The Combermere Legacy

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “She will be outside playing with Ralph,” said Elizabeth.

  I strode into the kitchen and looked through the window to see if I could see the children, but the back yard was empty. I had been so preoccupied with Maisterson and Wilbraham that I had failed to notice the lack of noise from the garden.

  “They cannot have gone far,” I said. “I will send her home as soon as she comes back.”

  Alexander nodded, but then he looked at us both closely, having noticed the tension in the air.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked, edging closer to where I was sitting. “You seem somewhat preoccupied.”

  I gestured for Alexander to take a seat and poured him a mug of ale. I then recounted the details of Maisterson and Wilbraham’s visit and watched as Alexander’s eyes grew wider. A smile began to spread across his features.

  “That is indeed an enlightening tale,” he said, cupping his chin in his hands and focussing on me intently, “but are you any the wiser as a result of this knowledge?”

  “I am not certain,” I admitted. “Let us analyse the facts. Firstly, we have Maisterson and Wilbraham’s assertion that Henry Hassall was murdered on the assumption that he owned one of the engravings and because of his connection to this so-called treasure.”

  “So-called?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “We do not know for certain that this collection of gold and plate actually exists. However, we do know that Jem Bressy was planning to come to Nantwich to recover a hoard of valuables. We know that he has ransacked our home, because he was seen by Elizabeth and Jack Wade, so he is presumably aware that we own one of the engravings. He was also seen attacking Hassall in his wich house.”

  “Which makes him the likely murderer.”

  “Well, yes, of course, that is the most likely explanation, although we have no witnesses who actually saw Hassall being led to his death.”

  “But someone must have seen him,” said Alexander.

  “Indeed. My guess is that one or more guards were bribed to let them through and are now keeping their mouths firmly shut for fear of being implicated in the murder.”

  Alexander scratched his chin thoughtfully and frowned. “Very good,” he said, “so what do we have?”

  “The biggest puzzle,” I said, “is the seemingly strange connection with the murder of Roger Crockett over seventy years ago. Members of the Hassall, Maisterson, and Wilbraham families were all involved in some way in the events of that day. A Bressy is also on the list of witnesses at Roger Crockett’s inquest, as was Ralph Brett’s great-grandfather, who was one of the town constables at the time. And what on earth is the connection with Ridley Field?”

  “Well, that is simple,” cut in Elizabeth. “Ridley Field must be where this treasure is buried.”

  I sat and considered that suggestion for a moment. Elizabeth was probably right. “Maisterson and Wilbraham will have known this,” I reasoned. “They were spotted loitering around Ridley Field after the murder.”

  “And don’t forget,” added Alexander, “the field was like a rabbit warren – full of holes. Someone has obviously already been digging for this treasure. Perhaps they’ve already found it.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Whoever dug the field up had no real idea where to look, for the field was covered in holes, and without exact co-ordinates, looking for the precise location of this hoard would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. My guess is that someone with one or two clues, Bressy perhaps, tried to take a calculated guess as to the location of the treasure but failed miserably. He will now have realised that he cannot hope to be successful by digging the whole field up. It’s simply too big. The treasure could be absolutely anywhere. He will therefore have realised that his only hope is to discover more of the six clues.”

  I paused for a moment to let the effect of this statement sink in. I could tell by the expressions on Alexander and Elizabeth’s faces that they had come to the same conclusion as me. There was only one way to solve this. We had to pay a visit to Gilbert Kinshaw.

  Chapter 8

  Nantwich – Thursday, July 25th, 1644

  Gilbert Kinshaw lived in a finely appointed, half-timbered town house about half way up Hospital Street. It was not a long walk, but the sun was already low in the sky by the time Elizabeth and I were able to venture forth to seek him out.

  Amy and Ralph had not returned, neither to Beam Street nor to my old house on Pepper Street, but in the end we could wait no longer, so we left a grim-faced Mrs Padgett in the company of the children’s by now stone cold dinner and walked over to Pepper Street, where we left word with Jack Wade to remain at home, lest the children show up.

  “This is truly the last time Amy and Ralph are allowed to run free like this,” I said, bristling with anger at their disobedience. “They will be confined at home until they learn to obey instructions.”

  Elizabeth smiled at me indulgently, but she merely said, “Let us just pray that they are safe and that our business with Kinshaw does not detain us too long from finding out where they are.”

  Once we had given our instructions to Wade, we called on Alexander, who emerged into the street, brandishing a half-eaten mutton pie.

  “Do you not even have time to stop for dinner these days?” called Margery, raucously, from somewhere inside the hallway. Alexander closed the door with a sheepish grin, ignoring his wife altogether. We could still hear her berating him fifty yards up the street.

  “That, my friend, is what all men can expect from their wives as the years pass by,” said Alexander, wearily. “Present company excepted, of course,” he added, hastily, when he saw the look on Elizabeth’s face.

  It was a fine, warm evening in Nantwich. Householders sat on their doorsteps, enjoying the last of the evening sun. Men spilled out of the taverns into the street, drinking and laughing. On the green in front of the church, several off-duty soldiers from the garrison were carrying out sword practice, the clash of metal upon metal reverberating across the square. Food vendors mingled with the crowds, touting their wares and filling the air with the smell of fresh baking. It was a happy scene and hard to imagine that only six months ago these were freezing and worried people, not sure whether to expect starvation or slaughter at the hands of the hordes of besieging royalists.

  Despite the cheerful mood of the townsfolk, something indeterminate filled me with unease as we walked towards The Lamb at the start of Hospital Street. I could not be certain, but I had the oddest feeling I was being watched, and as I glanced over towards the Booth Hall, I thought I saw a figure disappear furtively down one of the alleyways that led down to the river. Was I imagining things, or had he been observing my movements? Elizabeth, sensing my unease, gave me a curious look and squeezed my hand reassuringly.

  When we arrived at Kinshaw’s house, the scene outside was not what I expected. A sizeable crowd of onlookers had assembled on the street outside Kinshaw’s front door. I could not see much, but I could hear raised voices emanating from somewhere in the middle of the gathering. The three of us pushed our way forcefully through the crowd, to be met by the strangest of sights.

  Kinshaw, dressed only in his breeches and a torn white shirt, was arguing in an animated fashion with Constables Cripps and Sawyer. Seething with anger, he hitched up his breeches in a vain attempt to prevent rolls of milk-white flab from bulging out through the tear in his shirt. Kinshaw, I realised, had been involved in a fight and had clearly come off second best. He sported a huge fat lip and an angry-looking red mark on his cheekbone, whilst blood dripped from a cut on the side of his neck. The overweight merchant, red-faced and pompous, was taking Cripps to task over something, but the constable was having none of it, repeatedly jabbing Kinshaw in the chest with his finger.

  As soon as he saw me emerge from the crowd, Cripps stopped what he was doing and fixed me with a rancorous stare.

  “Ah, Cheswis,” he growled, “I might have expected you to be in the vicinity. You arrive at an opportune moment. T
his man and members of his household have been assaulted, and yet he would speak only to you about what happened here. Perhaps you can clarify to me why that should be so? I have explained to him that you are no longer a constable of this town, and yet he takes no notice. I thought I told you to keep your nose out of business which is no longer your concern.”

  I gave Kinshaw a quizzical look, but my attention was quickly drawn to the scene inside his house. Although my view into the interior of Kinshaw’s hall was largely restricted, I caught a glimpse of upturned chairs and a painting which had been torn from the wall. Meanwhile, at the bottom of a stairwell, Kinshaw’s footman lay slumped against the wall, clutching a blood-stained rag to a wound on his forehead. Cowering by his side was a young parlour maid, her face white and streaked with tears.

  “Master Cripps,” I began, “I assure you, none of this is of my doing. I came here to see Mr Kinshaw on a private matter.”

  “Aye, and I would speak to you,” interrupted Kinshaw. “There is nothing here that cannot be dealt with privately between you, your wife, and myself. However,” he added, gesturing towards Cripps, “this ignorant oaf would force me to discuss such matters with him.”

  Cripps, barely containing his anger, made to take a step forward, but Sawyer put up an arm to hold him back.

  “Mr Kinshaw,” said Sawyer, with more patience than I thought him capable of, “we were told by your own neighbours that there had been a disturbance here, and we came forthwith to find you and your staff had been assaulted. That makes it our business. You should be grateful for our quick response, not berating us.”

  I looked at Kinshaw, who showed no sign of conceding the point and was continuing to stare belligerently at Cripps.

  “Constable Sawyer is correct,” I said, trying to calm the situation down. “You will need to give the constables a statement, but if you agree to do that, I am sure Constable Sawyer will permit you a few moments to speak to me in private first.”

  Sawyer harrumphed loudly, and Cripps said nothing, but both men stepped back reluctantly and began to clear the crowd. Meanwhile, I followed Elizabeth, Alexander, and Kinshaw into the latter’s hallway.

  “What is all this about, Mr Kinshaw?” I asked, closing the door behind me.

  “I might ask you the same question,” retorted Kinshaw. “What is it about the engraving you gave me that makes it so valuable?”

  “The engraving? Valuable?” I responded. “That was what we had come to see you about. It was part of Ralph Brett’s personal property and not associated with his mercers business as we first thought. As such, it was given to you in error, and we have come to request that you return it to my wife.”

  Kinshaw smiled sardonically. “You’ll be lucky,” he said. “It is now in the hands of the bastard who did this to me.”

  “You gave it to him?” I exclaimed, astonished.

  “Of course. What do you expect? He strolled in here, clobbered Samuel, my footman, on the head and had me up against the wall, threatening me with a knife. Said he’d slit my throat if I didn’t hand it over. What alternative did I have?”

  “Can you describe this man for me?” I asked. “Let me guess – athletic build, jet black hair, short, well-groomed beard?”

  Kinshaw looked at me with curiosity.

  “Not really,” he said. “Athletic for sure, but then most people are athletic in comparison to me. However, the man who attacked me was clean shaven, and his hair seemed more brown than black, but I could have been mistaken. Who is he, as a matter of interest?”

  “That,” I said, with a degree of haughtiness I usually reserved for people I didn’t like, “is a matter which I am not at liberty to divulge. Needless to say, the man I describe is a dangerous individual, who we believe may have been responsible for the murder of Henry Hassall. You are fortunate indeed to have met his acquaintance and escape with such superficial injuries.”

  “Is that all you can say?” spluttered Kinshaw, extracting a kerchief from inside his torn shirt and dabbing it against his neck. “I get sore beaten by this man, solely because you chose to pass this engraving onto me. I could have been killed and you suggest I am fortunate? And what, may I ask, has Henry Hassall got to do with this?”

  When I didn’t answer, Kinshaw merely smiled at me knowingly.

  “No matter,” he said, waddling over to the door to let us out. “The truth will eventually emerge. Good Day, Mistress Cheswis, gentlemen. You know where to find me if you require my services.”

  * * *

  Alexander, Elizabeth, and I trudged our way back to Beam Street in a state of dejection. Cutting in between the houses on Hospital Street, we walked past the makeshift campsite that had been erected on Tinkers Croft for those soldiers who had not been able to find indoor billets, through the churchyard, and onto Churchyardside. We then headed across the fields to emerge opposite Lady Norton’s residence, at the place near the earthworks where Ralph Brett had been murdered by Bressy, Hugh Furnival, and Nathaniel Hulse several months before.

  I felt Elizabeth tense as we passed the spot. She was married to me now, but I could not blame her for still shuddering at the thought of an event which had changed her life so dramatically. Alexander, I sensed, had also noticed Elizabeth’s mood, and so he hung back a few yards behind us to allow us a little privacy. I squeezed my wife’s hand to show her I knew what she was thinking.

  As we turned the corner into Beam Street though, all thoughts of Ralph Brett left me, for as soon as we came within sight of our home, a white-faced and frantic Mrs Padgett came flapping across the street to meet us, panic etched on her face, and she thrust a piece of paper into my hand.

  “A young boy delivered this letter,” she said, gulping back tears. “It’s Ralph and Amy. They’ve been taken.”

  “Taken?” gasped Elizabeth, blanching noticeably. “What do you mean?”

  I took the sheet of paper from Mrs Padgett and unfolded it. On it was a hastily written message in a barely legible scrawl.

  If you want to see your daughter, you know what you must do

  I looked at Elizabeth and Mrs Padgett with a mixture of horror and guilt. What manner of a mess had I managed to get myself embroiled in this time? So long as things only affected me, I had found that I was becoming used to the role of an intelligencer, I was able to more or less cope with the stresses placed on me by the role – but now it was different. My family was involved. Bressy had kidnapped Amy – and what about Ralph? Was he alive or dead? I had no idea. The letter made no mention of him.

  I detached myself from the two women in my life and sat slumped on my doorstep with my head in my hands, wondering what to do next.

  Chapter 9

  Nantwich – Thursday, July 25th, 1644

  Stifling a sob, young Ralph Brett crouched low amongst the reeds that lined the bank of the River Weaver and watched as the man, who had taken Amy away, cursed and stomped his way through the nearby undergrowth.

  “Come out, you little bastard,” growled the man. “I know you’re in there somewhere. Show yourself, or you’ll feel the edge of my sword.” As if to illustrate his point, the man swung his weapon through the grass and bushes like a scythe until it clanged against a tree trunk.

  “Fuck,” he cursed, more desperate this time. “Where the hell did you go? If you don’t show yourself, I’ll cut off your miserable little pizzle and feed it to the crows.”

  Ralph shuddered and hunkered down further. Why had he not trusted his instinct and refused to follow the man into the trees?

  Ralph was soaking wet, knee-deep in river water. He was also beginning to get cold, despite the fact that the evening was still sunny and bright, he had lost his prized wooden sword, and his new breeches were ruined. His mother would tan his hide when he got back home, that was for certain, and he would be back in his skirts in no time. His friends had been so jealous when he had shown off his new breeches, but now he only had their ridicule to look forward to.

  How he wished he’d run for it w
hen the evil man had dragged Amy away. He would have had ample time to run back to the earthworks and alert the friendly sergeant who had let them pass into the field, and his clothes would have stayed clean, but instead he had hesitated and sought refuge amongst the reeds.

  And how he wished he had not listened to Amy, who had insisted they go to play in Ridley Field in the first place. When his mother had ushered them out of the house so she and Master Daniel could speak to the two gentlemen in private, Amy had given him a sly smile and led him down Beam Street towards the bridge. Ridley Field was an exciting place, she had insisted. Only a few weeks ago a man had been murdered here, a grisly event, which they could act out in a game, and Ralph enjoyed such games. She could be the murderer and Ralph the constable who catches the killer, just like Master Daniel himself.

  “Aye, off you go,” the sergeant had said, when they presented themselves at the foot of the steps leading to the top of the earthworks. “We’ll keep an eye out for you. Just don’t stray any further than the pillar, mind, just so as we can see you.” And with a ruffle of the boy’s hair, the sergeant had let the two children climb over the top of the earthen defences and down the ladder on the other side.

  “Make sure you kill one of those malignants for us, mind,” the sergeant had shouted, gesturing towards Ralph’s sword, and the boy had swished his weapon a few times in mock combat before trotting off in Amy’s wake towards the pillar in the middle of the field.

  They had first seen the man outside Lady Norton’s old house, but had thought little of it. He had been leaning against the stone wall that marked the boundary of Lady Norton’s property; a tall, well-built man, perhaps the same age as his Uncle Simon. Athletic in build, Ralph knew the type. He looked just like one of the strapping farm boys that came into town on market day.