The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  Mrs Padgett, meanwhile, having got wind of my secret visit to Alice, had changed her opinion and was now less than pleased with the arrangement.

  “A man ought to be able to sleep in his own bed at night,” she muttered when I dropped by to see her the morning after I moved in. “Your duty does not extend this far, living with a young widow when her husband is barely cold in his grave. It’s morally wrong, so it is.”

  I suspected her reaction had more to do with her not having anyone to mother whilst I was away, and so I told her firmly to stop being such an incorrigible scold.

  “It’s only for a short time,” I said, “and Simon is with me in any case.”

  As it happened, I saw very little of Simon during the following week, his absence at Barthomley having created a backlog at Simkins’ workshop that required his almost constant presence there. I, on the other hand, had no cheese to sell and there was little I could do at the wich house. It was too cold to venture outside for no reason, and so the time between my constabulary and sentry duties was spent, for the most part, trying to amuse Elizabeth’s young son.

  I thanked God for the presence in the house of a spinning top with nine pins, which I set up in the hall, moving the table to one side. After an initial shyness, the boy eventually came out of his shell and spent many an hour whooping and bawling, as he sent the pins flying across the floor. Elizabeth scolded us playfully for making a mess of her hall, but she seemed glad that someone was able to occupy her child.

  Considering she had just lost her husband, I found Elizabeth Brett to be most agreeable company. Being alone in her presence for hours at a time, I had to force myself to admit that I found her to be extremely attractive. I realised it was inappropriate to feel that way for a woman who had buried her husband but two weeks before. In any case, it would be impossible that she could return any such feelings at this stage, so I tried manfully to banish such ideas from my thoughts. After all, there was still the issue of Alice to resolve. I continued to be disturbed by my indiscretion of a couple of days previously and did not trust myself to act differently given the same situation again. Alice had, after all, been the love of my life, and her presence, it seemed, had always been there, getting in the way of any other relationship I might have wished to develop. It seemed hard to understand how this might change, given that she was now living in the same town. It was all very disturbing, so I tried to concentrate on other matters, which generally brought me once again to the issue of how to solve the mystery of the murders of Tench, Brett, and Nuttall.

  One afternoon, I was sat playing with Ralph and his ninepins when I caught Elizabeth watching us.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her face reddening, “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that you remind me of my husband, the way you’re playing with Ralph.”

  I froze and looked back at her, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said.

  “How could I possibly be upset? I loved my husband and you’ve reminded me of happy times I had. How can I be upset about that?”

  I thought about that for a moment. It felt strangely pleasing that I had elicited this kind of response from Elizabeth, but I didn’t trust my emotions, so instead I opted for a strictly practical response. “Your life has been turned upside down, Mistress Brett,” I said.

  “Call me Elizabeth, please. Your brother does.”

  “Very well. Your life has been placed in turmoil with these events. Have you had any more thoughts about what you will do once this siege is over and the Duke of Hamilton’s letters are out of your hands?”

  “I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I had thought to sell the drapery business and use the money to set up a small haberdashery of my own. I have already had an offer from Gilbert Kinshaw to buy the business, once the current situation has stabilised. I have a mind to accept his offer.”

  There were absolutely no grounds for questioning Kinshaw’s motives in making such an offer, I reasoned, for Kinshaw was one of the town’s larger merchants, with interests in several areas, not just salt. Nevertheless, this revelation intrigued me. Kinshaw had been present at William Tench’s funeral and had drawn my attention to John Davenport’s fraudulent misuse of walling rights. Now he was sniffing around Elizabeth Brett too. Could it possibly be that Kinshaw was the connection between Brett and Tench? I resolved to find out.

  Over the course of the following days, news began to filter in from outside Nantwich, and it became clear that the royalists were tightening the noose around the town. On the 4th of January, a group of royalists besieged and captured nearby Doddington Hall, the hundred-strong force there succumbing with little resistance, despite having plenty of food and ammunition.

  There was better news on the Saturday, when a group of soldiers from the garrison ventured outside the town and came back with seven of the King’s carriages laden with goods and provisions. Celebrations did not last long, though, for the royalists were so enraged that they set fire to and destroyed a number of barns and cottages located just outside the earthworks.

  During this period, I kept my promise to Hugh Furnival and visited Alice twice. On the first occasion, Alice’s sister and her husband were present, so I was only able to communicate with her at the door, but on the occasion of my second visit on the following Tuesday, they were both out and I was invited in. Still feeling somewhat embarrassed, I began by apologising to Alice for my impropriety the week before.

  “There is really no need to apologise, Daniel,” she said. “I am flattered you still feel something for me after all these years.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this, so I simply said what I was feeling. “If only you knew how much I’ve torn myself inside out over that time,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I had said the right thing, but Alice looked at me with an expression which I interpreted to be one of pity.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out for us,” she said, “and I’m sorry you feel betrayed. The fact is, you weren’t there, and I fell in love. Hugh has been a good husband to me, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still have feelings for you, even after such a length of time.”

  I was not sure whether this was what I wanted to hear or not. Perhaps she read as much in my face, for she quickly added; “I’m also sorry it has affected your life so much. Let us hope for a quick resolution to this war, so Hugh and I can return to Shrewsbury.”

  I nodded while simultaneously trying to read in Alice’s face the meaning behind her words. Was she suggesting adultery? I couldn’t be sure, but I dared not believe it either. My mind was telling me that Furnival had taken Alice from me in the first place, so there was no reason to feel guilty about taking her back. Nevertheless, the situation felt wholly improper. In the end, it was Alice who was first to speak.

  “You seem to have a lot on your mind at the moment,” she ventured.

  “Yes. It’s not just my fear of how this siege might end. I am entrusted with solving three murders and getting nowhere.”

  “Three murders?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise. I realised I hadn’t told her about Nuttall, so I told her the whole story, leaving out what Simon had said to me on our ride back.

  “So you are concerned for your brother, too. Is there anything Brett, Nuttall, and your brother knew or were hiding from you? Hugh told me your brother is very politically aware and a fervent supporter of Parliament.”

  “Yes,” I admitted, “although his support is based not particularly on religious grounds – more on support for the new political ideas promoting equal rights for all. As for whether he’s hiding anything, I cannot say.”

  Alice nodded and then said, “If you ever feel the need to get any of this off your chest, you’ll always find a welcome here, Daniel.”

  “I know,” I said, and was grateful for the offer, although I own that my gratitude was far outweighed by my consternation as to what such a welcome might entail, and whether Hugh Furnival might approve of such an arrangement.

  I suspected he might no
t but was ashamed to find myself wondering what it would be like to find out. It was not in my nature to cultivate such a relationship with a married woman, but the new, sophisticated Alice was as beguiling as the old one was sweet and innocent. I feared I was beginning to fight a losing battle.

  25

  Nantwich – Tuesday, January 9, 1644

  I didn’t have long to wait to get first-hand confirmation of Gilbert Kinshaw’s interest in the Brett’s drapery business, for shortly after my return from Alice’s, Kinshaw’s portly frame presented itself on Elizabeth’s doorstep. My brother and I had been careful not to spread the word about where we were lodging, so Kinshaw was somewhat taken aback when he saw that it was I who had opened the door.

  “Constable Cheswis,” he said. “I did not expect to find you here. You are on official business, I take it?”

  “Of course,” I said, realising any other answer would provoke unnecessary scandal. “Mr Brett’s murderer has not yet been apprehended and, until he is, Mrs Brett is in danger. My brother and I are providing the necessary security.”

  Kinshaw looked knowingly at me. “And the two soldiers on guard outside? Why are they there, may I ask?”

  “That question you had best address to Colonel Booth,” I answered. “It was he who provided us with the sentry guard. And what can I do for you, Mr Kinshaw?”

  “I would speak with Mistress Brett,” he replied, attempting to propel his considerable frame through the doorway. “I have business to discuss with her.”

  I blocked him off; no mean feat, as he was considerably heavier than me. “If this is about purchasing her husband’s business,” I said, “it is less than a month since he died, and you have made no appointment. Could you not perhaps show a little more consideration and wait outside? I will check whether she’s available.”

  Kinshaw glared at me, the colour rising in his cheeks. “Not that it’s any of your business, of course, but as you appear to already know about my affairs, I should point out that this issue has already been discussed with Mrs Brett. I merely wished to make sure that the continuation of the business is assured and that Mrs Brett receives a fair price for her assets,” he said.

  Before I could offer a sarcastic riposte, Elizabeth had appeared in the doorway behind me. “Let him in, Daniel,” she said, and I reluctantly stepped aside. I stood over by the wall and waited for Kinshaw to speak.

  “He is staying here?” asked the merchant, straightening his doublet and clearly trying hard not to lose his temper. Elizabeth ignored the question.

  “This won’t take long, Mr Kinshaw,” she said, calmly. “I haven’t yet made a final decision on my husband’s affairs. I would like a little more time to consider your proposal, if I may. There are some issues that need to be resolved before I can make a final decision, and the speedy completion of these is not being helped by the current predicament this town finds itself in. I will certainly take due account of your kind offer, but perhaps if you were to return, say, in three weeks’ time, I may have better news for you.”

  Kinshaw gave a gruff acquiescence. “Please don’t take too long about it, Mrs Brett. The offer won’t be there forever.” With that, he turned on his heels and made for the door.

  “Just one moment, Mr Kinshaw,” I said, barring his route to the exit. “I have a couple of questions, if I may.”

  “Very well. Be quick about it then,” he said. “I don’t have all day.”

  I took a deep breath. “The last time we met, we were at the funeral of William Tench, where you spoke of a potential fraud carried out in relation to walling allocations by a man who appears to have been blackmailed by the murder victim. Despite this, no action has been taken as yet by the Rulers of Walling against John Davenport. Now you appear at the house of another victim’s wife trying to carry out a business deal. Tell me, Mr Kinshaw, what is the connection between William Tench and Ralph Brett?”

  Kinshaw gaped at me, eyes wide open. “You think I had something to do with these deaths?” he blurted. “I’d be very careful what you say if I were you, Master Cheswis. My dealings with Mrs Brett are strictly on a business footing. I have interests in the drapery trade, and so I see advantages in buying Mrs Brett’s business. Davenport, meanwhile, will get what’s coming to him in due course, believe you me.” And with that, Kinshaw stalked out of the door, slamming it behind him, leaving Elizabeth and I staring at each other, dumbfounded.

  Kinshaw’s curiously outlandish response was one of the things I discussed with Alexander that evening over a tankard of strong ale in The Red Cow Inn, a busy and well-appointed tavern located on Beam Street, about halfway between my friend’s house and my own temporary abode. I had not seen Alexander for several days, and at first he was somewhat perplexed at my insistence that he should call for me at the Bretts’ house and accompany me home afterwards. Unfortunately, the need to keep Simon’s secret precluded me from giving Alexander an explanation of my reasons for taking such precautions, although he freely accepted that my safety would be significantly easier to secure if I was to remain in the company of somebody of his physical stature. The atmosphere in the tavern was lively, but we managed to find a quiet corner by the door where we could not be overheard.

  At first, our conversation focused on the enquiries I had asked Alexander to make regarding my suspicions that James Skinner had been stealing my cheese, and it quickly became clear that my friend had drawn a blank on that score. Skinner’s family had a reputation for being rough and ready, but no-one appeared willing to say anything against the youngster.

  “I would forget about it, if I were you, and concentrate on more important things,” said Alexander. “He’s probably pinched some cheese for his immediate family, but there’s nothing you can prove.”

  I thanked Alexander for his efforts. To be honest, I had almost forgotten about my suspicions, and, after all, it would have been churlish of me to have accosted someone who had saved my life over the paltry matter of a few pieces of cheese. Our conversation eventually moved on to more important issues and, more specifically, Kinshaw’s curious behaviour.

  “From what you say, there is absolutely no evidence connecting Kinshaw to these murders,” said Alexander, in between mouthfuls of bread and roast meat. “The only thing that can be proved is that both Kinshaw and Tench knew about Davenport’s fraud and that Tench is dead.”

  “Quite,” I agreed, “and the fact that Tench is now dead is perhaps a good reason why Kinshaw hasn’t acted on the fraud accusations. He would not want to become embroiled in blackmail allegations.”

  “That’s true. How does Brett fit in, do you think?”

  I could not, of course, answer this question without imparting knowledge that it was safer to be ignorant of and which I was, in any case, not at liberty to divulge, so I simply told Alexander that I had discovered that Brett, Nuttall, and Simon had been privy to information of importance to Parliament, which was why the Bretts’ house was under protection.

  “It’s for the best you know no more than that,” I said to Alexander, who looked at me doubtfully. “What we need to establish is who is behind the plot to target his wife and friends.”

  “Which brings us back to Kinshaw.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “The connections between Kinshaw and the first two victims are strange and appear unrelated, but they do give him a motive, blackmail in one case and pecuniary gain in the other.”

  “But if Kinshaw is involved, and for these reasons, the issue of the crimson scarf becomes a mystery. There is no reason to suspect him of being a royalist intelligencer.”

  “That’s right. The same applies to Nuttall’s murder. To draw a connection with Kinshaw, we would need to show that Kinshaw was not around on December the twenty-third, the day of the atrocity in Barthomley.”

  “Not necessarily,” pointed out Alexander. “We know that Bressy is the murderer’s hatchet man. He was certainly outside of Nantwich on the twenty-third. What’s more, only he and Hulse were around when they tri
ed to murder you. It does not follow that the third member of this group had to be present when Nuttall was murdered.”

  I mused on this for a moment and had to admit that Alexander’s logic was impeccable. “Kinshaw is not the only suspect, though,” I said. “The other conundrum is Maisterson and Wilbraham and their group of clandestine royalists. They insist that their motive is only to protect their property and that they don’t know anything as far as the killings of Tench and Brett are concerned.”

  “And yet Maisterson clearly knows that Tench was a scout.”

  “Yes, but they won’t discuss this any further with me.”

  “Don’t you find that suspicious?” asked Alexander, pushing the remains of his food away and belching loudly.

  “I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. His wife works for Randle Church, so perhaps it’s not so surprising Maisterson and his group knew what he was up to, and, if their true motive is simply to protect their property and status, it would be understandable if they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact they knew about his activities. There’s something odd about Tench, though. He doesn’t fit in. He seems to have been acting largely on his own, but there must be a connecting factor between him and everybody else.”

  “What about Tench’s wife? Did she reveal anything when you spoke to her?”

  “No,” I replied, “but I can’t help feeling that she’s important in some way. There’s something I’ve missed, but I can’t quite place it.”

  Alexander wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leaned back against the wall on his stool. “Then you need to find out what the connection is,” he said, simply. “I take it this means you need me to make some discreet enquiries?”

  “Indeed I do,” I said, beckoning over a serving girl to refill our tankards. “I need you to look into all business, political, or personal connections between Kinshaw, Maisterson, Wilbraham, Lady Norton, Randle Church, and all of the victims, to see if any as yet unknown link can be established.”