The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “You mean the mercer?”

  Simon nodded. “The very same,” he said.

  I considered this for a moment. Brett was a well-known trader in fabrics, but I did not know him personally. He was, if I remembered correctly, in his mid-thirties. “How is it that you’re acquainted with him?” I asked.

  “He is...was a neighbour of mine,” said Simon. “I got to know him quite well. We discussed politics together. He was an interesting man and made for a good conversation partner.”

  “I see,” I said. “Good enough to get him murdered, do you think?”

  Simon gave me a strange look, which made me wonder whether I had hit the nail exactly on the head, but he said nothing, and we walked on in silence.

  Once we had reached the junction with Beam Street, Simon and I turned right and walked a couple of hundred yards towards the row of tenements and cottages on the left-hand side of the street, where my brother had his lodging. Just before these stood a medium-sized brick residence, which Simon explained was inhabited by Brett, together with his wife and young son. On the opposite side of the road stood the substantial house and gardens belonging to Lady Margaret Norton, beyond which lay the imposing bulk of the earthworks and the sconce at Beam Street End. As the mist cleared, I caught sight of the equally imposing figure of Major Lothian, who appeared to be trying to keep curious onlookers away from the area around the sconce, in order to allow traders and other visitors to the market to pass unhindered through the gates.

  “Looks like you may have locked the wrong man up, Mr Cheswis,” said the Scotsman, in a voice which seemed to me to convey a tone of greater satisfaction than it needed to. Lothian gestured towards the little side lane, which ran alongside the wall to Lady Norton’s garden, fifty yards or so from the earthworks, which led eventually to Churchyardside and Tinkers Croft. Gathered by the wall, a couple of yards from the gate to Lady Norton’s garden, stood a small group of soldiers guarding what looked like a bundle of rags.

  As I walked up to the group, the soldiers stepped aside, allowing me to see that what they were guarding was, in fact, the body of a man lying face down in the mud and snow, a mass of golden curls emanating from a gory mess. Fighting back the urge to retch, I forced myself to look closely at the victim. The man had obviously been hit several times on the back of his head, which was heavily misshapen. Reaching over, I turned the body onto its back and was met with the vacant expression of a once-handsome man in his thirties with strong, craggy features.

  “A well-lived-in face,” I said.

  “He had been a professional soldier,” replied Simon. “He told me he had served under the Duke of Hamilton during the Great War.”

  “That’s interesting,” I mused, inspecting the wound on the back of Brett’s skull. “Most ex-soldiers with experience in Europe have taken up commissions with either the King or Parliament. That kind of experience is much sought after. Why wasn’t he fighting, do you suppose?”

  “He told me he wanted to settle down with his family business and take care of his wife and child. He was strong for Parliament but didn’t want to take up arms against the King.”

  “Clearly not,” I said, as I pulled the victim’s cloak open. Tied around Brett’s waist was a crimson silk sash with gold borders. “Do we have another of the King’s supporters here?” I asked. Simon reddened and said nothing, clearly deciding that his interests were best served by remaining silent. I fingered the soft fabric of the scarf, which, I noticed, was less ornate than the one found on Tench’s body but recognisable nonetheless for what it was.

  “How was he found?” I asked, turning my attention to Lothian.

  “Hulse and Bressy found him,” said the Major, pointing to two soldiers sat on the earthworks, the taller of the pair nursing a cut on his cheek and the beginnings of a black eye. He was a bearded, dark-skinned individual, muscular in build, with jet black hair cut only as far as the collar of his shirt. The other, three or four inches shorter, had a hooked nose and curly hair the colour of straw. With a start, I realised that it was the taller of the men, Bressy, who had started the argument with the Skinners the morning before. Clearly not recognising me, he rose to his feet and acknowledged me with a smile.

  “Jem Bressy, sir,” he said, “and this is my pal, Nathaniel Hulse.”

  “Nat, sir,” added the other man.

  “I know you,” I said to Bressy. “You were at Beeston. You picked a fight with my apprentice and his brothers yesterday.”

  The smile disappeared instantaneously from Bressy’s face and his eyes narrowed to slits as he surveyed me.

  “You were amongst that shower having musket practice?” he said, eventually. “Well, I’m not going to apologise for the comments I made. You were fucking useless.”

  Hulse spluttered as he tried to hold in his laughter, but I wasn’t in the mood for humour. Neither, it appeared, was Lothian, who maintained an inscrutable demeanour through all this.

  “So you two found the body?” I asked, ignoring Bressy’s barb.

  “Yes,” replied Hulse, making an effort to be more agreeable than his friend. “We nearly caught the bastard who did it, too. Would have, if he hadn’t clubbed Jem here with his staff.” Hulse indicated the lump and cuts on Bressy’s face.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About seven o’clock,” said Hulse. “It was still dark. Jem and I were keeping watch on the walkway when we heard a commotion – shouting and the like. It seemed to be coming from the garden at the back of Lady Norton’s, so Jem here says we should go to investigate.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “We’d just got down from the earthworks when a body fell forward out of the gate, followed by a man in a dark cloak.”

  “And then?”

  “The man was holding a large stone – more like a rock – and he smashed it on the back of this poor bastard’s head. He didn’t move after that. Jem and I ran down the side of the earthworks and grabbed the man, but he was a right slippery bugger. There was a bit of a struggle. We nearly had him, but he clubbed Jem and ran off back through the garden.”

  “Is that how you saw it?” I asked Bressy, who had sat back down at the foot of the earthworks and was dabbing the cut on his face.

  “Aye, that’s about it,” he grunted. “Nat speaks the truth.”

  Bidding Hulse to follow me, I walked back over to inspect the gate, which was swinging on its hinges. Behind it was a large stone smeared in blood, which I lifted carefully with both hands, the group of soldiers stepping backwards to allow me to lay it in front of the gate.

  “This would appear to be our murder weapon,” I said to Hulse. “Now tell me what happened next.”

  “Well, sir, several other soldiers saw what was happening and came running, but he ran pretty quickly and we lost him in the mist.” I looked round at the group of soldiers who had been standing by the gate and who, up to now, had said nothing.

  “Who else saw this?” I asked.

  “I did, sir,” volunteered a young corporal, who gave his name as Cotton. “Me and three of the lads further round the wall heard a shout and saw Hulse and Bressy wrestling with the murderer. We shouted a warning, but we were too late. He clubbed Bressy and ran off. We were there in a second, but he was too quick, sir.”

  “Would you recognise him again?” I asked, more in hope than expectation.

  “No chance, sir. It was too misty and happened too quickly. He also wore a cloak with a hood so as you couldn’t see his face properly.”

  I sighed in exasperation. Once again, it appeared that I had precious little to work on. I took my leave from the soldiers and, deep in thought, climbed the ladder to the walkway at the top of the earthworks, from where I could look out towards Beam Heath, the area used in quieter times by the townsfolk as common pasture. Now, the landscape, shrouded in mist, looked like an eerie wasteland. All around the town outside the walls, houses and barns had been pulled down or set fire to so the enemy could not hide in them. I l
ooked at the desolation, and knew that this was what the town would look like if Byron’s army were to prevail.

  From my elevated viewpoint I turned round towards Lady Norton’s house but couldn’t see far beyond the wall, which was itself half-covered in mist. Descending from my vantage point, I walked into Lady Norton’s garden and saw another gate open, leading into a pathway on the far side of the lawn. It appeared as though the perpetrator had escaped through here into the fields behind the house across to Monks Lane and Churchyardside. Returning to the body, I gave Major Lothian leave to get some attention to Bressy’s wound and turned my own attention to Simon, who, during all my questions, had remained quiet, listening attentively.

  “You say you know this man?” I said, gesturing towards the dead body.

  “Yes, his wife will need to be informed,” said my brother. At this point, as if on cue, a terrible screaming noise began to emanate from the direction of the cottages, and a few seconds later a young woman emerged, hysterical with grief, closely followed by a sandy-haired young man around Simon’s age. Holding her skirts to avoid tripping over, she ran up to the sconce and then, noticing the congregation of people around the gate, screamed again and made to come over.

  “Ralph, Ralph, they’ve killed my Ralph,” she howled. Before she could get close to the body, though, Simon stepped in front of her and grabbed her tightly, dislodging her coif.

  “You mustn’t go there, Elizabeth,” he said, holding her fast.

  “But he’s my husband,” she sobbed, and, breaking free from Simon’s grasp, she ran over to the body and wailed, holding it close. The soldiers, clearly embarrassed, began to disperse. I looked at Lothian, who nodded at me and stepped over to the woman, putting a cloak round her shoulders and helping her to her feet. He then whispered something into her ear and began to lead her slowly away. Simon, however, suddenly stepped in, closely followed by the sandy-haired youth.

  “It’s alright, Major. We’ll take care of her. She’s a friend of ours,” he said.

  As the two of them led the sobbing woman away, Simon turned to me and beckoned me to follow. As he did so, I thought I saw something in Simon’s eyes which I had not seen before. If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn it was fear.

  Quickly making my excuses to Lothian and leaving him to arrange for the body to be moved, I followed Simon, somewhat perplexed, towards the cottages.

  Simon led the way slowly back to the medium-sized brick house near his lodgings, steering the sobbing woman through the front door and into the hall. The sandy-haired young man, who had introduced himself as James Nuttall, a footman in Lady Norton’s household, pulled out a chair from under the drawing table and ushered her gently towards it. Entering discreetly behind them, I noticed that two people were already in the room. A middle-aged woman, wearing a white shirt and a blue bodice, sat at the table, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, whilst a young boy of no more than five stood cowering by the fire, half-hidden behind a large oak court cupboard.

  “Is it true?” asked the woman in the blue bodice, rising to her feet. The young widow nodded and burst into a fresh deluge of tears as the child ran over to her and buried its head in her lap.

  “Your father has been taken from us, Ralph,” she sobbed. “It’s you and me now. A curse on this war.”

  “May the Lord have mercy,” whispered the older woman, “and may he bring his judgement upon those who have done this.”

  “We were trying to live a quiet life,” said the young widow, addressing me directly. “We wanted to forget the past – and now this happens.”

  I noticed Simon and Nuttall exchange a quick glance, and my brother stepped forward.

  “Elizabeth,” he said, “perhaps Mistress Johnson should take care of young Ralph awhile. My brother Daniel, as you can see, is one of the town constables. If you can face up to it, I imagine he has a few questions he would like to ask.” That was the cue for the middle-aged woman to scoop up the young boy and take him to one of the nearby cottages with the promise of a slice of apple pudding. Once they had left, I turned and surveyed the young woman sat at the table.

  Through the red eyes and tear-stained face, I could see that Elizabeth Brett was an attractive woman in her late twenties, with thick locks of straight, lustrous honey-blond hair that fell from underneath her coif down both sides of her face to her shoulders. She had a round face with large, almond-shaped eyes and a curious, pale half-inch scar above her right eye, which in no way detracted from her charm. I must say, I envied Simon’s job of comforting her. With a pang of shame, I banished this thought from my mind and focused on the matter in hand.

  “Mistress Brett,” I began, “I realise that this may be difficult for you, but I do need to ask a few questions that might aid me in my task of apprehending the person or persons who did this to your husband. Would that be acceptable?”

  Elizabeth Brett cast a quick glance at Simon and Nuttall, swallowed back a sob, and nodded her assent.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Could you begin by telling me what time your husband left home this morning?”

  “About six o’clock,” replied Mrs Brett.

  “Isn’t that rather early?”

  “Earlier than usual, certainly, although today is market day. Ralph said he had some business to attend to before setting up his market stall. He didn’t come back because his cart is unladen and still stands where it was last night.”

  “Any idea what business?”

  “I don’t pry in my husband’s business, but he said he was asked to meet a client for payment.”

  “Isn’t that unusual? At six in the morning?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know,” said the young widow, somewhat flustered. “Perhaps he was concerned he might not get paid.”

  “Yes, maybe,” I agreed, “but why would he be in Lady Norton’s garden, do you suppose?”

  Nuttall stepped in. “I can answer that, sir,” he interjected. “It’s the quickest way to Churchyardside. The path behind the house leads across the field directly to Monks Lane and then down towards the church. Mr Brett was known to Lady Norton, and she allowed him to use the path through her property.”

  “I see. You say he was carrying out a business transaction,” I continued, addressing Mrs Brett again. “Has there been any indication recently of a disagreement with a customer?”

  “I couldn’t say. There are a lot of customers.” It was clear that Elizabeth Brett either didn’t know what her husband was doing that morning or wouldn’t say, so I decided to try a different tack.

  “Your husband’s body had a crimson sash tied round his waist,” I began, “a symbol of royalist support. My brother tells me your husband has a long history in the European wars and served under Lord Hamilton, the King’s man in Scotland. Bearing in mind the current upheaval in our land, was there any connection remaining with him?”

  I noticed Elizabeth Brett glance quickly at Simon and thought I caught a flash of anger in her eye, but it disappeared in an instant.

  “No, my husband was not in regular contact with Lord Hamilton or any of his old colleagues. My husband was a dedicated servant of his Lordship, but he was no royalist.”

  “What about Lady Norton?” I continued. “Her husband was Secretary of State for Ireland under King James. She is a known supporter of the King. Your husband seems to have been on particularly good terms with her.”

  “Sir Dudley Norton is long since dead, and Lady Norton is, after all, our neighbour,” replied Mrs Brett, a degree of irritation now entering her voice.

  “Of course,” I said, bowing slightly, “I apologise. Tell me,” I continued, “your husband was a mercer. Did he travel much?”

  “He travelled regularly to London, and in October he was in Edinburgh. However, he didn’t confide in me the closer details of business.”

  “I see,” I said. I considered this for a moment, and a thought suddenly struck me. “Tell me,” I said, holding up the scarf I had removed from Ralph Brett’s waist. �
��Your husband supplied silk like this. The material didn’t come from him, did it?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Elizabeth Brett, her voice now beginning to shake with anger. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

  “Nothing, at the moment, mistress. I’m just trying to establish the facts.”

  At this point, Simon saw that I had gone too far and stepped in to avoid me embarrassing myself any further. “I’m sorry for my brother’s persistence,” he said, glaring at me, “but Daniel is just trying to be thorough. I’m sure he will be happy to postpone any more questions until tomorrow.”

  After agreeing that I would return the following day to check on her wellbeing, I took my leave, but once outside the front door, Simon grabbed me by the sleeve and stopped me from heading off back down Beam Street towards the market.

  “What in the name of Jesus are you doing?” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing dangerously. “The poor woman has just lost her husband, and you are questioning her as though she is a royalist spy. That is not your job. Yours is to catch the murderer.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” I said, shrugging him off. “I have no wish to upset Mrs Brett, but I need to find out what is behind these murders. There are a lot of strange things going on in Nantwich, and nobody is being straight with me. I’d think on that if I were you. I will see you tomorrow, and, in the meantime, perhaps you’d like to consider whether there are a few things you’d like to tell me.”

  15

  Nantwich – Saturday, December 16, 1643

  Candles flickered in the windows of the houses on Beam Street as I negotiated my way home through the uncommonly sparse crowds of market-goers. In the short time I had spent in Elizabeth Brett’s parlour, the wintery mist had thickened into a freezing fog, casting a pall over the town and reducing vision to no more than fifty yards. The oppressive gloom seemed to subdue the townsfolk as they went about their business, and even the clatter of carts and horses, as traders dragged their wares to market, seemed quieter than usual. Never before, I mused, had our world seemed so constricted, so threatened as now.