Skinner, a thin, gangly youth of fifteen with a pale complexion, had been working for me for nearly three months now. He came from a large family of brine workers and was recommended to me by one of the walling overseers in charge of the brine-making process in my own wich house. I was already regretting the decision to take him on. Often disinterested, he bore a constant hangdog demeanour and needed more supervision than he should have done. He was certainly not suitable as a future partner, and I had left the walling overseer in no doubt as to my opinions of his recommendation. Today would be the first time that I would have to leave Skinner on his own, a thought which filled me with trepidation.
Presently, he ambled round the corner of Beam Street and made his way slowly up the street. He was exchanging a degree of banter with two milkmaids, who swished their pails as they walked. By the sound of the cackling being emitted by the girls, it was the kind of crude, inappropriate conversation of which I disapproved. After a few seconds, he caught my eye and, no doubt chastened by the glare I gave him, abruptly ceased his conversation and quickened his pace.
“You’re late,” I growled, as he made his way behind the tables. “I’ve had to set up everything by myself.”
Skinner apologised begrudgingly. “I’m sorry, Master Cheswis,” he said. “My father is not well and I’ve had to help my mother with some of her tasks.”
I had no time to lecture Skinner on the importance of punctuality, so I let it go and focused instead on making sure he understood exactly what was expected of him whilst I was away.
“You know the prices,” I said. “Do not, under any circumstances, leave the stall unattended. If you really need help, call Mrs Padgett.”
At that moment, my housekeeper poked her head around the door to check how I was getting on. I pulled her to one side.
“Keep an eye on him,” I whispered. “We have a lot of cheese to sell and we can’t afford any disasters. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Can you not leave a man to care for his own business every now and again?” scolded Margery Clowes. It was meant half in jest, but she had a right to complain. I had been taking up much of my best friend Alexander’s time of late, and his wife was starting to become irked at my constant requests for his services as an assistant, to help with my constabulary duties. Today she stood with her arms folded, barring entry to her hall. Three doors away, Skinner looked up from the table piled high with cheese and smirked, quickly averting his gaze when his smile was met with a glare from my direction.
I peered behind Margery into the semi-darkness of her hallway and was rewarded with a view of the grinning face of Alexander Clowes, who was drawing his finger across his throat in mocking glee at my discomfort.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Margery,” I said, truthfully, “but today I have a good excuse. A body has been found by the sconce at Welsh Row End. I need someone to help me investigate.”
Margery rolled her eyes and was about to say something, but my friend’s not-inconsiderable frame had already appeared out of the gloom and he was looking at me with interest. “A body, you say?” he interjected. “Does that mean we have a murder to investigate? Who?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I replied. “One of the townsfolk, as yet unidentified. He was hit over the head. Seems he took a proper basting.”
Alexander emitted a low whistle and ruffled his shock of sandy hair. Margery, giving up in exasperation, had already turned back into the house.
Alexander Clowes had been my best friend ever since I moved to Nantwich. He was the same age as me, but, unlike myself, was blessed with both height and bulk, very useful attributes in a constable’s assistant. Despite his size, though, Alexander was of a genial disposition, a gentle giant in every sense of the phrase, and I enjoyed his company. He ran a chandler’s shop, but also held the position of the town’s bellman, a role his father had held before him and which had often prompted him to jest that he was the town’s primary supplier of both sound and light.
Alexander had been happily married to Margery for four years and had two young sons, Nicholas and William, who, as a godparent, I treasured dearly. Alexander rarely wasted an opportunity to recommend marriage to me, but it was his shoulder that I had cried on when I lost Alice ten years previously. He understood why I had remained a bachelor, but it didn’t stop him trying to persuade me to find someone else.
“Cecilia Padgett has her good points as a housemate, but a full belly isn’t everything,” he would often say, as I smiled indulgently. He was right, of course.
Alexander grabbed his cloak, and we walked down Pepper Street, through the snow and into the Beast Market, which was already teeming with farmers and their livestock. Talking to one of the farmers was a short, stocky man with a neatly trimmed beard, who I recognised as Will Butters, head servant at Townsend House, one of the town’s larger private residences. Butters was one of my regular cheese customers, and I hailed him as we approached.
“Good morrow, Will,” I called. “What’s new today?”
“There’s some kind of bother up at the sconce, constable,” he said, acknowledging my greeting. “Some poor bastard found dead in the snow, so I hear. I’d get up there quickly if I were you. I’m told Major Lothian is demanding the presence of a constable.”
I nodded my thanks and headed off through the throng of market-goers, taking care to avoid the carts trundling round the corner from the direction of Town Bridge; the wooden structure which spanned the River Weaver. The majority were bringing goods into town for the market, although one or two jaggers’ carts, laden with coal for the wich houses on the other side of the river, were fighting against the tide and heading into Welsh Row. The ground was frozen solid, which was good for the carts, but experience told me the road would become a morass once the snow thawed.
We crossed the bridge and passed the salt-making area on the west bank of the river, heading out of the town centre. After passing a row of workshops, alehouses, and modest tenements, inhabited largely by brine workers, we approached a number of more elegant residences. On the right was Townsend House, a substantial brick property with bay windows and a walled garden, the walls ornamented with armorial bearings and figures. Townsend House had been the home of Thomas Wilbraham, one of the town’s most prominent gentlemen and a respected supporter of the crown. Nantwich people still talked about the visit of King James to Nantwich in 1617, when Wilbraham had played host to his Majesty.
But times had changed. Thomas Wilbraham had died in October, and the estate had been left in the hands of his sons. Young Roger Wilbraham was stood by the gate as we walked by, and I bid him good day as we passed. From Townsend House it was not far to the earthworks, beyond which lay Dorfold House, the home of another branch of the Wilbraham family, the village of Acton, and the main road to Wales. Not that I could see far into the countryside, of course, because the imposing earthen walls at the edge of the town were four yards high, three yards thick, and had been built to withstand the heaviest cannonballs. Atop the earthworks which encircled the entire town was a wooden wall and walkway, accessed by wooden ladders. On the other side of the wall was a ditch. At the end of each street, sconces had been built, star-shaped fortifications designed to enable soldiers within the walls to fire at attackers from behind.
As we approached, I noticed Major Lothian waiting impatiently by the sconce with several other men, who were stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. He broke off his conversation and turned to me.
“What sort of timekeeping is this?” he barked, in his thick Scots accent.
“I came as quickly as I could,” I replied, unperturbed. “There are only two constables in Nantwich, and I have a living to make. At least your men managed to locate me. I understand Sawyer was nowhere to be found.”
Lothian grunted. The sharp-eyed Scotsman was a short man with angular features and slightly greying hair. He had a reputation for being dour, but he was undeniably an excellent soldier. Efficient and highly regarded, he
bore the unmistakeable demeanour of a professional. He was most definitely not a man to be crossed.
“Follow me,” he said, motioning towards a group of people huddled together fifty yards or so to the right of the road. “I have some work for you – and for you too, master bell ringer,” he added, turning to Alexander. My friend acknowledged the comment. As the town’s bellman, he would be responsible for the process of lating on the morning of the burial of the poor soul lying by the roadside, ringing his bell to invite mourners to the funeral.
Lothian led us to a ditch behind a barn, twenty yards or so from the earthworks. I took a quick look around me and made a mental note that, despite the ditch’s proximity to the fortifications, the body was actually out of sight of anybody patrolling the walkway.
I took a look into the ditch and grimaced. The dead body had been a tall, thin man in his early thirties. I didn’t recognise him, but that was not necessarily surprising, as the left side of his head had been staved in, perhaps with a rock or some other heavy object. The body was in a grotesque position, arms splayed and half-covered in snow. Tied tightly round his neck was a large, crimson silk scarf. I took a closer look at the ugly wound on the side of the man’s head. There were some bloodstains in the snow, but nowhere near enough for the catastrophic injuries that had been inflicted on the victim.
“Who found the body?” I asked, eventually. Robert Hollis raised his hand. He was the barn owner, a balding, middle-aged man, a local farmer who I had known for some time.
“Tell me what you saw, Robert,” I said.
“I saw nothing,” said the farmer, with a shrug. “I came by the barn at around six this morning to feed the cattle and found him lying here. He was stone dead.”
I nodded and turned to the group of soldiers who had been stood there when I arrived.
“Did anybody see or hear what happened?” I asked. The soldiers looked at each other but said nothing. Eventually, a stocky musketeer with red hair stepped forward and spoke.
“It was dark and there was no noise from this direction,” he ventured. “We can’t see behind the barn from here, and we were keeping watch for people outside the town, not for those within it.”
I looked at the dead man again.
“This body’s been moved,” I said. “There’s not enough blood for him to have been killed here, but I can’t see the drag marks in the earth because of the snow. Does anybody have a spade?”
Hollis nodded, and a couple of minutes later he emerged from his barn with a suitable implement. Two soldiers, meanwhile, returned to the sconce and found two more spades. Standing on the edge of the ditch furthest away from the earthworks, I slowly began to scrape away snow from the edge of the pit. As I did so, I noticed boot-marks on the edge of the pit and lines in the earth, leading away at an angle towards a wall to the rear of a tavern about fifty yards away. The lines were indistinct, for the ground had been close to freezing the night before and was now rock hard. Nevertheless, they were distinct enough.
“Here. Clear a line in the direction of that wall,” I shouted to the two soldiers with spades. As they did so, I saw that the drag marks extended for quite a distance.
“Looks like he’s been dragged from the tavern,” said Alexander, striding off in the direction of the wall, leaving myself and Lothian in his wake. We soon found what we were looking for. A perfunctory glance at the top of the wall revealed numerous blood stains, whilst the snow on the other side was stained a curious shade of pink. Ten yards away, a stone about a foot square lay crimson and bloody, having been ditched in the snow.
“Does anyone know who the victim is?” I enquired, on returning to the ditch. The soldiers looked blank, but Hollis spoke up.
“I think you’ll find it’s William Tench. He’s a tanner from up Hospital Street, I think.”
“Do you know him, then?” I asked.
“Not well, only by sight, but he was in The White Swan last night, drunk. If I were you, I’d have a word with the innkeeper.”
“That I shall,” I said. “Does he have any family?”
“He has a wife. She’s a maid in Randle Church’s house. They live in one of Mr Church’s cottages nearby.”
I considered what Hollis had said, but, at that moment, my thought process was broken by a commotion coming from the direction of the sconce. Presently, a soldier came running in the direction of Major Lothian, and six bedraggled-looking men were manhandled into the open, where Lothian could see them.
“What do we have here?” scowled the Scotsman, looking at the newcomers with evident distaste.
“They claim to be deserters from the Irish army, sir,” said the soldier. “They say they’ve marched from Chester and want to change sides.”
Lothian glanced at the sorry-looking group of men, who were shivering miserably. Ambling over to them, he addressed their apparent leader, a broad-shouldered man in his late twenties.
“What say you to this?”
“He s-speaks the truth, sir,” stammered the man, in a local accent. Several of the onlookers eyed the man with surprise when they heard his voice, but Lothian showed no reaction other than to look the man up and down.
“At least you are not an Irishman,” he said, eventually.
“No, sir. My n-name is Samuel Pratchett. I am from Warrington. All my f-friends here are from Cheshire or Shropshire, as are most of the men I have served with. There have been only a few Irishmen amongst our number.”
“I see. And why have you deserted, may I ask?”
“It is one thing to fight for the King against the papists, sir. Quite another to fight against your own people.”
Lothian smiled almost imperceptibly.
“So it is, Mr Pratchett,” he said. “You and your men are welcome in Nantwich.”
The six deserters breathed an audible sigh of relief, but one of them approached Pratchett and whispered something in his ear. Pratchett listened carefully and nodded to his colleague.
“Is there something the matter?” asked Lothian.
“N-no, sir. We thank you for your hospitality. It’s just that Will Sparrowe here was concerned that this m-might be how you treat recruits from the King’s army.” Pratchett gestured towards the figure of Tench lying in the ditch. Lothian’s brow clouded for a moment, but I understood Pratchett’s meaning and stepped in.
“I think our friend may be referring to the scarf around Tench’s neck,” I explained. “Is that not so, Mr Pratchett?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied.
I had been so preoccupied with working out how Tench had ended up in the ditch that I had failed to pay any great attention to the eight-foot-long crimson sash that had been tied in a tight knot around the dead man’s neck. Made of silk twill and with embroidered gold fringing, it was clearly a particularly ornate example of the kind of scarf used by officers to denote their allegiance. I tried to loosen the knot around Tench’s throat and realised that, had the rock that had been embedded in Tench’s skull failed to do its job, the scarf would have surely succeeded. As I finally loosened the knot, I saw a bright red mark stretching all the way from the back of Tench’s neck to his Adam’s apple.
“A red scarf,” exclaimed Lothian, who had clearly also not recognised the sash for what it was. “A sign of one of the King’s men.”
“Indeed,” I concurred, “but this is no ordinary scarf. Look at the fine finishing on it. If this was used for military purposes, it belonged to someone of high rank. Why on Earth would a humble tanner be found strangled with such a thing?”
The Scotsman shook his head ruefully but didn’t answer.
“Perhaps the answer to that question lies in The White Swan tavern,” suggested Alexander.
“You’re right,” I said. “Perhaps it’s time to pay the landlord a visit.”
4
Nantwich – Saturday, December 9, 1643
After asking Lothian to summon the coroner, I left him to his job of debriefing the group of deserters, who were already being
marched up Welsh Row in the direction of the town centre. Food and warmth, no doubt, awaited them in The Lamb, the inn at the top end of Hospital Street that served as the garrison’s headquarters. I permitted Alexander to return home, but asked him to check on my cheese stall on the way back. Once satisfied, I made my way to the front of The White Swan and headed for the door, which, I noticed, had been left wide open, presumably to let the stale smells of the previous night escape into the winter air.
The White Swan had always struck me as a curious place. Situated on the edge of Nantwich, it mainly attracted brine workers or local farmers on their way into or out of town. Although there were sufficient bedchambers and adequate stabling to meet the needs of paying travellers, most of the space had been occupied by lower-ranking officers from the garrison. I stepped inside and caught a strong waft of sweat, beer, and stale tobacco. I found the innkeeper, a short, squat man by the name of Edmund Parker, by the bar, sweeping the floor. He glanced up and registered my presence, but said nothing.
I had come to know Edmund Parker only since I had become a constable, and I was not particularly impressed. In my office, I had become responsible for a number of tasks relating to alehouses, not least for maintaining order, but also for their relicensing. I had split this task with Arthur Sawyer, taking responsibility for all alehouses and taverns east of the river, in addition to those on Beam Street, Swine Market, Pepper Street, Churchyardside, Monks Lane, and the High Street as far as the Square. Everything else was Sawyer’s domain.
I had found Parker to be less than helpful when it came to maintaining law and order in his premises. Although he could not be accused of being openly hostile to me, he made it clear that my presence was welcome only when absolutely necessary. This approach was no doubt due to an incident which occurred during my first week as a constable, when Alexander and I were called to attend to a disturbance between an off-duty soldier and one of Parker’s regulars, a farm-hand called Briggs. Alexander, who was not a man to be messed with, had ejected both men single-handedly, banging Briggs’ head on the door on the way out. Despite the fact that Briggs had been much the worse for drink and had clearly been the main aggressor, Parker had not welcomed the intervention, pointing out that he could handle any disturbances in his tavern by himself and did not appreciate his regular customers being set upon by the town constable and his lackeys. For my part, I had responded that I was unlikely to allow his license to be renewed if he did not co-operate with me while I was doing my duty.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 3