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

and what pains Francis and his wife took to avoid distressing him; how I would enjoy the sight of him being put in chains.

‘So, it’s more than a matter of mere profit for those landowners,’ I said. ‘They run risks themselves, but for the old cause: that of advancing Popery across Europe.’

‘Indeed,’ March replied. ‘And many now believe this war could prove one of the gravest Europe has seen. But the Concord Men are the worst offenders here: they may not all be Papists themselves, as Mountford is not. Pure greed is their spur… a familiar enough motive, to men like you and me.’

‘It’s true enough,’ I sighed, turning the matter over. ‘And it seems imperative that someone questions Francis Mountford soon, to force him to name his fellow Hombres de la Concordia, as our Spanish captive called them.’ I was frowning. ‘At times like these, one might even think to call on the skills of a man like Daniel Gwynne.’

‘Except for the fact that the Mountford seat is at Foxhill by Upton, in your home county of Worcestershire,’ March said. ‘It’s outside my bailiwick, let alone Gwynne’s.’

He was looking pointedly at me – whereupon I at once divined his meaning.

‘What? How could I rack him?’ I demanded, with some heat. ‘I’m no longer a Justice – and he’s a powerful man, who could refuse to be questioned. The High Sheriff himself needs to take the reins – I speak of Sir Samuel Sandys.’

‘That’s so,’ March agreed. ‘As is happens, I’ve written to him too.’

With mounting unease, I frowned at him. ‘That was somewhat bold of you, sir,’ I said. ‘You have no warrant beyond the shire of Gloucester, while I have none at all. I’m even on bad terms with our own Justice Standish, back in Worcester.’

With gloom threatening to descend, I took a good pull from my cup of sack before setting it down heavily.

‘By heaven -I wish I’d never seen Richard Mountford’s letter, let alone gone to try and lift his spirits,’ I said. ‘For now I’m in sore need of someone to lift my own.’

At that, March couldn’t help a smile appearing. ‘Come now, Master ex-Justice,’ he said. ‘You talk as if all’s lost. Your reputation has long exceeded the bounds of your county, did you not know it? I speak not of small indiscretions like keeping a common-law wife – or of your falling foul of the worthies of Worcester with your notorious stubbornness. Can you not take heart from my words?’

‘And yet, just now I fail to see what more I can do.’

‘But isn’t it obvious?’ Came the brisk reply. ‘You should ride to Upton and challenge Francis Mountford to a duel. Give him the lie, so that as a gentleman he’ll have no choice but to accept. Then, once he’s at your mercy, you can demand he confesses all.’

I blinked – then caught the spark in the man’s eye, and let out a breath. ‘In God’s name, sir… I would have thought this was not a time for jests - even from you!’

And yet, despite everything, a surge of laughter was threatening to bubble up inside me. To my chagrin, it occurred to me that I had not laughed aloud since that evening, almost three weeks back, when my servants Henry and Lockyer had waylaid me with their request to attend the play in Worcester. It was a relief… and hence, what could I do but embrace it?

‘Enough, Master Justice,’ I said at last, dabbing my eyes with a napkin. ‘You cheer me, even though my predicament – and yours too, perhaps - yet remains: how to break this fearful plot and expose the Concord Men. I see no solution… do you?’

A moment passed, as we both grew solemn again. But after a moment’s thought, March spoke up. ‘You need to find out Francis Mountford’s weakness, then play upon it for all your worth. All men have one, do they not?’

I paused… whereupon one of those notions of mine flew up. ‘Well indeed, they often do,’ I replied. ‘And in truth, I might just know what that man’s is.’

And when March raised his brows, I told him.

‘I’m speaking of his wife.’

SIXTEEN

When I left Gloucester the following day to ride back upriver to Upton, I carried a number of papers that afforded me a degree of comfort, if not of real authority. One of them was a letter from Justice March, a copy of the one he had sent to Sir Samuel Sandys, the High Sheriff of Worcester. Another was a signed confession from a Spanish prisoner in custody at Gloucester Castle, admitting to overseeing quantities of ordnance being shipped to Hamburg for conveyance to Austria. And the third was a confession from one Peter Willett of Lydney, a hired assassin who had admitted to the slaying of John Mountford, gentleman.

The confessions of course were fabrications, concocted by Daniel Gwynne. I dislike the word ‘forgery’, but on this occasion the cause was desperate. In truth, I knew, neither prisoner had confessed to anything, much to the impatience of their keeper. Yet, as March had assured me, those men were no longer my concern. Both would face the gallows in time, and I confess I had little sympathy for either. And when all is said, there was justice in the notion that Yakup, as I still thought of him, and Willett too, could play a role in bringing their paymasters to book. Just now, I had a far weightier matter on my mind: how to confront Francis Mountford, and get him to condemn himself.

On the long ride I had ample time to consider. The fact was, the man was guilty of treason. He had betrayed and cheated the King, as had his fellow Concord Men; and knowing what I did of James Stuart, his wrath would be sated