Despite the malaise pervading the town, I was gratified to see Skinner still at his post. The lack of customers seemed not to have affected him, for people were still buying up our cheese; an unexpected blessing for which I was thankful. Like the garrison quartermaster, many townsfolk, it appeared, had begun to increase their stocks of food while they could, uncertain of what might be available once the royalists got closer.
Realising that Skinner had the stall well under control, I sat down on my doorstep and tried to take in the significance of what had just happened.
The inescapable fact was that I was now faced with two murders connected by a single common thread – namely that both victims’ bodies had been found adorned with a crimson scarf, a symbol of royalist support. Despite this, there was no apparent connection between William Tench and Ralph Brett and no definitive proof that either was actually a royalist. The idea that Tench was a royalist scout was, on analysis, mere hearsay, and the relevance of Brett’s supposed connection with the royalist cause, that he was an acquaintance of the Duke of Hamilton, was even more tenuous.
Nevertheless, there were a number of things which didn’t add up. Take the curious cabal of prominent townspeople and their leader, Thomas Maisterson. None denied their support for the King, and most had close family connections with the monarch. Roger Wilbraham’s father had played host to King James, Randle Church’s son had been Sergeant-at-Arms to King Charles and Lady Norton’s husband had been Secretary of State to Ireland under the previous king.
Despite Maisterson’s protestations that his group were merely passive supporters of the King, there were clear connections between both victims and the households of different members of the group. Marion Tench was employed by Randle Church whilst Ralph Brett’s young friend, James Nuttall, worked for Lady Norton.
On top of all this, there was also the mysterious appearance of Mercurius Aulicus in the town. Who was responsible for that, I wondered?
I was beginning to get the distinct impression that the key to solving the mystery of the two murders lay in understanding the connection between all these people. And yet, how to do that when my overriding conviction was that nobody I spoke to was being entirely straight with me? That everyone from Randle Church, Marion Tench, and Thomas Maisterson, to John Davenport, Colonel Booth, and my own brother, Simon, were each withholding a small piece of the jigsaw that would help me solve the whole conundrum?
Typical of this was the young widow, Elizabeth Brett. I simply did not believe that she knew nothing about her husband’s business. I thought I’d perceived something in her demeanour, a sense of disquiet perhaps, a tension over something she was holding back. I was also concerned about the strange familiarity between her, Nuttall, and Simon. I was not sure where that came from and resolved to get to the bottom of it.
My first task, though, was to free John Davenport. If one thing had emerged from the morning’s events, it was the knowledge that my friend had nothing to do with the murders, as he had been safely locked in jail when Brett was attacked. The argument with Tench had obviously been a coincidence, and, although the payment left at the Comberbachs’ and the accusations of fraud needed looking into, they could wait awhile or perhaps even be left in the hands of the Rulers of Walling.
When the jailer let me into Davenport’s cell, it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light, for the room, which reeked of human sweat and urine, was illuminated only by a single barred window. Catching my breath as I inhaled the foul atmosphere, I saw Davenport slumped up against the wall, lying on a dirty pile of straw, his left ankle clamped in chains. Sat in the shadows on the other side of the cell was another prisoner, who nodded to me as I entered.
I found Davenport, understandably, to be less than enamoured with the fact that he had been left to rot for four days. However, I noticed with gratification that the experience seemed to have loosened his tongue somewhat. I was about to release him from his irons but quickly realised that my interests would be best served by simply letting my friend talk.
“Daniel. You believe me when I say I had no hand in the murder of William Tench, don’t you?” he said, rubbing his ankle where the chains had chafed against his skin.
“Of course,” I said, truthfully. Although I’d always believed my friend to be no murderer, I decided not to confide what I knew about this morning’s events just yet. “John,” I said. “I have known you some time, and when I look at you, I do not see a murderer before me. I have assumed that my job this week was to prove you innocent of this crime.”
“Good,” said Davenport. “I am grateful for your faith in me. However, that faith does not necessarily extend to others in this town, and, as I have no wish to hang for something I didn’t do, I must confide in you.”
“Go on.”
Davenport lowered his voice to a whisper so the other prisoner could not hear. “You wanted to know what I was arguing with Tench about.”
I nodded.
“He was blackmailing me, Daniel. It is about something for which I will be forever ashamed, but it relates to my period of service last year as one of the Rulers of Walling.”
“We are talking about manipulating the making meet and defrauding your fellow wallers by walling more than your allocation, I believe. Am I correct?”
Davenport’s eyes opened wide. “You know about this?”
“Just what I’ve gleaned from looking at old court records and the walling records. I’ve noticed a number of anomalies in the accounts, particularly the mis-accounting of old days walling for various people, which you appear to have done yourself. I also noticed a big fall in recorded misdemeanours during your time in office. I dread to think what the significance of that is.”
“It’s true, there have been a couple of occasions when I’ve done a day’s walling that I shouldn’t have.”
“And maybe you received the occasional incentive from certain wallers not to report misdemeanours?”
Davenport bowed his head. “I was short of money, Daniel,” he said. “But how did you find out?”
“Gilbert Kinshaw said he was investigating it.”
“Then I’m done for.”
“And, strangely enough,” I added, “Edward Yardley.”
Davenport stared open-mouthed at me. “Yardley? That bastard?”
“I notice that Edward Yardley was fined last year for carrying out a night and day’s walling from a previous year’s book. That wouldn’t have had anything to do with you, would it? Am I right in thinking you asked for a payment to overlook his misdemeanour and he refused?”
Davenport looked up. “No, you’re wrong there. He suggested it, actually, but I refused to take his money. I didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. He deserves everything he gets, that one. He’s just like his father was in that respect.”
“And what of William Tench, where does he fit in?”
Davenport sucked his teeth and shrugged. “I’ve no idea how he found out, but he threatened to spill the beans if I didn’t pay him off. That’s what I was arguing about in The White Swan. I had to pay him off, Daniel. I stood to lose my wich house and my living. I didn’t murder him though, I swear.”
“I know that now,” I admitted, “because there has been a second murder.” I explained briefly about the discovery of Ralph Brett’s body that morning.
Davenport was silent for a moment while the significance of what I had said sank in. “You mean you’ve let me tell you all this in full knowledge that I’m innocent?” he snapped, anger spreading across his face.
“Yes,” I conceded, “but you should be glad I did. Look on the bright side. You’re free to go back home.
“Look, John,” I added, “I’m not going to start chasing you for fraud at this stage. It’s a matter for the Rulers of Walling in the first instance, and, to be honest, I’m not sure why Kinshaw and the others have not approached you about it before. If they decide to follow this up, there’s nothing I can do about it. You’ll just have to face up to your
misdemeanours, but at least you won’t have to sit here in your own piss, waiting to hang.”
Davenport knew I was right. He grunted begrudgingly in acquiescence and rose to his feet as I called the jailer into the cell to unlock the chains around his ankle. Then, after stretching his leg once or twice, he walked over to the other prisoner.
“I wish you good fortune, Captain,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand. “I must take my leave before the Constable changes his mind, but I will pray that Colonel Booth treats you with respect and mercy.”
“I thank you for your thoughts, Master Davenport,” replied the prisoner. “However, I fear my fate may already be sealed. Many men in Nantwich have lost their possessions, and Colonel Booth has already decided I’m to blame.”
I had not paid much attention to the sorry-looking figure sat in the shadows at the opposite end of the cell, but now I looked closer and saw a man in his forties with greying, balding hair. Stripped to his shirt and breeches, he was now covered in filth, but he spoke with an educated voice and still wore the high-quality boots of an infantry officer. I realised that I was looking at Captain Steele, the officer who had been in charge of Beeston Castle.
“I hear some of your men suspect treachery,” I ventured.
Steele inspected me through weary eyes. “Aye, so it would seem, constable,” he acknowledged. “I have no idea how Captain Sandford and his men got into the upper ward. But that’s irrelevant now. They managed to persuade me we had no chance of defending the castle, and I chose to save my men rather than the townsmen’s goods. Perhaps I am just unsuited to the military office that has been thrust upon me.”
“This war has forced many gentlemen into a position such as yours,” I pointed out. “Many officers had no experience of war before this conflict started.”
“True. This war has found many wanting, and I am certainly one of them. I would perhaps have been wiser supporting Parliament in other ways and staying in Chester.”
“I understand you are a cheese merchant, sir,” I said, changing the subject. “I am a cheesemonger myself. When the war is over, it is my aim to introduce Cheshire cheese to Londoners. I have it on good authority that the best cheese from Cheshire is far superior to the Suffolk cheeses that are eaten in those parts.”
“That’s true. I too have heard this,” said the Captain, his eyes lighting up as he warmed to the subject. “The difficulty, though, is transportation. At the moment, the London cheesemongers do not believe Londoners will pay the premium to buy our superior cheese in sufficient quantities to make shipping by sea freight worthwhile.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “and transporting by cart is too expensive. Of course, it’s possible to minimise the cost by shipping down the Severn then across land to the Thames, but that is no real solution.”
“One day, the situation will change, and the opportunity will be there,” said Steele. “I don’t think I will live to see that day though. I wish you well, Constable....?”
“Cheswis, sir.”
“Cheswis Cheshire Cheese,” said Steele, slowly, accentuating the start of each word. “That has a good ring to it.”
With a smile, I realised that, if only for a brief moment, I had made Captain Steele’s day a little more bearable. Once I had begun talking about the mundane world of cheese, he had become animated and his face had lost the preoccupied look he had worn since I entered the cell. However, as I led Davenport away and prepared to send him home to his wife and family, I looked over my shoulder and saw that the Captain had already returned to his hunched position in the corner of the cell and was staring absent-mindedly towards the barred window. I put my hands in my pockets and, with a sigh, followed Davenport down the street.
16
Nantwich – Sunday, December 17, 1643
The next morning, Mrs Padgett, Amy, and I walked to church with Alexander and his family. The three children were lively enough, running up and down Pepper Street, kicking snow at each other. The rest of us, however, were in a much more subdued frame of mind, not least because all of us were suffering from lack of sleep. There had been constant alarms throughout the night, raucous shouts from the soldiers on watch punctuated by intermittent musket fire. Mercifully, there had been no sign of any artillery as yet, but that, I realised, was only a matter of time. I had tossed and turned all night and eventually gave up shortly after the four o’clock bells, when a brief period of quiet was broken by the noise of thirty foot soldiers clattering their way down Pepper Street on their way to man the walls on the other side of the bridge.
The tension amongst the congregation was palpable as they gathered in the square outside the church, worry etched on the faces of each and every one of those present. As we waited, Hugh Furnival walked by, dressed soberly as usual, with Alice on his arm. I received a nod and a flicker of a smile from Furnival, but Alice greeted me more effusively and thanked me again for attending the launch of The Public Scout. I cursed Furnival again under my breath. Every time I saw Alice, it seemed to bring back unwelcome memories.
“You should watch out for her,” warned Alexander, who had been observing me closely. “She’s dangerous. You’re smitten by her and she knows it.”
I was just ruminating on this when I was awoken from my reverie by a familiar voice, and turned to see the towering presence of Thomas Maisterson looking down at me.
“Good morning, Master Cheswis,” he said. “Word has reached me that another townsman has been murdered, this time near Lady Norton’s house.”
“That’s correct, sir,” I said, and filled Maisterson in on the gory details.
“As your previous suspect was languishing in jail at the time,” he said. ”I presume this means you are looking for a new murderer?”
“You presume correctly, Mr Maisterson,” I said. “John Davenport was in jail at the time of the second murder. He is no longer under suspicion. Consequently, he was released last night.” Maisterson pursed his lips and reached into the pocket of his doublet, extracting a pocket watch which he checked before looking up at the church clock and returning the watch to his pocket.
“Forgive me, a matter of habit,” he said, noticing me watching him. “I expect you will want to speak to Lady Norton about this matter?” he added. “As you know, Lady Norton is now old and infirm, and consequently she has requested that I be present when you interview her. I trust you would have no objection to an arrangement of this kind?”
In truth, I found the request a little unusual but, on reflection, saw no reason not to acquiesce to her Ladyship’s wishes.
“That is acceptable to me,” I said.
“Splendid, then shall we say tomorrow at eleven am?”
Maisterson, it appeared, was not the only person interested in talking to me, for no sooner had he melted back into the crowd, if indeed a six-foot-four man can do such a thing, than I was accosted by Colonel Booth.
“Good morning, constable,” he said, brusquely. “A word with you after the service if I may. I’m sure you know what about.”
I nodded curtly and began once again to wonder why my activities of late were the source of so much interest from key people within the town.
Unfortunately for me, as it turned out, the discussion with Booth did not materialise as quickly as was intended, as subsequent events intervened to make sure that more immediate concerns were dealt with.
St Mary’s was full, in anticipation of a lengthy elegy in memory of John Pym from the puritan minister Mr Welch, but his sermon was no longer than ten minutes old when a piercing shout was heard from outside the church. A few seconds later, the door in the south side of the nave was flung open, and a young cavalry officer tumbled into one of the aisles. Frantically, the newcomer scanned the congregation until he spotted Booth, who by now had risen to his feet, a quizzical look on his face.
“Cornet Dunning,” said the Colonel, evenly, “I trust you have good reason for causing such a disturbance in the Lord’s house?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” re
plied Dunning, breathlessly, his hand scraping nervously through his hair. “And beg pardon to you too, Mr Welch,” he added, turning momentarily to the minister, whose countenance bore a look of barely suppressed outrage. “A message from Captain Sadler, sir. He asks you come immediately. It’s Lord Byron. He marches on Nantwich. The scouts are reporting soldiers – lots of them – approaching from the direction of Acton.”
This was the cue for immediate pandemonium. Major Lothian and those captains present immediately stood up and rushed wordlessly from the church with Booth to gather their forces together. The rest of the congregation, however, erupted into a general hubbub of chattering, crying, and praying, and it took some considerable effort from the minister to quieten everyone down. In deference to the general mood and in obvious irritation at not being able to deliver his sermon, Welch quickly wound up the service with a hymn and some prayers before dismissing the congregation to prepare for the inevitable attack.
When I emerged from the church, a brisk walk down the high street revealed that columns of horse and foot were already streaming across the bridge into Welsh Row as they made their way towards Acton. Those women still on the streets were scuttling home, dragging uncomprehending children in their wakes. The sight of the lean, energetic figure of Sergeant Bradshaw striding through the crowds of men across the street reminded me that those of us who had trained the day before were meant to ready themselves to head for the earthworks with muskets if required. Meanwhile, men coming back across the bridge from the direction of Welsh Row were shouting excitedly, and there were reports of musket fire in the distance. Making haste to return home and grab my weapon before I was told to, I realised with trepidation that the townsfolk of Nantwich were in for a Sunday filled with fear and uncertainty.
As it happened, I spent most of it perched in the freezing cold on the wooden walkway at the top of the earthworks at Welsh Row End, peering in vain across the snow-covered fields for a sight of the enemy. It was a still day, and we could hear the sounds of shouting and gunfire echoing from somewhere in the direction of the trees to the right of Acton’s church, but it was too far away and too misty to make out what was happening. It was the middle of the afternoon before the soldiers returned, and, although there was no sight of the royalist army, the news was not good.
The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) Page 16