‘I intend to question this man,’ he said, pointing. ‘I demand that you release him at once into my charge, and have him returned to the gaol. You may protest your rank, or employ any argument you choose, but I will answer to the High Sheriff for my actions. At the castle we’ll do things properly, in the room generally used for such purposes – and I don’t need any help from this one.’
He indicated the interrogator, who was watching us stonily. There followed a brief silence, but the matter was settled. Though Gwynne’s resentment was plain, he knew he was on unsafe ground. Wordlessly he signalled to the ex-soldier to release his charge, then watched blank-faced as Yakup stood up, his eyes fixed on me. Perhaps, I reflected later, we had arrived not a moment too soon: the man looked unharmed, even if his clothes were grimy and soaked with sweat.
Yet there was no hint of gratitude or of relief in the dark eyes that met mine: only a defiant stare. It would be some time, I knew, before this man made a confession. How that was to be achieved, I was uncertain - but I did not intend to give up until he did.
TEN
An hour later, in a bare, cramped room at the castle, the interrogation began.
There was no guard present: March had ordered it, as he had demanded that he and I alone should examine the prisoner, much to Gwynne’s annoyance. But seeing how determined we were he relented, seemingly washing his hands of the affair. Hence, I at last faced the man who had almost succeeded in killing me, fixing him with a hard look which seemed to trouble him not at all. Standing before us as we sat behind a small table, his hands still bound, he assumed an air of passive calm.
‘So, you speak no English, I’m told?’ March enquired in a bland tone. And when the other did not react: ‘How do you talk to your masters - in Italian?’
Again there was no response, whereupon my fellow startled me by uttering words I did not recognise. It sounded like ‘Adin ne?’ And when Yakup merely blinked, he added: ‘Efendin kim?’
A moment passed, in which I believed I saw a flicker of uncertainty in our prisoner’s gaze, but it soon vanished.
‘That’s odd,’ March said, half-turning to me. ‘This man doesn’t seem to speak Turkish either. I asked him his name, and that of his master.’
‘Are you certain?’ I asked, non-plussed.
March’s answer was to deliver another, longer question in Turkish, which I will not attempt to reproduce. The reaction was the same, and I began to believe he was right: Yakup did not appear to understand a word.
‘Well, I’m confounded,’ I said. ‘Where did you acquire your knowledge of that language?’
‘From mercenaries… a few phrases,’ came my companion’s reply. He gazed intently at the prisoner, who stared back.
‘Shall I try some Italian?’ I ventured. ‘I hear it’s the lingua franca on the Mediterranean.’
‘You could,’ March replied. ‘But I have another idea.’ Whereupon he cleared his throat noisily, and addressed Yakup in another language entirely.
‘Cuál es tu nombre? Podemos hablar español si quieres.’
The reaction was instant: Yakup stiffened, but recovered at once – and yet it was enough. I turned to March, to see him wearing a little smile of satisfaction.
‘Just a notion, Robert,’ he murmured. ‘Can you not tell the difference between a Turk and a Spaniard? Or do all foreigners look alike to you?’
‘Good God…’ I eyed Yakup. ‘It never occurred to me. I was told by Captain Spry he was Turkish, so…’
But I broke off: Spry had told me the man’s name, yet in truth he had never actually said he was Turkish. Was it merely the silver hand of Fatima that had convinced me, I wondered?
‘It’s as good a cover as any,’ March said. ‘We may be at peace with Spain now, but old enmities don’t die. If I were him I wouldn’t want it bruited about either – not in England.’
‘In which case,’ I said, ‘I’d wager he does know some English. How else could he have got by?’
In silent agreement, the two of us turned to face our captive, who was looking somewhat taut.
‘You’re not Yakup, are you,’ March said. ‘What shall I call you - Jacobo? The meaning’s roughly the same, isn’t it?’ And when the other still made no answer: ‘Did you think I wouldn’t find you out? Your beard looks right, but your skin’s the wrong shade. I should know - I’ve been acquainted with a few Turks, but I’ve been at close quarters with more Spaniards than I care to remember.’
He paused to let our prisoner digest his words, but I was thinking fast: on a sudden, the case was altered entirely. I thought briefly on what Russell had told me, back at Cricklepit. One notion occurred at once: since the Dutch Truce, trade with Spain was legal – but surely the Mountford foundries would not supply cannons to King Philip?
Then it struck me, like a blow to the skull. I thought of the Waarheid - the Dutch merchantman at Bristol, and drew a sudden breath.
‘The Papists,’ I said, staring at March. ‘The forces of the Holy Roman Emperor. Close allies of Spain, of course… can it be possible?’
‘What… do you speak of the troubles in Bohemia?’ he asked sharply.
‘By the Christ, I do.’ I stared at Yakup – or whatever his name was. ‘You’re not overseeing shipments to the Grand Sultan, are you?’ I demanded. ‘That’s why the ordnance was put on the Dutchman, destined for Hamburg. From there it could be carried south, through Anhalt…’
I faced March again. ‘You spoke of it being illegal, supplying guns to foreign powers without leave - but this is far worse. As I understand it, the Archduke Matthias is sending troops to Bohemia to support the revolt, hence-’
‘Hence your friends the Mountfords could have struck a bargain with him,’ my fellow-justice finished. He looked shocked – and when he threw an angry look at our prisoner, the man looked away. Perhaps it was dawning on him what might befall him, if he was truly serving powers that were in conflict with the Elector Palatine: our own King’s son-in-law.
‘I think you’d better start talking to us – señor,’ March said then, laying his hands on the table.
We waited, and for some considerable time. My expectation was that the Spaniard, as I now knew he was, would continue to remain silent for fear of incriminating himself. But somehow, we had to get him to speak: the stakes were now far higher – indeed, it seemed there was a conspiracy to be uncovered, of immense proportions. I sensed March’s growing impatience, and would have spoken up, when the prisoner surprised us.
‘I am not Jacobo,’ he said, in heavily accented English. ‘If you wish, I will answer to Sebastien.’
The voice was deep, the words spoken haltingly. As both of us stirred, Sebastien’s gaze flickered between us.
‘I wish to make a bargain,’ he added.
‘Oh, you do?’ In an instant, March’s indignation rose. ‘By the Christ, you’ve got some nerve, fellow… do you not understand the predicament you’re in?’
‘Si, I understand,’ came the reply. ‘But you want things from me, I want things in return. Free passage out of England, I must have.’
‘Hah!’ With an oath, March slapped a hand on the table. ‘You’re daydreaming, my friend. Is the sentence for spying not the same in Spain as it is here? Think!’
‘Spying?’ For the first time, the man showed unease. ‘I am not an espiar, señor. I’m sent as observer, messenger…’
‘No, Master Sebastien, that will not do.’ March cut him short, raising a hand to point. ‘A Spaniard going under an alias - that alone will condemn you, do you not see? And if I were to send you to London – to the Tower, no less – you would face very hard questioning indeed.’ He paused, then: ‘It may be that, if you still maintain your defence after such treatment, someone will believe you. But by then it will scarcely matter, for you’ll be a broken man in every sense.’
It was a bluff, I knew: March had no desire to send the prisoner to London. I glanced aside, met his eye and understood that he wished me to chime in, perhaps playing th
e more lenient role. Since I still smarted from Sebastien’s attempt on my life, however, I had other ideas.
‘Who ordered you to kill me?’ I snapped. And when the man hesitated: ‘I know Captain Spry passed a message to Captain Darrett when they met on the river, telling him to take you aboard. You knew what to do, didn’t you?’
After a moment, the other lowered his gaze. ‘It was a matter of business,’ he admitted. ‘I have no quarrel with you.’
‘Business?’ I echoed, my anger growing. ‘I think Spry knew what had to be done, to stop me prying. He took it on himself to act, knowing his masters would approve – so I’ll ask again. Who would give such an order?’
Whereupon, to my satisfaction the admission came at last, if unwillingly. Sebastien drew a breath, then: ‘He is capataz… master of la fundición – the foundry. His name is Tobias.’
Russell, of course: now, I believed I had known it all along. Leaning forward, trying to rein in my eagerness, I then asked who Russell took orders from. But the answer was a shake of the head, and a firm denial.
‘I only know the capataz. And Spry, and the sailors.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I retorted. ‘And I demand here and now that you answer this: who are the Concord Men?’ Whereupon I watched him closely, only to be disappointed.
‘I don’t know what you speak of.’
His face was blank, and he appeared to be telling the truth, yet I was unconvinced. With a sigh of impatience I leaned back, letting March take the reins again.
‘Well, Master Sebastien, you are in difficulty still,’ he said calmly. ‘Whether under orders or not, attempted murder is a capital crime for which there is only one penalty, as a rule. You will hang - and without the chance to make your last confession, let alone receive the rites you would wish for. Do you compass that?’
There was another silence, which brought satisfaction to both March and myself: as Justices, we knew when we had begun to breach a man’s resistance. For the first time Sebastien showed fear, whereupon I strove to drive home our advantage.
‘Indeed… I suspect no priest in England would assist you, if he learned you pose as a Mahommedan,’ I added. ‘You even wear the hand of Fatima about your person. I wonder, do you have a blessing for what you do?’
But at that Sebastien gave a start - and on a sudden his face contorted in anger.
‘I have blessing, I do!’ He cried. ‘You think to shame me? My masters do God’s holy work in aiding our Emperor!’ Breathing hard, he lifted his bound hands in a gesture of helpless rage. ‘There is a war beginning, sirs – are you so stupid you do not know it? What happened in Prague has lit the flame… our armies are gathering, and will march in glory against the enemies of Christ. I would be proud to lose my life in that cause… and you may use threats as you please!’
With that he backed to the wall and sat down, lapsing into a sullen silence. It seemed we had misjudged him… or had we?
‘Very well, I concur.’
To my surprise, March relaxed. Turning to me, he pretended to murmur a few words in my ear: mere gibberish, for the prisoner’s benefit. Finally he whispered: ‘One more shove and we’ll have him,’ before facing our quarry again.
‘You have made your choice, Master Sebastien,’ he said. ‘I will not question you further. Instead I’ll have you sent back to the cell. There you’ll remain, with the other prisoners… I suspect by now you know what sort of men they are. However, I’ll let it be known to them that you’re a Spanish spy, awaiting sentence.’ He put on a grim smile. ‘There are ex-soldiers among them – and among the guards too, I seem to recall. Let’s see what happens then, shall we?’
There followed a silence. Sebastien had tensed in every limb, his eyes on the floor. Yet we waited, allowing the notion to strike home. The man knew this was no idle threat, for it was achieved with ease - and what fate might befall him come night-time, at the hands of half a dozen ruffians who hated Spain, could be readily imagined.
At last he lifted his head, threw a baleful gaze from me to March and back, and spoke.
‘You mistake, señors,’ he said, speaking low. ‘For you know not what trouble you bring, if you go against such people. I speak of los Hombres de la Concordia.’ He paused, then: ‘You are small men - but they are big, and would destroy you. And yet, I spoke of a bargain, so I offer this: there is one I know, because he came to la fundición often, and to the port. He is Francis Mountford… a cruel man. He slew his own uncle.’
Whereupon, with a slicing gesture, our prisoner signalled that he had told all he knew, adding: ‘Now I ask one thing in return: that I remain Yakup the Turk in the prison. Will you not grant me this one mercy?’
We were both silent, exchanging looks. Sebastien was an enemy - yet he had his code and his faith, and no small degree of courage. Finally, March threw him a nod. Rising from the table, he threw the door open and called the guard. Whereupon, both on our feet, we watched as the servant of the Concord Men – that cabal of ruthless investors, who dared treat with England’s enemies – was taken away.
‘Well, sir,’ March breathed, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘I suspect that, like me, you could do with a drink.’
***
The inn was The Crown, where we took a good dinner, yet neither of us was content.
Once again, I had stumbled on a conspiracy – as I had done in London two years earlier, with the uncovering of the vile Anniversary Plot. In truth there are times, since I quitted the magistrate’s bench, when I think trouble has sought Robert Belstrang out as some kind of punishment – even that life might be more peaceful were I still a Justice. But enough: a man must play the cards he has drawn. Sitting in a corner booth at the old inn, with a full stomach but a mind in turmoil, I reviewed the position with Gloucester’s good Justice, thankful that he at least was a man of honesty – as was my old friend Sir Richard Mountford, I reflected sadly.
‘How his son could have turned out to be such a varlet – a murderer, no less - is beyond me,’ I said. ‘Though I suspected John Mountford had found out what was being done at his family’s foundries, and paid a cruel price for it, I never truly believed Francis could do that - or even order it.’
March shook his head, but said nothing.
‘Now I’ve a task ahead that fills me with sadness,’ I went on. ‘To tell a friend what wickedness has been done behind his back… that he, one of the King’s Founders of Ordnance, has unknowingly been supplying the armies of the Papists… it’s direful.’
‘And yet, it must be done.’
My friend took a drink, set it down and faced me. ‘For now, I must inform the High Sheriff, who will inform the Privy Council in London. Meanwhile I’ll swear out a warrant for the arrest of Russell and Captain Spry. Then I’ll appoint men to ride down to Lydney and apprehend them.’
‘And I will go with them,’ I said at once. ‘My horse is still in the stable at the inn… if you can loan me another, I would be in your debt.’
‘Of course,’ March nodded. ‘You’ve done much to bring this foul business to light…’ he paused, then: ‘I should tell you that I won’t inform Gwynne of what we’ve uncovered. As I’ve said, I don’t trust him… nor do I know how long is the reach of these Concord Men.’
It was a sobering thought.
‘I can scarcely believe it,’ I said, turning it about. ‘A nest of traitors in the heart of England, intent on profit before country… we must be sure of our ground, before making accusations. I might have expected them to be Papists all, with some desperate hopes of shifting power in Europe – but the Mountfords are not. It can only be greed that drives Francis.’
‘It was ever thus, was it not?’ March said, with a wry look. ‘But we are in agreement: I’ll arrest the lackeys first – the small fry like Russell. They can be questioned easily – but the big fish will have to wait, likely until the Lord Chief Justice himself orders their arrests.’
‘And yet, aside from Francis Mountford,’ I said, ‘we don’t know
who they are.’
We fell silent. Even a firebrand like March, I knew, could find himself in water that was too deep for him. As for me, what was I but an ex-Justice, with an inherent impatience towards wrongdoers?
‘Then again, we’ll do no good sitting here,’ I said, with an effort. ‘If I might beg another night’s hospitality from you, I’ll set out as soon as your officers are ready – and I swear not to return empty-handed.’
At that March managed a smile of approval, whereupon we drained our mugs together. But as we rose to take our leave, I confess to a pang of apprehension.
What might transpire when I returned to the Forest of Dean, I had not the least idea.
ELEVEN
The arresting party left Gloucester the following day, in bright sunshine. I rode a gelding borrowed from March, of whom I had taken my farewell early that morning. We had parted with few words, our purpose being clear enough. Meanwhile I had written a letter to Hester, attempting to explain my extended absence, which the Justice would see delivered. Thirldon seemed far away; and in the light of what had happened these past days, even my fears for its future had been eclipsed.
We were six in number, including myself and the party’s leader, a sergeant-at-arms named Parry. The other men were constables chosen by Parry himself. A plain, far-sighted man, he knew the purpose of our journey, though not what lay behind it; as yet that was a matter only for March and myself. As we left the city and took the westward road for Highnam, with at least a twenty-mile journey ahead, he eased his mount alongside mine and spoke up.
‘What sort of man is this Tobias Russell, sir? Will he prove troublesome?’
‘He might,’ I replied. ‘He’s no weakling, and he’s used to giving orders. Indeed, so is the trow-master, Spry. But I’m certain that you and your men will prevail.’
‘We must do so,’ Parry said. ‘Justice March is not a man to brook failure.’
I made no remark upon that. The night before, March and I had agreed that discretion must be our watchword. As far as Parry knew, Tobias Russell was to be arrested for conspiracy, in concealing the cause of death of John Mountford. Captain Spry was to be apprehended for ordering a grievous assault on my person by a man now in custody, believed to be a Turkish seaman. The constables, well-armed, were to render assistance as necessary. It was enough – and I could not help feeling a sense of satisfaction at the notion of seeing those two hard-faced men, Russell and Spry, being put in irons.
Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery Page 9