9
Nantwich – Tuesday, December 12, 1643
Yardley’s words bothered me for the rest of the morning. His accusations added a new dimension to my investigations and they were, I knew, something I would need to look into in due course. However, for the time being, I had more important matters to deal with.
I walked back to the jail in Pillory Street and found Davenport to be in a much more contrite frame of mind with regards to his unprovoked attack on me. However, a brief conversation allowed me to ascertain that he was not going to communicate anything beyond swearing that he had no hand in Tench’s murder and begging for my help in proving his innocence.
I resolved that my best course of action was to investigate elsewhere, and so, scarcely able to conceal my impatience, I told Davenport I had no time to discuss the issue any further with him, and, unless he wanted to tell me something new, I would report back once I knew more.
Once out of sight, though, I summoned one of the bailiff’s warders and slipped him a few coins.
“Don’t be too tough on him,” I said, “and if his wife turns up, allow her to bring in a few comforts.” The warder gave me a withering look but pocketed the coins nonetheless and returned to his duties.
I spent the rest of the morning with Arthur Sawyer, allocating duties for the following week, one of which was maintenance work on the town’s communal armour, which, we both realised, was likely to be required in the not-too-distant future.
I also needed to be present at Tench’s funeral, so after a brief visit home for lunch, I made my way over to the church, taking care to keep myself in the background, where I could observe proceedings whilst remaining undisturbed.
As it turned out, the funeral was well-attended. The Comberbachs were there, as were one or two others, who I knew to be tanners. In addition to a number of Tench’s friends, neighbours, and relatives, I also caught sight of the footman from Randle Church’s house, as well as the hunched figure of Church himself, who, despite his age, had, to my surprise, braved the weather to offer his condolences to Mrs Tench. The footman, noticing my presence, ambled over to me and addressed me in a polite but insistent tone.
“Mr Church would like a word with you after the funeral,” he said. “Please be sure to present yourself at his home at three this afternoon.”
“And what would be the subject matter of this discussion?” I asked, somewhat tersely, not taking too kindly to being ordered around.
“I am not privy to this information,” replied the footman. “Just make sure that you’re there.”
The funeral service went on for some time, and it became clear that, if Tench was barely tolerated amongst strangers in the taverns of Nantwich, he was well-liked amongst his own community.
After the burial, I was approached by the portly figure of Gilbert Kinshaw, who I knew as a local merchant and one of the larger wich house owners. Kinshaw was a self-made man in his forties who had treated himself rather too well with the profits of his success. Clean-shaven, but with a mane of long curly hair shielding pallid features, he was grossly overweight and walked with a pronounced waddle. Still, he had influence in the town and was currently one of the Rulers of Walling. I was surprised to see him there but assumed there was a business connection between Kinshaw’s salt works and the Comberbachs’ tannery.
“It is a sad turn of events that takes a young man away from his wife like this,” said Kinshaw. “What say you, Mr Cheswis?”
“Indeed it is, Mr Kinshaw,” I replied, courteously. “Mr Tench’s death was a particularly unpleasant one-”
“Which, no doubt, is taking up much of your resources as a constable,” cut in Kinshaw, completing my sentence for me. I looked curiously at the corpulent merchant and wondered where the conversation was heading.
“The role of constable is a very time-consuming responsibility,” he continued. “I find my duties as Ruler of Walling to be similarly burdensome.”
“I’m sure they are,” I concurred. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”
Kinshaw raised his eyebrows at me and smiled. “People say that you make a good constable,” he said. “That you have insight. I can see that they are right. I wanted to talk to you about corruption.”
“Corruption?”
“Yes. Since I have become a Ruler of Walling, I have realised that the figures pertaining to walling allocations do not quite add up. Something appears to have been happening in the Great Wood Street area, and I wondered if you knew anything?”
“I have no idea about this,” I said, “but I am curious to find out more. What do you mean, exactly?”
“I suspect there may have been some fraudulent activity with regards to the allocation of walling rights and accurate reporting of kindlings.”
“This is something I was unaware of until today,” I said, guardedly, “but I will be sure to look into it and will keep you informed should I find out anything of relevance.”
“I should be most grateful,” said Kinshaw, taking his leave with a slight bow of the head.
Afterwards, I considered Kinshaw’s words and had to admit I was in a greater state of confusion than before. I had never heard anything about anyone committing fraud over walling rights, and now two people had mentioned it within the space of a couple of hours. And if Davenport was involved, was there any connection with Tench? I realised with frustration that my task was becoming more and more complicated as time went on. My head reeling, I paid my respects to Mrs Tench and headed off down Hospital Street for my appointment with Randle Church.
The bells of St Mary’s had already chimed three by the time I arrived at Church’s Mansion. Randle Church’s footman was waiting for me as I walked up the path to the front door, and he greeted me with a sardonic look as he held it open for me.
“You’re late,” he growled, as he ushered me once again into Church’s drawing room. Saying nothing, I walked into the dimly-lit chamber and heard the door close behind me. Once my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I was able to pick out the white-haired figure of Church sat in his armchair. However, I realised with a start that we were not alone. Sat in adjacent chairs, arranged neatly around a low table, were two men I knew well.
Sat immediately to Church’s left was a tall, immaculately-dressed gentleman in his late thirties, who I immediately recognised as Thomas Maisterson, head of one of the town’s longest-standing families. Maisterson possessed an inordinately long face with a distinct hooked nose, down which he observed me through piercing grey eyes. For a moment, I thought he bore a disconcerting likeness to a sparrowhawk watching its prey.
Next to him was the shorter, stockier figure of Roger Wilbraham of Townsend House. Wilbraham was a young man, barely twenty years of age, but, with his father having died in October and his elder brother away in France, he had been forced to take on a leadership role within his family. Not that this was a burden to him. Despite his youth, he was already becoming known in the town for possessing a confidence and presence that belied his years.
None of the three gentlemen looked particularly pleased with me, and I realised with consternation that I was stood facing the heads of three of the main royalist families in the town. What was more, when I looked at the table, my eyes fell on a copy of Mercurius Aulicus, the very same issue that I had read that morning.
My agitation must have transmitted itself to my hosts, for when one of them spoke – and it was Thomas Maisterson who took the lead – I was addressed with a voice that had a distinct edge to it.
“Would you please take a seat, Master Cheswis,” said Maisterson, gesturing towards an empty chair.
“I’ll stand if it’s all the same to you, sir,” I replied.
“As you wish.” An amused smile touched the corner of Maisterson’s mouth.
I looked at the newssheet lying on the table and wondered whether any of the gentlemen had been behind its distribution that morning. Maisterson must have seen what I was thinking, for he was quick to quash any such
thoughts.
“Ah,” he said, “Mercurius Aulicus. The voice of the King’s supporters in this land. It is refreshing to read something other than the bilious outpourings of rebel wordmongers, I assure you – but that is just between us. You are wondering, of course, whether we might have had something to do with the sudden appearance of this newssheet in our town.”
“Such a scenario had occurred to me,” I admitted.
“Then dismiss such thoughts from your mind. Everyone knows we are loyal to the King’s cause. We can hardly deny it, but we would be foolhardy in the extreme to show active opposition to Parliament by overtly distributing royalist pamphlets. We have no wish to antagonise Colonel Booth.”
“Then where have they come from?”
“We don’t know,” cut in Wilbraham, “but all three of us received a copy. My servants say a young boy delivered it last night but then made himself scarce before anyone could identify or question him.”
“I see,” I said, thoughtfully. “So you believe a third party is at work, promoting the royalist cause in Nantwich?”
“Precisely,” said Maisterson, “but that is not why we asked you here.”
I stiffened slightly as a sudden sense of foreboding told me that my position was about to become more complicated. Maisterson rose to his feet and paced across the room. Seemingly lost in thought, he picked up a poker and stoked the fire that glowed in the hearth.
“Master Cheswis,” he said, eventually. “In your office as a constable you are the King’s representative. I don’t know whether you are for the King or for Parliament but it’s of no matter. This is a terrible conflict, which pits brother against brother – neighbour against neighbour. Two years ago, we would have thought it inconceivable that Englishmen would take up arms against each other in this way, but here we are. When this war is finished, I sincerely hope society won’t be destroyed.”
I was not sure whether Maisterson was expecting an answer, but I gave him one anyway. “I support the rights of Parliament, sir, but I believe that in the end there will be no winners in this conflict. There are good men and bad men on both sides, but the situation is barely helped by the chief protagonists. You have a king who thinks he’s God and a parliament who wants to play at being king. That, in my view, can only be a recipe for disaster.”
Maisterson raised an eyebrow and glanced at Church, who said nothing but nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’m not sure that was an entirely satisfactory riposte,” he said. “I fear we may support different sides. Ultimately, however, we appear to be of the same mind.”
“What are you trying to say, sir?” I ventured. Maisterson replaced the poker and gestured for me to sit. This time, I accepted his offer and perched on the edge of the remaining chair.
“The nub of the matter is this,” said Maisterson. “You are charged with investigating the death of William Tench. The truth is, we have no idea why Tench was killed. We do not think it was a political act, but we cannot be sure. We would like to help you catch his killer, but there are some provisos.”
“Provisos, sir?”
“Yes. Firstly, we are aware that you have been asking questions about William Tench’s relationships, and the word is out that he might have been a scout for the King’s party. It’s no secret that we are for the King, but my friend Mr Church’s connection to the Tench family is well known, so we don’t want too much attention drawn to any clandestine activities that Mr Tench may or may not have been engaged in. We have land and interests here, and we have to protect them.”
“But that would amount to a deliberate concealment of evidence,” I protested.
A slight flicker of annoyance passed over Maisterson’s face. “Very well,” he said. “Let me put it this way. At present, there is no indication whether King or Parliament will prevail in this conflict. Even if Parliament does win, Colonel Booth will be back in his family estate in Dunham Massey as quickly as his legs will carry him. If the King prevails, as I believe he shall, Booth’s head will be on a stake somewhere.
“Furthermore, if Byron’s Irish army take over this town, it may be in your interests not to ask too many questions about Tench’s activities, as you may need their support sooner than you think.
“And finally,” he added, “and here’s the most important thing – when all the soldiers have gone home, we will still be here. If the rebels win, we may well end up being sequestered, but we will still wield some influence in this town, and, as an inhabitant and businessman of Nantwich, you may wish to bear that in mind. You have a burgeoning cheese business, I understand. I’m sure we would wish to support someone who recognised our concerns and priorities during difficult times such as this.”
Church and Wilbraham nodded their agreement sagely and looked at me expectantly. If the truth be told, I did not know how to react to this, and so I asked a question instead.
“Tell me,” I said, addressing Randle Church, “if you have nothing to do with Tench’s death, why are you so keen to avoid a murder investigation? Would the crimson scarf used to strangle him have anything to do with it?”
Church and Maisterson exchanged glances. “You’d better tell him, Randle,” said Maisterson.
“Very well,” conceded the old man. “You are right. The scarf belonged to my son. You know he was Sergeant-at-Arms to the King?”
I nodded. “Please continue, sir,” I said.
“Very well. The scarf was a ceremonial sash given to me as a keepsake. It was not for use in battle. I have no idea how it ended up around Tench’s neck. As you will understand, I cannot allow it to become general knowledge that a symbol of royalism owned by me was used to murder the husband of one of my servants, especially one accused of being a royalist spy. I’m sure you can be relied upon to keep this matter quiet.”
Afterwards, I sat on the wall by the churchyard and considered my situation.
I was well and truly caught between two stools. On the one hand, Colonel Booth wanted me to continue an active investigation into the affairs of William Tench, paying particular attention to those of a Royalist persuasion who might have connections with him. Maisterson, on the other hand, wanted me to turn a blind eye to Tench’s activities. Worse still, both Booth and Maisterson had effectively bribed me with promises of additional business for doing their bidding.
In the meantime, my friend John Davenport, who I believed to be innocent, was sat in jail accused of murder, and I was no nearer solving the case than when I’d begun. I realised that Maisterson, Church, and Wilbraham wanted to stop me investigating too deeply into Tench’s activities not because they were involved with Tench’s murder, but because they knew he was a spy. Otherwise, why involve me at all? But, if Maisterson was not involved, then who? I had absolutely no idea.
Of course, I could not possibly ignore the whole issue, because if I were to do nothing, the pressure would mount to try Davenport for murder and he would likely hang.
And then there was the issue of the money left for Tench by Davenport at the Comberbachs and the strange suggestions by Yardley and Kinshaw regarding the fiddling of the walling records. How did all that fit in?
And to top it all, I had to cope with the return to my life of Alice Bickerton, now Furnival, and her husband, as well as the growing threat of the approaching royalist army.
With Byron’s army on the march, there was no doubt that a tension was starting to build in Nantwich. Imperceptible at first, it was still akin to little more than a slight tightening in the gut, but I knew it would grow as the papists came nearer. Still, it was nothing compared to the mental siege I was under. I felt like I was being crushed by the demands of my role as constable and feared for my business as the war escalated. I picked up some small pebbles from behind the churchyard wall and started skimming them across the square, watching them skid across the surface of the frozen snow.
“A curse on this town,” I seethed, as the stones flew. A beggarwoman, walking on her own twenty yards away, eyed me curiously, and I realised that I h
ad spoken aloud. Pulling myself to my feet, I shot the woman an angry look.
“Be off with you, you flea-bitten old crone, before I arrest you for vagrancy,” I shouted, and the woman turned and shuffled off down the high street. I pulled myself to my feet, ashamed of myself for having abused the old woman, and trudged off home through the snow.
10
Beeston Castle, Cheshire – Wednesday,
December 13, 1643
It was a cold, dark night in the upper ward of Beeston Castle. The thin sliver of the new moon had long since set and it would be three hours before the first light of dawn appeared tentatively on the eastern horizon. Nevertheless, the guest in the chamber at the top of the gatehouse stirred and slipped silently out of bed.
He carefully lit a candle-fired lamp, taking care that as little light as possible filtered down the staircase to where the Constable of the Keep was sleeping. Having slept fully-clothed, so as to make as little noise as possible upon waking, he quietly put on his boots, before reaching inside his baggage to extract a long length of rope which had been concealed under his clothes. He tied the rope around his waist with a secure knot and wound the rest over his shoulder. Finally, he stood and put on the cloak, which had been hanging over the chair at the foot of his bed. Finished. He was now ready for his night’s work.
Creeping over to one of the arrow loops in the wall, which provided the only natural light in his modest chamber, he cast his eyes across the expanse of the upper ward and assessed the weather. He noted with satisfaction that the oppressive leaden skies of the past few days had started to clear and winter constellations filled the moonless sky. It was ideal weather for what he had in mind.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 10