“Come inside and close the door, Mr Wilbraham,” I said. “I am not sure what is going on here, but our circumstances appear to have changed.”
“Changed?” said Wilbraham, an edge to his voice. “What do you mean?”
It was a moment for decisions. It was common knowledge in Nantwich that Hugh Furnival had been a royalist spy and had been the man responsible for the murder of Ralph Brett, but few knew the full story. Wilbraham, although he had met Alice, would not have been aware of the degree to which she had been implicated in the plot, and Bressy, Furnival’s partner in crime, was only known to a limited number of soldiers, with whom he had served. To the townsfolk he was an unknown, and Colonel Booth had insisted on keeping it so.
I realised I was faced with a stark choice. I would either have to confide in Wilbraham, a known royalist sympathiser, or abort the visit to Combermere and return to Nantwich empty-handed. I took a deep breath and went with my gut instinct.
“The woman in the boat,” I said. “I recognised her. It was Alice, the widow of Hugh Furnival.”
“The man who murdered your wife’s first husband?” Wilbraham shrugged, nonplussed. “I can see how that might present an awkward situation for you,” he said, “but surely it is not so surprising she is here. She was only in Nantwich for a month. I fail to see why that presents such a difficulty for you, unless–”
Wilbraham had been watching me closely as he spoke. It must have been something in my expression that gave me away, for there was a sudden change in Wilbraham’s eyes as suspicion dawned.
“Good God, Cheswis,” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “She was your lover, wasn’t she? How the devil did you manage that? You are a fast worker, and that is the truth of it.”
“No, no,” I protested, my face reddening. “You misunderstand me. There was no impropriety when Mrs Furnival was in Nantwich, I assure you.”
And so I told Wilbraham how I had known Alice since I was a child, how I had been betrothed to her, and how she had left me for Furnival all those years ago. I then explained how she and her husband had used me to gain information about the murder of William Tench in order to try and dupe me into believing that the murders of Ralph Brett and James Nuttall were carried out by the same person who had killed Tench. What I did not mention, of course, was how I had rescued Alice from St Mary’s Church after the battle and helped her escape back to Shrewsbury.
When I had finished, Wilbraham slapped his thigh and guffawed loudly. “That is some story,” he chuckled. “You are something of a dark horse, Cheswis. I would not have credited it, but you have gone up in my estimations.”
“Wait,” I added. “That is not all of it. There’s still the matter of Jem Bressy.”
Wilbraham frowned, pulled out a chair from under an ornately carved oak desk that stood in the corner of the room, and rested his forearms on the back of it.
“Bressy? Who is he?” he asked, serious once again.
“Jem Bressy,” I replied, “is a royalist spy. He was Hugh Furnival’s accomplice in the murder of Ralph Brett and Lady Norton’s footman, James Nuttall, but, unlike Furnival, he managed to escape to Chester after the battle in January.”
“But what relevance is that to our current situation?”
“Bressy, I believe, may be one of Massey’s six trustees. He has been seen recently in Nantwich both by my wife and by my apprentice, Jack Wade, with whom he once served; he bears a striking resemblance to Jacob Fletcher, who was originally arrested for Henry Hassall’s murder, and, as I have since discovered, a Bressy is listed among the witnesses at Roger Crockett’s inquest back in fifteen seventy-two. Furthermore, although I have no idea what Alice Furnival is doing here at Combermere, my guess is that Jem Bressy is not far away.”
Wilbraham give a derisive snort. “That is mostly circumstantial evidence and supposition,” he said. “What makes you so sure that this Bressy is connected to the search for Massey’s treasure?”
There was no escaping it now. If I was to have any chance of finding out what had happened to Amy, I was obliged to place my full trust in Wilbraham and hope that he would not betray me.
“Because,” I said, “Bressy is known to be searching for a hoard of plate, gold, and other valuables, located somewhere in Nantwich, which he intends to purloin for the royalist cause.”
Wilbraham said nothing, but sat down on the oak chair and looked at me intently. I could see the young gentleman working out the implications of what I had just said. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but assured.
“If you are privy to this kind of information,” he said, “then that can mean but one thing. You must be an intelligencer yourself. One of Brereton’s men, I presume. How long has this been going on for? Since before the battle at Nantwich?”
“No,” I said, “after that, and not on my own instigation either, I assure you. And in case you were thinking it, betraying me will serve little purpose. There are plenty in the King’s service who already know who I am.”
Wilbraham laughed sardonically. “I may be many things, Mr Cheswis, but I am no fool. If I were to ride to Combermere with one of Brereton’s agents and betray him to the royalists, what do you suppose would happen? I live in Nantwich, man! If I were to betray you, it would not look good for me, and that is the truth, especially with Brereton’s collector, Folineux, sniffing around Townsend House.”
“He’s already been there?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course. My family is among the most prominent in Nantwich. It did not take long for him to come knocking. My head footman managed to stall him by pretending I was not at home, but he will be back.”
“So what do you propose?” I asked, realising my position was not quite as weak as it seemed.
“A partnership of convenience, of course,” said Wilbraham, proffering a hand for me to shake. “We are both in danger as long as Hassall’s murderer is at large. We must also try and find out what happened to Amy Padgett and locate your wife’s engraving, with a view to finding the treasure before Bressy does. Let us deal with priorities and focus on why we are here.”
I nodded in acknowledgement and took Wilbraham’s outstretched hand.
“So, what do we do now?” I asked.
“We go and talk to George Cotton,” said Wilbraham. “He will see us in the library in five minutes.”
* * *
George Cotton was already waiting for us when we arrived in the library. Standing by one of the windows which looked out over the courtyard at the front of the house, he cut a sprightly figure, despite his age. Quite unlike his son, Cotton was thin and wiry in build, with a sharp, intelligent face and a neatly trimmed grey beard. He smiled genially as Wilbraham approached.
“Mr Wilbraham. It is indeed an honour to welcome you to Combermere once again, and so soon after your last visit,” he said, extending his arm.
“The honour is all mine,” replied Wilbraham. “It is always a pleasure to visit you in such fine and inspiring surroundings.”
This much, at least, was true. The view from Cotton’s library was indeed impressive. Immediately below the window was a finely mowed lawn, dissected by the broad brown sweep of a carriage turning circle. In the middle of the lawn stood a marble sundial, behind which were a set of white entrance gates and a wide boulevard lined with poplars. Beyond that stood a further set of gates fronted by a large statue of a naked man wielding a sword. To the right of this was the boathouse and the shimmering expanse of Combermere Lake – to the left a walled formal garden, beyond which stood the stables and the smaller lake known as Danesmere.
I looked over towards the stables, where there appeared to be something of a disturbance. A horse was being led out into a pathway whilst several grooms appeared to be rushing around in a concerned manner. I was curious to find out what was going on, but my attention was drawn away by Cotton, who responded to Wilbraham’s comment with mock dismissiveness.
“Tush, sir,” he said. “The Wilbrahams are always welcome here. And
this must be Master Daniel Cheswis,” he added, turning to me. “A man of some investigative talent, so I hear, and a merchant with growing interests in salt and cheese. Welcome to Combermere, sir.”
I shot a glance at Wilbraham, who appeared to be trying to stifle a grin.
“You flatter me, sir,” I said, making a mental note of the fact that Cotton appeared well aware of my former status as a constable.
Cotton said nothing, but shepherded us past a large dining table towards an oak-panelled settle situated in front of an elaborate fireplace on the opposite side of the room. I looked above the hearth and realised there could be no doubt how the Cotton family had come about its wealth. Ornately designed, with an eclectic mixture of Celtic motifs and images from the New World, set above the more familiar sight of the coat of arms of England, the fireplace was dominated by four portraits lined up horizontally. Those on the far left and far right were of gentlemen I did not recognise, but the other two subjects were unmistakeable. Next to the sharp features and red hair of Queen Elizabeth hung the thin-lipped corpulence of Great King Henry.
“We have much to thank the Tudors for,” said Cotton, reading my thoughts. “The portraits above the fireplace reflect that truth. The man on the left wearing the ruff is my father. The other portrait is of me as a young man.”
“It is a long time since King Henry was alive,” I said, “but there are many in Nantwich who have not forgotten that Queen Elizabeth made a personal contribution to rebuilding the town when it burned down in fifteen eighty-three.”
“Indeed,” agreed Cotton. “If it had not been for Her Majesty’s generosity, Nantwich would not have developed into the wealthy town it is today. There are those that would say it is a shame that the town’s current generation of inhabitants appear to have forgotten the contribution of the monarchy to their town’s well-being and have chosen to side with the rebels.”
I was rescued from being dragged into a political debate by Wilbraham, who had reached inside his doublet and pulled out his pewter engraving.
“Mr Cotton,” he said. “Your family were granted this estate after King Henry dissolved the abbey, but the last abbot of this place must have still been alive when you were in your youth. Do you remember him at all?”
“Abbot Massey? I’m afraid my memories of him are very vague. I was still a small boy when he died. He came here once to see my father, though, as I recall. There was something sad and broken about him, but that is not surprising, I suppose. By that time the abbey had been demolished and his own residence converted into this house as it is today.”
Wilbraham pursed his lips and placed his engraving on the table in front of him. “Do you recall ever seeing anything like this before?” he asked.
Cotton frowned and picked up the engraving, turning it over between his fingers and inspecting it closely.
“What is it?” he asked, with suspicion. “It carries the mark of the Cistercian order. It looks like some relic from the abbey.”
“That may well be the case,” admitted Wilbraham, “but is it familiar to you? That is what I would wish to know.”
“I believe so. It is a most curious artefact, so I would not easily forget. Several months ago our head groom, Geffery Crewe, came to me with such a thing and asked me similar questions to those you are asking now.”
Wilbraham exhaled and aimed a self-satisfied smile in my direction. I chose to ignore my companion and stepped in with a question of my own.
“That is most illuminating, Mr Cotton,” I said. “Tell me, a few years after Abbot Massey’s death, the landlord of The Crown in Nantwich was murdered. Do you recall anything about that from your youth? I believe at the time it was treated as a most infamous occurrence.”
“You mean Mr Crockett? You are right. His untimely death was the talk of Nantwich. I was still only twelve, but I recall my father being deeply shocked, for he was known to Roger Crockett, but I do not understand what that has got to do with – oh, I see,” he corrected, light suddenly dawning, “you wish to draw a connection with my head groom. Geffery Crewe’s grandfather, whose name was Edmund, was accused of having committed the murder.”
“And you knew this?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Of course. Crewe told me his history when he first asked for work here. I had no reason to deny him a living. It was not he who was a murderer, after all, and he certainly knew how to handle horses. Such men are not so easy to come by nowadays. Tell me, Mr Cheswis, where is this line of questioning heading?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered, honestly, “but I believe having possession of one of these engravings may be a dangerous thing at present, and both Mr Wilbraham and I stand to be affected. We would speak to Mr Crewe as soon as is sensibly convenient.”
At that precise moment there was a gentle knock on the door, and a young footman entered.
“Yes, what is it, Cooper?” snapped Cotton. “I thought I said I was not to be disturbed.”
“I k-know it, sir,” stammered the servant, “but begging your pardon, you are to come straight away, sir. To the stables. There has been a terrible accident.”
Wilbraham and I looked at each other, and a dark sense of foreboding began to overwhelm me.
“Accident?” said Cotton. “What kind of accident?”
“It-it’s the head g-groom, sir. Mr Crewe,” blurted the youth, who was trying hard to stop his words tumbling out over themselves. “He has been kicked in the head by one of the horses. I fear he may be dead.”
Chapter 13
Combermere – Wednesday, July 31st, 1644
The stable block was in a state of some confusion by the time Cotton, Wilbraham, and I arrived on the scene. A small crowd of footmen, grooms, housemaids, and other servants had gathered around the entrance to the far left hand building of a group of four timber-framed brick barns, which lined the bank of Danesmere.
Abraham Gorste was stood in defensive posture by the doorway, trying manfully to keep the crowd at bay. He looked relieved when he saw Cotton coming, and the melee of curious onlookers began to part.
“He’s in here, sir,” said Gorste. “In the farrier’s workshop. Seems he were treating a lame horse.”
Without being asked, Wilbraham and I followed Cotton into the barn. There, lying flat on his back, his hand still gripping a pair of clinchers, was a dark-haired man of medium build, quite plainly dead, the left side of his face covered in blood. As my eyes became accustomed to the light inside the workshop, I noticed that there was an ugly-looking dent in the side of his skull, just above the left temple. His eyes, one blue, the other blood red, stared up at the rafters and conveyed only astonishment at his sudden demise.
“May God have mercy,” exclaimed Cotton through clenched teeth, his voice rising a notch. “How did this happen?”
“I cannot say, sir,” said Gorste. “Martland found him. I was going to the bakehouse nearby and came running as soon as I heard the shouts.”
“Is that true, Martland?” asked Cotton.
It was then that I noticed one of the young grooms, who had taken our horses, sitting on a bale of hay, his neck tucked into his chin and clearly in shock.
“Aye, sir,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I noticed one of the gentlemen’s horses appeared to have turned lame, so I brought it in here for Mr Crewe to take a look at. I’d only been gone a couple of minutes when I heard a commotion and a loud cry coming from in here. I came back straight away and found Mr Crewe like this. He were stone dead, sir.”
“Wait a minute,” interjected Wilbraham. “You say he was kicked to death by one of our horses?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. It was the bay mare. She was all het up and sweating, so I calmed her down and put her in the stable next door.”
“Demeter?” I gasped, disbelieving. “Are you saying my mare did this?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I left her with Joe Beckett, the other groom, to try and quieten her down. I’ll get him to fetch her in. She might be a bit
calmer now.”
With that, the young groom hauled himself to his feet and shuffled his way out of the door.
As soon as Martland had left, Cotton directed Gorste to clear the curious crowd of servants, maids, and gardeners from the immediate environs of the farrier’s workshop and get them back to their work, after which he was tasked with riding to Whitchurch to locate the coroner.
I got the strange impression that Gorste was keen to remain in the stables and follow our discussions, for I thought I caught a slight twitch of irritation touch the corner of his mouth. Nonetheless, he bowed deferentially to Cotton and set about shooing the onlookers back to the house and the various workshops that lay in between Danesmere and the orchards.
A few moments later, Martland returned with the other groom, who was leading a clearly agitated Demeter by the reins and stroking her neck in an attempt to pacify her. She had, I noticed, clearly gone lame in one of her hind legs. It always pained me to see my mare in distress, and so it was now. She whickered quietly in recognition as I took the reins from Beckett.
“She wasn’t lame when we arrived,” I said to Martland.
“I know,” replied the groom. “I can’t understand it myself. There was nothing wrong with her when I brought her into the stables. Here, see if you can keep her still a minute. I’ll take a look at her hooves.
I nodded and blew gently into Demeter’s nostrils to keep her calm, whilst Martland inspected her left hind hoof.
“That’s strange,” he said, after a couple of moments. “She has a piece of flint jammed in her hoof.”
I felt Demeter wince as the groom extracted the sharp piece of stone, but fortunately she stayed calm and did not struggle.
“Strange?” I said. “How so? These things happen, surely?”
The Combermere Legacy Page 12