The octagonal, red sandstone tower of St Mary’s made an impressive sight in the winter sun. Set against the backdrop of the snow-covered trees, which lined the edge of the churchyard, the splendour of such a fine church in a town as small as Nantwich never ceased to amaze me.
Entering by the main door, I sat down at a pew at the rear of the nave and surveyed the scene. The great and the good of Nantwich were already in their places in reserved pews – Thomas Maisterson and his wife near the cross aisle by the pulpit, young Roger Wilbraham next to Maisterson, occupying his elder brother Thomas’s pew, representatives of the other leading families in the town – the Church’s, the Mainwarings and the Wicksteads to name but a few. I noticed the three Comberbach brothers enter and take their seats in the middle range of the North aisle of the Church and made a mental note to call on them the following morning. Colonel Booth, Major Lothian, and a number of other officers were also in the congregation.
Presently, the minister appeared and made his way to the three-deck pulpit attached to one of the pillars in the nave. The low murmur of the congregation died down in anticipation. The matter of Sunday worship in Nantwich had become a much more serious business of late. Since the establishment of the garrison, the town had become a magnet for the ostentatiously pious, attracting such people from all over Cheshire. It was no longer unusual to see a whole family marching down the street singing psalms on their way to church. The servants of the more affluent families found themselves expected to take part in twice or thrice-daily family prayers and had grown accustomed to having to tolerate instruction from their masters on how they should live their lives, in order to best serve the Christian faith.
The influx of the godly into the town had also resulted in more travelling preachers and an increase in public meetings on theological matters for those who wished to further expound God’s word. Sunday services had become more lengthy affairs too, especially since our minister, the respected and well-loved John Saring, who had served our parish for ten years, had been prevented from carrying out his work. Saring had been a popular figure, whose one weakness had been to be a royalist. He now languished in jail in Stockport, having been convicted in April of colluding with others to betray plans for an attack by the garrison on nearby Cholmondeley Hall, which was held by the King. His unelected replacement, a man called Welch, was much more in line with the expectations of the local puritan laity.
Today’s sermon, unsurprisingly, consisted largely of a justification of the parliamentary cause as a religious struggle and was aimed as much at the soldiers of the garrison and at strengthening the moral fortitude of the average townsperson as at the godly elite.
“Is it not a sin for a king to enforce his subjects to worship false idols?” he preached. “Is it not a sin for him to show contempt for his most faithful servants, those ministers who would follow the true faith? If this is true, is it not divine providence that has brought the misery of this war down upon the King’s head? If this is true, is it not right and just that the forces of good should raise arms against a king? Brethren, I urge you to resist idolatry, do not profane the Sabbath, and unite under the banner of Jesus, and good will triumph over those who would mislead our monarch.”
Once the sermon was over, the majority of the congregation proceeded immediately to act contrary to the words of the minister by profaning the Sabbath and heading straight for the nearest tavern. For my part, I lingered outside the church and watched as the crowd gradually dispersed. Alexander and his family nodded to me as they ambled back across the square in the direction of Pepper Street. My brother, Simon, was also there, the very image of sobriety as he attended Rose Bailey and her parents. This, I suspected, was not a state he would be in for long, and I fully expected him to be found in one of the alehouses on Beam Street just as soon as he had finished paying his respects to his future in-laws.
I was just about to head for home myself, when my attention was caught by two women and a man, who were stood in conversation by the church wall. I don’t know what it was that made me look in that direction, but as I did so, my heart lurched. Even though she was turned away, facing the wall, there was no mistaking the blond ringlets of the woman dressed in green on the right.
Alice Furnival must have realised somehow that she was being watched, for, after a few seconds, she looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. She said nothing to me, but turned and spoke to her companions, who both glanced nervously in my direction. Alice then touched her female companion gently on the arm and walked slowly over to where I was standing. As she approached, I noticed she looked a little older. There were a few lines around her eyes and mouth that had not been there when I had seen her last, but she was still beautiful. She also appeared to be reasonably well-to-do, her dress being clearly of the best quality. I felt a mix of emotions upon seeing her again; happiness for being able to see her face once more, but also anger for what she had done to me and, above all, frustration, for I knew I would not be able to say to her what I really wanted to say.
“Hello, Daniel,” she said, taking care to use my real name, rather than the pet name I had become accustomed to hearing.
“Mistress Furnival,” I said, returning the greeting with the formality I felt the occasion required. “I did not expect to see you again.”
“Nor I you,” she replied. “Time has passed us by. It must be ten years.”
“It will be ten years next August. That much is etched in my memory.”
I thought I saw Alice purse her lips slightly at my response, but I could not be sure.
“That is certainly a long time, Daniel,” she said, “but there is no need to address me as a stranger. You can still call me Alice.”
I nodded in acknowledgement.
“Please accept my apologies, but please also understand that this is difficult for me. The last time we spoke, circumstances between us were rather different.”
Alice lowered her eyes in a manner which one might have taken for contrition, but which I was in no mood to accept as such.
“I promise you I will explain everything someday,” she said, “but today is not the time. I understand you have done well for yourself.”
“I have my own wich house and a cheese business, and, as you can see, I am now fulfilling my duty as a constable. Life is treating me tolerably well. Tell me, what brings you here, Alice?”
“My father is my main concern. He has become ill of late and I wanted to be nearby, not least because it appears that the area around these parts will soon be a target for the King’s army. It is this development which also draws my husband to Nantwich. The demands of his newssheet means that he is required to be close to where there is some military activity to report. Wars provide much work for publishers and printers.”
“I am sorry to hear about your father,” I replied. “I shall endeavour to pay my respects to him the next time I am in Barthomley. But what of your husband?” I asked. “He is not here?”
“Hugh has some business to attend to in Shrewsbury, but he will be here in a few days. In the meantime, I will be lodging with my sister and brother-in-law.” Alice gestured to her two companions, who had not taken their eyes off us since the beginning of the conversation.
“And your children? You have not brought them with you?”
“Hugh, Edward, and Alice are eight, six, and four. They are growing up quickly, but we did not wish to uproot them and considered it safer to leave them in Shrewsbury. It is quieter there since the King left. They are in the safekeeping of our housekeeper, who we know we can trust. We plan to return as soon as we can.”
After wishing Alice and her husband a safe and productive stay in Nantwich, I walked back home in a black mood. The return of Alice into my life was not something I was prepared for, nor was it welcome. The knowledge that she would be living in Nantwich, both married and unobtainable, was almost too much to bear. But it wasn’t just that. I could not help thinking that her return was somehow unnatural, that she was not
meant to play any future part in my life. I could not quite put my finger on it, but I was plagued by a nagging feeling that this was a bad omen – the start of something of which no good could possibly come.
6
Nantwich – Monday, December 11, 1643
The next day, I awoke to be greeted by a dawn so grey and misty that I could have sworn God had chosen to tease me by reflecting my mood in the cold dreariness of my surroundings. Frost hung heavily in the air and livestock huddled closely in their sheds to escape the icy bitterness of the winter’s morning.
I had slept fitfully, tossing and turning, my mind plagued with alternating images of Alice standing in her green dress by the wall of St Mary’s Church and the unsettling vision of the crimson scarf wrapped tightly around William Tench’s neck.
“God’s teeth, Daniel. You look like the very image of hell,” said Alexander, as I opened the door to him. “Did you sleep last night?”
“Barely,” I admitted, stepping past him into the street. “I had things on my mind. I didn’t eat much yesterday either. Mrs Padgett thinks I’m sickening for something.”
“Worrying about how to track down William Tench’s murderer?”
“Yes, but not just that. Alice Bickerton is back in town. I saw her outside the church yesterday.”
Alexander shot me a sideways glance. As my best friend, he not only made it his business to look after my welfare, but was fully-apprised of my previous relationship with Alice. “That is not good news,” he said, struggling to keep up with me as I marched off in the direction of the square. “Why is she here?”
“To be closer to her father, who is ill, or so she says, and so her husband can report for his Shrewsbury newssheet on what happens when Lord Byron shows up here.”
“Then I advise you to give her a wide berth. That woman is not good for your health, I’ll swear it. Look at the state of you already.” Alexander was right, of course. I did not require my friend to tell me that attempting to renew any sort of romantic relationship with Alice was absolutely out of the question. Despite that, I had a hunch that staying out of her way might not be quite as easy as I would have liked.
The ever-indulgent Alexander had joined me that morning because my prime objective was to interview John Davenport and I needed both a witness and, potentially, some muscle, should an arrest be necessary. However, our first visit was to William Tench’s employers, the Comberbach family, whose thriving tannery business was located on Barker Street, which ran almost parallel to Pillory Street, but a little closer to the river. The family’s workshop was run by three brothers, Thomas, Roger, and John, and it was the second of these, Roger, a fit, wiry man in his early forties, who greeted us at the entrance to his yard.
“You are here, I take it, to make enquiries about William Tench,” he said, coming straight to the point.
“Indeed I am,” I confirmed. “Had he been in your employ for long?”
“Not long. A year or so, perhaps. But he was a good worker who knew his trade. The Tench family have long been active in this business.”
“I’m aware of that. So you have no grounds for complaint with him?”
Comberbach shrugged. “Complaint? Not at all. Why should I? He was occasionally the worse for wear for drink, I admit, but, as long as his work was not affected, I turned a blind eye to it.”
I nodded and fastened gratefully onto the information volunteered about Tench’s drinking habits. “His partiality to a tankard of ale is well known,” I agreed, “but it is also said that he had a habit of poking his nose into the affairs of others, particularly those of the soldiers of this garrison. Do you know anything about that?”
Comberbach gave me a sharp look. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Let me put it this way. Did he ever express support for the King’s cause in this conflict which plagues us at the moment?”
Comberbach opened his mouth as realisation dawned as to the direction my questions were taking. “So you suspect him of spying for the royalists?” he exclaimed, a grin spreading slowly across his face. “I don’t know about that, but he was always very complimentary about the King. His wife works for Randle Church, and everyone who is associated with the Church family supports the King in some measure. Mr Randle’s son was Sergeant-at-Arms to the King, you know.”
“Really?” I said, interested.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean a thing on its own. Half of the gentry around here are royalists. They just have to keep it quiet at times like this.”
I nodded. “Did Tench have any enemies that you are aware of?” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.
“Not to my knowledge. There is one thing you might wish to be aware of, though. John Davenport came around here early on Saturday morning asking for William Tench. When I explained he was not here, he left a leather pouch for him.”
My eyes widened. This new revelation was something I had not expected. “At what time would that have been?” I asked.
“About eight o’clock.”
“And do you still have the pouch?”
“Yes. I’ll fetch it for you.” At that, Comberbach turned on his heels and disappeared inside his workshop, returning a few moments later with a small leather purse, which he laid in my hands. I looked inside and was surprised to find coins amounting to about two pounds in value and a small piece of paper folded twice. I carefully took out the paper and unfolded it. I gasped as I read the note written on the inside.
“This is the last time.”
I looked at Roger Comberbach in puzzlement. “Have you any idea what this note alludes to?” I asked. “A payment for work done on behalf of your business, perhaps?”
“No. It can’t be that. Tench knew that all payments needed to be handed over to me personally.”
“I see. In that case, Master Comberbach, I fear it is time to pay John Davenport a visit,” I said. “It is fortunate that he was to be our next port of call anyway. Good day to you.”
With that, I pocketed the note and turned on my heels, leaving poor Alexander to return the pouch and to apologise for the abruptness of my departure.
“This is a strange turn of events,” I said to Alexander, as we turned into Mill Street on the way to Davenport’s wich house. “Tench was already dead on Saturday morning. If Davenport is guilty of his murder, why would he drop a pouch of money off for him afterwards?”
“Perhaps it’s a bluff,” suggested Alexander, “a ruse in order to appear innocent.”
I stopped and looked down the River Weaver towards the bridge as I considered my friend’s words. “It would be a strange ruse indeed,” I mused. “Handing over money in this way does not diminish suspicion. It merely increases it.”
A freezing mist had descended over the river like a shroud, bleak and forbidding, as Alexander and I approached Town Bridge to cross into Welsh Row. Icicles hung like daggers from the rooftops of the houses lining the Water Lode, threatening anyone who dared walk beneath them. It was still early, but the streets were oddly quiet save for a lone dog searching for food, sniffing down by the river bank at the last of the butchers’ scraps from Saturday’s market. Sensing our approach, it slunk noiselessly between two of the houses, a piece of semi-frozen offal clamped between its jaws.
Crossing the bridge, I noticed that ‘Old Biot’, the brine pit responsible for the historical prosperity of Nantwich, lay deserted, the gnawing cold having discouraged all but the hardiest souls from venturing far from the warmth of their firesides. Despite the weather, I might have expected to find a few brine workers huddled around the edge of the pit, but today, the only evidence that anyone had been there at all were a number of footprints in the snow around the rim.
Located a few yards north of the bridge and no more than fifteen feet from the river bank, the brine pit was a twenty-foot-deep scar in the earth from where the brine would be lifted in buckets or transported in wooden pipes called theets into the wich houses, which lined the edge of the river in Snow Hill
and along the Water Lode. On the opposite side of the river, in Great Wood Street and Little Wood Street, more wich houses were located. However, only one theet crossed the river, this running through a gap between two buildings into a gigantic common cistern, which ran in between the two streets for their whole length, storing brine for over fifty wich houses. From here, myriad theets rose like giant spiders’ legs, leading into the individual buildings.
I glanced across the river and saw that just one of the wich houses in Great Wood Street was emitting smoke from its chimneys, indicating that it was the only one with a kindling on that day. This was the wich house of John Davenport, which stood next door to my own. The other buildings in Great Wood Street were all quiet, little more than salt warehouses.
“It grieves me to see so many wich houses standing idle,” I lamented, as we made our way into Welsh Row. “Salt made our town rich, but walling is no longer a trade for young people.”
“I fear that is so,” agreed Alexander. “It is a sign of the times. Nantwich salt is no longer in demand as it once was.” My friend was right. Advances in salt-making techniques had meant that the evaporated salt produced in Nantwich was considered inferior to that manufactured in other salt-works, which had begun to use a Dutch process called ‘making salt upon salt,’ involving the purification of the salt by blending it with high quality salts from France or Spain. Even before we had had such competition to deal with, the pans Nantwich used to produce salt from ‘Old Biot’s’ brine tended to emit a malodorous stench of sulphur, causing many to consider the end product barely fit for human consumption. It was also frowned upon by physicians, who held poor quality salt at least partially responsible for pulmonary ailments. As a result, salt from the Cheshire wich towns attracted lower prices than other salts and was used mainly by the poor.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 6