“Well, it’s certainly taking up plenty of my time at the moment,” I said.
“Daniel, I’m sure you will find the perpetrator,” said Alice, rising to her feet. “I don’t want to outstay my welcome, so I will take my leave now, but Hugh and I will look forward to the pleasure of your company on Thursday.”
“You want to watch that one,” growled Mrs Padgett, when Alice had gone. “She’s playing with your affections. You should be careful what you tell her.”
I stared at Mrs Padgett, somewhat nonplussed at her attitude. “Nonsense,” I said. “I’ve known Alice since I was a child, and furthermore,” I added, “I’d thank you to mind your own business.”
My housekeeper said nothing, but I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I stomped my way upstairs. I have to say, I was irritated at my housekeeper’s behaviour. What right did she have to cast aspersions on a person she did not even know, and what grudge could she possibly hold against Alice? As I reached the top of the stairs, I turned to say as much, only to find her still staring meaningfully in my direction.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
8
Nantwich – Tuesday, December 12, 1643
It had become common knowledge that John Pym, the leader of our parliament, was gravely ill, so when news of his death reached Nantwich, it was of no great surprise to the populace. Few were taken in by the efforts of The Parliament Scout to have us believe that Master Pym was on the road to recovery, and so most townsfolk were well-prepared for the outbreak of mourning that would occur when the great man eventually succumbed to his illness. However, the manner in which I learned of Pym’s demise was somewhat unexpected, and the bearer of that news was none other than Alexander Clowes.
I heard my friend coming long before he knocked on my door, for Tuesday the twelfth was to be the day of William Tench’s burial. The metallic clang of Alexander’s bell and his booming voice resonated loudly as he made his way up the street, bidding people to pay their respects to the tanner at his funeral, which was set to be held at St Mary’s later that day.
“I have something you might find to be of interest,” he announced, standing on the threshold of my front door. Taking care to put his bell on the ground, he reached behind him and, putting his hand inside the rear of his breeches, extracted a crumpled collection of papers, which he thrust triumphantly in my direction.
Notwithstanding my natural reluctance to handle the contents of another man’s breeches, I took what looked like a pamphlet from Alexander. “What is it?” I asked, not registering the importance of what I was being given.
“Read it,” responded my friend. A certain urgency in his voice made me take a look at the writing on the first page.
Mercurius Aulicus
Communicating the Intelligence and Affaires of the Court to the Rest of the Kingdome
I realised with a start that I was holding a copy of the notorious royalist newssheet, famed throughout the kingdom for its scurrilous nature, but never before seen in a place like Nantwich.
“By the saints, man,” I exclaimed, dragging my friend inside before any passer-by could see what I was holding. “Where in the name of God did you get hold of this?”
“In The Black Lion,” he answered. “I was there yesterday evening when a young boy walked in, placed a pile of them on the bar and left without saying anything. He’d gone before anybody could see what he had brought. Turns out he left copies in three other taverns, including The Crown. It didn’t take long for Colonel Booth to find out what was happening, though, because, barely twenty minutes later, a group of soldiers came in and confiscated all remaining copies. Fortunately, I managed to secrete one out of the tavern under my shirt.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said, “but I’m amazed to see a copy of Mercurius Aulicus here. It’s hard enough finding a copy of The Parliamentary Scout or Mercurius Britannicus. Why would anyone risk distributing a royalist newssheet here?”
“Take a look at the main story,” said Alexander, jabbing a finger at the newssheet. “I think you’ll find the reason is self-evident. King Pym is dead!”
I glanced at the headline and realised, with a start, that my friend was right. After thanking Alexander and leaving him to continue his duties as bellman, I sat down to read the report in more detail. According to the date on the cover, John Pym had died the previous Friday, which struck me as being odd, as Colonel Booth had shown no sign of knowing about this when I had seen him then. As I read, it occurred to me that Mercurius Aulicus had lost no time in trying to make the most of the news and understood why Booth had made sure that as many copies of the publication had been confiscated as possible. Pym was described as being ‘a most loathsome and foul carcase’, having died, it was claimed, from the skin disease phthiriasis. Worse still, the report attempted to claim that his death was no less than divine retribution – a just punishment for him being one of the five members of parliament accused of treason nearly two years ago.
The story was well-known. In January 1642, the King had entered the House of Commons in an attempt to arrest Pym, together with John Hampden, Sir Arthur Haselrig, Denzil Holles, and William Strode, as well as Viscount Mandeville (later to become the Earl of Manchester), under the belief that they had committed numerous treasonable acts, including inviting the Scots to invade England, colluding to turn Londoners against the King and planning to impeach the Queen. Forewarned, the five members and Mandeville had fled the House. The King, meanwhile, fearing for his family’s safety, had left for Oxford and had not returned to London since.
Pym was the second of the five members to die, John Hampden having already met his end on the battlefield at Chalgrove. Mercurius Aulicus argued that these two deaths, together with the miserable fortunes of other leading parliamentarians, were a sign of God’s judgement on their treacherous activities. Lord Brooke, pointed out the newssheet, had been shot dead from the roof of Lichfield Cathedral. The Hothams, who had refused to allow the King to enter Hull, had been arrested for treason, as had Nathaniel Fiennes, accused of surrendering Bristol without a fight. It seemed as though God was venting his wrath on those who had dared to question the King’s divine right to rule his kingdom as he saw fit.
I, myself, gave no credence to such talk, but marvelled at the skill of the writer. I saw the danger presented by the argument and the reason why the King’s men might have deemed it advantageous to distribute this particular issue of Mercurius Aulicus in Nantwich, when the King’s army could mount an attack on the town at any time. From their point of view, anything that could be done to change the attitude of the townsfolk would be a good thing.
As I pulled on my boots, ready to face the day, I wondered who in the town could possibly have stood to gain from distributing such literature and prayed that the person responsible had been foiled in his intention, for the inference in the article was clear. Divine retribution, such as that meted out on John Pym and his followers, was not restricted to individual human beings. Such a fate could just as easily befall a town like Nantwich.
My first task that morning was one which I greeted with no small degree of trepidation. I did not anticipate a warm reception from Ann Davenport, for she was a formidable woman, who protected her interests with vehemence. She was more than capable of managing the wich house on her own if the fancy so took her, and so I had little concern about the effects of John Davenport’s incarceration on the wellbeing of his business. However, the abuse which I knew was coming my way for having had the temerity to lock up her husband, was an entirely different matter.
Still, a promise is a promise, and I had given my word to John that I would keep an eye on his wife’s welfare and make sure the kindling was completed without difficulties. So it was, therefore, that I headed across Town Bridge in the direction of Great Wood Street with a mind to spend a good part of the morning sweating amongst the salt pans. It was the least I could do, but it was also an opportunity to find ou
t something of what Ann knew of her husband’s dealings with William Tench.
The weather had continued to grow colder overnight, and as I crossed the bridge I noticed that ice had begun to form on the Weaver, creating a yard-wide ribbon of white along the length of the river bank. A lone figure stood by the brine pit, struggling to bind one of the theets, which had split in the cold. A kindling was clearly scheduled for somewhere in Snow Hill that morning.
I looked down Welsh Row and recognised two familiar figures approaching, rubbing their hands to maintain the circulation in their freezing fingers. Carter and Hughes, the two musketeers who had called me out to inspect Tench’s body, were returning to their billets, having carried out sentry duty at the sconce at the end of the street. Carter greeted me with a nod as they approached.
“Good morrow,” I replied. “What news of the Irish?”
“They’ll be here soon enough, sir,” said Carter. “Just in time for Christmas, I’ll wager. But no point in wishing them here any sooner.”
“They’re on the march, then?” I enquired. “You have reports of their progress?”
“The scouts report they are closing in on Beeston Castle. Let us hope Captain Steele detains them awhile.”
I nodded my assent.
“It is a secure place,” I said, “but there will be some unhappy people in Nantwich if Beeston falls.” I shuddered to think of the implications. Beeston Castle, situated about half-way between Nantwich and Chester, was a secure fortress whose inner ward was surrounded, on three sides, by impregnable cliffs. Many of Nantwich’s richer townsfolk had moved the majority of their possessions to Beeston for safekeeping, in the belief that it would be more secure than Nantwich in the face of a royalist attack. Captain Thomas Steele, the parliamentary officer charged with defending the castle, had a heavy responsibility, which I did not envy. I thanked the soldiers and waved them on their way.
The Davenports’ wich house, as I expected, was a hive of activity. Now in the middle of the kindling, women were busy scraping the salt out of the pans with their loots, and several barrows of wet salt stood by the wall, dripping leach brine onto the floor and waiting to be moved into the storeroom. I looked across to the team of women briners and recognised the Davenports’ two eldest daughters, Margery and Martha, hard at work. I found Gilbert Robinson at the rear of the building, loading barrows onto a cart for delivery. James Skinner was helping him. Robinson acknowledged my presence with a raised hand and beckoned me over.
“You’ve proper pissed off her Majesty, Master Cheswis,” he warned. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when she catches sight of you.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, “but John Davenport is better off where he is at the moment. Anyway, you saw what happened. I was left with no option.”
“Try telling that to Mrs Davenport,” he replied. I realised that Robinson was probably right, so I changed the subject.
“Tell me, you will be able to manage the rest of the kindling, right?”
“I will make sure it’s done properly,” said Robinson, “but there’s no need really. Mrs Davenport has taken charge. You know how she is.” Robinson slipped me a wry smile and indicated over in the direction of the ship, the hollowed out tree trunk used as a reservoir for the brine, from where Ann was directing operations. At that moment, she caught my eye and, pursing her lips in a grimace, she marched over to me purposefully.
“Shame on you, Daniel Cheswis,” she hissed, her voice shaking with emotion. “My husband languishes in jail for a crime he did not commit, and it is you who put him there. I had thought you to be a friend.”
“I am,” I said, taking a step back, “and that’s why he’s not facing an assault charge. He nearly broke my leg.”
“But you’re holding him for murder. You know as well as I do he’s not a murderer.”
“I have to do my duty,” I replied, “and he’s the only suspect at the moment.”
“But you’ve got nothing on him.”
“He was seen in an argument with the murder victim.”
Ann waved her hands in the air and sighed with exasperation. “Is that all? That doesn’t prove anything.”
She was right of course. I looked Ann in the eye and tried a different tack. “Were you aware that John owed Tench money? He left over two pounds in a purse for him at Comberbachs’ the morning the body was found.”
Ann hesitated, clearly taken aback. “No,” she said with suspicion. “Why would he do that?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. He says he lost it in a bet, but two pounds is a fair amount of money.”
“Well, if that’s what he says, that’s the truth of it. And why pay this money when Tench is already dead? That doesn’t make sense. The truth is you haven’t actually got anything at all. Why, if you have no proof, do you have to keep him locked in jail?” Despite her bravado, Ann’s demeanour was one of puzzlement, and I could see she knew nothing about the money.
“Ann,” I said, eventually. “For what it’s worth, there is more to this than meets the eye, and I need to get to the bottom of it. John is safer where he is at the moment, and I would be in trouble if I let him go just yet. If the truth be told, I cannot see him being involved either. He’s an idiot and a drunkard maybe, but not a murderer – at least to the best of my judgement. In the meantime, though, I need some time to complete my enquiries. I know this situation is difficult to bear, but I would ask you to please be patient. In the meantime, I have instructed Robinson to make sure you have the kindling under control, but, by the look of it, you have things well in hand.”
Ann appeared somewhat pacified by my words and she grunted in resignation. “All right,” she said, “but don’t believe everything you hear. There are those around here that would cause us trouble.”
“Trouble?” I said. “What do you mean?”
Ann hesitated, immediately aware that she had said too much. “Just that times are hard, and there are some who are jealous of how well we’ve done,” she eventually confided, before hurriedly terminating the conversation and returning to her work at the ship.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, for it was stiflingly hot in the wich house, and considered Ann’s words. I knew from experience that it was not the best time to be in the salt trade. It was certainly true that, if it were not for the additional income I enjoyed from my cheese business, I would have struggled to afford the cost of an apprentice. The Davenports, on the other hand, did not appear to be suffering such hardships, and it certainly seemed as though they picked up more than their fair share of contract work. I tried to shut the thought from my mind though, realising that this was yet another example of the conflicts inherent in holding public office. As a constable, my duty was to be impartial, and yet there were many people in the town with whom I had relationships and who expected things of me.
Realising that a morning toiling in the Davenports’ wich house was not the best way of displaying this impartiality, I decided to take my leave and stepped out once more into the icy air by the river bank. Deep in thought, I decided to take a stroll to the end of Great Wood Street, past the rows of wich houses all locked and silent. At the end of the street, near the earthworks that protected the northern edge of the town, I turned left over the bridge that crossed the common cistern, the brine-saturated water reservoir, which, I noticed, was ice-free, and turned left again down a pathway that led by the side of the cistern and behind the wich houses on Little Wood Street.
As I reached the southern end of the cistern and entered the area behind Welsh Row known as Strawberry Hill, I noticed a man approaching me in the opposite direction and recognised the thin, moustachioed features of Edward Yardley, the owner of the wich house opposite that of the Davenports.
I did not know Yardley well, but, for some irrational reason, he had always slightly irritated me, probably because he had the kind of face that always seemed to be carrying a slight smirk. Today, though, he greeted me with a beaming grin.
�
�Ha! Cheswis,” he exclaimed. “Congratulations. It was high time Davenport was locked away. Looks like you stuffed him good and proper – like a goose, I’d say!”
Taken aback by Yardley’s demeanour, I bridled. “What do you mean?” I demanded. “Surely all salt men should stick together? Why rejoice in another man’s misfortune?” I had known that John Davenport and Yardley had never been on good terms but did not know why. I wondered whether I was about to find out.
“It’s best to look after yourself in this world,” rejoined Yardley. “I must say, though, I was surprised to see you had arrested Davenport. I thought you and he were close.”
“He’s my friend,” I said, “but he’ll be treated fairly, for better or worse.”
“Yes, but some people eventually get what’s coming to them.”
I had heard enough. “What on earth are you trying to insinuate?” I demanded. “Is there something you know? Were you in The White Swan on Friday?”
“The White Swan? No. I never go in that place. I don’t mean what happened to William Tench. I’ve no idea about that, but there’s plenty that would say anyone who cheats other brine workers deserves all he gets.”
I have to say, I had no idea what Yardley was talking about. “What are you suggesting?” I said, amazed.
“Fraud, sir. You know Davenport was Ruler last year. You might want to have a look at how walling rights have been allocated in the past and how misdemeanours have been dealt with. That’s all I’m saying. Still,” he added. “It won’t matter, will it? I dare say he’ll swing for what he did to Tench, anyway.”
“What evidence do you have of this?” I demanded. “If you have proof, speak now. Otherwise, I would be careful with my words, if I were you. What you say is tantamount to slander.”
But Yardley was not going to venture any further information. He simply smiled and raised both his palms towards me. “I’m saying nothing more,” he said, and, with a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, he tipped his hat and headed straight for the rear door of his wich house.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 9