Dazed, with blood running from his shattered nose, Russell peered up at us both. Whereupon, gathering my wits, I sheathed my own poniard but levelled my sword at his chest. Panting, he looked down at the blade, then fixed me with a bleak look.

‘Do it, then!’ he spat. ‘Finish it now… for I’m not leaving here – and you can go to the devil!’

‘Well now, doubtless that would suit you,’ I said, catching my breath. ‘But you’ll answer for your crimes according to law.’ I threw a glance at Parry, relieved to see him mastering himself… until his gaze fell on the blood-soaked body of his younger constable. With a gasp, he whirled towards Russell…

I let out a cry, but too late.

As in some ghastly dream, I saw the rapid movement of Parry’s dagger – a slashing stroke, which produced an immediate fountain of gore. Russell’s whole body jerked… his hand went to his neck, clutching wildly, while blood welled through his fingers. In dismay – and with mingled regret, too – I staggered back, lowering my sword as the man slumped.

There on the salt marsh, the life ebbed out of him; and quite soon, Russell’s was the third corpse to lie on the turf, which had begun to resemble a battlefield.

It was over. In the moment that followed sea-birds screeched, as if to condemn Sergeant Parry for what he had done. Yet, numbed as I was, one thought above all others came at once to my mind.

With Russell dead, who would tell me of The Concord Men?

***

The rest of that day remains a farrago to me. Though one thought soon occurred, a salutary lesson: ex-Justice Belstrang was too old to be engaging in hunts for murderous fugitives,