The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1)

by D. W. Bradbridge

  I quickly sent one of the servants into the house to fetch an oil lamp, instructing him not to reveal the atrocity that had just happened to those still milling around the garden. When he returned five minutes later, I set about inspecting the gruesome-looking cadaver that now lay before me. The stables were bathed in a dull, unearthly light, accentuating a strange aura of malevolence that seemed to have pervaded the area. The atmosphere was made even more unsettling by the strange angle of Butters’ neck, which made him look as though he had just been cut down from a gibbet. In the chaos and commotion of the evening, I had not noticed when Butters had taken his leave of the firefighters on the lawn, but, bending down to inspect the gaping wound in his throat, I realised that the attack had only just happened, for the body was still warm, and the bloodstains that drenched the victim’s shirt were still wet and bright red. I also noticed with interest that the murderer had left no crimson scarf this time. Perhaps, I speculated, the perpetrator had been forced to leave the scene of his crime in a hurry.

  “How did you discover him?” I asked, turning to the two servants, who had introduced themselves as Thomas Dodd and Joseph Rowley.

  “We had both been cleaning the kitchens, sir,” said Dodd, a muscular, sandy-haired man in his mid-twenties. His colleague, a callow-looking youth in his late teens, looked on nervously, biting his nails, not sure where the conversation was heading.

  “Why so late?” I asked.

  “We’d been patrolling the walls all evening, like yourself,” came the curt response. “It’s the only time we could get to do it. Our responsibilities in this house don’t end just because George Booth tells us we need to stand on the earthworks in the freezing cold for hours on end. After that, of course, we had been helping to put out the fire with the other servants. Once it became clear that the fire was under control, we went back inside to finish our duties.”

  “And what happened next?” I pressed.

  “The kitchens at Townsend House open out to the rear of the house,” explained Dodd. “I had just opened the back door, as I was planning to take some food scraps out to the pigs, when I thought I saw a movement over by the stables. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of struggling and a crash as though men were fighting. I called for Joe here, and we went over together to investigate. We’d just entered the stables, when a figure appeared out of the dark like a bat out of hell – barged straight through between us, he did. We had no time to react, otherwise we’d have given the villainous malt-worm a good kicking. Raddled his bones good and proper, we would have.”

  “That’s right, sir,” added Rowley, encouraged somewhat by his friend’s bravado. “The bastard disappeared in the dark round the side of the house. We came in here and found Mr Butters like this.”

  “Were you able to see what this man looked like?” I asked, more in hope than expectation.

  “No, sir,” said Dodd. “‘Tis a matter of regret, but it was too dark, and he was too quick. He didn’t seem to be a very big man, though. Although he was plenty agile enough, that has to be said.”

  Having extracted all the information I could out of Dodd and Rowley, I decided it would be for the best to get the body out of the stables. So Dodd and I carried Butters outside, with a view to lying him on the ground next to Margery Davenport, whilst Rowley was dispatched to find the coroner. By the time the body had been brought around from the stables, though, the people at the front of the house had begun to realise what was going on, and a general hubbub had started to build. I looked into the crowd and was relieved to note that Alexander Clowes had turned up.

  “I heard what had happened to Miss Davenport and figured you might need me,” he said, simply, as he lumbered over towards where I was standing.

  “Thanks,” I said, with gratitude, “You can start by helping us with this body.”

  Alexander took one look at Butters, and his face turned grey. “Zounds, Daniel, is there no end to this?” he exclaimed, looping his formidable forearms around Butters’ shoulders and allowing me to take one of his legs from Dodd. Butters was quite heavy to carry all the way from the stables, even for three of us, but we completed the task as efficiently as we could.

  Just as the body was placed on the ground next to Margery, I heard a voice from the crowd behind me. “Are you going to arrest the person who did this?”

  I looked over to where the voice had come from and saw the perpetual smirk of Edward Yardley, who was looking at me intently from behind a group of women.

  I hesitated. “At this point, I don’t think we can ascertain-”

  “You know exactly who is responsible for this,” said Yardley, coldly, nodding to the hunched figure of John Davenport. The crowd were listening intently now, and all eyes turned to the brine worker, who was still sat on the garden wall, mumbling incoherently to himself. “We all saw him walk round the back of the house towards the stables, and you heard the threats he made – ‘Someone will pay for this,’ he said – and who was the person who brought his daughter here, who he’d blame? Will Butters, that’s who.”

  A murmur went round the group, and Alexander shot me a quick glance. I had to admit that Yardley had a point, and yet I knew that Davenport was not responsible for Butters’ death. Nevertheless, I sensed that the situation was becoming dangerous. Davenport also appeared to notice a change in the mood of the group and sat up suddenly, his face bearing a worried expression as he began to emerge from his trance.

  “No, no, no,” he said. “You’ve got it wrong. I just went round the back to have a few moments to myself. This has nothing to do with me!”

  “Listen to him,” said Yardley, warming to the task. “You’ve got the evidence you need. He’s murdered William Tench, and now he’s murdered Will Butters. Are you going to let him get away with this or is Davenport too much of a friend to you for you to do your duty?”

  The crowd assented, and I heard a few shouts of “arrest him” and “stretch his neck, constable!”

  “Of course I’m going to arrest him,” I said, taking the bull by the horns and motioning to Alexander, who took a couple of rapid steps towards Davenport. The brine worker protested loudly as his arms were fastened behind his back.

  “What are you doing?” shouted Davenport, fearful of the crowd. “This is nothing to do with me, I swear.”

  I walked over to Davenport and hissed at him under my breath. “Quiet, you fool. Can’t you see when you’re in danger? These people would have your neck in a noose in five minutes if I were not here. I know you’re not responsible, but we need to get you out of here. Let’s walk and I’ll explain on the way to the jail.”

  “Not the jail, I can’t go back there.” Davenport started to protest, but Alexander had placed a knee in the small of his back and started propelling him towards the gate.

  We were halfway down Welsh Row towards the bridge before anyone spoke, but it was Davenport, still struggling, who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell me what all this is about?” he hissed. “And are you going to untie me?”

  Alexander waited until we had crossed the bridge before pushing Davenport up, face-first, against the wall of the first building on the East bank of the river.

  “Stop your confounded struggling and listen to me,” I said in exasperation, as Alexander held Davenport’s arms behind his back in a vice-like grip. “I’ve just realised what’s going on – something Yardley said. I know you’re not a murderer, but you have to trust me on this. You are the prime suspect for the murder of Tench and Butters, and so for your own safety I’m going to have to lock you up again – but don’t worry, I’ll make sure your wife knows what’s going on. In the meantime, I think I know how to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

  The jailer was not accustomed to being raised at three in the morning, so it took a little while before the heavily-bolted gate swung open and we were able to hustle Davenport in through the entrance.

  “It is indeed a pleasure to see you again, Mr Davenport,” said the jailer, with a wry
smile. “Am I to assume you enjoyed staying here so much you couldn’t keep away?”

  Davenport said nothing, but stared coldly at the jailer through narrowed eyes.

  “Just make sure you look after him and that he’s kept in reasonable comfort,” I said, pressing a shilling into the jailer’s hand.

  The jailer closed his fist around the coin and looked at me curiously. “The best that Nantwich can offer – just for you, Master Cheswis,” he said, as he led Davenport, scowling, to his cell.

  “Are you going to enlighten me?” asked Alexander, as we emerged into the cold night air.

  “Certainly,” I said. “It’s obvious when you think about it. I don’t know how I could have been so blind. When Yardley accused Davenport, he referred only to the murders of Tench and Butters.”

  Alexander looked at me nonplussed and scratched his forehead. “And the significance of that is what, exactly?”

  “We’ve been blinded by the issue of the crimson scarf found on Tench, Brett, and Nuttall’s bodies, but the truth is that the scarf is actually an irrelevance. Think about it. The scarf found on Tench’s body was a ceremonial sash obtained somehow from Randle Church. The fact that it was found around Tench’s neck is not necessarily an indication that he was murdered for his espionage activities. It may have been a ruse to make us think that. The next two scarves, on the other hand, were much more ordinary in nature. I believe the second two murders were made to look like they were committed by the same person as the first, probably to confuse us. No wonder we have had difficulties in working out Tench’s connection with Brett and Nuttall.”

  “You mean, you think we’re looking for two unconnected murderers?”

  “Precisely. I don’t know who committed these murders yet, or precisely why – or why John Davenport is being framed. But one thing’s for sure. We have time on our side. Neither of the perpetrators is going anywhere. We just have to wait, and sooner or later, one or both of them will reveal themselves.”

  28

  Nantwich – Thursday, January 11 – Thursday

  January 18, 1644

  And so the waiting game began. I resigned myself to watching in anticipation for a sign that might lead me the murderers of Tench, Brett, Nuttall, and Butters, although, if the truth be told, my mind was more focused on the besieging force that sat menacingly outside the town walls than on making any more progress with my investigations.

  Much of the following week passed by without major incident, although victuals were now beginning to become scarce throughout the town. The taverns had begun rationing ale, and food was rapidly running out for townsfolk and soldiers alike. There was also a desperate shortage of fodder for the livestock that had been brought inside the walls for safekeeping, and it was fast becoming clear that we would soon have to resort to killing our cattle and pigs, if we were not to go hungry. After that, it would be the turn of the horses.

  As for Elizabeth, she was also beginning to run out of food, although she made sure as best she could that young Ralph always had a full belly. The rest of us reduced our food intake to one meal a day, and as a result, I began to be aware of a constant gnawing hunger that plagued my insides. Nevertheless, I thanked the Lord, for I was better off than many, due to the store of cheese that I had managed to keep aside.

  When I was not on sentry duty, I passed the time and took my mind off the hunger by playing with Ralph, who had become quite attached to me. Simon, for some unaccountable reason, seemed hugely amused by this and teased me mercilessly.

  “You look like the proper family man,” he said to me one morning, as I crawled across the hall floor with Ralph on my back.

  “Nonsense,” I said, allowing the boy to climb off and gesturing for him to run off to his mother, who was in the kitchen. “I just enjoy the boy’s company.”

  “I can see that,” said Simon. “Maybe when this siege is over you should marry Elizabeth.”

  “What?” I said, shocked. “Whatever has made you think that?”

  “I’m teasing you, brother, but it’s only half in jest. Have you not seen how Elizabeth looks at you?”

  “Nonsense, man. Her husband’s barely been buried a month.”

  “Just think about it, Daniel,” said Simon, more seriously now. “Elizabeth is as sweet as a nosegay, I’m sure you’ll admit. Many a man would be pleased to have her as a wife. I know she holds you in affection. Don’t let an opportunity like this pass you by.”

  “Nevertheless, I scarcely think-”

  “And if your reaction has anything to do with Alice Bickerton,” he warned, “then I counsel you to think again. That women is married to Hugh Furnival, and whatever games she is playing with you, she has no intention of things being any other way than what they are. Don’t be caught for a fool.”

  I considered what Simon had said. I had to admit that I liked Elizabeth, but Simon was right. As long as Alice was around, there was always going to be something inside me which would not let me free.

  As January rolled on, the weather remained ice cold. Intermittent snow showers regularly topped up the white blanket that had covered the fields for nigh on six weeks already. It was a wearying experience, but the townsfolk understood that it would not last forever. It had become clear that the siege was turning into a battle of wills to see whether the town could last out until Brereton arrived with reinforcements. We realised that before he did, Byron would want to attempt to storm the town, and so a growing trepidation began to envelop the town as the certainty of an attack grew.

  This belief was strengthened by a summons made by Byron to the townsfolk of Nantwich on Tuesday January 16th, which was read out by the town crier at different points in the town during the morning of that day. The first I heard of it was when I caught the familiar sound of Alexander’s bell-ringing echoing down Pepper Street, calling people to meet in the square. When I got there, I found an expectant and somewhat animated crowd of several hundred souls consisting of townsmen, women, and soldiers bustling around the town crier, who, together with Colonel George Booth, was flanked by two halberdiers.

  “These are the words of my Lord Byron,” began the town crier as I took up a position behind a group of off-duty pikemen.

  “A pox on the miscreant bastard,” shouted one of them, to general cheers from his comrades.

  “To the inhabitants and commanders of the town of Nantwich,” continued the town crier, ignoring the interruption. “Whereas I am certainly informed as well by divers of the soldiers who are now my prisoners, as by several other creditable persons, that you are not only in a desperate condition...”

  A chorus of jeers drowned out the town crier’s next words, forcing him to stop his speech temporarily. “We’ll manage,” was the response from several people, whilst one of the pikemen in front of me bellowed; “Not as desperate as them sat out there freezing in the snow.”

  The town crier waited for the hubbub to die down and then continued. “...That you are not only in a desperate condition, but that the late summons I sent to the town hath been suppressed and concealed from the inhabitants thereof, and they most grossly abused, by being told that no mercy was intended to be shown by this army to the town, but that both man, woman, and child should be put to the sword; I have therefore thought fit once more to send unto you, that the minds of the people with you may be dispossessed of that false and wicked slander, which hath been cast upon this army.”

  Shouts of “not true” and “shame” filled the air.

  “And I do charge you - as you will answer Almighty God for the lives of those persons who shall perish by your perfidious dealings with them - that you impart and publish the said summons I sent to the people with you; and that you yield up the town of Nantwich into my hands, for his Majesty’s use, and submit yourselves to his Majesty’s mercy, which I am willing to offer unto you. Though I am confident that neither by yourselves, nor by any aid that can come unto you, there is any possibility for you to escape the hands of this army. If you please to se
nd two gentlemen of quality to me, the one a commander, the other a townsman, whereby you may receive better satisfaction, I shall give safe conduct and hostage for their return. I do expect a present answer from you - John Byron.”

  The crowd erupted in a barrage of obscenities at Byron’s arrogance, but I noticed that not all the crowd were jeering. There were several worried-looking faces amongst the throng. Once the noise had abated somewhat, Colonel Booth stepped forward.

  “People of Nantwich,” he said. “You have heard Lord Byron’s summons. In the name of God and Parliament, here is my riposte.” The crowd fell silent again as Booth continued speaking.

  “We have received your last summons, and do return this answer that we never reported, or caused to be reported, that your Lordship, or the army intended any such cruelty; we thinking it impossible for gentlemen and soldiers so much to forget humanity: and if any have informed you otherwise, it is their own conceit, and no reality. Concerning the publishing of your former summons, it was publicly read amongst the soldiers and townsmen, as your trumpeter can witness; and since that time, multitudes of copies of it have been dispersed among the townsmen and others; and from none hath it been concealed and detained.”

  “Too right it hasn’t!” shouted one of the pikemen.

  “For the delivery of this town, we may not with our consciences, credits, or reputations, betray that trust reposed in us, for maintaining and defending this town, as long as any enemy shall appear to offend it. Though we be termed traitors and hypocrites, yet we hope and are confident that God will evidence and make known to the world in his due time – though for the present we should suffer - our zeal for his glory, our unstained and unspotted loyalty towards his Majesty and sincerity in all our professions - George Booth.”