A moment passed, but it seemed there was nothing else to be done. With an effort, Standish recovered himself and gestured to the parson to do his office. I was somewhat surprised to see the fight go out of him so easily, though doubtless he was keen to get the business over. And so, at Woolland’s bidding the entire assembly rose to their feet and bowed their heads, while he asked for a blessing on those present. He then murmured a short prayer for deliverance from evil, before ending with a loud amen. The company having made their response, conversation soon broke out, every man and woman turning to their neighbours.
The Justice, meanwhile, seized his papers and made for the doors followed by the clerk. I turned to Boyd, to find him gazing at the parson.
‘I’m going after Standish,’ I said on impulse. ‘This inquest was a travesty, just as you described the one into Susanna Cobbett’s death.’
‘What do you intend to say to him?’ My friend asked, turning to me. ‘Or rather, what would it achieve now?’
‘You saw it as clearly as I did,’ I told him. ‘He wanted a suicide verdict, so nothing more need be done. Now he can use both inquest reports at the trial of Agnes Mason, as evidence of her guilt – even though it was mere conjecture on the part of witnesses. And if the Worcester jury is of a similar bent to those men…’ - I indicated the jurors, now talking among themselves – ‘then the outcome is beyond doubt.’
‘Well, if you are determined, I won’t stay you,’ Boyd said. ‘But I confess my own suspicions lie elsewhere.’ He nodded in Woolland’s direction. ‘A little too much righteousness there, perhaps… a little too much suppressed rage, for a man of God. In short, I wouldn’t trust him with a bent farthing.’
‘Nor would I, now you put it so,’ I said, allowing my own eyes to stray towards the parson… whereupon I frowned. The man was now in conference with Eliza Dowling, the nurse from Ebbfield. As I watched, Boyd following my gaze, the two of them walked to the doors, talking low.
‘What do you make of that?’ he mused.
‘I’m uncertain. But I would dearly like to confront Woolland at his own parsonage, and see how he behaves without a congregation to whip up.’
Dusting bits of straw from my breeches, I watched Woolland and Mistress Dowling leave the barn, as others were doing. A few looks were thrown our way, none of them friendly. I had been about to suggest that we take a cup of something restorative at the inn in Powick, but suspected we would not be welcome.
We got ourselves out into the sunshine, and made our way to where the horses were tied. The street was thronged with villagers, doubtless discussing the inquest. But having walked no more than a dozen paces, I stopped in my tracks.
Under the sagging eaves of a cottage, but a few yards away, three people stood huddled in private conversation: Standish, Woolland and Eliza Dowling. As Boyd and I drew near, the parson spied us and quickly turned his back.
‘That notion you had, of bearding the man at his parsonage,’ Boyd murmured, his eyes on the oddly-matched group. ‘Might you and I go together? Tomorrow, say, after he’s conducted his morning service?’
‘I think perhaps we should,’ I said.
THIRTEEN
The next morning I arose in sober mood. The cause of it was another taut conversation with both Hester and Childers the previous evening, which had led to some discord between us. In brief, Childers had allowed his concern for my welfare to get the better of him, and given vent to his fears once again.
‘I know how you despise gossip, sir,’ he had said. ‘And you have oft ploughed a lonely furrow, yet this business of the witch – your pardon, of Agnes Mason – draws you ever deeper into a mire. There’s been talk of dark shapes seen about Newland Wood, and cries heard - of something neither human nor animal. Moreover, there are calls for Mason to be removed from the Guildhall – from the city entirely, in fact – and lodged outside the walls.’ He shook his head. ‘It may displease you, yet I would fail in my duty not to warn you that you meddle-’
‘With evil?’ I broke in. ‘Or mere superstition?’
‘With popular opinion, at the very least,’ was his reply. He sighed, and looked to Hester for support.
‘Well, I thank you for correcting me,’ I said. ‘I thought I was doing my best to avert a perceived injustice, but even I may be mistaken.’ I faced Hester. ‘Would you care to give your opinion?’
I awaited her reply. I had already given both of them an account of the inquest, along with my views of it. And though I knew she was already displeased by my going to see Cobbett, as I had done despite giving assurances to the contrary, she had passed no remark.
‘I heard in Worcester that Agnes Mason is refusing food,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Perhaps she means to starve herself, and so avoid trial.’
‘Who says so?’ I asked, somewhat too quickly.
‘People in the market, and in the street…’ She met my gaze. ‘But as it’s mere gossip, it shouldn’t concern you.’
‘It would concern me, if it were true,’ I said.
She made no reply, and thereafter we had finished our supper in silence. But I was troubled: despite Mistress Mason’s request not to visit her again, I was sorely tempted to do so. Then, I had nothing to report which could have encouraged her – quite the opposite. These thoughts were in my mind that morning, as I left Thirldon and journeyed into Worcester again to meet with Boyd. I found him in reflective mood.
‘The town is now abuzz with talk of Mason’s trial,’ he murmured, as the two of us rode out of the city by Frog Gate. ‘It seems there are some who claim they were healed by her, and would defend her. But the majority, I fear, are of the contrary opinion: that she’s a witch, and must hang.’
I said nothing; and noting my humour, my friend sighed and changed the topic. ‘See now, have you thought on how we might approach the parson this day?’
‘In truth, I had not,’ I answered. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he refuses to receive us. I can’t forget that huddled conference yesterday with Standish and Dowling – especially as he and the Justice had been at loggerheads a short while earlier. Curious, was it not?’
Seemingly pondering the matter, Boyd gave a nod. Side by side, we rode down the Tewkesbury road on the three-mile journey to Kempsey, passing carts heading into Worcester. ‘Moreover,’ he said presently, ‘what should one think of Abel Humphreys, in private talk with the nurse? Such a friendship also looks odd to me.’
I made no observation on that. Since Humphreys was Giles Cobbett’s tenant, there was nothing odd about his knowing Eliza Dowling. But Woolland’s apparent closeness to them was another matter. And why, I wondered, had he been willing to preside over the burial of Susanna Cobbett, yet refused to bury Howell Rhys, since both had been adjudged suicides?
I would have voiced the question to Boyd, even as the tower of Kempsey’s church loomed ahead, but I was distracted by his next remark. ‘Did I mention that he was also at the inquest into the Cobbett girl?’ He enquired. ‘Woolland, I mean.’
‘You did not.’ I turned to him. ‘Had it slipped your mind?’
‘I suppose it did,’ the doctor allowed. ‘What with Cobbett’s performance, and Standish hurrying things along, I didn’t think it important. He was not a witness, and never spoke… a far cry from his pious intervention yesterday.’
‘Though you did say that he’d agreed to perform the burial service at Ebbfield.’
‘I did,’ Boyd nodded. ‘It was much talked about, among those who attended.’
We fell silent as we entered the old village of Kempsey. The church with its tall tower was ever prominent, and here we reined in. The place was quiet, the morning’s service done. Having dismounted, we led our mounts to a horse trough and allowed them a drink. A few people paused to look our way, whereupon I hailed the nearest one, an old man, and asked the whereabouts of the parsonage.
‘Behind the church, Master,’ he replied. ‘But you won’t find parson there just now. I would try the inn.’
He jerked
his thumb towards it, whereupon I gave him thanks… and on a sudden, I thought of Woolland as he had appeared that day in the courtyard at Ebbfield, mounted and clad in hunting attire. It sat poorly with the fiery rhetorician I had heard at the burial, and at yesterday’s inquest. As for his being at the inn… well, many a parson is in the habit of quenching his thirst after a sermon, I told myself.
Without further word, the two of us led our horses the short distance, found a post and tethered them. On entering the inn, we paused to look about. The place was almost empty, save for a sweating drawer hefting a barrel on to its cruck. There were few tables and fewer drinkers, and the man we sought was nowhere to be seen. As I scanned the room, the inn’s host finished his task and turned to us. Noting our swords and our attire, he grinned at once.
‘Welcome, sirs. I pray you, be seated… have you come far?’
‘Not far,’ I replied as he came closer, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘We seek Parson Woolland. Is he not here?’
I too wore a smile, but it faded as the inn-keeper stopped and lowered his gaze. ‘I… the matter is, sir… your pardon, but he is not.’
A moment passed, in which neither Boyd nor I spoke. Had the man known who we were, I thought, perhaps he might have made a better fist of lying, but as it was…
‘I think he is,’ I said.
The other looked up. ‘Nay, sir, I do assure you…’
‘You do not assure me. I’m a former Justice of Worcester, who takes a poor view of liars. Do you care to think again?’
The fellow gulped, glanced at Boyd then back at me, busily wiping his hands. ‘Now I think on it, he was here,’ he said, making a show of looking around. ‘Likely he’s out the back… if you’ll seat yourselves, I’ll go and see while someone serves you.’
‘Yet, it looks as if there’s no-one serving apart from yourself,’ Boyd put in, raising his brows. ‘Is there no wench here?’
At that, I felt inclined to smile; my friend had gone straight to the nub of the matter, causing our host to falter. Pointedly I looked at the stairway in the corner, then up at the ceiling.
‘Perhaps the parson prefers a private room,’ I suggested. ‘Do you have one?’
‘Well… I do, sir,’ the inn-keeper admitted. ‘But it’s-’
‘Taken?’ I finished. ‘No matter. If you’ve no objection, I’d like to view it anyway.’
The poor man appeared quite miserable now. ‘Nay, sir, I pray you… likely the room is bolted, and my guest is engaged upon some private matter…’
He broke off as I laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Yet I mean to go up there,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to hinder a former Justice, engaged in lawful investigation.’
It was not the first time I had been on tenuous legal ground, but it was enough. With a sickly look, the host could only watch as Boyd and I strode past him to the stairs.
There were two doors on the upper floor, beneath the sloping roof. The first stood open, so I walked to the other one and knocked, the doctor close behind me. Almost at once, we heard muffled sounds from within. I tried the door, but as the inn-keeper had said, it was bolted.
‘Open!’ I called out, rattling the latch for good measure. ‘I have business with Thomas Woolland.’
For a while nothing happened, though when I pressed my ear to the planking I believed I heard voices. I knocked again, more loudly, and was at last rewarded by a scraping of the bolt. Whereupon, as soon as I adjudged it free, I pushed the door open with some force, stepped inside the room with hand on sword… and froze.
Parson Woolland, tousle-haired, bare-legged and clad in only a shirt, was backing away from me. While behind him…
Behind him, cowering on a low bed in the corner and hiding her nakedness with a sheet, was a pale, red-haired girl no older than eleven or twelve years.
Nobody said a word. Keeping my eyes on Woolland, I moved further into the room, causing him to retreat until he was backed up against the wall. Meanwhile Boyd stepped in, assessed the situation quickly and looked to the bed.
‘Are you here of your own will, my girl?’ He asked kindly.
Plainly terrified, the young maid nodded.
‘You were not coerced in any way?’ He persisted. ‘We mean you no harm, so speak.’
‘All is well, sir – I swear it,’ she blurted.
‘Then, perhaps it’s best you took your clothes and left us,’ the doctor said. ‘Will that serve?’
Nodding vigorously, the girl hurried to comply. Wrapping the sheet about herself, she scrambled from the bed and moved to a stool where her clothing was piled. Seizing it in a bundle, bare-footed and somewhat shaky, she swerved past Boyd and fled from the room. To the sound of her feet pattering along the passage, we turned our attention upon Woolland.
‘Well now,’ I said. ‘We’re all sinners, sir… but some sins are more grievous than others. Would you not agree?’
The man made no answer. There was no hiding his guilt, and Boyd and I were witnesses to it. How many others, I wondered briefly, had knowledge of their parson’s proclivities?
‘Were it anyone else, I might ask pardon for disturbing him at such a time,’ I went on, feeling my anger rising. ‘Yet, given the age of the other party-’
‘I pray you, let me alone!’ Woolland cried, finding his voice at last.
‘I will not,’ I said. ‘I came here to ask questions of you, but now…’ I glanced at Boyd. ‘The case is altered, isn’t it?’
‘I would say it is,’ Boyd said. And at the look in his eye, the parson faltered.
‘I have done no crime,’ he muttered.
‘I doubt if that’s how an archdeaconry court would view it,’ I told him. ‘More, I wonder how your parishioners would?’
That shook the man. Until now, despite being caught as he had, I had been uncertain whether Woolland would try to bluff, or even fall back on some pious rant. Now, I confess I was enjoying the fact that he was at my mercy - an opportunity not to be missed.
‘Do they know what you get up to?’ I enquired. ‘I would think it hard to keep secrets, in a place like this. And given the eagerness many village folk have for denouncing their neighbours – even a man of God.’
‘Unless he has protection of some kind,’ Boyd said, on a sudden. I stiffened; a notion was forming. I caught his glance, then faced Woolland again.
‘Let me ask you this,’ I said, fixing him with my magistrate’s eye. ‘Since you stated plainly at the inquest yesterday that you would not bury a suicide, then why were you willing to conduct the funeral of Susanna Cobbett?’
Rapidly he sought for an answer, his eyes moving between the doctor and I. ‘The burial was on Cobbett land, not the church’s,’ he said. ‘I pitied him in his loss and his plight – I did but help a neighbour in his hour of need.’
‘No… that won’t serve.’
I took another step forward, making him flinch. ‘You speak to one who’s dealt with some of the best liars in the county. And I know Giles Cobbett’s a powerful man, the richest landowner for miles – but tell me, Master Woolland, what kind of hold does he have over you?’
And when he failed to answer, I raised my hand and pointed a finger to within an inch of his chest. ‘Speak,’ I ordered. ‘Or I’ll draw my own conclusions, haul you off to Worcester by force and swear out a warrant. I’m unsure what the charge will be, but I’ll make sure everyone in the city knows of your arrest – and half the shire, too. Whatever the consequences, you’re finished. Bishop Thornborough’s a stern man – but you won’t need me to tell you that.’
Tense as a bowstring, Woolland gazed at the floor. From below, familiar inn sounds drifted: voices, the clink of tankards. The parson opened his mouth, closed it again - then all at once he sagged, and I tasted victory. A scrawny figure, with his dirty toes and spindly legs, he folded to the floor like an empty sack and fell back against the wall, hugging his shirt about him.
‘God in heaven, forgive me,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Whereupon he looked up, fixed me with a baleful look, and spoke in what I can only describe as a snarl.
‘What a meddler you are, Belstrang,’ he spat. ‘A wastrel and a varlet at heart… one who lives in fornication with a servant, yet dares to judge me!’ And seeing my anger rise, he gave a bitter laugh.
‘Must I spell it out?’ He cried. ‘I buried the Cobbett girl at Ebbfield because she was a scarlet whore, a Jezebel unfit to walk hallowed earth, and because-’
‘You’re lying!’
Raising a fist, I could have struck the man, had not Boyd hurried to stay me. Breathing hard, I allowed him to push my arm down, and took a step back. But despite my anger, I was triumphant: the truth was plain.
‘That’s not the reason,’ I said. ‘You did it because Cobbett forced you – because he threatened to expose you for the foul, child-using devil you are. You laid his daughter to rest because you had no choice - will you deny it?’
He could not. With an effort I mastered myself, Boyd and I standing over the wretched Woolland. The sorriest rogue I ever knew: a pious zealot, quick to call down the wrath of God on everyone but himself.
With a muttered oath, I turned from him and made for the door.
FOURTEEN
It was Boyd who questioned Parson Woolland further, after I had gone down the stairs. I did not see the inn-keeper; in truth I looked neither to left nor right as I went. Outside, I stood beside Leucippus for a while, breathing in sweet air with a scent of mown grass. Presently the doctor emerged, and without a word we got ourselves mounted. Not until we had put Kempsey behind us, and were well on the road, did I ask him what had occurred.
‘It’s most odd,’ he answered. ‘That one’s a sorry excuse for a parson, but he’s also a frightened man beneath his bluster - and not merely because he fears his sins being found out.’
The Witching Pool: A Justice Belstrang Mystery (Justice Belstrang Mysteries Book 2) Page 10