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

candle on a chest by the wall, and the woman turned to face me. It was Katherine, Mistress Mountford’s companion, wearing a very fetching smile.

Propped on my elbows, I gazed at her and let out a breath.

‘Well now, are you going to turn back the coverlet?’ She asked, taking a step closer. ‘The night is somewhat chill, and I would fain be warmed… warmed, then aflame.’

And before I could utter a word, her hand went to the lacing at her neck. The gown of thin lawn fell away to reveal a most shapely body, golden in the candlelight.

‘Good God…’ I swallowed. ‘This is absurd, mistress… do you truly intend to bed me? Why, I’m a grandfather…’

‘Though a well-preserved one,’ came the reply. She was at the bedside, reaching out a hand. ‘Come, sir… we’re but man and woman. Why not take this pleasure when it’s before you?’

‘One moment… you mistake,’ I said, with a gulp. Tempting as the offer was, my mind was racing – and very soon, thoughts began to assemble themselves. Sitting upright, I raised a hand to stay her.

‘Is it at Master Francis’s behest that you came here, or his wife’s?’

‘What does it matter?’ Katherine countered. Bending towards me, she laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘No more words now. Embrace me, and let me cleave to you.’

‘Wait.’ Somewhat roughly, I put her hand away. ‘Do you think me so pliant? This is your master’s work, is it not - a gift to whet my appetite?’ I drew a breath. ‘And in the morning, I imagine he’ll lay forth other prizes… riches, perhaps even titles that might come my way. I suspect you know what sort of man you serve.’

She made no answer, but returned my gaze without flinching. In truth, it was a difficult moment… even a man of my years has needs, which are not often fulfilled. But I forced myself to think of Hester; the dream was yet fresh in my mind.

‘I pray you, clothe yourself and go,’ I said at last, forcing my eyes away. ‘I will forget that this occurred.’

A moment passed, then: ‘You will not, sir.’

I turned sharply, aware of the change in her voice. She was gathering the smock, pulling it violently up to her neck… and as I watched, she stepped away and looked at me in anger.

‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ she snapped, drawing the laces tight. ‘Can you not imagine what you’ve missed? Yet you divine aright - I would hardly throw myself upon a man like you, had I the choice. Well, grandfather, you’ll find that virtue has no place at Foxhill. But when I’m gone, the sight of my body will remain with you… may you make use of it in the only way you can. Tug yourself to sleep - I leave it as my gift, and wish you sweeter dreams!’

Turning swiftly, she started for the door. But on opening it, she threw a bitter look towards me.

‘As for the morning, you may find that matters fall out somewhat differently from what you expect,’ she said. Then she was gone, closing the door behind her.

The sound was followed by the clatter of a key in the lock.

In an instant, I had thrown the covers aside and was on my feet - but already I had guessed my predicament. I gained the door, lifted the latch and found it immoveable. I struck it and tugged at the handle, while knowing it was futile. Finally I backed away and slumped down on the bed, gazing at the flickering candle.

I was a prisoner - and I had only my own temerity to blame. I had been a prisoner from the moment I confronted Francis Mountford and spoke of the Concord Men… perhaps from the moment I told him I had enquired into his uncle’s death. It was clear as daylight: I had been offered a sop to my supposed weakness – for are all men not weak, when offered a tempting treat? And yet my suspicions – even my Puritan-like refusal too - had availed me nothing.

No fool like an old fool, the girl had said; and Justice Belstrang felt as big a fool as he had ever felt in his life.

***

The morning came slowly, as slowly as it always does to those who cannot sleep. By the time the sun rose I was fully dressed, throwing back the curtains. In the distance Upton was stirring, smoke rising from chimneys, but it might have been an ocean away. I examined the lattice windows, but they were small - barely wide enough for a child to squeeze through, let alone a grown man. Even if such a man were athletic enough to try, which I was not. Agitated and consumed by anger, I went again to the door as I had done several times, rattling the handle to no avail. I even called out, but was met with silence. Finally I returned to the windows, opened them and contemplated breaking the glass. But then, who would heed my cries for help – indeed, who would even hear them? The manor stood in its own park, some distance from the road… sick at heart, I sat heavily on a stool, staring out at the birds that flitted past. Freedom is one thing I’ve always enjoyed, save for those grim days I once spent in the Counter in London, falsely imprisoned for debt. The memory, just then, made me rue my recent actions most pitifully.

An hour or so passed, and no-one came. I was hungry and thirsty, my temper frayed. Wild schemes had run through my mind: to try to force the door with my sword or poniard, to smash the window with a stool and shout threats… even to feign sickness, or some sort of collapse; all, of course, were absurd. Finally, I lay