A Soldier of Substance

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “I see. And when was this exactly?”

  “Last Sunday, after church.”

  This fitted in with the information given to me by William Seaman, but it didn’t explain Katherine’s behaviour during the afternoon and evening of her death.

  “What about Edward Chisnall. What do you know about him?” I ventured.

  “Chisnall?” exclaimed Lawrence, the surprise evident on his face. “Royalist gentleman from Chorley. One of Lady Charlotte’s captains. I barely know him, but he has a reputation for being brave and straightforward. What does he have to do with this?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, “but he turned up at your father’s shop when I was there and Katherine appeared stricken to the core when she became aware of his presence. He was also in attendance for at least part of the evening that your aunt died.

  Lawrence’s eyes widened. “You believe he is responsible for this?”

  “Again, I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “It’s perfectly possible. He was certainly very suspicious of me, and as far as I’m aware, he has no alibi. He left your father’s house before your aunt was murdered.”

  “Perhaps he also held my aunt for an informant,” suggested Lawrence.

  “Mmm,” I said, circumspectly. “That may be the case, but it doesn’t explain why Katherine was so disconcerted by the sight of him.” I was beginning to realise that promoting Rigby’s idea of Katherine as a spy was likely to be more counter-productive than helpful. I decided that I would be on safer ground by asking Lawrence to tell me more about something else which had intrigued me greatly, namely his father’s supposed inheritance.

  “Henry Oulton has never really been a concern of mine,” said Lawrence. “I’ve never met him, and I was never expecting to inherit anything from him. I do know, however, that he has been a rich and successful merchant and that he has had dealings with my father through his business in France and Spain. I also know that his son and grandson both died young, which is why my father has become the heir to his property. But as a younger son, my plan was never to become a merchant trader. I suppose that now my brother is no longer with us, I will be expected to change my plans, once the war is over. What I do know is that Oulton is now old and ailing, and that my father has travelled recently to Bolton to see him.”

  “Did you realise that your father has already contracted to sell part of the business to Sir Francis Gamull?”

  “No. Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “that is what I would like to find out.”

  Lawrence drained his tankard thoughtfully and gestured to the landlord to serve up two more. “So you think my aunt’s death has something to do with my father’s business dealings?” he asked.

  “It’s one line of enquiry,” I replied. “I’m merely speculating.”

  “I see. In that case,” said Lawrence, “perhaps we would be better advised to stick to discussing the real reason why you are here.”

  “You are right,” I acknowledged. Until I had spoken to Jane Bootle, there was little sense in more speculation about Katherine Seaman’s death. “In that case, tell me what you know about the men under Rigby’s command. Let’s begin with Browne, the engineer. I spoke with him this afternoon. What is your view of him?”

  “Mr Browne? A knowledgeable engineer for sure, but he is lazy and quick to blame others for his shortcomings.”

  “So something of an outsider, then?”

  “Yes, but not just that. There are those that say the tardiness in digging the siege works is as much down to him as anything.”

  This was a helpful insight, I felt. I had already gained the impression that Browne was not particularly well-liked, and a tendency towards indolence would be a good reason for that, but I was not entirely convinced. “Maybe,” I said, “but that doesn’t make him a spy. What about the Welshman, Morgan? He is an outsider too.”

  “Dismissive and peremptory in nature. Arrogant beyond words, but he has the trust of Rigby. He has, of course, been inside the house on his own to negotiate directly with Lady Derby, so he has had ample opportunity to pass on information to her in confidence, but I rather doubt it. He served Parliament loyally at Nantwich and, being in charge of the artillery, he has been openly critical of the siege plans and has been pressing for the availability of more ordnance. Surely that is not the behaviour of someone who would betray us?”

  “Alright,” I said, “so what about Rigby’s captains?”

  “Solid Lancashire men, most of them,” said Lawrence. “The only one who has any connections inside the house is Captain Ashurst, who is a childhood acquaintance of the countess’s personal chaplain.”

  I considered this for a moment. Ashurst had been among the delegation who had accompanied Assheton and Rigby during the first attempt to negotiate with Lady Derby. It was he who had claimed to have extracted valuable information from her chaplain relating to the countess’s ability to withstand a siege. This, I remembered, was precisely one of the doubts that had been voiced by Browne. Could it be that Ashurst was deliberately misinforming Rigby? He was certainly close enough to the command to have had access to fairly high level military information, and may well have had the means to pass information in and out of the house.

  The only other member of Rigby’s team with connections inside the house was William Bootle.

  “William?” said Lawrence. “The earl hates him like the pox. He holds him for a traitorous villain and has sworn to gut him like a fish should he ever lay hands on him. William worked inside the house for three or four years under Mr Broome, the steward, which is why he is of use to Rigby. He left the earl’s employment and joined Rigby’s regiment when war broke out. I fear the earl took his defection personally.”

  “And not helped, I imagine, by the express fact that it is Rigby whom he now serves.”

  “Precisely. There is a certain antipathy between Colonel Rigby and the earl, which is well known.”

  I was beginning to realise how difficult my task had become. If the truth be told, I could not sensibly rule out any of the officers under Rigby’s direct command, but I had the nagging feeling that I had so far only been touching the surface of what was going on at Lathom, and that the true answer to the conundrum lay elsewhere. It then occurred to me that there was one line of enquiry that I had not yet followed.

  “What can you tell me about Mary Reade?” I asked. “Colonel Rigby did not seem too keen on talking about her.”

  “It is a sad story,” acknowledged Lawrence. “Mary Reade was a midwife. There are many folk around Ormskirk of my age and younger who were brought into the world by her. Many also used to go to her for cures and remedies for everyday ailments, for she knew her herbs and potions better than most. Many preferred her to the local physic, but, as is often the case with those who have the ability to heal, she was held in suspicion in some quarters. It appears someone betrayed her to Colonel Rigby.”

  “But she was carrying messages into and out of the house. Does that not make her guilty of spying?”

  “Perhaps so, but it does not excuse what they did to her. It is said she was tortured terribly. Lighted matches were tied to her fingers, so they say, so that the fingers on one of her hands were burned off. I understand she said nothing, but she must have died in excruciating pain. Nobody deserves to die like that.”

  I sucked my cheeks in and grimaced, listening to the gory details, my mind slipping back to the recurring vision I had of James Nuttall, Simon and Elizabeth’s friend, lying dead in the church at Barthomley, his hands having also been mutilated in an attempt to extract information.

  Suddenly, I was disturbed from my reflections by a burly man in his sixties, with straggly grey hair and a beard, and who, I noticed to my annoyance, had been listening to our conversation. Seeing that I had registered his presence, he lurched across the tap-room and leant across the bar, swaying slightly. Clearly drunk, he was dressed in a plain white shirt and brown breeches, and stank of beer and tobacco.<
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  “Mary Reade,” slurred the man. “She will haunt everyone in this town for the way she was treated. I saw it all myself: rising from her gravestone to persecute those who drove her to her death.”

  I looked curiously at the old man, but the landlord had moved quickly from behind the bar and grabbed him by the collar.

  “You’ve had too much ale tonight, Isaac,” he said. “Leave these gentlemen in peace. They do not wish to hear your pribbling nonsense.”

  “But I swear I saw her, clear as day.”

  “Hush, Isaac,” the landlord said, a little more insistently this time. “There’s those as held Mary Reade for a witch. Talk such as this will not help her memory, nor will it help her children. Apologies, sirs,” he added, addressing me directly. “Old Isaac is an incorrigible tosspot and no mistake. Leave him to me. He will not bother you again.”

  “Let him speak a moment, landlord,” I said, trying to calm the situation. “What did you see exactly, old man?”

  Isaac shook himself free from the landlord’s grasp and stared at me. “Buried her only yesterday, they did, but last night I saw her standing by her gravestone, I swear it. I live near the churchyard, you see. Standing on her own tombstone, she was, all white and pale, but when I approached her she raised her hand as if to threaten me. I ran for my life, I did.”

  “Bollocks,” said the landlord. “Ran straight for the nearest alehouse, more like.” With that, the landlord propelled Isaac, stumbling and belching, through the door and into the street.

  I was grateful for the landlord’s intervention, but, in truth, I had been shaken by the encounter. I decided to finish my beer, then make arrangements to meet up with Lawrence and William Bootle the following morning in order to visit Jane Bootle and her husband.

  Lawrence and I left the tavern together, and just as we stepped out into the alleyway, Lawrence shoved me violently against the wall. A split-second later I heard a loud crack and something whistled past my ear, ricocheting off the wall like a handful of gravel. I looked sharply to my left and saw a figure disappear elusively round the back of the inn.

  “What in God’s name-?” I began.

  “A man,” shouted Lawrence, pushing himself away from me. “Down the alley. With a bloody big fowling gun.” With that, Lawrence charged headlong down the alleyway to where the man had disappeared, and looked tentatively across the backlands of the shops and taverns lining Moor Street. I walked over to join him, but there was little to see. It was clear that the bird had already flown.

  “Tell me, Mr Cheswis,” said Lawrence, “why would someone want to shoot you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, although, to be truthful, it had occurred to me that the intended murder victim was just as likely to have been Lawrence as myself. I considered briefly who the gunman might have been – Chisnall, perhaps. He was, after all, the only suspect for Katherine Seaman’s murder who I knew to be in Lathom. But how he could have got in and out of Lathom House was not entirely clear.

  But supposing the attack was linked not to Katherine Seaman’s murder, but to my search for the spy in Colonel Rigby’s ranks? After all, every potential suspect in the parliamentary ranks knew me for an intelligencer. It surely would not take long for the guilty person to realise solving Katherine Seaman’s murder was not my real reason for being at Lathom.

  One thing bothered me though. It was Lawrence Seaman who was in my company when I was attacked. Just supposing, I wondered, there were a connection between my task in identifying Rigby’s spy and the murder of Katherine Seaman, and, if that were the case, the gunman was keen on stopping me talking to Lawrence Seaman. Could that be the case?

  I had a feeling I was about to find out.

  Chapter 17

  Ormskirk – Sunday March 10th, 1644

  The Church of St Peter and St Paul in Ormskirk lay on high ground to the north-west of the town, making it visible for some distance. Jane and John Bootle, so I had been informed, lived in one of a row of shabby workers’ cottages, which backed onto the graveyard, and so, with convenience in mind, I had arranged to meet William Bootle and Lawrence Seaman outside the church after the Sunday morning service.

  I found Bootle leaning nonchalantly against the church wall, sucking on a wooden pipe and blowing billows of smoke into the air. Seaman, meanwhile, had disappeared inside the church, trying to locate his relatives. He emerged a few moments later, accompanied by the vicar, his face lined with worry.

  “You look like you are not relishing the prospect of having to tell your aunt about her sister,” I commented.

  “It’s not that which concerns me,” responded Lawrence. “It appears neither my Aunt Jane nor her husband attended the service this morning. It is not like them to miss prayer, especially on the Lord’s day,” he added.

  “Master Seaman is in the right of it, sirs,” said the vicar, a tall, spindly man, who introduced himself as William Nutt. “John and Jane Bootle are regulars in our congregation, but today I am concerned for John’s welfare. He is an honest and pious man, not generally given to ungodly activities, but this morning he was not himself.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked, with curiosity.

  “I saw him in the street,” said Nutt, wringing his hands in agitation. “It was about six o’clock this morning, and I was on my way into church to prepare my sermon. He was acting in a manner which was most disturbing.”

  “How so?”

  “It was as though he was the worse for drink, but he hadn’t been drinking. His eyes were wide and staring and he was ranting unintelligibly. He said that his mind had been possessed by debauched and unchristian thoughts, that he felt he was flying and feared his mind had been possessed by the Devil. I did not know what to think, so I told him to return to his home and pray that a merciful God would release him from such thoughts.”

  “More like too much strong ale,” contradicted Bootle, scornfully. “He was in The Eagle and Child with me last night. There’ll be nothing wrong with him other than a thick head. Let us go and find him.”

  A gradual feeling of unease began to take me as Alexander and I followed Bootle, Lawrence Seaman, and the vicar back through the churchyard. In the middle of the far wall, overgrown with nettles and other weeds, was another stile, which led into a muddy lane between two small cottages. Bootle led me through the gate, up to the cottage on the right, and knocked on the door. There was no answer, but the door was slightly ajar.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I stepped into the doorway, for there was an odour of evil about the place, a nauseating, sweet aroma of charcoal and roast meat; but there was something else too, a putrid, vile stench, that could only be described as the smell of death.

  The vicar took a sharp intake of breath as he entered the house, and put the sleeve of his cassock up to his nose. The blinds were closed in the hall, but as my eyes became accustomed to the light, I found we were looking at a scene of pure horror. Chairs and tables were upturned and a bowl of pottage lay splattered on the floor, but what turned my blood to ice was the sight of a woman’s body lying face down, her face buried in the glowing embers of the fire. Her right hand was lying under her face, as though she had tried to protect herself, and the back of her head was bruised and bloody.

  Ten feet away, slumped in a chair, was the corpse of a man, which I took to be that of John Bootle. Jammed between his legs and pointing upwards at his throat was a large fowling gun, the butt of which was stained red. There was a gaping hole in the throat and both the back of the cadaver’s head and the walls were sprayed with blood and fragments of brain.

  There was a moment of silence and disbelief when time seemed to stop, but then I heard the sound of retching beside me and saw Lawrence Seaman bent double, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. I felt the bile rising in my own throat and reached for the back door, vomiting into the alleyway outside.

  When I had finished, I went gingerly back inside, to find Alexander and Lawrence sat on the floor, looking as
white as snow, whilst the vicar knelt over the woman’s body, praying, and William Bootle stood, inspecting the back of the male victim’s skull.

  “What demons have been at work here, Mr Cheswis?” asked Bootle, his voice shaking with emotion. “What could have driven my brother into such a frenzy as to bring him to slaughter his wife in such a way, and then to take his own life? It is as though witchcraft were at play here.”

  “Witchcraft?” I said, doubtfully. “I suspect the cause of this evil has more earthly roots than that. What has made you think such a thing?”

  “You just have to listen to the townsfolk,” said Bootle. “Hear what they have to say about the widow Reade, who died these past days. Now that she is dead, there are many that have her for a witch.”

  My mind flashed back to the words of Isaac, the old drunkard in The Ship the previous evening, but I was not one for superstitions of this kind. “Here, help me haul this cadaver out of the fire and we will see what we can find,” I said.

  Bootle and I each put our hands under Jane Bootle’s shoulders and, with Alexander and Lawrence Seaman taking a leg each, we gently lifted the corpse away from the glowing embers and laid it in the middle of the floor, allowing the arms to flop loosely by its side. Rigor mortis, I noted, had not yet set in, which meant that she must have died within the previous three hours.

  I rolled the body over onto its side and noticed, with revulsion, that the victim’s face was charred to an indescribable black mask of horror, the empty eye sockets still smoking and staring back at me vacantly. Her hair had also been almost entirely burned away, and only a few wisps of brown hair were still visible. The victim’s right hand and forearm had also been burned to a crisp. The fire, I reasoned, must have been extremely hot when her death had occurred, for it was as though the hand had been reduced to dust. I put my hand to the back of Jane Bootle’s head and felt carefully around the base of the skull. Just behind her right ear, I found an area that was soft and misshapen.