The Combermere Legacy

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “That, Mr Wilbraham, is the crux of the matter, and it is for the coroner to decide,” said Clutton, after a moment’s hesitation. “The question is whether Roger Crockett died from one blow delivered by Edmund Crewe or by many blows delivered by a number of people. It is not a small matter. However, there is enough evidence in this case for me to have to ask you, Mr Hassall, Mr Wilson, and all others who may be named by Mrs Crockett, to remain in Nantwich and to present yourselves here on Saturday morning, when the coroner will conduct an inquest. In the meantime,” he added, now addressing Alvaston, “please instruct the town constables to arrest Edmund Crewe. Of all the people involved in this case, he would appear to have the biggest case to answer.”

  Alvaston bowed deferentially. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “As you wish. However, there is but one minor difficulty. Edmund Crewe has left town. The man in question, it would appear, has flown the nest and vanished off the face of the earth.”

  Chapter 2

  Nantwich – Friday, July 5th, 1644 – Seventy-two years later

  There were not many days during the first years of my marriage to Elizabeth Brett when I felt liberated from the spectre of the terrible civil war that plagued our country. God, it seemed to me, always managed to contrive a situation where I would be dragged against my will into the service of Sir William Brereton, commander-in-chief of Parliament’s forces in Cheshire, in unending repayment for my release from my responsibilities as Nantwich’s town constable.

  Joshua Welch, the Puritan minister of St Mary’s, would have considered my predicament to be a matter of pre-destination, a fate which I was powerless to alter. I’m not sure I agreed. I had little appetite for the kind of Puritan doctrine so prevalent in Nantwich in those difficult times. I enjoyed good sport and a jug of ale the same as any man. All I knew was that, during that worry-filled summer of 1644, days of pleasure for me and my young household seemed few and far between. And yet those three days following my wedding – they were somehow different.

  Quite apart from the overwhelming bliss I felt at finally being united with the woman I had fallen in love with five months earlier, the war seemed to be moving slowly away from Nantwich, into Shropshire and the Welsh Marches – not that we could feel entirely at our ease, for the royalist strongholds of Chester and Shrewsbury were no more than a day’s ride away. Nevertheless, the debilitating malaise which had hung over Nantwich like a shroud, instilling the fear that our town would be sacked and pillaged and our townsfolk murdered, had begun to dissipate following Sir Thomas Fairfax’s victory over Lord Byron in the fields below Acton the previous January.

  On the three days in question, Nantwich was even quieter than usual, for on July 1st the entire garrison, with the exception of the town companies, had marched with our garrison commander, Colonel George Booth, to join the Earl of Denbigh and Sir Thomas Myddelton. Sir Thomas had been tasked with relieving the recently established parliamentary garrison at Oswestry, which was being harassed by royalist forces from Shrewsbury under Sir Fulke Hunckes.

  The streets of Nantwich, therefore, seemed almost devoid of military personnel. Only the massive earthen walls which surrounded the town were manned, musketeers stationed several yards apart, staring out into the wasteland of demolished cottages and burned-out barns, destroyed to prevent them offering cover to any would-be attackers, not that anybody harboured the fear that an enemy force would be able to approach undetected, for Sir William Brereton’s network of scouts and agents had assured that Nantwich would be warned of any approaching royalist threat long before it came into view.

  With Prince Rupert and Lord Byron engaged in Yorkshire, there seemed little chance of such a threat, and so, with my apprentice Jack Wade once more able to travel to the surrounding farms to collect cheese for our market stall, and with a new wife to keep me occupied, the days between 2nd and 5th July 1644 seemed the happiest of my life. I should have known this would not last.

  It was the Friday afternoon when the chain of events began which would bring our all-too-brief honeymoon to an abrupt end and plunge me once more into the murky world of murder and espionage.

  Elizabeth and I, as I recall, were clearing out one of the upstairs chambers in the substantial brick house in Beam Street which she had inherited from her husband the previous December. It was a room which Ralph Brett had used for storing some of his personal effects, and Elizabeth had not had the heart to move them out since his death. Now we were married, however, we both felt it important to make a fresh start and not to have any unfinished business from her old life hanging over us.

  The room was covered in six months worth of dust and gave off an uncomfortable aura of another time and another marriage. I felt as though I should not be there, but I forced myself to enter and start sorting out the jumble of clutter that lay strewn across the floor, chairs, and the room’s only table. The room was filled largely with rolls of fabric and assorted offcuts from Ralph Brett’s mercers business, much of which could be thrown away, whilst the usable items could be passed on to Gilbert Kinshaw, the local merchant who had purchased the business from Elizabeth.

  In the corner of the room, however, was a finely decorated oak chest, perhaps two feet wide, with an ornate iron lock and hinges. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, and its presence in the spare room of a middling merchant from a small town such as Nantwich seemed somewhat incongruous.

  “A gift from his lordship, the Duke of Hamilton,” explained Elizabeth, who had noticed my interest. “In gratitude for Ralph’s service in Germany. I had quite forgotten it was there. Ralph was always very secretive about it. I could tell he didn’t want me meddling in his private business, so I left it be.”

  I nodded my understanding. “Then perhaps now is the time to take a closer look,” I suggested.

  With some effort, Elizabeth and I dragged the heavy box into the middle of the room. The act of moving it sent clouds of dust through the air, causing my nostrils to itch ferociously.

  “Do you have the key?” I asked, trying to stifle a sneeze.

  “I cannot be sure, but I think so,” replied my wife, and she disappeared downstairs, returning a few moments later with a large metal key chain on which hung a single key.

  “I handed over the keys to Ralph’s workshop to Kinshaw,” she explained. “This key was amongst them but didn’t fit any of the locks, so I kept it. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but the key must be for this chest.”

  I inserted the key carefully and turned it in the lock, the locking mechanism clicking gently as it released the hinge and bracket which held the chest closed. I opened the box and peered inside.

  There did not seem at first sight to be anything out of the ordinary – a number of parchments and papers, some relating to Brett’s business and others relating to the ownership of the house. There were also some personal letters bearing the seal of the Duke of Hamilton and, more unusually, a fine dagger wrapped in a white cloth, which I presumed was also a gift from the duke. Underneath all of it, neatly folded, was a tunic, which I assumed was the coat Brett had worn whilst serving in Germany.

  I was about to ask Elizabeth what she would have me do with the contents of the box, when I heard a door slam and the unmistakeable sound of children’s voices coming up the stairs. I also caught the hint of a rather unpleasant aroma, which reminded me of the inside of a cowshed.

  A few seconds later the door swung open and in tumbled Amy, the ten-year-old granddaughter of my housekeeper, Mrs Padgett, closely followed by Elizabeth’s son, Ralph, named after his father, who was giggling hysterically and chasing Amy with a small wooden sword. Both children were filthy, their clothes dishevelled and smeared with mud and dirt.

  “By the saints,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grabbing her son by the collar. “Where have you been? You smell as if you have been rolling in cow dung. You have ruined your new clothes.”

  Ralph, whose shoulder-length blond hair was making him look more like his father each day, stopped his giggling and looked sol
emnly at his clothes and then at his mother. The boy was wearing new breeches and a doublet that Elizabeth had bought for him Ralph’s sixth birthday had been but a week before our wedding, and Elizabeth had thought to dress him for the ceremony in his first pair of breeches rather than the smock usually worn by small boys.

  Ralph had been delighted with his new clothes. Breeching was an important rite of passage for a young boy and, having received his first set of grown-up garments before many of his contemporaries, Ralph had been the envy of his young friends. Now, however, he appeared distinctly sorry for himself.

  “Amy and I have been in Ridley Field,” said Ralph, as contritely as he could, “the stone pillar and water troughs make a fine castle.”

  I looked at the boy with surprise. “Then you have disobeyed us,” I said, sternly. “We told you not to play there.”

  Ridley Field was a large pasture, which bordered the River Weaver in the area to the south of Welsh Row. It was separated from the town centre not only by the river, but also by the broad expanse of Mill Island, which split the flow of the Weaver in two. The field was unusual in that it contained a curious stone pillar used for tethering livestock, which was surrounded by a collection of pens and water troughs.

  More importantly, it was outside the ring of defensive earthworks that had been thrown up the year before to protect the town from attack, which is why we had instructed Amy and Ralph not to play there. Although there had been no warning of approaching royalist forces, you could never be certain, and Ridley Field was certainly outside the area protected by the garrison.

  “And how is it that you are so dirty?” I demanded. “Ridley Field was good green pasture land the last time I saw it. It is no swamp, but you are both covered in mud.”

  “Please, Master Cheswis,” said Amy. “It was I who led Ralph there. If there is anyone to blame it is me. It is not usually so dirty in Ridley Field but there have recently been cows in the field, and there has been some digging around the stone pillar. There were holes everywhere.”

  “Digging?” I exclaimed, with incredulity. “That field is used for grazing cattle. Why would anyone wish to dig holes in it? Are you sure you are being truthful with me?”

  “Of course. You may ask the soldiers guarding the earthworks; they saw us playing, as did Mr Maisterson and Mr Wilbraham, who were entering the field as we left.”

  “Then this also means you have walked all the way through the Beast Market and the length of Beam Street in that state,” I said, pausing momentarily to wonder what business Thomas Maisterson and Roger Wilbraham, two of the town’s most influential merchants, could have in a cow field. “You will put us all to shame,” I added.

  Amy bowed her head and her face began to crumple, but Elizabeth stepped in.

  “Do not chide her so, Daniel,” she said. “They are both children. Let them behave as such. God knows, there is little enough opportunity these days for them to act their age. In any case, Amy will be in enough trouble when Mrs Padgett sees the state of her clothing.”

  This, I conceded, was true enough. Amy was rapidly approaching the age when she might be expected to behave a little more like a young lady, but although a quiet girl by nature, she was also something of a tomboy, and I sometimes felt she would have preferred running around the fields in breeches like Ralph rather than being restricted by the bodice, waistcoat, and petticoat she was wearing. But I could not blame her. She reminded me a little of my old sweetheart, Alice, at that age, and how we used to spend our time in the fields around Barthomley, the village where we both grew up.

  “I have some spare clothes she can wear,” said Elizabeth. “They may be a little large for her but they will suffice until she gets home.”

  I nodded my acquiescence and was just about to leave the room so that Elizabeth could rid the two children of their filthy garments when I noticed that Amy’s attention had been drawn to the box lying in the middle of the floor. She had lifted out Ralph Brett’s battered tunic and was holding it up to the light. As she did so, a round metal object fell out from inside the lining and clattered onto the floor.

  Amy picked up the object with curiosity and inspected it closely before handing it to me. It was a pewter engraving, about three inches in diameter. On one side an image of the Virgin Mary had been stamped into the metal, whilst the other showed a coat of arms bearing a shield with diagonal stripes and several fleurs de lys.

  “What is it?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on that,” I answered. “It looks like some kind of religious artefact. Where has it come from, do you suppose?”

  “That, I cannot say,” said Elizabeth, “but look, there is some writing underneath the coat of arms.”

  I squinted slightly in the gloom of the upstairs chamber and saw that Elizabeth spoke the truth.

  “Cistercium Mater Nostra,” I said, with a frown. “That is strange. This cannot have come from the Duke of Hamilton. Judging from the motto, this engraving has originated from a religious house, presumably of the Cistercian order. That means the engraving must be more than a century old, for it is over a hundred years since King Henry’s time, when the monasteries were destroyed. What on earth would your husband be doing with something like this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Elizabeth, “but wait… the Cotton family at Combermere live in the converted remains of a monastery. Perhaps it came from there. I know Thomas Cotton was a regular customer of my husband.”

  “Then this engraving should be passed onto Gilbert Kinshaw, along with the remaining papers belonging to the business. The tunic and the dagger we should keep. Ralph might treasure them when he is older.”

  With that, I placed the engraving back in the chest and left Elizabeth to change the children’s stinking and filthy clothes. It was then that there was a knock at the door.

  When I answered it I realised instantly that my honeymoon was well and truly over, for standing on my doorstep was Ezekiel Green, the fresh-faced young town clerk. From the apologetic look on his face, I could tell that the tidings were not good.

  “Master Cheswis,” he said. “Please excuse the disturbance, sir, but I have been sent by Colonel Croxton.”

  I groaned and glanced over my shoulder at Elizabeth, who was standing halfway down the stairs, her face a mask of barely suppressed rage, for she also understood the significance of Ezekiel’s presence. I confess, I felt some sympathy for the lad, for Ezekiel was a pleasant enough young man, and it seemed it was always he who was lumbered with the task of breaking such news to me.

  “I’m truly sorry, mistress,” he said, before turning back to me. “Master Cheswis, the colonel asks that you attend him at the Booth Hall on Monday morning at nine. He also asks that you bring Master Clowes with you.”

  Chapter 3

  Nantwich – Monday, July 8th, 1644

  Taken on its own, I would have still seen Ezekiel’s visit as a forewarning of difficult times to come, for I was already becoming used to the idea that the involvement of Colonel Thomas Croxton in any aspect of my life was likely to result in demands on my time and loyalties which I was prepared only reluctantly to give.

  But that weekend, there was also an undeniable feeling of change in the air, and it made me uneasy. The bright sunny weather of earlier in the week had stagnated into a stifling, sultry heat, and storm clouds loomed ominously on the western horizon, as though mirroring my own thoughts.

  Many would not have understood my fears, for the news from Oswestry was undeniably good. On the same day as Elizabeth and I were making our wedding vows, Cheshire’s parliamentary forces under Sir Thomas Myddelton had routed a significant part of the region’s royalist army at Whittington, three miles from Oswestry, causing Sir Fulke Hunckes to abandon his siege and scuttle back to Shrewsbury.

  However, this meant that the triumphant men of the Nantwich garrison would be back any day now, bringing the war once again onto our doorstep. Indeed, the latest scouts entering the town had
told stories of Lord Denbigh and Colonel George Booth, the garrison commander, amassing forces at Cholmondeley, only a few miles away. On the Sunday, two troops of volunteers under Captains George and Thomas Malbon, the sons of the well-known Nantwich lawyer, had ridden out to join him.

  Meanwhile, reports had begun to filter through of a much more significant victory for Parliament, which had taken place on the same day, in the moorlands to the west of York. The talk was of thousands of dead, and my first thought was for my brother, Simon, who had followed his hero, the radical writer and political activist John Lilburne, to serve in Fairfax’s army in that part of the country. Had he survived, or would I have to tell my children that their uncle had died in battle on my wedding day?

  I also thought about James Skinner, my erstwhile apprentice, now fighting on the King’s side, and the many friends and comrades I had made during the Siege of Lathom House, men like Lawrence Seaman, himself newly betrothed to Beatrice Le Croix, who I had also met for the first time during those difficult weeks in Lancashire.

  People were talking of a crushing defeat for Prince Rupert, saying that the so-called Duke of Plunderland might have escaped back over the Pennines. Of course, such an eventuality, if true, would not be good news for Nantwich, for it meant that Rupert, recently appointed President of Wales, would probably try to regain his strength in Chester and Lancashire before turning his attention once more on Shropshire and the Welsh Marches. Nantwich, of course, would be directly on his route south.

  Despite this, the news from Oswestry had lent the town an air of expectation. The Saturday market was busier than usual. Vegetable sellers, milkmaids, and butchers lined the sides of Pepper Street, fighting with each other for space. A young woman walked up and down the length of the bustling line of stalls with a basket full of herbs – bunches of lavender, rosemary, and marjoram. Meanwhile, three doors away from me, Margery Clowes stood in front of her house with a table full of candles made by her husband, and my best friend, Alexander. Trade was brisk and the cheese brought the previous day from my father’s farm in Barthomley by Jack Wade was almost fully sold by eleven in the morning.