The Combermere Legacy

by D. W. Bradbridge

  The stranger flashed a smile at him and extracted some paperwork from inside his doublet.

  “My name is Marc Folineux. I am a collector and apprisor for the Nantwich Hundred. It is Mr Abraham Gorste whom I seek.”

  “I am Gorste,” said the deputy steward with surprise. “How is it that you know my name?”

  The newcomer’s smile grew a little wider, and Gorste immediately wished he hadn’t asked.

  “That, sir, is of little import. However, I am reliably advised that you are the one person with whom I should speak with regards to conducting an initial assessment of Mr Cotton’s estate.”

  Gorste laughed out loud. “Me?” he said, feigning incredulity. “You think wrong, sir. You need to speak to Mr Frayne, the chief steward, and ultimately to Mr Thomas Cotton himself, but unfortunately neither is here.”

  He lied. Both, he knew, were somewhere in the main house, but Gorste knew he had to prevent the sequestrator from going anywhere beyond the Grange.

  “I’m afraid you have wasted your journey,” he added.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said Folineux, unmoved. “The master of the house is rarely present when I first attend. However, this document is a formal demand from the chief sequestrator for Nantwich Hundred to assess the value of this estate in order that Mr Cotton may atone for his delinquency.”

  “Delinquency? I don’t suppose Mr Cotton will deny he is a supporter of His Majesty King Charles, but you won’t find much of value here these days. Most of Mr Cotton’s plate and other possessions of value have already been donated to the King’s cause, and, as you can see, a good proportion of the estate was damaged by the presence of His Majesty’s army here a few months ago.”

  “That is not what I heard,” said Folineux, evenly. “I understand that your master’s library is full of fine furniture and paintings. But no matter, we will assess that in due course.”

  Gorste looked sharply at the sequestrator. How on earth did Folineux know about the contents of the interior of the house? But then he smiled ruefully to himself. In truth it was not so difficult to guess. That confounded cheese merchant from Nantwich who had been here the previous week with Roger Wilbraham must be to blame. It was a pity for him that the rebel bastard had been beef-witted enough to leave his horse in the stables. He would return to Combermere for certain, and when he did, there would be a reckoning.

  He turned his attention to Folineux, who did not seem to be showing any inclination to move from his place in front of Gorste’s desk.

  “You will need to return when my master is here,” he repeated.

  “Have no fear, sir, I will not embarrass you today by trying to insist on rifling through your farm records without Mr Cotton being present. However, I will return next Friday, when I will be accompanied by a fellow collector, and I assure you that on that occasion I will not be so easily deterred from doing my duty. I trust you will inform your master accordingly, and until then I bid you good day.”

  Chapter 21

  Nantwich – Monday, August 5th – Wednesday, August 14th 1644

  My appointment with Thomas Croxton turned out to be less of a trial than I was expecting, especially when I remembered that the colonel’s primary motive for engaging me was not specifically to arrest Jem Bressy, but to find and secure Massey’s treasure before Bressy had the chance to carry it off to Shrewsbury. Although, make no mistake about it, Croxton would have taken as much pleasure as anyone in seeing the man strung up in the square in full view of the great and good of Nantwich, if for no other reason than that he had been responsible for the murder of Ralph Brett.

  Croxton, though, was nothing if not practical, and when Alexander reminded me of that fact, it did not take me long to work out the best approach to keep the colonel at bay long enough for me to see through the plan of action that I had agreed with Wilbraham, Alice, and Bressy, assuming of course that Bressy presented himself for further discussions before Assumption Day.

  So I told Croxton everything I knew about Massey’s treasure, including the fact that Bressy was one of the trustees, but left out all references to Alice and the fact that I had seen Bressy, let alone been forced to make an accord with him. I told him about Ralph Brett being one of the trustees, about Wilbraham and Maisterson’s involvement, about Kinshaw’s deception, about the reason for Amy’s kidnapping, and about the murder of Geffery Crewe in the farrier’s workshop at Combermere. And finally I explained our belief in the significance of August 15th – Assumption Day.

  The one thing I deliberately did not mention was the significance of Ridley Field, because I did not want Croxton to get the idea that the whole problem could be solved by having the men of the garrison dig up the field and make it look like a rabbit warren. After all, I had Amy to think about.

  If dealing with Croxton was easier than expected, the very opposite was true of Folineux, whose meticulous approach to assessing the value of the assets of known malignants was something for which I was wholly unprepared.

  It was common practice, he explained, to use third parties as informants to help assess the value of large estates, as it had become customary for wealthy royalists to secrete away as much of their valuables as they could, in order to minimise the amount to which they would be sequestered.

  Folineux took me on a mental walk around the Combermere estate as far as I’d seen it, asking what produce the farm grew, what livestock I’d seen, both in the stables and elsewhere, and what furniture and valuables I had seen in the parts of the house where I had been. He seemed particularly interested in my description of the Cottons’ fine library, which now doubled as a reception and dining room. He asked questions about the paintings and tapestries that hung on the walls in various parts of the house, the statues in the garden, the ornaments in the halls and on the staircases, the tableware we ate off at dinner, and even the quality of the linen in the bedchambers.

  And then, when I thought I had finished, he made me describe it all again to make sure I had not missed anything, all the time furiously scribbling notes in a ledger.

  Eventually, after about an hour, he removed the pair of spectacles he had been using to read with and gave a smile of satisfaction.

  “Very good, Master Cheswis,” he said. “That will do. You may go.”

  And that was it. No thanks, no explanation as to what he planned to do with the information I had given him or when he planned to use it. He simply gathered up his bundle of papers and marched out, leaving me alone in Croxton’s office.

  In truth, I was glad to get Croxton and Folineux off my back, as it gave me the opportunity to focus on more important things, but as the week wore on, I began to grow more impatient. There was no word from Wilbraham and Maisterson, no further communication from the kidnapper, and no sign at all of Jem Bressy. Meanwhile, Mrs Padgett was growing increasingly tetchy with my inactivity and started nagging me about whether there was anything else I should be doing to find out what had happened to Amy.

  Alexander, meanwhile, had continued to monitor the movements of Eldrid Cripps, and also had little new to report.

  “You know, it’s strange, Daniel,” he said to me one evening, as we enjoyed a tankard of ale in the Red Cow. “His behaviour seems to have changed completely over the last week. When he is not with Sawyer or carrying out the rest of his constabulary duties, he has spent the whole time in his workshop.”

  “And he has stayed clear of Comberbach’s tannery?”

  “No, not entirely. He went there yesterday to buy leather, but young Wright tells me he paid in cash. It is most puzzling.”

  “And Sarah Fletcher?” I asked.

  “No sign of her since her appearance at Cripps’ cottage the other night. What’s more, since that day Cripps appears to have given Wall Lane as wide a berth as possible. It’s as though they have made a pact to avoid each other.”

  “There may be a good reason for that,” I said. I had seen Sarah Fletcher at Mistress Johnson’s earlier that day, and it had struck me how heavy with
child she was.

  “Aye, it must be nearly her time,” agreed Alexander. “It would not do for Cripps to be sniffing around Fletcher’s house at a time like this.”

  “Mmm,” I said. I agreed with Alexander, but something had occurred to me. “Does it not strike you as odd,” I asked, “that Sarah Fletcher should risk spending time at Cripps’ house in her condition? And another thing. If they are having an affair, how long do you suppose it has been going on for?”

  Alexander gave me a knowing grin. “You mean longer than nine months?”

  “Precisely. Perhaps I should pay Sarah Fletcher a visit and find out.”

  And so I would have done, were it not for the fact that the very next day, with less than twenty-four hours to go before the kidnapper’s deadline, Jem Bressy decided to put in an appearance, and my world once again descended into chaos.

  * * *

  I was busy running a theet from the back of my wich house into the Great Cistern when the news came. We had a kindling scheduled for the following day, and so Jack Wade, Gilbert Robinson, and I were struggling with the long wooden pipes that would carry the brine from the cistern into the ship.

  It was a hot day, and beads of sweat dripped from my forehead, as we clamped together the lengths of pipe and laid them out of the back door of the wich house and across the path towards the cistern. As I manhandled the theet into position, I was distracted by the sight of Thomas Maisterson walking purposefully along the footpath in my direction.

  I stood up and stretched my back, grateful for the opportunity to have a brief rest, and motioned for Robinson and Wade to do likewise.

  “Master Cheswis. Your wife said I would find you here. I should be grateful if you would accompany me to Townsend House,” said Maisterson, through furrowed brows. “Roger Wilbraham awaits us there. He has an unexpected visitor.”

  I shepherded the merchant to a place behind a nearby wall, where we could not be overheard.

  “Bressy?” I enquired.

  “Naturally,” replied Maisterson, “although how he has managed to find his way past Booth’s sentries, the Lord only knows.”

  “Do I have time to change out of this sweat-soaked shirt?” I enquired, wiping the perspiration from my forehead.

  “I think not. Bressy is already pacing around Wilbraham’s drawing room like an expectant father. If we are to keep him there long enough to conclude our business, you need to come now, without delay.”

  I own I was more than happy to leave Robinson and Wade to finish off the preparation for the kindling, so I made my excuses to them and walked with Maisterson up Welsh Row towards the impressive brick mansion and gardens owned by the Wilbraham family.

  We found a sour-faced Wilbraham perched on the edge of a settle in his drawing room, examining his fingernails. Bressy, meanwhile, was stood with his back to us, staring anxiously out of the window towards the earthworks, which ran a few yards behind the wall marking the rear of Wilbraham’s property. I noticed that both men were cradling cups of wine in their hands.

  “Do not give me such a disapproving look, Master Cheswis,” said the young merchant. “Mr Bressy may be a criminal in the eyes of Thomas Croxton, but right now he is a guest in my house, and I would not deny a man a drink when he sits under my roof.”

  Bressy swung around and looked me up and down with an amused expression on his face.

  “My, Master Cheswis,” he said, “you look as though you have just stepped out of a farmyard.”

  I scowled at the royalist spy. “Of course,” I said, “what do you expect? I have a kindling to prepare for, and you have disturbed me. You certainly have a knack for picking the most inconvenient times.”

  “Gentlemen,” cut in Maisterson, before Bressy could respond. “Enough of this nonsense. It will get us nowhere. I believe we have business to conduct.”

  “Indeed,” said Wilbraham, suppressing a laugh. “Pray take a seat, Master Cheswis, although if you can avoid making a mess of my furniture in your work clothes, it would be appreciated.”

  I sat down on a chair opposite Wilbraham, and immediately a footman appeared with drinks for Maisterson and myself. The wine, I was glad to note, had been well-watered, for the weather was far too hot to drink it neat.

  “So where do we begin?” I asked.

  “I believe,” said Bressy, “the arrangement was that we would share what we know about the key words on the engravings distributed by Abbot Massey, on the understanding I would recover whatever valuables he had secreted away for the rightful use of His Majesty the King. In return, I would help you in your quest to identify the murderer of Henry Hassall and Geffery Crewe, thereby removing the risk of Mr Maisterson and Mr Wilbraham being murdered themselves. I would also help you locate and bring to safety your housekeeper’s granddaughter. A fair trade, I thought.”

  “Of course,” I replied, “but forgive me for stating the obvious. You only have the word on your own engraving and that which you forced out of Henry Hassall. How do you propose to help us find this madman, when you actually know less than we do?”

  Bressy took a sip of wine, and gave me a supercilious grin. “You mean you haven’t worked it out yet?” he said, disbelievingly. “I confess, I did not have you down as such a dullard.”

  “Could you two please stop arguing?” snapped Wilbraham. “I am uncomfortable enough with a meeting such as this being held in Townsend House without it becoming more unpleasant than it needs to be. I would be most gratified if we could get this over and done with minimum fuss and maximum haste.”

  I grunted my approval, but I was not really listening, for the true horror of Bressy’s meaning was suddenly beginning to dawn on me.

  “Let me get this straight,” I began. “Are you trying to tell me that the word you say is in your possession, which we thought had been entrusted to your family, is, in fact, that of the murderer?”

  Bressy merely smiled, but Wilbraham jumped to his feet, spilling wine over the front of his shirt. “You mean Bressy is the murderer?” he spluttered.

  Maisterson gave a low groan. “No he doesn’t, Roger. Do sit down and try to keep up. He means that he is not the sixth, word-holding trustee as we assumed, but the seventh man.”

  Wilbraham glared at Maisterson and sat down sheepishly, wiping droplets of wine from his garments, but then sprang immediately back to his feet as he realised what Maisterson had just said.

  “God’s death, Bressy, you know who the murderer is, don’t you?” he breathed.

  “Of course, but he will not hurt anyone else so long as you co-operate with me.”

  The truth was worse than I had thought possible. I had always held Bressy for a cold-hearted individual, but I had not expected this from Alice, who must also have been privy to the information held by Bressy – and to think that I had once loved her.

  “You are an evil bastard, Bressy,” I said, trying to convey the full depth of the hatred I felt for him at that moment.

  “Do not judge me, Cheswis. It is most unwise. We are engaged in a war and I will do what I need to do.”

  “But Amy is merely a child. Is she merely collateral damage to you?”

  “Your housekeeper’s granddaughter is perfectly safe. I know where she is being held, and she is not being mistreated. She is safe where she is for the time being. As for you, I freely confess I would have gladly shot you between the eyes in Crewe’s bedchamber the other day, but Mistress Furnival appears to have a soft spot for you, although God knows why. And before you ask – no, she does not know where Amy is being held. I have kept that much to myself.”

  “And are you going to tell me where she is?”

  “Of course – eventually, but not today. She is my guarantee that you will not pull any stupid stunts. You cannot seriously have thought that I would risk coming here on my own, into the lion’s den, so to speak, without making sure I would be able to get back out again.”

  “I could always arrest you – here and now,” I said.

  Bressy laughe
d loudly. “Oh please, Cheswis,” he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm. “Both you and I know that is not going to happen. Even if you were prepared to risk Amy’s well-being, Mr Wilbraham and Mr Maisterson would not permit it, for such an action would put their lives at risk at the hands of the murderer. Now, can we please get on and stop playing games? I do not have all day.”

  Maisterson stepped over to where I was standing and placed a sympathetic hand on my shoulder.

  “I fear Bressy is right,” he said. “Come, let us see what we can make of this mess.”

  I downed my wine and got slowly to my feet with a sigh. From where I had been sitting I could see Booth’s sentries patrolling the top of the earthen walls, and I thought how easy it would be to call some of them over. But then I considered the positions of Mrs Padgett, Ralph, and Elizabeth, and I knew I must act with their interests at the forefront of my mind.

  “Very well,” I said, reluctantly. “How do we proceed?”

  Bressy smiled with satisfaction and gestured for me to return to my seat.

  “I believe you have four of the six words. You can begin by telling me those.”

  I glanced quickly at both Maisterson and Wilbraham and received brief nods from both of them.

  “Mr Wilbraham’s word is ‘Assumption’ and Mr Maisterson’s is ‘Evensong’. We have taken this as an indication of some connection with Evensong on Assumption Day. This has been confirmed by the notes we have recently received from the murderer, which places a deadline of August fourteenth – the day before Assumption Day – for us to supply him with the remaining words. Geffery Crewe’s word was Ridley, which obviously relates to Ridley Field.”

  “And your wife’s word?”

  “That,” I admitted, “is where it becomes more problematical,” and I explained Kinshaw’s deception to Bressy, and the fact that the engraving was now in the hands of the murderer.

  Bressy clicked his teeth in irritation. “Then we shall have to see what we can make of the five words we have – to see if they make sense.”