All four of us quickened our pace and marched over to where we had seen the figure disappear, but there was no sign of Bootle at all, and no obvious path which he might have taken, where he would have remained out of our sight.
“Strange,” said Alexander. “But perhaps we were mistaken.”
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but even if it was not Bootle, that does not explain what happened to the person we saw.”
I would have thought no more about this episode, were it not for what happened during the course of the following week.
On the Monday morning, Colonel Rigby recommenced his bombardment of Lathom House with increased intensity. During the day, the mortar was fired five times with stones. However, on the sixth occasion, Morgan used one of his grenades, which sailed over the walls, landing close to the Chapel Tower and exploding with a mighty boom. We could only imagine the damage caused to some of the flimsy wood and plaster buildings within the walls, but the amount of shrieking and shouting which we heard confirmed that the shell had produced the desired effect.
The next morning, the cannon, now unspiked, was used to bombard the battlements and tower walls, and this was followed by thirty minutes of heavy musket fire. At eleven in the morning, Morgan ordered his artillery team to fire the mortar, initially charged with stones. When the first shot landed accurately in the middle of the house, the Welshman ordered his men to fire another grenade, which landed inside the walls, but seemed to explode in mid-air, causing a huge blast which sent shrapnel and clay flying in all directions.
It was clear that the tactic of using the mortar was starting to succeed. The only dampener on the morning’s activities was the fact that one of Morgan’s men climbed up onto the earthworks surrounding the mortar, in an attempt to see where the grenade had landed, and was promptly shot dead by one of the marksmen positioned on the towers.
Flushed by two days of success, one might have expected Rigby to have continued the bombardment, but he didn’t. On the Wednesday an uneasy quiet reigned, and with the days after that being Maundy Thursday and Good Friday respectively, Rigby appeared to have left the garrison to consider the damage Lathom House was likely to sustain after Easter, although many suggested the ceasefire had more to do with the fact that the colonel was still waiting for his long-awaited delivery of mortar shells.
It was during these three days of relative calm that my attention was once again drawn to the curious movements of William Bootle, and, predictably, it was my friend Alexander Clowes who unwittingly opened my eyes to that which I might otherwise have missed.
On the Wednesday, just after noon, we were walking back, heavy-legged and exhausted from our shift, when Alexander suddenly grabbed me by the arm and gesticulated towards the gateway of New Park House a hundred yards away. I glanced over to where Alexander was pointing and saw that William Bootle had left the house by the main gateway, had skirted round the front of the buildings, and was heading through the gardens where the dovecote was located, towards a track which led through the fields to the north, towards the road to both Ormskirk and Burscough.
I would have considered this of little significance, were it not for the fact that Alexander said, “You know, I could have sworn he did this last Thursday, and we know for a fact he went to Burscough on Sunday afternoon too.”
I slowed my pace to a dawdle and thought about this for a moment. I had the strange feeling that Alexander had said something of critical importance, but I could not work out what it was.
“Remind me,” I said. “On which day does Bootle do his shift in the trenches?”
“He usually does the day before us,” said Alexander, “but because he is Rigby’s only expert on the interior of the house, he is at the colonel’s beck and call whenever his services are required. As a result, he is afforded some flexibility. If the colonel needs him to be on hand for certain operations, he is allowed to rest at certain other times.”
Again, I considered this for a short while, and slowly, a pattern began to emerge.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Over the course of the last ten days, there have been only four days on which Bootle was both free and on which there was no bombardment. Three of those days were Thursday, Sunday, and today. The other day – Saturday – we were on duty ourselves, so he may well have been on the march on that day too.”
“And on the days when Morgan was peppering the house with his artillery, he stayed put.”
“Exactly. And there’s one other thing. On Wednesday morning, when the garrison launched their attack, Bootle should have been on duty, facing the attack, but he was not, at least not the whole time, for it was he who alerted us to the attack. Presumably he received special dispensation from Rigby to stand down and take that time off.”
“So when we attack the garrison or when the garrison attacks us, Bootle is safely tucked away in New Park House, but when things are quiet, he sneaks off to Burscough at a similar time each day.”
“So it appears,” I said, “but perhaps it’s just a coincidence. Let us keep watch over the next couple of days and see what transpires.”
I said little more that day on the matter, but I did take note that it was five in the afternoon before Bootle reappeared inside the courtyard at New Park House. The next day was also without activity from our artillery, but Bootle was on duty himself, so the first day that we were able to test our theory was on Good Friday.
As it happened, Rigby kept his guns quiet for a third day in succession. Unfortunately, we were on duty ourselves, so I slipped a few coins to one of the ostlers with whom I had become friends, and, on our return to New Park House at midday on the Saturday, he was able to report to us that Bootle had indeed crept surreptitiously out of New Park House the previous afternoon and made his way through the garden and onto the track towards Burscough.
As luck would have it, Good Friday was also significant in that on that day, Colonel Egerton was recalled to Manchester, leaving Rigby as the sole commander of the siege.
“Ah, now the cat is well and truly out of the bag,” commented the ever-cynical Browne on hearing the news, and, in my judgement, he was not mistaken, for on the Saturday morning, the colonel ordered Morgan to move the demi-cannon and the culverin to the north-east gun placement opposite the postern gate and begin bombarding the tower next to it.
This, in itself, was not a bad idea, for, as the tower protruded beyond the moat, it offered one of the more likely ways of breaching the walls. However, Rigby’s haste once again became his undoing, for he had miscalculated the lie of the land, which sloped away too steeply from the gate. The best Morgan’s gunners were able to do, therefore, was to damage a small section of wall high on the battlements, which the garrison was able to make good within the space of a couple of hours.
I felt sure Morgan had realised Rigby’s mistake, but he said nothing. Nonetheless, his mood cannot have been helped by the fact that one of his gunners was killed by one of Lady Derby’s marksmen, shooting through a pothole in the tower.
That afternoon, Morgan switched his attention from the postern gate to the main gateway, using his mortar five times to good effect. The growth in intensity of the bombardment was palpable, and there was a feeling of anticipation among our troops that at long last a reckoning was due, and that it would be Lady Derby who would be counting the cost.
For my part, I stayed well away from the action, not just because I was tired from the previous night’s exertions, but because I wanted to keep a watch over Bootle, who maintained an uneasy presence at New Park House and seemed to become increasingly disconcerted as the day progressed. He tried to affect a certain nonchalance, but I was not fooled, and I caught him several times staring through the windows in the direction of the siege works.
With Morgan continuing to bombard the house with mortar fire, albeit still restricted to the use of stones and boulders, I was not expecting any movement from the captain, but suddenly, at around three in the afternoon, out of the corner of my eye, I watched him sidl
e out of the drawing room. A few moments later I heard the crunch of footsteps on the stones in the courtyard as he marched towards the main gate.
I gave Bootle a few moments’ start, then made my way across the courtyard myself. As I did so, I signalled to Alexander, who had been sat in a corner of the yard, out of Bootle’s line of vision.
“You stay here and get some real sleep,” I said, “we need at least one of us to be awake later in order to maintain a watch.” My friend nodded gratefully and stumbled off in the direction of our chamber.
Once outside the house, I made my way through the gardens, past the dovecote, and out onto the track through the fields. Bootle, I noted with satisfaction, was still in sight, a couple of hundred yards ahead. Keeping to the hedgerows so as to avoid discovery, I followed him as far as the fork in the road, where the main route headed west into Ormskirk, leaving a smaller, narrower track heading north in the direction of Burscough. As I suspected, Bootle took the northern route, heading straight for the mill.
Two miles later, concealing myself as best I could behind a hedgerow, I watched the captain enter the mill buildings by a wooden door to what looked like a storeroom, before vanishing from sight. Thirty minutes after this, he reappeared, and, to my amazement, he did exactly as he had done the previous Sunday, heading straight for the ruined priory before disappearing from sight behind a wall.
I leapt from my hiding place and ran across towards the tumbledown ruins, but I was confused to find that Bootle had once again completely vanished, as if by magic. I walked slowly around the area where I had seen Bootle last, examining the walls for potential hiding places, but was disappointed to find nothing.
As I did so, however, I began to feel a strange prickling sensation on the back of my neck, as though I was being watched. I looked over my shoulder and nearly jumped out of my skin as a small figure appeared from behind the wall.
“Sweet Jesus,” I breathed, exhaling in relief as I recognised the scrawny shape of Jenny Reade. “Jenny, what the devil are you doing here?” I exclaimed.
“Same as you, Mr Cheswis, I s’ppose. He’s a strange fellow, that one. Disappears regular like, inside the mill, then vanishes like a ghost.”
“You’ve seen him before, Jenny?”
“Oh, aye, I notice things like that. Out of the ordnery, you see. He’s been up and down here regular as you like. Every few days, for sure, but nearly every day recently.”
“Any idea where he goes to?”
“Dunno, Mr Cheswis, but there’s some folks as say there’s a tunnel from here that leads to the house. P’raps that how Mr Chisnall managed to escape-“
Jenny got no further, for I grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead, transforming her face instantly into one of astonishment. Of course! Why had I not thought of that before? It was the obvious solution. All of a sudden, things started to fall into place. I cast my mind back and realised, suddenly, that the strangely familiar voice that I had heard from behind the door whilst imprisoned inside the house had been that of Bootle himself.
“Jenny,” I said, reaching inside my purse for a shilling and pressing it into her palm, “you don’t know how helpful you’ve been.”
Jenny’s face, on sight of the coin, slowly changed back into a grin, although it was clear that she had no idea why she had been so richly rewarded.
“Aye, well,” she said, “I’m happy to help you, Mr Cheswis. You’re always kind to me.”
So William Bootle was Rigby’s spy, I mused in wonder. Operating a sophisticated double bluff, he had been able to join Rigby’s forces as an informer, whilst all the time informing Lady Derby about Rigby’s own plans. I realised I had to report back to the colonel in order to effect Bootle’s arrest as soon as he returned to New Park House.
It was then, however, that I realised there was more to it than this, that my work was not quite done, and that Bootle could not be arrested just yet. There were still a few answers that I needed in order to complete the whole picture of what had happened during these past weeks. Bootle, I realised, would have to be afforded his freedom for a few days yet; but I knew exactly what to do. I had several tasks to complete, and for one of those tasks I needed the help of the young girl who was looking at me expectantly.
“Jenny,” I said. “There is one thing you can help me with. Do you know the house where John and Jane Bootle used to live?”
“The people who were murdered?” said Jenny. “Aye, their house backs onto the church.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Meet me outside the church after tomorrow’s service. I have something I need you to do for me.”
Chapter 32
Lathom House – Saturday April 20th, 1644 – Sunday April 21st, 1644
“Let me get this straight,” said Alexander, when I related my findings to him later that evening. “We have been sent to this hellhole for the sole purpose of identifying the spy within Rigby’s ranks. Against all odds, we have achieved that. If we have Bootle arrested today, we will be feted as heroes, and we will be allowed to return to our families in Nantwich in one piece and with our reputations enhanced. And yet you are proposing that we conceal our findings, running the risk of Bootle escaping justice and ourselves being arrested, all in order that you might solve three murders that neither took place within your jurisdiction, nor which you have any real obligation to solve. Have you taken leave of your senses?”
The logic of my friend’s argument, of course, was unimpeachable. I thought about Elizabeth, young Ralph, Mrs Padgett, Amy, Jack Wade, and all the others who depended on me, but then I considered the plight of William Seaman, who would surely hang if I were to abandon him. And, I had to admit it, there was also something within my nature which forbade me from leaving a job half done, an obsessiveness borne from perfectionism, which told me that it was my duty to unravel the mystery that was tearing the Seaman family apart. Mrs Padgett would have called it pig-headedness, and I could see from Alexander’s expression that he felt the same.
“You are like a dog with a bone, Daniel,” he said.
“I confess it,” I replied, “but if we do nothing, we are condemning William Seaman to death; besides which I believe I know how these murders were committed.”
“You do?” said Alexander, giving me a searching look. “How?”
“These killings are not related to Bootle’s activities as a spy,” I explained. “The murderer’s motives lie somewhere in the relationship between the four families of Bootle, Le Croix, Oulton, and Seaman, the exact nature of which I have not yet ascertained. This is partly due to the fact that we have not yet established where Marc Le Croix sits in all of this. He was simply here one day and gone the next. So is he an accessory or a victim? I have some theories, which I need to test, but I need a few days to prove them, and to do this, it is best if Bootle remains at large.”
“A few days?” exclaimed Alexander. “We don’t have that much time.”
“Perhaps that is so,” I conceded, “but I believe we do have a few days. Firstly, Bootle does not yet know that we suspect him. Secondly, tomorrow is Sunday, and from midday onwards, Bootle will be on duty in the siege works. From Monday till Tuesday, it is our turn in the trenches, but if I am right, Rigby will intensify his bombardment, at least for the early part of the week. We have, therefore, at least until Tuesday by my reckoning, perhaps a little longer. Let us be patient; we have no other option. If I reveal what I know now, Rigby, who as you know, doesn’t much care for either of us, will send us on our way.”
Alexander sighed in acquiescence. “And are you going to reveal your suspicions to me?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “I have one or two people to speak to first. Most important, though, is that you do not breathe a word of this to Lawrence or Beatrice. They must act naturally. We cannot tolerate either of them inadvertently alerting Bootle to what we know.”
***
Jenny Reade was waiting for me when I emerged from Reverend Nutt’s sermon the fo
llowing day. I found her sat on the church wall, swinging her legs to and fro and humming a tune to herself. Her dog was sleeping quietly in the grass beneath her feet.
“Don’t you attend church on a Sunday, Jenny?” I asked. “I find it relaxes the mind.”
“No point,” muttered the girl, moodily. “If God exists, he ain’t done me no favours, that’s for sure. An’ the folk round here don’t seem too mithered about me staying away, either. Best to keep myself to myself, if you ask me.”
I smiled in sympathy. Jenny’s viewpoint was understandable. Life had not dealt her a particularly advantageous hand. “I see you prefer your own company,” I said, “but nonetheless, it’s best if you show up every now and then. People are afraid of what they don’t know. You have a secretive nature, and you are known to be knowledgeable about herbs and remedies. You would not be the first woman to fall foul of such a set of circumstances.”
“You mean they’ll have me for a witch?”
“That’s what I fear,” I admitted.
Jenny smiled and put her hand on my arm. “Your concern for us is strange, Mr Cheswis,” she said, “but it is welcome. What is it you want of me today?”
“The benefit of your knowledge,” I replied. “I believe Mr Bootle may have been poisoned. If I describe the symptoms, would you be able to hazard a guess at the cause?”
“I can try.”
“Good,” I said. “Wild, staring eyes, hallucinations, ranting speech, a feeling of flying. What can cause that?”
Jenny looked at me curiously for a moment and then took me by the hand. Leading me through the churchyard, she headed straight for the wall which backed onto the Bootles’ house and gestured towards a clump of ugly-looking plants with sticky, hairy stems and triangular, pointed leaves.
“Henbane,” she said. “Many also call it stinking nightshade because of its smell. In small quantities it has a strong calming effect. Good for the nerves, so my mam used to say. She used to mix it with other herbs to make ointments and poultices. It’s dangerous, though, if you don’t know what you’re doing. If you take too much, it will send you into a sleep from which you will not wake. It could be something else, but, as you see, it grows here aplenty.”
A Soldier of Substance Page 23