Afterwards, I thanked God that I had been at New Park House at the time, waiting to walk up to the trenches to relieve the men who had been there all night. If Farmer had left his attack another hour, I would certainly have been caught right in the middle of the fray. As it was, we lost fifty men, numerous arms, three drums, and a flag. Only one of their men was killed.
As we marched through the Tawd Valley to relieve the dispirited and battered troops, a steady stream of dead and injured was being stretchered through the trenches into the makeshift infirmary. Those that could walk staggered, wide-eyed and vacant, into the encampment, their faces etched with the shock of their experience.
I saw one pale-faced individual clasping his arm to his chest, his wrist shattered by a musket ball. Another held a bloody rag to his eye, removing it momentarily to reveal a shattered eye socket and an ugly gash the length of his cheek. Yet another, who had slipped and fallen in the melee, was being supported by two comrades, his knee jutting out at a bizarre angle.
The next shift was carried out under a cloud of nervous tension. A fearful silence was broken only by occasional jeers and taunts emanating from the towers by the gateway. At one point, the flag the royalists had captured was draped over the battlements, where it hung all afternoon.
Morale among our men could scarcely have been lower. Many of us were anticipating another raid once it got dark, but to our relief such an attack never materialised, and I began to realise that this was because the royalists, like ourselves, also needed to conserve their ammunition. Their strategy was not to utterly defeat us, simply to wear us down, bit by bit.
With Assheton and Moore gone, the royalists were clearly winning the siege. Watching Morgan and his men right the mortar and check its bore for damage, I realised how much depended on this weapon. If Farmer’s raiding party had been able to drag away the heavy piece of equipment, they surely would have, for it was clear that with such a weapon under parliamentary control, even the most inept commander would surely prevail, so long as he was adequately supplied with grenades. No wonder Farmer had tried to disable it. I began to realise that the coming days would be crucial in deciding the course of the leaguer of Lathom, and I prayed Alexander and I would survive it.
The following day, Alexander and I arrived back, exhausted, at New Park House, to find an unusual disturbance taking place. As we crossed the moat and entered the courtyard, I was surprised to find Lawrence Seaman and William Bootle engaged in a heated argument. From his demeanour, I could see that Lawrence was apoplectic with range, whilst Bootle was calm, but vigorously defending himself.
“Whatever is the matter?” I said, striding up to them and interrupting Lawrence, who was hurling a torrent of invective at Bootle.
“My father is in Ormskirk,” said Lawrence, struggling to stop himself from shaking. “He sits under lock and key in the town gaol. William has had him arrested for my aunt and uncle’s murder.”
“What?” I exclaimed, turning to Bootle. “Is this true?”
Bootle shrugged. “The Fitches found him inside their house, poking around in the cupboards. He had broken in. He told them who he was, so I was called to investigate. What was I supposed to do? Lawrence had not told me he was in town.”
“I did not know that he was,” countered Lawrence, “but that is no reason to have him arrested.”
“You forget,” said Bootle, his voice hardening, “that house is mine now and he was caught ransacking the place like a common criminal. Not only that; he is a prime suspect for the murder, not least because he was also present when his sister Katherine was killed in Chester.”
“But he was also in Chester when John and Jane Bootle died,” cut in Alexander.
“Can you be sure of that?” said Bootle. “You were at Lathom yourself that night. Can you vouch for his presence in Chester? Could he not have been here already?”
“You are talking nonsense, William,” spat Lawrence, making as though he were preparing to strike Bootle. Alexander took a step forward and placed himself between the two of them.
“Lawrence,” I said. “I think you would be best advised to hold your counsel. I will come with you now to the gaol house, and we will see what your father has to say about this matter.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Bootle. “Seaman is a murderer. He will hang for this.”
“And you, Captain,” I warned, “had also best hold your tongue. You and your tenants have every right to protect your property from intruders, but I will be the judge of his guilt or otherwise.”
Bootle smiled and held up his palms in mock deference. “I think you’ll find that it is down to the constable, the bailiff, and ultimately the courts,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Bootle was right, of course, but nevertheless I gave the captain an impatient look and led Lawrence by the arm, leaving Alexander to try to find out more from the captain as to exactly what had happened in the Bootles’ home.
The gaol house in Ormskirk reminded me of the small, dark, and dingy building that I was used to in Nantwich. Like many such places, it stank of dirt, sweat, and despair. The town’s gaoler was also of a type that was familiar to me, and it did not take much bribing to gain access to William Seaman, who we found sitting on the floor of one of the cells, looking sorry for himself. He had an angry-looking swelling under his eye from where he had struggled with his captors, and his shirt was torn at the shoulder.
“I fear you are in trouble, William,” I said, after allowing Lawrence to embrace his father. “William Bootle has you for a murderer. What are you doing here?”
“I would have thought,” said Seaman, after a moment’s pause, “that my purpose would have been self-evident. Like you, I was looking for clues.”
“And where have you been these past days?” I continued. “Your wife worries herself greatly. She says you have disappeared.”
“You have been back to Chester?” asked Seaman.
I briefly explained the purpose of my recent visit to Chester and described my short meeting with Isabel Seaman. “Where have you been all this time?” I demanded.
“I have been to Bolton,” admitted Seaman, somewhat sheepishly.
“Bolton?” said Lawrence, with a frown. “Why would you need to go there?”
Seaman grimaced as he altered his position to make himself more comfortable. “When I heard that Jane had been killed, I realised, like Daniel, that the reason for her death must be linked with Henry Oulton’s inheritance, so I went to confront him.”
“And you found out something?” I enquired.
“I did. I found out that I am not the main beneficiary of his will as I originally thought. That honour belongs to one Marc le Croix.”
“What? A Frenchman?” said Lawrence, incredulously.
“Aye, he is the son of Oulton’s grandson, now dead. He was brought up by Le Croix, the manager of Oulton’s import business, when he married the widow of Oulton’s dead grandson. It turns out that when the boy was about ten, he was shipped over to Bolton to continue his education and was raised by a local family, one of Oulton’s most trusted employees, with the express intention that he would inherit when the time was right. Henry Oulton just didn’t bother telling anyone on my side of the family about him. I suppose we are to blame for being more distant relatives than we should have been.”
I nodded. “And where is Le Croix now?”
“That,” said Seaman, “is the conundrum. Oulton said he went to visit my sister Jane and secured lodging with him for a while. However, he failed to return to Bolton and has simply vanished into thin air.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “The Bootles’ neighbours spoke of a visitor – a young man, who stayed with them for several days. They also say he vanished without trace. However, Katherine was here at the same time. She said nothing to you?”
“No,” said Seaman, “but you saw for yourself. Something was troubling her when she returned to Chester from her visit. I’ll wager this had something to do with it.�
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“And is it possible Francis Gamull or Robert Whitby know anything about this?”
“No…I don’t know. Katherine could have said something to them, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Because you have sold Gamull a share in the business, of course. Le Croix’s existence means that agreement is invalid as things stand. It also gives them both a motive for all three murders and may explain Le Croix’s disappearance.”
Seaman blanched as the implications of what I had said began to sink in. Lawrence, however, was frowning and looking confused.
“William Bootle said nothing about such a visitor,” he said. “Is it also not possible that this Frenchman could be the murderer?”
“I think not, Lawrence,” I said, patiently. “Le Croix is the main beneficiary. There is no reason for him to murder anyone. And there is no reason why William Bootle should necessarily have been aware of his visit. He was not that close to his brother.”
Lawrence looked at me and exhaled deeply. “So what do we do now?” he asked. “We are no nearer the truth, and my father sits in gaol.”
I have to admit, I was also running out of ideas, but then William Seaman spoke. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you,” he said. “Le Croix has a sister, a most charming young lady. Her name is Beatrice and she travelled with me from Bolton to help find her brother. You will, I think, find her in our lodgings on Aughton Street. She is travelling as my daughter.”
Chapter 30
Ormskirk – Thursday April 11th, 1644
Beatrice Le Croix was not difficult to locate. Dressed soberly in a plain maroon bodice with a white lace collar and a matching maroon dress, she was sat demurely on her own in a corner of the tavern, eating a plate of mutton, onions, and potatoes.
“You friends of hers, then?” asked the landlord, with suspicion. “Because if you are, you can pay for her food, because the fellow she arrived with has buggered off and left her with no money.”
“Her father, you mean?” I said, remembering the pretence under which Seaman had secured lodgings for them both.
“Aye, if you wish,” said the landlord. “If you settle her debt, she can be whoever you like, although, to be honest, if she’s that fellow’s daughter, then I’m Prince Rupert. The fellow who disappeared was a local man, she’s a bloody frenchie! I don’t blame the man for pretending, though,” he added. “She’s a comely enough lass, if the truth be told. I’ve spent the last hour fending off these drooling bastards. Like bees to a honey pot, they are.”
The landlord indicated to a table not far away, where a group of leering soldiers sat, glancing over occasionally at the girl, who looked up as she realised she was being talked about.
The landlord was certainly right. Beatrice was an attractive young woman. Olive-skinned, with full lips and dark brown eyes, she wore her straight black hair parted in the middle and tucked just under her coif. Lawrence was also not slow to notice the girl’s charms and, before I could react, he had bounded off to her table to introduce himself.
I settled for paying Beatrice’s unpaid bill for food and lodging and ordering two more plates of food and tankards of ale for Lawrence and myself. The room was not cheap, but that was not surprising, for the inns and taverns were full to bursting with soldiers and officers. Indeed, I was surprised that Seaman had managed to find accommodation at all. Some poor junior officer, I guessed, would have been removed from his quarters so that the unusual couple could be accommodated.
By the time I sat down, Lawrence had already introduced himself as William Seaman’s son, and Beatrice’s face had taken on a less worried expression.
“So, I am your cousin,” she said, shaking Lawrence’s hand. “Enchantée, monsieur.”
“It would appear so,” said Lawrence, “one that I did not know I had until a short time ago.”
“Indeed,” said Beatrice, in an apologetic tone. “Your father told me you were not aware of my existence, or that of Marc, my brother. And you,” she added, turning to me, “must be Mr Cheswis. William said you are a good man, skilled in solving problems such as ours. He is confident that you may help us find out what has happened to Marc and why William’s close relatives are being murdered.”
“I am flattered that Mr Seaman holds me in such regard,” I said, truthfully. “His trust is based on hearsay, I assure you. I’m afraid I have been able to solve very little as yet to justify such confidence, but I will endeavour to do my best. Perhaps you should begin by explaining how you come to be in Ormskirk. I hear from your accent that you cannot have been here very long.”
Beatrice smiled and pulled her chair closer to the table. “It is true,” she admitted. “In fact, I have only been in England for a matter of weeks, since I heard of my great uncle’s illness.”
I looked at Beatrice with interest. “Great uncle?” I said. “I thought Henry Oulton was your great-grandfather?”
“No, that’s not true,” replied Beatrice. “Marc is only my half-brother. He is two years older than me and is a direct descendent of Henry Oulton. My father, on the other hand, is Guillaume Le Croix, who married the widow of Henry Oulton’s grandson after his death. My father raised Marc as a son, but when he was twelve, my Great Uncle Henry sent for him in the knowledge that he would become heir to his fortune one day. He wanted him brought up in the English way and had him raised by a local family in Bolton. However, my great uncle told no-one; until now, that is.”
“I see,” I said, “but that doesn’t explain why you came to England.”
“It’s quite simple,” said Beatrice. “My father was concerned for his livelihood – all he has worked for. Marc wrote to us to say that Great Uncle Henry was gravely ill, so I thought to travel to England to represent our interests. But when I arrived in Bolton, I discovered Marc had left to visit his cousins in Ormskirk.”
“Have you any idea why he would do that?”
“Despite many years in England, Marc still has a French accent; or at least so he says, for I have not heard him speak for eleven years. Marc confided in me that he was concerned at the way things were going in Bolton, which was becoming a Puritan stronghold. We are Catholics from the south-west of France, and Marc wished to move somewhere where he would be less likely to be persecuted for his faith. He had heard that this might be possible in Ormskirk. I believe there are many who still follow our faith in this area.”
“That is true,” I conceded.
“I had not expected Marc to return to Bolton until things became easier there,” said Beatrice, “but I had not heard from him and needed to find him urgently.”
“And then William Seaman turned up and told you that not only had Katherine Seaman and Jane Bootle been murdered, but your brother had vanished too.”
“That is the truth of it, Mr Cheswis,” said Beatrice, dabbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “Do you think you will be able to find Marc for me?”
“I cannot be sure of that,” I admitted. “Things are becoming clearer than they were, but there are still several aspects of this case which confuse me. One thing is certain, though. Time is no longer on our side, for unless we can find the real murderer, William Seaman will hang for crimes he did not commit.”
Chapter 31
Lathom House – Sunday April 14th – Saturday April 20th, 1644
The next three days passed by quietly. Were it not for the constant passage of officers in and out of New Park House, one would have been forgiven for thinking that the siege had ended. The temporary calm gave Alexander and myself the opportunity to spend more time with Lawrence and Beatrice. The Frenchwoman, it seemed to me, was the key to the solving of both murders. Her missing half-brother, Marc Le Croix, was at the heart of everything, and Beatrice was the only person I knew who had a direct connection to him. She would, I hoped, prove to be the catalyst that set me on my way to identifying the perpetrator of both crimes. Time was of the essence, though, not only due to William Seaman’s predicament, but because Lawrence, Alexander, and I had be
en obliged to fund Beatrice’s board and lodging, something we could not afford to do forever.
On the Sunday afternoon, after we had completed our shift, Alexander and I took advantage of the warmer spring weather and strolled into Ormskirk, where we called on Lawrence and suggested that we accompany Beatrice on a walk through the nearby countryside. This would, I told him, give Beatrice the opportunity to escape the confines of her quarters in the tavern and provide a more relaxed environment in which to question her about the relationship between her family and the Oultons.
Lawrence, as I expected, readily agreed, for I had not failed to notice the way he was looking at the young Frenchwoman. Beatrice herself was less keen on the excursion, for she was fearful of becoming too noticeable in and around the town. Nevertheless, we managed to persuade her, and after a brief lunch in the tavern (added, of course, to my rapidly growing debt to the landlord) we set out intrepidly along lanes to the north of the town until we reached the small village of Burscough, a couple of miles away. Here we explored the remains of the small priory, destroyed the previous century by King Henry. Nearby stood a mill, apparently disused but probably still serviceable. It was here that we were witnesses to a very strange occurrence.
As we came within a hundred yards of the building, the door opened and a man stepped carefully out, looking around assiduously, before striding purposefully over towards the ruined priory, where he disappeared behind a wall. This episode could only have lasted a few seconds, but Alexander, Lawrence, and I all looked at each other with astonishment, for we were all thinking the same thing.
“God’s teeth, Alexander,” I said. “Tell me that was not William Bootle, because it looked for all the world like him.”
“It certainly looked like him,” confirmed Alexander, “but why would he be here?”
“I don’t know,” said Lawrence, “but he does live not so very far from here. Perhaps he knows the mill owner. Come, let us find him and ask him ourselves.”
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