Chapter 7
Nantwich – Thursday, July 25th, 1644
I must confess, there have been occasions when I have been forced to contemplate whether God has a singularly wicked sense of humour, so when I arrived home to find both Maisterson and Wilbraham seated at the table in my hall, being served by my wife and sampling the delights of Mrs Padgett’s almond cake, I felt as though he might be having a laugh at my expense. It was almost as though the two gentlemen had been eavesdropping on my conversation with Ezekiel Green and had rushed to intercept me before I could change my mind.
The prospect of having to deal once again with Thomas Maisterson and Roger Wilbraham was not something which I looked forward to with a great deal of pleasurable anticipation. I had not forgotten how the two men, together with their colleague Randle Church, had attempted to compromise my integrity the previous December by suggesting my business might gain their favour if I were to turn a blind eye to the nature of their relationship with the murdered tanner, William Tench. The repetition of such a scenario was something I keenly wished to avoid.
The two merchants made an incongruous looking pair. Maisterson, in his forties, tall, thin, and soberly dressed, looked like he could have been a lawyer rather than the prominent gentleman that he was. Wilbraham, on the other hand, still in the full flush of youth, was short and squat in build, and wore his fair hair short. Although he was one of the town’s most prominent royalists, his hairstyle would have marked him out as a puritan, were it not for his clothing: a fine silk doublet in purple with matching breeches.
Elizabeth gave me a knowing glance as I entered the house. “We have guests, my dear,” she said, as Maisterson and Wilbraham rose to greet me. “I will take the children somewhere where they can play, and leave you to your business.”
Amy and Ralph, I noticed, were sat quietly and respectfully at the table; quite unlike them, I thought. A spinning top and whip lay discarded on the wooden floor, and I realised they must have been playing when the two men arrived.
“There is no need for that,” cut in Maisterson. “What we have to say concerns you also. We would prefer that you stay.” There was something about Maisterson, with his hooked nose and sharp eyes, which reminded me of a bird of prey, and just for a second Elizabeth’s expression took on the look of a startled field mouse, but she quickly pulled herself together and shooed the children out into the garden, telling them not to stray too far.
“I cannot imagine why you gentlemen would wish to speak with me,” she said. “I am no more than a simple goodwife.”
“Our information is that you have been rather more than that,” said Maisterson, casting a meaningful smile at his companion, who extracted a small velvet pouch from the inside of his doublet and laid it on the table.
Wilbraham pulled the tiny bag’s drawstring to open it and took out a small metal object, holding it between thumb and forefinger in the light of a candle, so that both Elizabeth and I could see it.
“Do either of you recognise this?” he asked.
Elizabeth gasped, and I felt a pit open up inside my stomach, for Wilbraham was holding the small pewter engraving that we had found in Ralph Brett’s tunic.
“How the devil did you get hold of that?” I asked. “It belongs to my wife.”
Wilbraham smiled and flicked the engraving over so we could see both sides of it. “Not this one, Master Cheswis. This particular engraving has been in my family for generations. Mr Maisterson has a similar one, and, judging by your reaction, you appear to have one too.”
Neither Elizabeth nor I were ready to admit that the pewter coin was now in the hands of Gilbert Kinshaw, so Elizabeth merely asked,
“These engravings are clearly of some importance, Mr Wilbraham. What are they exactly?”
“Now that,” said Wilbraham, his face breaking into a broad smile, “is a very good question. There is no short answer, but the story needs telling, for I believe we may all be in grave danger.”
“Danger?” I exclaimed. “How so?”
“It is a long, convoluted tale,” said Maisterson. “May we be seated? This may take some time.”
I glanced at Elizabeth, who shrugged and gestured for the two men to make themselves comfortable. Maisterson turned his chair round to face us and sat demurely with his hands in the middle of his lap, one on top of the other. Wilbraham elected to remain standing, with his back to the window.
“How much do you both know about the history of Combermere Abbey?” asked Maisterson, eventually. My mind flashed immediately to the coat of arms we had seen on Brett’s engraving. My wife, I realised, had correctly identified its source. Elizabeth stiffened, and, judging by the look on her face, she had also recognised the significance of Maisterson’s words.
“It was a Cistercian house, was it not?” I said, trying to lighten the mood a little.
Maisterson raised his eyebrows slightly and nodded. “You are well-informed,” he acknowledged. “Combermere was indeed affiliated to the Cistercian order, although it was not always so. The place was founded in the twelfth century by Savignac monks, but it eventually became a daughter house to the Buildwas Abbey in Shropshire.
“Combermere never had a particularly salubrious reputation. It ran into financial difficulties on many occasions and picked up an unfortunate habit of attracting scandal. In the fifteenth century, one abbot was accused of counterfeiting gold coins, whilst another was murdered, shot dead with a bow and arrow. There was also another murder in the fifteen twenties, when one of the monks was killed by the abbey’s tanner, who was protected and hidden away by the abbot himself until the fuss had died down.
“It sounds like a veritable nest of delinquents,” I conceded.
“Yes, but the monastery was never very large. At the time of the Dissolution, only twelve monks resided there. Nonetheless, its impact on the local economy cannot be underestimated. Combermere owned numerous fields, properties, and wich houses in Nantwich, from which it exacted tithes. The abbey, therefore, had considerable influence over the lives of the folk who lived hereabouts, even the more prosperous families. Indeed, at the time, the families of both Mr Wilbraham and myself rented wich houses and other property from the abbey.”
“How does any of this concern us, Mr Maisterson?” interjected Elizabeth, who was leaning against the door to the kitchen with her arms crossed.
Maisterson smiled indulgently. “Patience, madam,” he said. “I am getting to that. The story which concerns us involves the very last abbot at Combermere, a man named John Massey, who had acceded to his post in fifteen twenty-nine.
“The Dissolution, it should be pointed out, was not something which happened overnight. It was something which had been brewing for a number of years, and Massey, who was a shrewd fellow, had been wise enough to notice that the writing was on the wall for the monasteries.
“So what did Massey do?” I asked.
“He knew that if the abbey was closed, the crown would confiscate all its property, so he started to secrete away money, gold, and plate over a period of time. I suppose his plan was that once Henry was dead, England would revert to the old religion, and the abbey would be able to reform. Of course, as everyone knows, England did revert to Catholicism for a short time during the fifteen fifties, and with bloody consequences too, but it didn’t last, and in any case, by this time Henry had torn down the monastery to its very foundations, something which Massey had clearly not anticipated.
“But I digress. By fifteen thirty-five, when Cromwell’s auditors first descended on Combermere to assess its value, Massey had already managed to hide away valuables of considerable worth, and by fifteen thirty-eight, when he was called to London to surrender the monastery, he was in a strong position. Of course, Massey did make a token attempt to persuade the King to allow him and his monks to remain in the monastery, but he had no wish to have his head nailed to the abbey door like Abbot Whiting at Glastonbury, and so Combermere was eventually surrendered. The monks all left quietly, and Massey
himself lived out the rest of his days on a comfortable pension of fifty pounds a year. He died in fifteen sixty-five.”
“An absorbing story,” I conceded, “but what happened to the money?”
“That is the interesting part,” said Maisterson. “Massey was the only person who knew of the whereabouts of this treasure. For some reason, he kept its location a secret from his monks, possibly because he thought some of them might covet it for themselves. However, in the months preceding his death, when he knew he was dying, he began to make plans for how best to reveal the treasure’s location and how to assure it would be put to use in a manner and at a time of which he would have approved.
“His solution was to pick seven prominent individuals from the local community who would be custodians of this knowledge, people who he had considered to be both pious and trustworthy.”
“Trust can be a dangerous thing,” I suggested. “How could he be sure one of these people would not be tempted to steal the whole lot and disappear?”
Maisterson emitted a low chuckle. “That,” he said, “was a conundrum which had occupied Massey for several months, but his solution to make sure nothing was ever done without the consensus of all seven custodians was most ingenious. Firstly, he made sure that the individuals he chose were recruited in secret, so that each man was unaware of the identities of the other six. He then had six almost identical pewter engravings cast, which were distributed individually to six of the seven men. Each of those given an engraving was told that he should guard it with his life, for it contained information which would reveal the location of the treasure he had put away, but only in conjunction with the other six.
“Now, you may ask about the role of the seventh man. Well, he had a particularly privileged position, for he was the individual who Massey trusted above all the others. It was he who was entrusted with the task of making a judgement on when the time was right to recover the treasure. This man was not given an engraving. However, he was given the names of the other six men and told to bring them together when the old religion was re-established in England, and the opportunity was there to re-establish the Cistercian order within the abbey. Of course, his vital mistake was to assume this might take somewhat less than the eighty years that have passed by since his death.”
Wilbraham, I noticed, had started shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot at the mention of religious orientation, as though the talk had begun to touch on matters which he would rather not discuss.
“I did not take your family to be closet Catholics, Mr Wilbraham,” I said, guardedly. “I always saw you as being fiercely loyal to the crown, loyal enough to attract the patronage of King James not one generation past. His Majesty was once a guest at Townsend House, so I’m told.”
Wilbraham bridled slightly and his cheeks took on a faint russet hue. “So he was, Master Cheswis, and I assure you, I am no ally of Rome. My family were always loyal to the monarch of the time, but for my ancestors this was more about loyalty to Combermere Abbey and to the abbot in particular, who had brought much business my family’s way. The leading families always worked closely with the abbey. We were obliged to, for, as you have heard, the monastery was not without influence here.”
This, of course, made sense, and I conceded the point to Wilbraham, but there was still one thing I did not understand.
“Forgive me,” I said, “but if Massey only revealed to one man the identity of the other six who had been given engravings, how is it that you and Mr Maisterson are aware of each other’s position in this regard?”
Wilbraham gave a quiet snort of derision. “I thought that would have been obvious,” he said. “The Maistersons and the Wilbrahams have always been close. It did not take many years after Massey’s death before our respective ancestors realised they had both been chosen by the abbot as custodians. Over the years, we have identified one or two others, but not all of them. For several years we had suspected that Ralph Brett was in possession of one of the engravings, for reasons which will become clear. However, until today we could not be certain.”
At this point, Maisterson reached inside his doublet and took out a second engraving, placing it on the table next to Wilbraham’s.
“Take a closer look at the two engravings,” said the older man. “What can you tell me about them?”
Elizabeth walked over to the table, and we both inspected the two pieces of pewter. At first sight they looked identical, but it was Elizabeth who spotted it first.
"Look, between 'Cistercium mater nostra' and the coat of arms," she said, triumphantly. "It's very small, but there is another word engraved into the metal; a different word on each piece."
“Very good, mistress,” grinned Wilbraham. “That is most observant of you.”
I picked up Wilbraham’s engraving and squinted at it, trying to read the minute detail of the lettering that had been cut into the pewter with considerable skill.
“It reads ‘Assumption’,” I said, confused, “but that means nothing at all. What does the other one say?”
“‘Evensong’,” said Elizabeth, equally nonplussed.
“We don’t know for certain,” replied Maisterson, “but it is our belief that each of the six engravings carries a different word, and that when placed together, the words will help reveal the location of Massey’s hoard of valuables.”
I stared at Maisterson in disbelief. This was getting increasingly bizarre. A hidden treasure, secreted away over a hundred years ago, of which Ralph Brett appeared to have been a custodian. If that were not strange enough, I suddenly remembered Wilbraham’s opening remark.
“You suggested we might be all in danger,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Maisterson, grimly. “We believe Henry Hassall was in possession of one of these engravings and that he was murdered for it. We believe the murderer may well be seeking to acquire the remaining engravings and that at least some of the answers to this puzzle are to be found at Combermere Abbey. We think you may be of some assistance in helping us to identify the murderer, particularly as you have a personal interest in the matter, and that Colonel Croxton has tasked you with pursuing this case. We have more information to share with you, but first we would ask that you share the information that you have and produce your engraving.”
Elizabeth and I stared apologetically at Maisterson. “We would if we could, sir,” said my wife, sheepishly, “but I’m afraid it is no longer in our possession. It is already in the hands of Gilbert Kinshaw.”
* * *
The two of us sat in silence for some time after Maisterson and Wilbraham had left. As soon as they had ascertained that we were not in possession of Brett’s engraving, Maisterson had wasted little time.
“I do not wish to know why you have given the engraving to one such as Kinshaw,” he had said, sternly, “but it is not his to keep. The custodianship was granted to the Brett family, and so it should remain. Apart from which, if the fact that Kinshaw has the engraving becomes common knowledge, it could put him in serious danger. You need to make haste and recover your property. We will give you until Wednesday next to retrieve the engraving, but then we must head for Combermere. We will divulge more information once the engraving has been returned to your possession.”
With that, the two gentlemen had taken their leave, leaving Elizabeth and I to contemplate the implication of the latest hand that fate had dealt us.
“I was under the impression that your first husband shared all his secrets with you,” I said, eventually. “It seems I was mistaken.”
Elizabeth glared at me for a moment, anger flashing in her eyes, but she then seemed to have second thoughts and sighed deeply, banging her palms on the table in frustration.
“I had no knowledge of this, Daniel, I swear,” she said. “Ralph once told me that when our son was grown, he had a secret he would share with him, but it was made clear from the start that I was not going to be made party to this knowledge. I presume the engraving is what he was talking about.”
> “So there’s no further light you can shed on the matter?”
“None, I’m afraid. All I know is that we must recover the engraving from Kinshaw.”
“But how?” I asked. “Kinshaw is not a man to readily give up anything he believes to be legitimately his, and once he realises the engraving is of value to us, he will surely try to exact a high price for its return.”
“You forget, Daniel, that I hold a signed agreement from Kinshaw to sell Ralph’s business back to me at the original selling price. Now we know that the engraving has nothing to do with the affairs of the mercers business, he must return the engraving to us, as it was not included in the original purchase. If he refuses, I could always threaten to exert the right to buy the business back.”
I shuddered at the thought of the can of worms that would be opened if such a scenario came to pass. The previous January I had accused Kinshaw of deliberately colluding with his sister Marion Tench and her husband William to blackmail John Davenport for fraudulently claiming walling rights he was not entitled to. Conversely, Kinshaw had accused me of turning a blind eye to Davenport’s misdemeanours because he was my friend. A resolution that neither of us would talk openly about these issues had been a part of Kinshaw’s agreement to buy Brett’s business.
“My dear,” I said, incredulous. “That is one thing we cannot do. Such an action would have to be the very last resort.”
Elizabeth formed her hands into a steeple on the table and lowered the tone of her voice. “Then in that case,” she said, “if he refuses to do the right thing, perhaps he will need some physical persuasion. Who do we know who is good at that sort of thing?”
Before I could express my horror, and as if on cue, there was a sharp knock on the door, and Alexander strolled in, clutching a wicker basket full of candles.
“For Simkins’ workshop,” explained my friend. “Boots are much sought after by the garrison at the moment, and Simkins says he is working into the night in order to meet demand. He is fast running out of candles. I was on my way to see him, but I bring a message from Mrs Padgett. She wishes for Amy to return home without delay to help with the washing.”
The Combermere Legacy Page 8