Our relationship was, at best, strained, and therefore it was no surprise to find Parker ignoring me.
“A moment of your time, please, Mr Parker,” I ventured, attempting to break the ice.
“Just so long as that loutish chandler is not with you, constable,” came the reply. “What do you want with me? You should know by now that I keep an orderly house here.”
“Not last night, it appears,” I replied. “One of your customers was bludgeoned to death in your back yard, and his body has just been found behind Hollis’s barn near the earthworks.”
Parker stopped his sweeping and looked at me evenly, leaning on his brush. “What happens outside these four walls is none of my business,” he said. “Who was the unfortunate fellow?”
“A man called William Tench, a tanner from Hospital Street. Do you know him?”
Parker shrugged. “What makes you think he was here?”
“If you’d care to examine the bloodstains on the wall at the back of your yard, I think you will find that it is easy enough to prove his presence on your land,” I said, irritably. “It’s been said he was drinking here last night. I wanted to know whether you noticed anything unusual.”
“The alehouse was full last night. I can’t be expected to keep an eye on everyone.”
I took a deep breath. “Look, Mr Parker,” I said. “I don’t particularly want to cause you any trouble, but I do require your co-operation. If you prefer, I can always close your tavern until the matter is clarified. What is it to be?”
Parker gave me a sullen look. “What do you want to know about Tench?” he asked.
“So he was here?” I said.
“Yes. He comes in here every now and again.”
“Why would a man from the other side of town come to The White Swan, instead of going somewhere closer?”
“I can’t tell you that. But he did have the habit of talking to the soldiers. They were a bit wary of him. He would ask them questions about their soldiering – you know, a bit more than would come up in normal conversation. It seems he would do this in other alehouses too. Folks had begun to wonder whether he was a royalist scout or something.”
“Really?” I said, amazed. “Why on earth has this never been reported?”
Parker shrugged. “Nobody could ever prove anything, and he never hung around long enough to make himself a proper pest. In any case, the people he spoke to were generally too drunk to care. I didn’t want any trouble, so if he started to bother the customers, I generally told him to move on, and I wouldn’t see him for a few weeks. In any case, he was usually careful not to antagonise anyone.”
“And do you remember him from last night?”
“Alright. If you insist, yes I did. He stood out because this time he was in a blazing argument with John Davenport.”
I stared at Parker with surprise. “You mean John Davenport, the brine worker from Great Wood Street?”
“How many other John Davenports do you know?” came the caustic response. I pulled aside a chair at one of the tables and sat down for a moment. If this were true, then I was no judge of character. John Davenport was well known to me. He was the owner of the wich house next to mine, and I counted him and his wife amongst my friends.
Parker looked at me with an amused expression. “A friend of yours, is he?” he asked.
“By the look on your face, I suspect you know that already,” I said. “What were they arguing about?”
“I don’t know,” replied Parker. “The tavern was noisy, but Davenport was as white as a sheet. He was deadly angry. I could have sworn he was going to hit Tench.”
“But he didn’t?”
“No. They talked for a while, and then Davenport got up and stormed out. Tench finished his drink and left about ten minutes later.”
I considered the situation. I had done plenty of contract work with John Davenport over the years, and I thought I knew him well enough to think that he could not possibly be responsible for the violence inflicted on Tench. Nevertheless, I realised that I would have to interview him. I got to my feet, thanked Parker for the information, and headed for the door.
With the market now in full swing and the need to locate Arthur Sawyer ever more pressing, I decided it would be prudent to return to town via an alternative route. So, once across the bridge, I skirted to my right down the Water Lode, the narrow lane that led to the fordable part of the River Weaver. In order to avoid the crowds, I followed the line of the earthworks past the bottom of Castle Street, where butchers’ lads were busy climbing the walls to deposit meat scraps into the river. From there, I passed the end of Barker Street and eventually arrived at the bottom of Pillory Street, where the onion sellers and other vegetable farmers had set up their stalls.
The town on market day was always a seething mass of humanity, and not knowing the whereabouts of my colleague, I realised I would have my work cut out for me if I were to make it back to my stall in time to relieve Skinner.
My first task was to deal with two vagrants who had been caught begging from the townsfolk as they shopped. With the help of a couple of grateful stallholders, they were quickly ushered into the town jail, located halfway along Pillory Street, to wait until such time as I could deliver them into the next parish. The next problem was a dispute over weights and measures between a customer and an onion seller, who had come into town from one of the nearby villages. The two adversaries had almost come to blows when I arrived on the scene, and neither was in the mood to be calmed down. Far from being pacified by my attempts at mediation and my suggestion that the issue should be settled by the town’s leave-lookers, the stallholder carried on in a shameful manner for fully five minutes, before deciding to take a swing at me. He too had to be bundled, cursing loudly, into a cell alongside the vagrants, whilst the market inspectors did their work. I could see it was going to be a long day.
As I battled with the ill-tempered market trader, my eyes fell on the unmistakeable pock-marked face and bulbous nose of the man I was seeking. Arthur Sawyer, a short, wiry man, was stood with an amused look on his face by one of the cell doors. Towering over him at his side stood the town bailiff, Andrew Hopwood, who nodded a curt greeting. Unsmiling and taciturn in nature, the tall official cut a gaunt figure, dressed, as he was, soberly, in the Dutch style.
“Good morning, Cheswis,” chuckled Sawyer. “You seem on rare form today. Two wastrels and a well-cankered farmer – and all within ten minutes. The jail will be fit to burst if you carry on at this rate.”
“It is not the vagrants that bother me,” I replied. “As a bangbeggar I am now well-practiced, but I’d be pleased to avoid having to put up with being assaulted by swindling stallholders and angry market-goers quite so often.”
“Well said, my friend, but it seems you are only too keen to place yourself at the mercy of angry tradesmen. It is not even your turn to be on duty. Why are you not at your cheese stall?”
I thought it somewhat rich to be spoken to in this manner by a runagate like Sawyer, who seemed to prefer gossiping with the bailiff to keeping order within the town, so I let my feelings be known. “You’re nought to brag on,” I said. “The only reason I’m here now is because you were nowhere to be found this morning. A man has been murdered near Welsh Row sconce and Major Lothian required someone to attend. I was hauled from my breakfast because you did not leave word as to your whereabouts.”
Sawyer looked at me evenly and snorted. “I was doing my rounds, as we both do,” he said. “I heard something had happened on Welsh Row. What’s the news?”
“The victim is a man called William Tench,” I explained. “He was a tanner from up Hospital Street. Seems he had a reputation for frequenting a number of different taverns and asking awkward questions. Do you know of him?”
Sawyer’s eyes had widened in surprise. “Tench? Yes. I’ve spoken to him once or twice. He’s one of those people who tries to befriend everyone but really is liked by no-one. He knows where to draw the line, though. If he ups
ets someone, you won’t see him for days.”
I nodded. “On this occasion, it seems he upset someone rather more than he bargained for,” I said, drily. “Do you know where he worked? Did he have his own workshop?”
“He used to, I think, but he ran into money troubles and had to close down. Had no head for business, I’m told. You might want to talk to the Comberbachs. I think he has been employed by them for the last year or so.”
I thanked Sawyer and, after making sure the irate onion seller was safely locked away, made my way back into the crowds. The Comberbach family ran the town’s leading tannery business, and I would pay them a visit in due course. For now, though, I had a cheese stall to take care of.
The bells of St Mary’s church chimed one o’clock as I weaved my way through the crowds in the square and back down Pepper Street towards my house. When I arrived, I was surprised to find Alexander stood there, serving cheese. Skinner was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s buggered off home,” grumbled my friend, by way of explanation. “Some excuse about his father being taken ill, or so I hear.”
“You mean you haven’t seen him?” I asked, angrily.
“Apparently, he disappeared with one of his brothers not long after you left. Left poor old Mrs Padgett to hold the fort, which meant she was unable to do her own shopping. She left five minutes ago to see if the stall holders have got anything left. Simon has turned up, though. He’s inside, getting more cheese.”
At that moment, my front door burst open, and the familiar figure of my younger brother appeared, brandishing the last of the new milk cheeses.
Simon was fully ten years younger than me – my baby brother, but in almost every aspect he was my direct opposite. Whereas I was dark-haired and often described as being of studious and reserved character, Simon was outgoing, humorous, and sported a long mane of straight, blond hair, which fell loosely over his shoulders. Women tended to find him attractive, and he had turned many a young girl’s eye in Nantwich, but he had recently become betrothed to a young seamstress called Rose Bailey, who lived with her parents towards the end of Beam Street. Simon had always been a spontaneous young man, a trait which had a knack of getting him into trouble from time to time. However, I was pleased to see that there were now signs that he was beginning to settle down.
Simon, like myself, had been apprenticed to a local tradesman; in his case, to a shoemaker called Simkins. Like me, he was not particularly enamoured with his lot. It was a hard life. He was usually away from home between Thursday and Saturday at the market in Manchester, so I was surprised to see him on my doorstep.
“Your produce has sold well,” he said, laying the cheese on the table. “There are only a couple of pieces of cream cheese left, and the flett cheese ran out over an hour ago. Once this is sold, you’ll be fair cleaned out.”
“It’s good to see you, brother,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, “and thank you for the help. But why are you not on your travels today?”
Simon shrugged. “Simkins decided not to go to market this week because of the weather, and, with news of the Irish landing in Wales to support the King, he was concerned we might not get back safely.”
“But Manchester remains strong for Parliament and the King’s army is still in Chester,” I said. “The road should be clear enough.”
“I know. But Simkins is a cautious fellow and he is afraid of the papist hordes. He has heard all manner of stories of their barbarity. He believes it will be safer to trust in the protection of Colonel George Booth.”
“Let us hope that that is so,” I said.
I talked in this manner with Simon for the next half an hour whilst we sold the remainder of the cheese. Despite our age difference, Simon and I had always been close, and it was good to have the opportunity to converse with him. It seemed as though we never had much time for such things these days. Before the last portions of cheese were sold, I wrapped up three pieces, one each for Alexander and Simon, and one for Rose Bailey’s parents. Alexander muttered his thanks, but his mind was elsewhere.
“You know, Daniel, these takings don’t quite add up,” he said. “You should have more money than this.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sweeping the crumbs from the table and gathering together my scales.
“Well, allowing for waste and the pieces you have just given us and assuming you made a couple of shillings for the butter, you should have about sixteen or seventeen shillings in total. You only have fourteen shillings and sixpence here. It looks like about five or six pounds of cheese have gone missing.”
I cursed. This was not the first time that stock had gone missing on market day. It was usually only a couple of pounds at a time, but there was always something. I had begun to suspect that James Skinner was secreting some away each week, but I hadn’t been able to prove anything. Surely it was no coincidence that the first time I had needed to be absent from the stall, a larger amount had disappeared.
“It’s that good-for-nothing apprentice of yours, I’ll wager,” said Simon. “If I were you, I’d let him feel the weight of your boot on his arse on Monday.”
“What’s your view, Alexander?” I asked, seeking a second opinion.
Alexander sucked his teeth and looked up. “I don’t have the best impression of him,” he admitted, “but don’t go jumping to conclusions. He’s nothing more than a young lad and, according to Mrs Padgett, the stall was unattended for a couple of minutes before she was able to come out to help. The town was busy too. Anyone could have stolen a couple of pieces.”
I exhaled deeply, unconvinced. “You’re too kind to him,” I said.
“Perhaps,” conceded my friend. “If it helps, I’ll make a few enquiries. Skinner lives up in Snow Hill, so I’ll ask a few questions in the taverns thereabouts. You never know. I don’t hold out much hope, though. It is only a few pieces of cheese, after all.”
On any normal Saturday, my work for the day would have been finished once the market had closed and my stall had been cleared away. However, I had rapidly become accustomed to the fact that the work of a constable is never done. After thanking Alexander and Simon once more for their help, I returned to the jail to seek out Sawyer, in order to attend to the matter of what to do with the two vagrants and the market trader who had assaulted me.
I had already decided that the latter would rot in jail until he could be brought before a judge. The vagrants, however, could not wait. In principle, our duty was to whip all tramps and beggars before transferring them into the safekeeping of the constable in the next parish, with a pass to return them to whence they came. This was one of the duties I disliked the most. I had always possessed a keen abhorrence of corporal punishment, and so I usually left this task to Sawyer, who seemed to have developed something of a taste for it. Today, however, I managed to persuade him that the most efficient course of action would be to get both of them out of town as quickly as possible.
This was my responsibility, as Sawyer had agreed to be on duty in the evening to deal with any trouble that might occur in the taverns. Fortunately, both vagrants had arrived in town from the same direction, so I only needed to take them as far as Acton. Nevertheless, it was fast approaching six in the evening by the time I had fulfilled all my duties and was on my way home.
It was a clear, crisp evening when I arrived back in Pepper Street. Orion was prominent in the winter sky and an invisible blanket of icy air had settled over the town, biting at my exposed cheeks as I made my way through the snow. The effect would have been invigorating, were it not for the fact that I was utterly exhausted.
The house smelled of cooking as I entered, a mixture of roasting meat and baking, and I thanked God for Mrs Padgett. I threw my hat down on my chair next to the hearth and ventured into the kitchen. Amy stood by the table, engrossed in rolling out pastry for her grandmother. Mrs Padgett herself was preparing vegetables, and she turned to face me, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so.
“You are a sig
ht for sore eyes, Mrs Padgett,” I said. “That smell is a welcome worthy of a king. You are indeed a wonder.”
“That may be so,” came the answer, “but let us hope we don’t have to welcome this particular king to our parts any time soon.”
I acknowledged the riposte with a wry smile.
“And as for you, Master Cheswis,” she continued, “you look fit to collapse. Mark my words. You’ll be dead before you’re forty, if you carry on in this manner.”
I considered this. There was certainly a modicum of truth in what my housekeeper had to say. A year as a constable is enough public duty for any man, and the rigours of civic responsibility had begun to take their toll on me. However, Mrs Padgett was not taking into account the restorative properties of her cooking. After sampling her roast capon, root vegetables, and apple cake, I felt much more inclined to face the argument which I knew was coming next.
“What you need, Daniel Cheswis, is a wife,” she said, filling my wooden tankard with a serving of small beer. “Now it may be none of my business, and I may be doing myself out of a job and a home, but you would do well to find yourself a good woman. There is more to life than ambition.”
“You are right and you are wrong,” I replied, with a little more force than was warranted, for my housekeeper meant well. “My marital status is certainly none of your business, but as far as your position in this household is concerned, you need have no cause for worry. I would not see you and Amy destitute under any circumstance. You must know this.”
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 4