The Combermere Legacy

by D. W. Bradbridge

“You may have wondered,” said Wilbraham, disregarding the barb, “why Maisterson and I considered it so important for you to accompany us to Combermere and why we are so confident that the solution to the riddle of Abbot Massey’s engravings is to be found here.”

  “I had assumed that the Cottons, as current owners of the abbey, might have some historical knowledge about the engravings that we are not party to. George Cotton, the owner of the Combermere Estate, must be in his eighties. His father would have known Massey. An interview with him might prove enlightening.”

  “You may well be right,” agreed Wilbraham, “and we shall certainly speak to George Cotton, but that is not the real reason we are here. The person we need to speak to is one of the stewards at Combermere, and his name is Geffery Crewe.”

  The shock of hearing this surname, the name of the accepted murderer of Roger Crockett, must have made me jolt in the saddle, for Demeter whinnied in protest, and I had to stroke her neck gently to calm her down. Wilbraham, meanwhile, smiled in amusement.

  “I see from your reaction that this name is familiar to you,” he said. “This does not surprise me, I must confess, for you are a shrewd investigator. I knew it would not be long before you started to draw a connection between the various people entrusted by John Massey with engravings and the unfortunate death of Roger Crockett over seventy years ago.”

  I nudged Demeter into a slow trot and gestured for Wilbraham to do likewise.

  “It is not difficult to deduce,” I said. “The whole town is now abuzz with stories of how the Hassall family losing the lease to Ridley Field was an omen – a portent of a violent death in Nantwich.”

  “Old wives’ tales,” said Wilbraham, dismissively, “but there is plenty to tell about that particular event. You must understand, it has had a profound effect on my family, for my great-grandfather was very nearly put on trial for the murder of Roger Crockett.”

  “Unjustly, of course.”

  “Of course,” scowled Wilbraham. “He was the target of a vendetta by Crockett’s wife. As you know, Edmund Crewe was the name of the man who killed Crockett.”

  “Indeed; so what is the connection between this historical murder and what is happening today, and who is this Geffery Crewe who is employed at Combermere?”

  “To answer that,” said Wilbraham, “I need to take you back to the fifteen seventies and explain the relationships between the leading families in Nantwich at that time. The Wilbraham and Maisterson families have always been close, and in those days my great-grandfather Richard Wilbraham was married to the former Elizabeth Maisterson, while Richard Hassall was married to Anne Maisterson, both John Maisterson’s sisters.

  “Our three families were therefore closely related by marriage, and it did not take long for the three men to realise that each of them was one of Massey’s trustees.”

  “So I presume you are also aware of the secret word on Hassall’s engraving?” I ventured.

  “Unfortunately not. At that time, the three families kept to Massey’s wish and did not attempt to work out the significance of each other’s engravings. Their loyalty to Massey was such that they would have dutifully waited for a call from the seventh trustee before revealing their engraving to the group. It is only recently, in fact, that Thomas Maisterson and I have realised the significance of the secret wording on each engraving.”

  “I see,” I said. “So where does Crockett come in?”

  “Crockett was an up-and-coming merchant, who had made his own money. He was very successful, but he was also very indiscreet and not used to conducting himself in the way expected of a gentleman. He was, however, very good friends with a man called Thomas Wettenhall, who was from another prominent local family. Wettenhall, as it happened, was married to another of John Maisterson’s sisters.

  “When the dispute broke out between Crockett and Hassall over Ridley Field, Wettenhall supported Crockett, which caused a rift within the Maisterson family. Crockett’s mistake, however, was to inform Wettenhall that he was one of Massey’s trustees. What was more, he let it slip that his pursuit of the lease to Ridley Field was in some way connected to this. This information, of course, found its way back to John Maisterson, through his sister, fortunately before the rift had got to the point where they were no longer talking to each other.

  “At this point, John Maisterson, Richard Hassall, and my great-grandfather deduced that Massey’s treasure must be buried somewhere in the field, and suspected that Crockett planned to try and find the treasure and keep it for himself, contrary to Massey’s wishes.”

  “So Crockett’s plan to drain the field was presumably part of a strategy to make it easier to find the treasure,” I suggested.

  “So it was suspected,” confirmed Wilbraham, “and so our three families swore to try and protect the field, in order to preserve Massey’s legacy.”

  “But they would have failed, were it not for Crockett’s death.”

  Wilbraham did not answer, but the silence was enough to confirm my suspicions. I rode in silence for a few moments while I tried to process this new information. The implications of Roger Wilbraham’s words were truly shocking.

  “Are you telling me,” I asked, eventually, “that Richard Wilbraham, John Maisterson, and Richard Hassall conspired to murder Roger Crockett?”

  “No, no,” exclaimed Wilbraham, his face paling. “You misunderstand what I am saying. The plan was to teach Crockett a lesson, once and for all, to bring him into line and make him realise that if he tried to break the pact made between Massey and his trustees, he would regret it.”

  “But the plan went awry?”

  “Unfortunately so. Edmund Crewe was rather too enthusiastic in his approach and hit Crockett so hard on the head that it was clear he was going to die. Hassall’s wife tried to help, but saw that the cause was hopeless, and so my great-grandfather was summoned from his bed. You already know the story from there. Crockett was helped back to The Crown by my great-grandfather and others, but unfortunately he died later that day.”

  “So what happened to Crockett’s engraving?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “The story passed down by my great-grandfather was that, in the face of his approaching death, Crockett became rather penitent and realised his greed was the cause of his predicament – not only that, he came to the conclusion that his fate was divine providence – God’s judgement on his behaviour. He therefore repented and gave the engraving to my great-grandfather to find a new trustee.

  “When Bridgett Crockett found out about this the following morning, however, she was incandescent with rage and demanded the engraving back, but my great-grandfather refused. It was the beginning of her attempt to have my great-grandfather and several others brought to trial for her husband’s murder.

  “In the meantime, Edmund Crewe was spirited away, first to Wrenbury and then out of the county, but not before Maisterson, Hassall, and my great-grandfather had made the decision to make Crewe the new trustee. He was the obvious choice considering that he would have had to abide by the others’ wishes in relation to the engraving, for fear of his location being betrayed by them and being brought back to face justice in Cheshire.

  “Crewe escaped down to the West Country and spent several years at sea, as far away as possible from justice. He was said to have served under Sir Francis Drake for many years, but after that, all contact was lost with him.

  “For fifty years our family had no inkling of what had happened to Edmund Crewe or whether he had any descendants. About nine months ago, however, I happened to be visiting the Cotton family at Combermere. George Cotton’s son, Thomas, was, at that time, attempting to curry favour with other prominent royalist families in the area, with the aim that his family might benefit should Lord Byron’s forces eventually take Nantwich. In the event, he allowed Combermere to be used as a base for royalist forces in the lead up to the battle in January.

  “During that visit, I learned that the steward in charge at the stables was called
Geffery Crewe. I considered this to be a coincidence I could not ignore, and so I took pains to get to know him. I managed to ascertain that Crewe, who is now in his forties, is the grandson of Crockett’s killer. He was born in Devon but says he had always felt a calling to come to Combermere, that his destiny was somehow linked to the abbey and the story of Massey’s engravings. He had no idea who any of the other trustees were, so, you can imagine, he was pleased to have made my acquaintance. As a result, we have stayed in touch ever since.

  “A few weeks ago, I received a letter from him, saying he felt he was in danger. He did not elaborate, other than to say an attempt had been made on his life and that his lodgings had been ransacked. He wondered whether this might have some connection to Massey’s engravings. When Henry Hassall was murdered, I put two and two together and wrote to him, telling him to be vigilant.”

  At that moment, Wilbraham and I rode around a bend in the track, and a wide vista opened up, showing that we had almost reached our goal. To the right, the long, thin stretch of water that was Combermere shimmered in the sunlight. Next to it, in the distance, stood a large, white, half-timbered mansion, in front of which was a walled courtyard. This was approached by a wide grassy avenue, which lead through orchards interspersed with man-made fish ponds. In the foreground stood a large farm building, which guarded the entrance to the Combermere Estate. I realised that we were approaching the Cotton family residence from the rear.

  “It seems we have arrived,” I said, “so we must guard our words, once we reach the gates. But tell me, if you have taken the trouble to become acquainted with this Geffery Crewe, surely you will have been able to ascertain the secret word that is on his engraving?”

  Wilbraham smiled enigmatically and dug his knees into his horse’s flanks to hurry him up. “Master Cheswis,” he said, “I believe you already know the answer to that question. The word on Crewe’s engraving is ‘Ridley’.”

  Chapter 12

  Combermere – Wednesday, July 31st, 1644

  At the entrance to the estate, Wilbraham and I were met by a lone gamekeeper, who directed us towards the collection of farm buildings which stood between the lake and the wide avenue leading to the rear of the main house. We were asked to wait in the farm steward’s lodge, a round brick building with a pointed slate roof, where, after a ten minute delay, we were attended by a smartly dressed but hurried-looking member of the household, who Wilbraham seemed to know. He introduced himself to me as Abraham Gorste, personal assistant to the head steward.

  “Please accept my apologies, Mr Wilbraham,” he said. “We were not expecting you quite so soon, and, as you will soon see, we have several guests on the estate tonight.”

  “It is of no import,” said Wilbraham, waving his hand dismissively. “We have made good time. The road here has been dry and clear, although we are a little tired.”

  “Then I will show you to the house,” said Gorste. “Please bring your horses and follow me. Grooms are waiting at the front gates, and they will take your mounts to the stables. I will then show you to your rooms. Mr Cotton is looking forward to receiving you.”

  Instead of leading us back to the grassy avenue which cut through the middle of the orchards, Gorste directed us towards a narrow and dusty track lined with apple trees, which skirted the orchards and the side of the walled courtyard, before emerging at a jetty and a large boathouse at the edge of the lake.

  The assistant steward, having recovered his composure, chatted to us in a genial manner as we led our horses down the track. In his early thirties, Gorste was a tall man with an athletic build and a loping stride. Wilbraham, I noticed, being short in stature, had to quicken his step to keep up with him.

  “The main avenue to the rear of the house is currently closed,” explained Gorste. “In January, the grounds of the house were used as a temporary camp for the King’s army, and his artillery units churned up the ground to the point where it became unusable. The avenue has been levelled and re-seeded, but it is still not ready to be walked upon, even though the soldiers are long gone.”

  “The Cottons have been strong supporters of His Majesty,” said Wilbraham, “as have many of us.”

  “Aye, that they have, sir,” concurred Gorste, “not that it will do them much good, I suspect. Now that Parliament has the upper hand hereabouts, I hear Brereton has already put his sequestrators in motion.”

  “There is a man called Folineux,” I said, “who is charged with dealing with the most prominent royalist households. It seems he is not a man to be trifled with.”

  Wilbraham nodded grimly. “I have met this Folineux,” he said. “He is the very epitome of infuriating Puritan righteousness. I have long resigned myself to the likelihood that I will be punished for my support of the King, but this man is like a dog with a bone. For your master’s sake, you would do well to keep him at bay for as long as possible.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gorste. “It would be a shame to see this place reduced by the sequestrators.”

  Wilbraham, I noticed, was watching me carefully, studying my reaction to the blatantly political statement, but I was not going to reveal my views on such matters in a place steeped as deeply in royalist sympathies as Combermere, especially to one of the household staff. Instead, I changed the subject.

  “This seems like a well-managed estate,” I said. “You are self-sufficient here?”

  “Not completely,” said Gorste, “but we are well catered for. As you can see, we have extensive orchards and grow most of our own vegetables. There is also a herb garden in front of the house. We have our own fish breeding ponds to keep the lake fully stocked, and livestock are kept in the fields on the other side of the orchard.”

  As Gorste was saying this, we walked past a white picket fence, which ran alongside a narrow path leading to a wooden building by the lakeside, in front of which stood a huge circular tank made of wood, perhaps fifteen feet high, from which an intermittent banging noise was emanating.

  “The building down by the water is our washhouse,” explained Gorste, when he saw me looking. “The water tank which feeds it is usually filled from a conduit, which leads from one of the ponds on the higher ground behind us, although, as you can hear, the tank is currently being re-lined. Maintaining the buildings on an estate like this is a never-ending task.”

  I nodded and stared across the lake, which shimmered in the sun reflecting off the smooth surface of the water.

  “It seems very peaceful here,” I said.

  “Yes, but it is not always so,” said Gorste. “When the wind gets up, it whips across the water and turns the water choppy very quickly. It is no fun being caught out there when that happens, I assure you.”

  As if on cue, at that moment a rowboat came into view on the other side of the lake, having emerged from behind a small, wooded island close to the opposite bank. On the island was a curious looking hexagonal building with a pointed roof and arched windows, almost like a chapel.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “That,” said Gorste, “is Mr Thomas Cotton’s summerhouse, often used at this time of year to entertain guests to the house. As you can see, that is exactly what is happening today.”

  I looked more closely at the small wooden craft, which was splashing its way slowly across the lake towards the boathouse. Two men in blue coats, clearly servants, were rowing vigorously, whilst three other men and a woman were relaxing and chatting to each other.

  “Who are the guests?” asked Wilbraham.

  “You will meet them tonight, sir. They are Lord Herbert of Cherbury and Sir Fulke Hunckes, governor of Shrewsbury. We are honoured to have so many prominent and esteemed gentlemen here at the same time.” Gorste cast a pointed look in my direction to let me know that I was excluded from this comment. “I’m afraid I do not know the name of the lady accompanying Sir Fulke.”

  As the boat came closer, I caught the sound of laughter drifting across the water, and I froze, my mind instantly transported back to my youth, t
o a meadow near Barthomley, where I had heard that same staccato giggle before. Although the rowboat was still a hundred yards away, I focused my eyes on the woman sat up in the stern, and there was no mistaking it: the same blonde ringlets, the same wave of the hand.

  Wherever I was, whoever I was with, she always seemed to have the same debilitating effect on me, and fate, it seemed, had decreed that whenever I least expected it, and whenever I least needed it, she would always be there. What in the name of God, I wondered, was Alice Furnival doing at Combermere?

  I must have been staring into space for several seconds, for I suddenly felt Gorste touch me lightly on the shoulder.

  “Are you quite alright, sir?” he asked. “You seem somewhat discomfited.”

  I quickly pulled myself together and tugged lightly on Demeter’s reins to walk her back towards the house.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I felt a little faint all of a sudden. It must have been the exertion of the ride. It is a warm day.”

  Gorste nodded his understanding and began to lead the way past the boathouse towards the front of the main building, where I could see two grooms were already waiting for us. The steward had seemingly noticed nothing unusual in my reaction, but Wilbraham had not missed its significance, and he gave me a questioning look.

  “Later,” I said, once Gorste was out of earshot. “The stakes, it seems, have just been raised.”

  “So what was that all about?” demanded Wilbraham from the doorway of my chamber. Twenty minutes had passed since I had seen Alice being rowed across the lake, and in the meantime Wilbraham and I had been shown to separate rooms on the first floor of the main house. Wilbraham, I realised, must have exaggerated my importance to the Cottons, for I was quite unused to being granted a room so well-appointed. Once Gorste had left me, I had gone over to the window and realised that my chamber had a fine view across the mere.

  Directly below my window, Alice was stood talking to Lord Herbert, Sir Fulke Hunckes, and the third man, a broad-built fellow in his thirties, who I took to be Thomas Cotton. Perhaps the shock of seeing my first love again had addled my brain and caused it to play tricks on me, but I could have sworn Alice looked up towards where I was standing and smiled.