“And then send the dog over to the house, I suppose? Jenny, you must be careful, you will get yourself arrested.”
“But what am I to do?” she retorted, her voice angry now, eyes flashing dangerously. “My brother Harry is inside the house, trapped. Until this siege ends and he’s free, I have to look after my other brother an’ sister myself, an’ as you can see, we have little to call our own. I have to go outside to earn or scavenge what I can. My brother an’ sister are too young for this, so they stay at home an’ look after the house.”
“And they can do that?”
“They are young, but I’ve shown ‘em what to do. How to clean, cook, make a fire. When you have nobody else, you learn quickly. But I repeat, we wait for Harry to come home. The house is now his, and he’ll look after us once he’s free. Until then we must wait.”
“Harry has told you this?”
“In his messages, aye, of course.”
I stood in silence for a moment and looked at Jenny in pity. She was truly trapped, with no option but to do her brother’s bidding, regardless of the risk to herself.
“Very well,” I said, eventually. “So tell me, you have been keeping watch on the mill for a while. Is Bootle the only person you have seen there?”
“No, there’ve been others. I’ve seen Mr Chisnall a couple of times. I believe his horse may be kept there now.”
“And how does Chisnall get there? The same way as Bootle? From somewhere in the priory?”
Jenny nodded. “But there is also someone else,” she said, “someone inside the mill. I couldn’t see her properly, but she opened the door for the others a couple of times.”
I looked up sharply. “Her?” I said. “You mean there’s a woman in there?”
“Aye. As I say, she keeps in the shadows, away from view.”
I smiled at Jenny, gratefully. Little did she know it, but she had finally helped me fill in the final piece of the puzzle. I now saw the whole picture.
“Jenny,” I said. “I am going to need your help. Let me explain why.”
And so I took this twelve year old girl into my confidence. I told her the whole story. I recounted how I had been recruited to identify Lady Derby’s spy within Rigby’s inner circle. I explained how this was connected to the murders in Chester and Ormskirk. I described how and why the killings had been carried out and by whom, and I gave Jenny my pledge that if she helped me, then I would make sure that Rigby knew about it, but that news of how she had helped would go no further than that. Finally, once she had taken all this in and her stupefaction at my story had subsided, I arranged to meet her outside her house at one-thirty in the morning, from where we would walk to the church together.
***
It was a dark night, thick rolling cloud having drifted in during the course of the afternoon. The air was still and heavy and, as Jenny and I sat on the wall by the lych gate, the brooding presence of the church spire and tower watched over us, the structures looming like twin sentinels. I could almost feel their disappointment at what we were about to do. The town was silent at two in the morning, which was just as well, for discovery was not to be contemplated.
Presently, I spotted a light bobbing its way up the slope to the church, and, out of the gloom, the figures of Alexander, Beatrice, and Lawrence began to take shape. Beatrice, I noticed, was carrying the lantern, using her hand to shield the light source, in order to reduce the risk of being spotted. Alexander and Lawrence both had spades slung over their shoulders.
“Courtesy of Mr Browne,” explained Lawrence, as the little group reached me. “Taken without his knowledge, of course. We will return them in the morning.”
It was Alexander who first noticed Jenny sat on the wall beside me. “What is she doing here?” he asked, his features gradually freezing as realisation dawned. “God’s blood, Daniel. I hope I have this wrong. Please do not tell me you mean for us to dig up the body of this girl’s mother.”
“Do not concern yourself, my friend,” I said. “We will just be digging up her grave. There is a difference, as you will see.”
“Good God, man. They will burn us for this,” hissed Lawrence, as Beatrice stifled a squeal.
“Only if they catch us,” I said. “Come, this will not take long. Let us get it over with. Jenny, please lead the way.”
Jenny pushed herself nimbly off the wall and beckoned for us to follow. Unlocking the lych gate as gently as possible, she led us down the path towards the church entrance before veering off to the left through rows of gravestones, until we arrived at a recently dug plot fronted by a plain headstone. We were, I noted, no more than fifty yards from the rear of the Bootles’ house and therefore directly on the route Isaac would have taken to return home.
“Here we are, Mr Cheswis,” whispered Jenny. “Let us hope you’re right.”
I nodded at Jenny and beckoned for Alexander to give me his spade. I started digging quickly at the loose soil, piling it up in a mound by the grave. After a few seconds, Lawrence shrugged and joined in, digging furiously and creating his own pile of soil.
“If someone comes now, we are all in the shit together,” he said, by way of explanation. Beatrice grimaced and placed the lantern behind the gravestone, so that the grave was still illuminated but so the lantern was not visible from the roadway.
“Very well, Daniel,” said Alexander. “You win, give me the shovel. I am stronger than you.”
After a few minutes digging, I heard the soft clunk of metal on wood and a gasp of exclamation from Lawrence.
“The coffin lid is loose,” he exclaimed. “Are you going to tell us what is going on, Daniel?”
“In a moment,” I said. “Scrape away the rest of the loose earth and see if you can remove the coffin lid.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” came the reply. “The wood has been smashed down one side.” Squinting, I peered into the hole and realised that Lawrence was right. Alexander quickly shovelled away the remaining loose earth and prised off the shattered coffin lid. Five pairs of eyes focused simultaneously on the contents, of which there were none. As I had anticipated, the casket was completely empty.
Chapter 35
Lathom House – Thursday April 25th, 1644
Samuel Rutter dragged his portly frame across the cobbles of the main courtyard and clicked his tongue in irritation. Now he was in his late thirties, he was finding it less easy to move freely about the house than he used to.
“You will have to temper your appetite, Samuel,” her ladyship had remarked on several occasions. “You are becoming fat.”
Concerns of such a vain nature would have to wait, however, for more pressing matters were at hand. He looked around himself, and his heart sank. Several of the flimsier outbuildings – servants quarters, stables, and workshops – had been levelled by Rigby’s grenades. There was a huge hole in the side of the Eagle Tower, exposing a staircase, and the clock on the Chapel Tower had been destroyed, leaving debris scattered around the courtyard. Worse still, unease had begun to develop among the regular soldiers. Those housed in the lath and plaster upper storeys of the main building had refused to remain there unless the officers joined them, and it did not take an expert artilleryman to deduce that the team operating Rigby’s mortar was becoming more accurate as each day passed.
And to top it all, a drummer boy sent by Rigby was waiting at the main gate with the rebel cur’s latest ultimatum. No officer, mind – just a slip of a drummer boy. The studied insult was not lost on Rutter, who growled quietly under his breath as he approached the nervous-looking youth, who was holding a small leather satchel. The boy could not have been more than fifteen years old.
“My, have you drawn the short straw, young man,” said Rutter. “I cannot begin to hazard a guess as to what you have done to upset the colonel so.”
“Sir?” The boy, clearly terrified, proffered the satchel to Rutter, who shook his head.
“That is not for my eyes,” he said. “You may deliver your colonel’
s latest dose of poison directly into her ladyship’s hands. Follow me.”
Rutter led the boy, flanked by two guards, back across the courtyard, in through the door of the main house and into a drawing room, where Lady Derby and William Farrington were stood waiting.
“So,” said the countess, drawing herself up to her full height. “You are the best messenger Rigby could muster, are you? Parliament’s elite, so to speak?”
“Y-yes, my lady,” said the boy, fumbling with the satchel. “The colonel has correspondence for you. He would have me convey your response to him.”
“I’m sure he would,” she snapped. “Well, let me have it, then. I haven’t got all day.”
The youth handed the satchel to the countess, who drew out a sealed letter, which she opened and read slowly, her expression becoming gradually more strained as she did so. Eventually, she uttered a low, spluttering sound and exploded in anger.
“Such insolence!” she spat, tearing the message in two and tossing it at the boy’s feet. “That man will yet feel the force of my wrath in return for his treachery. As for you, my boy, a due reward for your pains would be to be hanged from our gates. Guards! Secure him, and lock him up.”
The boy gave a brief moan of terror as the two guards grabbed hold of him, one thrusting his knee into his back and forcing him to fall backwards in pain. William Farrington, who, until now, had remained silent and stony-faced, stepped forward and raised his hand.
“My lady,” he said, calmly, “I would caution you against this course of action. He is but a boy, and making an example of him will serve no purpose other than to enrage the colonel even further.
The countess stared at Farrington for a moment before exhaling in resignation. “Very well, William,” she said. “Your counsel is always wise. You are right. The boy is simply the foolish instrument of a traitor’s pride. I will instruct the boy to carry back our answer and save our anger for another day.”
“Thank you, my lady. I think that would be the most prudent response, under the circumstances.”
“As for you,” said the countess, turning to the petrified youth, “you may tell that insolent rebel he shall have neither persons, goods, nor house. When our strengths and provisions are spent, we shall find a fire more merciful than Rigby; and then, if the providence of God prevents it not, my goods and house shall burn in his sight, and myself, children, and soldiers, rather than fall into his hands, will seal our religion and loyalty in the same flames. Guards!” she added. “You may show this boy the way out.”
Without a word, the two soldiers manhandled the boy roughly out of the house, across the courtyard, and ejected him with a shove out of the gate from whence he had come.
“Gentlemen,” said the countess, once the room had emptied, leaving only Farrington and Rutter present. “It has come to this. How should we respond to this latest provocation?”
Rutter glanced briefly at Farrington, who nodded imperceptibly, allowing the chaplain to speak.
“My lady,” he said, “the men of this garrison have conducted themselves with skill and bravery, but the time has come when this is no longer enough. Yesterday, one of the enemy’s grenades exploded close to where you and your daughters were at dinner. Today, you are safe, but the next time it may be different. Furthermore, we have it on good authority that Rigby received a full delivery of grenades yesterday, so he no longer needs to ration his mortar fire. If we do not do something tonight, then this place will become Hell on Earth.”
“So what do you propose?” asked the countess.
“I say we must summon Captain Farmer and make our plans without delay. The time has come to kill or be killed...but, above all, we must capture that mortar.”
Chapter 36
Lathom House – Wednesday April 24th – Thursday April 25th, 1644
Once we had restored Mary Reade’s grave to something approaching its former state, we extinguished the lantern, and all five of us walked together, in silence, to Jenny’s cottage. None of us wished to raise suspicion by returning to our respective lodgings at such an unearthly hour, for fear that somebody else underway at that time had happened to notice the strange activities taking place in the churchyard.
Jenny offered Beatrice the use of her brother Harry’s empty truckle bed, which she gratefully accepted, but the rest of us passed an uncomfortable night huddled on the floor near the hearth in the hall.
Before Beatrice retired for the night, I used the opportunity to explain what I had told Jenny the day before. The most difficult aspect was clarifying why it was necessary to prove Bootle a spy before doing anything about the murders.
“Firstly,” I said, “we need to discover how Bootle and Chisnall have been getting in and out of Lathom House – that is the main priority. If we simply arrest Bootle, we can prove nothing, and the captain will deny everything. We have to catch him in the act; red-handed, as it were.”
“I understand that,” said Lawrence, “but if Bootle did not commit the atrocities that took place in his brother’s house, why can we not simply reveal what happened there, secure my father’s release, and reveal Bootle’s status as a spy later?”
“That,” I explained, “is self-evident. If Bootle is given any hint that we are close to solving this matter, both he and the murderer will abscond, your father will not be able to prove his innocence, and there will be little point in us revealing what we discovered in the graveyard; unless, of course, we wish to explain to the authorities what we were doing digging up Mary Reade’s grave in the dead of night. Indeed, it is likely that we will be accused of stealing her body.”
“And then there is the issue of Marc,” added Alexander, helpfully.
“That is correct,” I said. “We still don’t know where Marc is being kept, or indeed whether he is alive or dead. If we wish to ascertain this, then we have but one course of action that is open to us.”
And so it was that we were forced to stake everything on the belief that Bootle would need to consult his paymasters within Lathom House at least one more time before Rigby launched a final attack with his beloved mortar.
This proved more difficult than at first thought. On the Wednesday, Bootle was kept busy all day by Rigby, who needed him to help Morgan’s artillery team direct mortar and cannon fire at the most vulnerable places within the house.
When a full shipment of grenades was delivered to a beaming Morgan during the course of the morning, I began to be worried, and when, early on Thursday, Rigby sent over an ultimatum to Lady Derby and announced a twenty-four hour truce to allow her ladyship to digest the colonel’s offer, I realised that time was running short. Nonetheless, with the guns guaranteed to be silent that afternoon, and with Bootle granted leave in advance of whatever Rigby had planned for the morrow, I guessed that if the captain planned one last visit to the house, he would do it that afternoon.
The difficulty, of course, was that Alexander, Lawrence, and I were due to be on duty from midday onwards. Shortly after breakfast, therefore, I drew the engineer Browne to one side and asked him to inform Rigby that all three of us were on urgent business relating to my primary responsibility at the camp and would return as soon as events would allow.
Alexander and I then made our way through the garden, past the dovecote, and out onto the path that led northwards from New Park House. However, instead of heading directly to Burscough, we walked down the lane to Ormskirk, in order to find Lawrence, and located him in the tavern where Beatrice was staying, where he was making short work of a breakfast of bread, butter, and salted bacon. Beatrice, who was with him, looked pale and was eating nothing.
I quickly explained our plan to Lawrence, who nodded eagerly and gulped down a few more chunks of bread, before gathering up his pistol and gesturing to us that he was ready to leave.
“I would come too,” said Beatrice, more in hope than expectation, but I shook my head.
“It is too dangerous,” I said, “and besides, you will serve us better if you wait here. If w
e have not returned by first light tomorrow, you may go to New Park House and raise the alarm.”
Beatrice was reluctant to accept my suggestion. However, she understood my reasoning and eventually acquiesced, giving each of us a hug, which naturally attracted curious looks from those at the adjacent table, before allowing us on our way.
Forty minutes later, when we arrived in Burscough, we split up. Lawrence positioned himself in a copse of trees, which overlooked the narrow track coming from the direction of Lathom, whilst Alexander found a suitable location near some bushes a couple of hundred yards along the Ormskirk road, just in case Bootle approached from that direction. I, for my part, picked my way through the ruins of the priory until I found a good position behind one of the crumbling walls, from where I had acceptable views both of the spot where I imagined Bootle had disappeared a few days previously, and of Alexander and Lawrence’s respective positions.
And there we sat, for what seemed like an eternity. But eventually, sometime during the late afternoon, I was roused from my thoughts by the sight of Lawrence, who had stepped out from behind a tree and was waving frantically in my direction. I cast my eyes to the left of where he was standing, and, sure enough, weaving his way in between the hedgerows, was the unmistakeable figure of William Bootle.
The plan Lawrence, Alexander, and I had devised was that the two others would wait until Bootle had entered the mill, at which point they would join me, and we would wait together for Bootle to make his way over to the priory.
If Bootle had behaved exactly as he had on previous occasions, there is every likelihood that what happened next could have been avoided. However, to my consternation, the captain, instead of making for the mill, made a beeline directly for where I was crouching. I could see Lawrence in the distance, looking earnestly in my direction and then setting off at pace towards me, but he was too late. Bootle, who, I noticed, was carrying a lantern, stepped over a stile and ploughed through thick undergrowth until he reached a stone alcove a few yards from where I was positioned. There he bent over, opened a trapdoor in the middle of the pathway, and disappeared from view.
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