‘Is he one of those men?’ he asked me. And when I shook my head, he called aloud for Tobias Russell to show himself. But instead, the remaining foundrymen emerged from the building, to stand in a silent group.
‘Where is the master?’ Parry strode forward, the rest of us close behind. At sight of pistols the Cricklepit men drew back, until one was bold enough to give answer.
‘He’s not here,’ he said, spreading his hands.
‘Is that so? Well, we’ll make a search,’ the sergeant said. ‘But when I find him – which I will do, if it takes me a week - I’ll arrest you for impeding an officer of the law.’ And when the man blinked in alarm, he added: ‘It means I’d have to take you back with me to Gloucester. A long journey… and a long time to be away from your work, and your family.’
The foundryman swallowed, glancing at the constables – whereupon his gaze fell upon me, at which he stiffened.
‘You remember me?’ I said, taking a step forward to stand beside Parry. ‘I’ve business with Master Russell again – though of a different nature.’
But my thoughts were racing. Russell, of course, would have had news of our arrival: the man had eyes in Lydney and everywhere else within miles. Had he fled, or was he merely staying out of sight? I spoke briefly to Parry, who gave no reaction. Instead, signalling to me to stay back, he drew close to the foundryman and, to my surprise, put an arm about his shoulder. Soon he had drawn him aside, the two of them speaking low. Finally he sent the man back to his fellows with a friendly slap on the back, and rejoined the rest of us.
‘Russell’s away,’ he announced. ‘But I know where he is.’
‘Well, that was neatly done,’ I said. ‘How did you get him to talk so readily?’
Parry wore a wry look. ‘I told him no charge would be brought against him, or any of the other men. There might even be a reward – you, a former justice, would petition the Mountfords for it. And I told him that if he gave me the intelligence I needed, he would be made foundry-master. His name’s Lowman – I told him he’d not be such a low man after Russell was taken.’
‘I’m impressed,’ I said, putting on a wry look of my own. ‘Though I may not be able to produce the reward you’ve promised, let alone see Master Lowman promoted.’
‘I’ll leave that to you, sir,’ Parry returned. ‘Now let’s attend to the business in hand, shall we?’
‘Gladly,’ I said. ‘So, where will we find Russell?’
‘It’s not far, my informant says,’ came the answer. ‘He’s at a small foundry upriver, owned by one Jonas Willett… do you know it?’
***
This time, our approach took on a very different character. Leading the horses, we walked upriver until we reached the Newerne stream. Parry then ordered the mounts to be tethered whereupon, having taken directions from me, the party advanced cautiously along the woodland path. For some reason I heard no sounds of axes that morning, which made me even more watchful; it was as if the entire forest knew of our presence.
Moreover, I was mighty puzzled. Jonas Willett was no friend of Russell… I well recalled his surly remarks, when I had treated him and his son at The Comfort. It seemed most unlikely that Russell would take refuge at the Willett foundry… hence, could we be certain that the man Lowman had spoken the truth? Was it merely evasion, a delaying tactic to allow his master to escape? Russell must have guessed that a substantial arresting party would not be sent without cause - and likely feared that his own liberty was under threat.
The answers to those questions would come soon enough – yet in ways that confound me as I recall the matter. After many years on the magistrate’s bench, I believed I could tell truth from falsehood: now I see that a man must learn, to the very end of his days. But I leap ahead, and will return to the little foundry on the rushing Newerne stream, run by the hard-pressed Jonas Willett and his son Peter.
At first, all was calm. We had seen smoke rising from the chimney for some time, and I was unsurprised to find an air of normality. No-one was in sight, but Parry ordered the constables to fan out, alert for any movement. There was none, however, until we neared the doors of the furnace house where the sergeant called a halt. His hand was on his sword-hilt, as was mine; all of us looked about warily - then tensed as a figure familiar to me came out of the building, and stopped in his tracks.
‘Master Willett,’ I said, with a glance at Parry. ‘I find this reunion very different to the one I expected.’
Jonas Willett stared, with a look of mingled surprise and alarm, but made no reply - whereupon Parry moved forward.
‘I hold a warrant for the arrest of one Tobias Russell,’ he said, and produced a paper from his jerkin. ‘I’m given to understand he is here.’ He waited while the other took in the tidings. Meanwhile I peered past him at the furnace-house, but saw no movement.
‘I don’t understand,’ Willett said, somewhat angrily. ‘Why would he be here? I have no dealings with the Cricklepit men.’
‘Though you once worked for them,’ I reminded him, taking a step forward, at which a frown appeared.
‘You will recall that I left there, years ago,’ came the retort. ‘And I pray you, what business is this of yours?’
‘Master Willett, you’ll not question us,’ Parry said. ‘If the man I seek is here you must give him up, or face a charge of aiding a felon.’
‘Felon?’ Willett echoed. ‘Nay, I’d never do such!’
But he was afraid, and everyone saw it. On impulse I looked about pointedly, then asked him where his son Peter was.
‘He’s somewhere about… why do you ask me that?’
‘Then call him.’
Parry stepped closer to Willett, and following his lead the constables pressed forward. Finding himself hemmed in by a semi-circle of armed men, even the stout foundryman flinched.
‘See now, Peter isn’t here,’ he said quickly. ‘But given time I can fetch him, and he’ll answer any questions you put… we’ve done no wrong.’ He nodded at me. ‘That man will vouch for us – we’re simple working folk, is all we are…’
Yet he faltered again, aware that both Parry and I were watching him keenly. At the back of my mind, suspicions began to grow… but I was diverted by the sergeant drawing his sword.
‘I think you can take us to Russell,’ he said, in a cold voice: the patient sergeant had lost patience. A moment passed before, to my surprise, Willett heaved a great sigh.
‘You played fast and loose with me, sir,’ he said, looking hard at me. ‘Using a false name and all… like I told you, my boy knew you for a snooper. What is it drives you – a reward, for hunting men down?’
There was bitterness in his voice, but there was something else too. It sounded like an overwhelming sadness.
‘Justice is my reward,’ I answered, somewhat sharply. ‘That, and the wish to help a friend whose brother died here. And I don’t believe he was crushed by a tree - indeed, I believe it’s you who have played fast and loose with me!’
And I would have said more, had I not caught Parry’s look. ‘There’ll be time for recriminations, sir,’ he said. ‘Let’s catch our prey first, shall we?’ To Willett he added: ‘Lead on now. But first, I want to know where we’re going.’
‘You know the way already,’ Willett muttered, with a dark look in my direction. ‘It’s in Lydney.’
***
It was the Willetts’ own house.
It stood beyond the village, on the path to Aylburton; I would have passed it, the night I walked Thomas Peck home. It was a humble cottage, with a vegetable garden and a wood-pile. Our party was there within the half-hour, leading the horses while Jonas Willett himself walked in front with Parry. He was not yet a prisoner, though few would have guessed it, the way he was guarded. As we passed through Lydney people stopped to stare, but the foundryman himself look neither to left nor right. When we reached the house, he stopped, his eyes on the ground.
‘We’ll follow you in,’ Parry said, gesturing to the door.
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But Willet held back. ‘It isn’t locked,’ he muttered. ‘You may enter as you please.’
I watched him, then threw a glance at Parry: the man was stalling. Without another word, the sergeant strode to the door. As he threw it open he called to the constables, ordering two men to cover the rear of the house, then went inside. His men hurried to obey, while I looked at the upper windows, half-covered by sagging thatch. There was no sign of movement - until the peace was shattered abruptly, by the loud crack of a pistol-shot.
It came from within the house. At once I drew my sword and started for the door, but the two remaining constables were quicker, pushing past me in their haste. Soon we were all in the hallway, calling out Parry’s name. Doors banged open, boots thundered on bare floorboards… but I stayed back, one eye on the narrow staircase – and drew a sharp breath as a figure loomed above me, a smoking pistol in his hand.
Tobias Russell.
We stared at each other, until with an oath Russell turned sharply and disappeared. There was some commotion overhead, even as both constables appeared from separate doorways.
‘Upstairs,’ I snapped. ‘I fear the sergeant’s been shot.’
They ran up the stairs while I followed, heart in mouth as to what I might find. Loud voices sounded, along with 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 one Thomas Peck, a forester,’ the sergeant added, fixing Peter Willett with a hard stare. ‘Master Belstrang is of the opinion that it was you who attacked him, on a Sabbath evening twelve days ago. You then clubbed Peck to death. This, he believes, was on the orders of Tobias Russell, who will face grave charges once he’s found. Do you have aught to say to that?’
No answer came, which was of small surprise to me.
‘Let me spell it out,’ Parry said patiently. ‘If you refuse to give testimony, you will both be taken to Gloucester castle, where the keeper is well-versed in getting men to talk. His methods have caused concern in some quarters… yet he gets results.’
At that Jonas Willett stirred, but his son did not respond. Whereupon Parry looked deliberately at each of them, before settling on Peter. ‘Loyalty’s a fine thing,’ he said. ‘But somewhat misplaced in this case, wouldn’t you say? Russell was prepared to sacrifice you to save his own neck - and to stop you from talking. Do you truly intend to remain silent, for his sake?’
Another moment passed – then I saw it: the older man looked near the end of his tether. The next moment, he let out a great sigh and banged a fist down on his knee.
‘By the Christ… it’s all up, can’t you see?’
He almost spat the words out, turning upon his son.
‘Tell them what they want to hear, and be done with it!’ He cried. ‘Plead our condition and cry mercy – for the Lord’s sake, can’t you do that for me, if not for yourself?’
There was desperation in his voice and in his gaze. But his son merely glowered, eyes averted.
‘Your father is right,’ Sergeant Parry said to him. ‘Your only hope is to make a confession. Though I’ll not lie to you: whatever the condition he speaks of, it makes no difference to your sentence: I have no doubt that you’ll hang. Yet it’s possible you can spare your father the same fate.’
‘Me?’ Jonas Willett swung his gaze to Parry. ‘What charge do I face? Aside from telling a few untruths, perhaps-’
‘Stop your gabbling!’
The words flew from Peter Willet’s mouth, as he turned suddenly to his father. The movement caused him to grunt with pain, yet his eyes blazed with anger. Lifting a hand weakly, he jabbed it in the air.
‘You worthless old wretch!’ he breathed. ‘You’ve always seen what you wanted to see – or dulled your wits with drink. And whose money is it, I ask, that pays for your getting soused night after night? I could…’
With an oath he broke off, gazing down at his lap. But at last, here was an opening for ex-Justice Belstrang. A notion had been surfacing, and I lost no time in voicing it.
‘Foundry-work is indeed a hard life, is it not?’ I said to Jonas. ‘Dirty, hot and perilous - you told me so yourself, do you recall? Just the two of you, toiling every hour of daylight, doing the work of three or four men.’ I paused, then: ‘Few would pass up the chance to earn money elsewhere, when offered - more money, someone hereabouts told me, than a man might make in a month or even a year. Is it not so?’
Deliverance: A Justice Belstrang Mystery Page 11