“It would appear that her skull was smashed with the butt of the fowling gun,” I said.
“It does not take a genius to work that out,” said Bootle. “The solution is obvious. My brother hit Jane over the head with his gun and then shot himself. The question is why.”
“So it would appear,” I conceded. The solution to the crime appeared straightforward enough, but one or two things did not seem right. The first was John Bootle’s strange behaviour that morning, but the position of Jane Bootle’s body also concerned me. The upturned furniture and the food thrown on the floor suggested a violent dispute, but, if the Bootles had been arguing violently, it seemed highly unlikely that Jane Bootle would have been so foolish as to turn her back on her husband – unless, of course, she was fleeing from him. If that were the case, though, surely the body would have been facing the door, not lying face down in the fire? There was also a strange smell about the Bootles’ house, which went beyond the stench of burning flesh and which I could not quite place.
The other thing which concerned me was that John Bootle possessed a fowling gun, and it was such a weapon that had been pointed at Lawrence Seaman and myself the night before. Could it be that John Bootle had fired the shots at me? And, if so, why? Then it occurred to me that I only had Lawrence Seaman’s word for the fact that we had been shot at with a fowling gun. I had not seen the assailant myself. It was, therefore, also possible that Lawrence was lying to me.
It also crossed my mind that Lawrence Seaman and William Bootle had no alibis for that morning. I decided I needed to speak to the vicar, William Nutt, alone, and so I dispatched Seaman and Bootle to find the coroner and a constable. Faced with an apparently obvious solution, the local officials would, no doubt, take the easy option and proclaim that John Bootle had murdered his wife and subsequently committed suicide. As I have mentioned, I was not so sure about this myself, but I figured it would be easier to conduct my own investigations if the coroner and the local constable finished their business with the minimum of fuss and left me alone to my work.
As soon as William Bootle had disappeared, I looked more closely at the body of his brother. I studied the entry and exit wounds on Bootle’s throat and skull and smelled the area around the mouth and throat. I then had a closer look at the blood marks on the butt of the fowling gun. Satisfied with my findings, I turned my attention to the vicar, who had finished praying and was beginning to look like he wanted to leave.
“You have been a minister for how long, Reverend Nutt?” I asked.
“Nigh on twenty years,” replied Nutt.
“Then you will know the people around here well,” I said. “What can you tell me about the Bootles?”
“I’ve known them many years,” said Nutt. “John is – was the elder brother, honest and hard-working, but not particularly ambitious. He became a fowler and worked for a while on the Earl of Derby’s estate. William is the brighter of the two and aspired to greater things. Jane Seaman and William Bootle were close friends when they were younger, and it was he who introduced John to Jane. I married them myself many years ago.
“And there are no children?” I asked.
“None that lived. There was one daughter who died in infancy and another stillborn, but nothing since then.”
“And Lawrence Seaman – how well do you know him?”
“Barely. His family is from Chester, but I have known him this past year. John introduced me to him as his nephew. He seems an honest man.”
“That is my impression also,” I admitted. “Tell me, you said you were concerned about John Bootle this morning, that his demeanour was out of character. Can you think of any reason why that might be so? Anything unusual that has happened to him recently?”
“Not really, except that Mrs Bootle’s younger sister was here recently. She was here for a couple of days but departed very suddenly. Oh, and wait a minute, there was another visitor too, a young man of about twenty, a lodger, so I heard. Didn’t say much, but he disappeared without a trace too. Only stayed a couple of days. Left immediately after Mrs Bootle’s sister, so I heard. Perhaps there was a disagreement of some kind.”
“I’m sure you are right,” I said, “but do you know where I can find this young man?”
“There’s been no sight of him since last Monday, but you might like to ask in the taverns. I understand he was seen in The Eagle and Child on more than one occasion.”
I thanked Nutt for the information and was just about to suggest he return to the church when the door burst open and Lawrence Seaman entered with a breathless young constable called Gregson, who immediately jumped to all the conclusions I had expected him to. William Bootle turned up a few minutes later with the coroner, and, after answering a few perfunctory questions and advising both officials where I could be contacted, Alexander and I took our leave, giving the excuse that we did not wish to intrude on the private grief of the Bootles’ nearest relatives.
We walked back the way we had come, up Moor Street and past The Ship Inn, where I had been shot at the previous evening, past the mill at Greetby, and on to New Park House. A cooling spring rain had fallen, soaking the fields and reflecting soft rays of sunlight off the imposing walls of Lathom House in the near distance. It was a freshness which was a welcome contrast from the horrors of the Bootles’ front room, and it nearly, but not quite, washed away the smell of burned flesh from my nostrils.
“Death has a smell which is hard to shift,” I said, as we approached New Park House.
“Aye, that’s the truth of it,” said Alexander, “but that woman’s pottage was fairly pungent too. No wonder her husband saw fit to deposit it over the floor.”
I looked at Alexander sharply and then smiled gratefully, returning to my deliberations with satisfaction. He had noticed it as well.
I now knew that John Bootle had not killed his wife. Someone had killed them both. Bootle, perhaps, had died because he knew who his wife’s murderer was. Perhaps, I surmised, it was the same person who had killed Katherine Seaman. Logic told me that the murders had to have something to do with William Seaman’s business dealings and his supposed inheritance. The Bootles and Katherine must, I realised, have been privy to some kind of information that the murderer could not allow them to have.
But how did Edward Chisnall and William Bootle fit into the picture, I wondered? Bootle was related, at least by marriage, to all three victims, and was hated by the Earl of Derby for what the earl saw as treachery. Chisnall, meanwhile, was a loyal servant to the earl, was clearly relaying information to and from Lathom House, and had been present in Katherine Seaman’s company until very shortly before her death. Although he was now presumably installed in the garrison at Lathom House, he had been able to travel to and fro freely at the time the Bootles had been murdered and would continue to be able to do so, at least until the siege works were finished.
I realised that if I were going to solve the mystery of who killed Katherine Seaman and the Bootles, a discussion with Chisnall was going to be imperative. However, with Chisnall in the enemy ranks and showing no small degree of suspicion towards myself, I had no idea how I was going to achieve that. Little did I know that providence would intervene, and the opportunity would come sooner than I expected.
Chapter 18
Lathom House – Monday March 11th, 1644
On the Monday, Alexander and I were both conscious of the fact that we would once again be required to help with the construction of the siege works, and so we rose late and ate a hearty breakfast of bread, butter, smoked ham, and eggs, before making our way over to the main camp.
Taking a route to the north of the house, we walked along a narrow lane, which passed by a small stone chapel, from where we could see that work on the trenches had progressed some way during our absence. Impressive-looking sconces had been built at intervals around the walls and reached as far as the north-west corner of the house, more or less in line with where we were standing. Fortified by earthen ramparts secured with gabions and protected
with wooden stakes, the sconces would provide solid placements for the siege guns that Morgan had been promised. However, despite the progress, the trenches and earthen walls still only stretched halfway around the house. With most of the northern half of the siege works still not begun, it was becoming clear that it would take at least a week for Lady Charlotte and her garrison to be completely enclosed.
Most of the construction work, I noted, was being carried out inside the sconces and behind the outer earthen wall, well beyond danger. Some limited work was being done on the ditch and earthen wall that made up the central ring of defences, but because this was located at the edge of effective musket range, workers still took the precaution of carrying wooden screens to protect themselves against any of the practised marksmen stationed on the towers.
As we surveyed the scene, I was momentarily distracted by a sudden movement on the periphery of my vision. I swung round to my left just in time to see a small, waif-like figure disappearing into a copse of trees about a hundred yards away. I could not tell how long the figure had been there, for I had been concentrating on the nearest of the sconces, where a group of men were engaged in trying to transport baskets of earth down a connecting trench for use in the construction of the outer wall. However, in focussing my eyes on a gap in the distant trees, I was surprised to see a black and white sheepdog appear and make its way purposefully through the fields to the left of the partially dug earthworks until it reached a postern gate in the walls of the house. As the animal approached the walls, the gate opened slightly and a furtive-looking figure beckoned the dog inside.
I looked at Alexander in amazement. Was this how information was being passed into the house? And who was the waif-like figure who had disappeared into the woods? We hastened as quick as we could towards the gap in the trees, but, as expected, there was nothing to be seen. By now we were only a few yards from the main camp, so we descended into the valley and sought out Major Robinson, who, to my relief, once again gave me leave during the hours of daylight to conduct my investigations as I saw fit.
I was grateful to Robinson, who struck me as an efficient and understanding officer, which was more than could be said for many of the other officers with whom I spoke. The most interesting, and in some ways disturbing, of these was Captain Ashurst, who appeared strangely naïve, continually insisting that his childhood friend Rutter must have been telling the truth about the garrison’s lack of ability to withstand a siege. To be fair, Ashurst appeared somewhat distracted during our discussion, as he had just returned from delivering final surrender terms to Lady Derby, who had, by all accounts, dismissed them out of hand. As he was first choice to be given the task of delivering such a message, Ashurst seemed the officer under Rigby’s command who was held in the highest regard by the garrison, which made sense given that Ashurst’s report of his conversation with Rutter was the basis for the whole military approach at Lathom – to lay a siege rather than storm the house. If Ashurst’s intelligence proved itself to be wrong, then he had to be high among the suspects for the spy in Rigby’s ranks.
The other officer who attracted my attention was Captain Dandie, the father of the young lieutenant who had been captured by the garrison in February and subsequently released. He was also disconcertingly evasive in his answers to my questions, to the point where I began to wonder whether the officer’s reticence was due to his natural mistrust in me as one of Sir William Brereton’s men or whether something more sinister was at play.
The man I most wanted to speak to that morning was Thomas Morgan, the diminutive Welshman in charge of the artillery. I found him in the very sconce which I had been looking at earlier. With no cannon to deploy, he was busying himself by making sure enough gun placements were ready for when the promised siege cannon eventually arrived.
The major, I felt sure, had seen me weaving my way through the trenches, trying manfully to avoid the queues of sweating, cursing labourers hauling bucketloads of earth for use in the outer breastworks, for his immaculately groomed moustache twitched in irritation as I approached. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the team of surly farm hands, who were being instructed in how to level the earth in preparation for the installation of the, as yet, non-existent siege cannon. Several planks of wood had been brought into the sconce and laid next to one of the earth-filled gabions, which would protect the artillery gunners from attack. The planks, I realised, were for the construction of a gun platform, to protect the heavy gun carriages from sinking into the earth.
“Prynhawn da,” I said, by way of greeting. It was enough to gain Morgan’s attention. The major looked at me with a modicum of surprise, but appeared by no means displeased that I had addressed him in Welsh.
“Ah, Mr Cheswis. Doeddwn i ddim yn gwybod eich bod yn siarad Cymraeg. I didn’t know you spoke Welsh.”
“Only a few words, I’m afraid,” I explained, apologetically. “We have many Welsh traders come to Nantwich and it pays to be able to speak to a man in his own language. I hear from your voice that you are a native Welsh speaker.”
“That much is true,” said Morgan. “I learned English only in my teenage years. But you are not here to exchange pleasantaries with me in Welsh, I’ll wager. As you can see, I have a gun placement to construct, so if you have something to ask me, it would be appreciated if you kept it brief. If it is with regard to the murder of Sir William Brereton’s informant, then I’m afraid I will be of little help, although I understand you are now seeking a triple murderer.”
“News travels fast, Major,” I acknowledged.
“You should not be surprised at that. These new deaths are the talk of Ormskirk. The latest victims, I understand, are related to Captain Bootle and Lieutenant Seaman, though. They have nothing to do with me. I fail to see how I can be of assistance.”
“I am merely trying to understand the relationships between the various officers under Colonel Rigby’s command, to see if I can learn anything,” I replied, through slightly gritted teeth. “Tell me, you seem rather dissatisfied with progress so far.”
Morgan laughed sardonically. “That would be an understatement, sir. The trenches are being dug too slowly, we have no cannon in place, little ammunition, and even if we did, the terrain here precludes us from targeting the vulnerable part of their walls. What we need is a mortar and there is no sign of that. And if that were not enough, our negotiators are making no progress with Lady Derby. She is playing us all for fools, and all because Sir Thomas Fairfax would not have us play rough with a woman.”
“Lady Derby seems a formidable opponent,” I agreed.
“Stubborn is the word I would use,” said Morgan, in a tone which betrayed more than a hint of malice. “She will not listen to reason, even from her own people. Yesterday, six gentlemen of good standing petitioned her with a view to persuading her to surrender the house for the good of the population hereabouts, but she sent them on their way. She thought their pleas were part of a plot cooked up by Colonel Rigby, so I believe.”
“And you say it wasn’t?”
“Of course not. The local gentry need no persuasion around these parts. Think about it. Lady Derby has consistently called on the local population for support, not just for manning the garrison but for supplying arms and victuals. That is understandable, for people in Ormskirk have supported the House of Stanley for generations. However, now they are forced to support Parliament also. Local traders are expected to supply us with goods against promissory notes, which may never be honoured, and at the same time they are punished if they sell to the garrison. It is no surprise that local gentlemen wish to avoid a prolonged siege here.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Lady Derby told them to address their petition to us, the real despoilers of the country, as she called us. That woman will bring about her own downfall with her arrogance, you will see. Unless, of course, Mr Browne continues to play into her hands as he has done so far.”
“Mr Browne?” I said in bewilderment. “What do y
ou mean?”
“You mean you haven’t noticed?” sneered Morgan. “If you want my opinion, Browne is either an incompetent, or his loyalties are not quite where they should be. Take a look at these siege works, Mr Cheswis, and what do you see?”
I cast my eye over the scene before me, the serrated trench which sliced through the earth like an ugly scar just yards from the wall, the mounds of earth piled up to create breastworks, and the swarms of soldiers and labourers bent double in the trenches trying to avoid the attention of the sentries and marksmen on Lathom’s watch towers. I noticed with interest that Browne’s much-vaunted testudo was now in operation: a huge contraption on wheels, spanning the breadth of the inner ditch, which appeared to be providing the workers much better protection as they dug.
“I see a lot of people digging furiously,” I said, not quite understanding what Morgan was alluding to.
“Precisely, and all of them having to protect themselves with wooden screens. Browne has built the inner trench far too close to the walls. It lies only sixty yards away from Lady Derby’s musketeers, which makes its occupants little more than sitting targets. Many men will die here, mark my words.”
I nodded slowly, in realisation that Morgan was right. Even when the earthworks were complete, the marksmen on the towers would be able to bide their time and target anyone careless enough to reveal themselves to the enemy – and for what? In a siege, the primary aim was to keep the defenders in, and that could be done just as effectively from a greater distance.
“And then he talks about draining the moat and their wells,” continued Morgan. “Has he not realised that Lathom House sits in a bowl and that water does not flow uphill? Apart from which, their well is deep and the moat is right next to the walls. Any attempt to dig there would be suicide.”
“Are you saying that Browne is not all he seems to be?” I asked.
“That he is deliberately working against us, you mean? I cannot say that, Mr Cheswis. I can only say that, so far, his performance does not fill me with confidence. Make of that what you will.”
A Soldier of Substance Page 14