“And what are the other two words?” I asked.
“Henry Hassall’s word was ‘Shadow’,” said Bressy, “which means absolutely nothing to me. “The murderer’s word – and don’t ask me to explain how I know it – is ‘Bells’, which is even less comprehensible.”
“So we have ’Assumption’, ‘Evensong’, ‘Ridley’, ‘Shadow’, and ‘Bells’,” said Maisterson. “What in God’s name do you suppose it all means?”
“Just seems like a jumble of unconnected words to me,” put in Wilbraham.
“I don’t think so,” I said, thoughtfully. “‘Evensong’ and ‘Bells’ will be connected, and we have already agreed on the significance of ‘Assumption’ and ‘Ridley’. The only problematic word is ‘Shadow’, so I can only presume we are talking about a shadow cast by the sun in Ridley Field during Evensong on Assumption Day, and there is something very obvious in Ridley Field that would cast such a shadow.”
“Of course,” exclaimed Maisterson. “The stone pillar in the middle of the field.”
“It was also where Henry Hassall’s body was found,” added Wilbraham.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but that’s not all. When Hassall’s body was discovered, the whole of the area around the pillar was pock-marked with holes, as though someone has already been searching there, presumably the murderer, which raises some questions of its own.”
“Does it?” asked Wilbraham. “I have to say, Cheswis, all it suggests to me is that the murderer only knows half the necessary information and went mad with a spade in an attempt to find the treasure. He has clearly made several attempts to dig up the hoard and failed miserably.”
“Yes, but the question is how did he know approximately where to look? Remember, ‘Ridley’ was Crewe’s word, and the murderer acquired that word only recently. His own word was ‘Bells’ and he also has ‘Shadow’, which is not enough for him to go on. More interestingly, he also knows the significance of Assumption Day, which suggests he has also found out Mr Wilbraham’s word at some point. It seems there may be more to this murderer than meets the eye.”
During this exchange, Bressy had remained silent, but now he coughed to attract our attention.
“The connection will eventually become clear,” he said, “but you are straying from the point. You have established that the place where the treasure is buried can be found by measuring the shadow cast by the pillar in Ridley Field in two days’ time at approximately the hour when St Mary’s celebrates Evensong. All we have to do is come back here on Thursday and dig the treasure up.”
“Assuming, of course, that the missing word isn’t critical,” I said.
“Let us hope it is not,” said Bressy, “for all our sakes. In the meantime, it would appear our business is concluded here. I will see you all with your spades in Ridley Field at six o’clock sharp in two days’ time. Cheswis, you may bring your friend the bellman along with you. He knows what this is about and will be useful for digging. Apart from that, come alone. If I get the slightest hint that Booth or Croxton know what is going on, then I will be off like a hare, and Amy Padgett, as likely as not, will not be seen again. Are we clear?”
The three of us nodded glumly as Bressy finished his wine and opened the door to the terrace that led to the back of Townsend House, and then disappeared across the grass and over the wall in the direction of the earthworks.
I watched as a man on the walls helped Bressy onto the top of the earthworks before waving to him as he disappeared over the other side. I strained my eyes to see if I could identify the traitor in our midst, but he was too far away and had been wise enough to march quickly along the walls to a point where he could no longer be seen. But then, I reasoned, what did it matter? There was always going to be some poor fool who would allow someone like Bressy into town when tempted by a few shillings, especially if he had not been paid for weeks.
“You seem pensive, Master Cheswis,” said Wilbraham, who had been watching my expression.
“You are right,” I said, smiling. “It seems there is always a compromise to be made in this war. I wonder if Mrs Padgett will see it that way, though, when I tell her she must wait another two days to discover her granddaughter’s fate?”
Chapter 22
Nantwich – Wednesday, August 14th 1644
It was Gilbert Robinson who found Adolphus Palyn’s body in the Great Cistern. The squat, square-jawed head waller had been clambering about in the brine, trying to mend our theet, which had split lengthways, when he tripped over Palyn’s corpse and fell head first into the salt-saturated water. The body was barely recognisable, grotesquely bloated; he had been identified by the colour of his breeches, which, like his shirt, had been stuffed with stones to keep the body submerged for as long as possible.
I had been busying myself amongst the salt pans when I heard the first frantic shout from outside, and a soaking wet and decidedly queasy-looking Robinson appeared in the doorway.
“You had better come outside, Master Cheswis,” he said, before depositing the contents of his stomach on the wich house floor.
Of course, as I expected, it had not taken long for Sawyer and Cripps to show their faces. Sawyer was his usual lackadaisical self, but Cripps was like a whirlwind, organising people, closing off the area around the body, asking questions, and making sure the coroner was sent for. It was as though he had been waiting for this moment for days and was not going to let it slip by without giving it his full attention.
“He’s pissing me right off, Daniel,” grumbled Sawyer. “Like an old mother hen, he is. And won’t fucking shut up about that Fletcher lad, who he swears is guilty of all this. Says he’ll have his balls in a vice before the week is up. He’s like a bloody moth in torchlight he is. All over the bloody place.”
“Aye, there’s something not quite right about that one,” I agreed, “but I have my eye on him. I think I know where the problem lies, and when I can prove it, you’ll be among the first to know.”
“Aye, well you’d better hurry up about it, mind, because the lad’s dead set on picking a quarrel, if you ask me. Eh up, here comes trouble now, in fact.”
I looked round to see Jacob Fletcher sticking his head around the door of my wich house. Thinking that with his and Sarah’s child nearly due and that Jacob could do with the work, I had asked him to help with the kindling, an offer he had gratefully accepted, but the moment I saw his and Cripps’ eyes meet, I began to regret the decision.
“Here, Arthur,” I said. “There is going to be trouble. You need to get involved. If Cripps wants to arrest Fletcher again, by all means let him, but make sure that’s all he does, and try to keep him out of the way for an hour or two. There’s someone I need to see. I need to get to the bottom of what Cripps’ problem is.”
Sawyer nodded his assent and set about his task with uncharacteristic gusto, and so whilst my erstwhile colleague, helped by Wade, Robinson, and several others, tried to calm Cripps and Fletcher down, a task not made easier by the fact that Bridgett Palyn and her mother had come out of their house, wailing with grief and anger, I took myself off to Wall Lane in search of Sarah Fletcher.
* * *
An enticing aroma of mutton stew was emanating from the Fletchers’ kitchen when I knocked on Sarah’s front door. She had been up to her ears in pots and pans, singing merrily to herself, and I felt guilty for being the one who would have to break her good mood.
“Something smells good,” I said, as she opened the door to me.
“It is not often that we have been able to put meat on our table of late,” she acknowledged. “It is thanks to people like you, who have given Jacob work, that we have been able to do so. But do you not have a kindling yourself today?” she asked, frowning suddenly. “What brings you here?”
And so I told her about what was going on outside my wich house. “But do not worry yourself, Sarah, I will have Jacob home in time to eat your stew. However, there are a few things I need to ask you about Eldrid Cripps.”
I saw Sarah freeze momentarily, but then she pulled out a wooden stool from under her workshop, sat on it with her elbows on the table, and, with her head in her hands, she burst into tears.
“I wish that man would leave us alone,” she sobbed. “He is ruining our lives; it was the biggest mistake I ever made.”
“You had an affair with him?”
Sarah gave me a desperate glance and let out a huge sob.
“It only happened the once,” she said. “It was last December. Jacob and I were going through a difficult time. There was little work, and Jacob was drinking too much. Everyone was worried about what would happen when Lord Byron’s men came. Jacob had ordered some new boots from him, for his old ones were falling apart, and Eldrid brought them here one day. He was so kind, and he made me laugh, you know. We did it in his horrible little cottage, but I knew I had made a mistake straight away. I tried to finish it, but he wouldn’t leave me alone, especially when he found out I was with child.”
“And is the child his?”
“I don’t know for sure. I don’t think so, though. That would mean the babe would be early. But it doesn’t feel that way. I’m almost certain the child is Jacob’s. The problem, though, is that Eldrid thinks it’s his, and he has been pestering me ever since, hanging around our house and causing trouble for Jacob.”
“And does Jacob suspect, do you think? The way he is behaving in Cripps’ presence suggests that he might.”
“He didn’t. He just thought Eldrid was infatuated with me, but he probably does now, especially after Eldrid had him locked up for the murder of Mr Hassall. He has been very moody since then, despite being busy with work.”
“Then tell me,” I said, “if your liaison with Cripps is over, what were you doing coming out of his cottage a week last Thursday while Jacob was at work?”
Sarah stared at me, a look of wild desperation on her face. “You saw that?” she said. “You were following me?”
“No, we were watching his home, and you happened to come out of it. What were you doing there?”
Sarah sat for a moment in quiet contemplation, but then she wiped her eyes, and a look of determination spread across her face.
“Very well,” she said. “If it means you will be able to get him to leave us in peace, here it is. I’d heard Eldrid had been short of money since he took over your role as constable. His business was struggling, so I went round to his cottage, and I offered him money to leave us alone. We had a little extra in our pockets, you see, and I thought it would make him go away. But he said he wasn’t interested, that no amount of money would deter him from proving that he was the right man for me, and, in any case, he had managed to borrow the money he needed from elsewhere.”
“I see.” I got up from my stool and paced around Sarah’s kitchen. There was something nagging at my mind – a feeling that I had missed something important, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
“You won’t tell Jacob, will you?” she pleaded. “I couldn’t bear that. I love him despite everything. I would do anything to make things right.”
“It is not for me to tell tales, Sarah,” I said. “What goes on in your household is between you and Jacob.”
Sarah smiled at me gratefully, but then her face contorted in pain and she clutched her belly.
“Are you all right?” I asked, concerned.
“I think so,” she replied, grimacing, “but I think you’d better go and find my mother. I can’t be sure, but I think the baby is on the way.”
Chapter 23
Nantwich – Thursday, August 15th 1644
The next morning, Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy, which she and Jacob called Jeremiah. With a strong pair of lungs and a shock of black hair, he was every bit his father’s son. Even now, many years later, whenever I see my godson, I wonder whether my discussion with his mother that day might just possibly have expedited his arrival into this world by a day or two.
Jacob, thankfully, had made it back home in time to see the new addition to his family, which he was allowed to do once the midwife had finished with Sarah. On the evening before the birth he had even managed to eat a plateful of his wife’s mutton stew.
Arthur Sawyer, meanwhile, for once in his life, had excelled himself in dealing with Cripps. When his colleague had tried to arrest Fletcher outside my wich house, Sawyer had permitted Jacob to be led as far as the gaol house, but just as Fletcher was about to be locked in one of the cells, Sawyer had grabbed Cripps by the scruff of the neck and thrown him into the cell himself, telling him he could bloody well sit there until Master Cheswis had got to the bottom of whatever stupid game he was playing at.
Cripps had called him a two-faced, pock-nosed bastard, which had only caused Sawyer to laugh at him. The bailiff, Andrew Hopwood, later told me that Cripps’ furious protests could be heard well into the night and from as far away as The Lamb.
Despite the temptation to interrogate Cripps straight away, I decided he could wait until later, as I was more pre-occupied with what lay before me in Ridley Field later in the day. Of particular concern was the fact that the fine weather of the previous few days had broken, and a thick layer of grey cloud had settled over Nantwich. By five in the afternoon it had brightened up considerably, but the sun had still not put in an appearance.
As Alexander and I made our way past Townsend House towards the sconce at Welsh Row End, we wondered how we were supposed to measure the shadow cast by the stone pillar. We must have looked somewhat conspicuous walking up the length of the street with spades slung over our shoulders, so we figured it was safer to go through the checkpoint at the sconce and double back through the fields, rather than clamber over the earthworks close to the stone pillar and attract the attention of the sentries.
When we arrived at the pillar, we found Wilbraham and Maisterson waiting for us, their shovels leaning against one of the water troughs.
“There is no sun. How are we supposed to measure the pillar’s shadow?” I said.
“You do not think far enough ahead, Cheswis,” replied Wilbraham, smugly. “It was a pleasant evening yesterday, so I left nothing to chance. There cannot be that much difference in the length and angle of the shadow from one day to the next, so I took the liberty of pinpointing the end of the shadow at six o’clock last night.”
I looked at the ground about ten yards from the pillar, where a small, wooden stake had been driven into the earth.
“The sun may yet appear in time,” continued Wilbraham, “but even if it doesn’t, we cannot be far from the correct spot. If we dig here and work our way out in a radius, it should not take long before we hit the right spot.”
I acknowledged Wilbraham’s efforts with a smile. “That, Mr Wilbraham, was a good idea,” I opined, “but I fear your thinking may be flawed. Evensong begins at six o’clock, but Massey’s message refers to ‘Evensong Bells’, and the bell ringers begin their work a good twenty minutes before the start of the service. Did you not measure the shadow’s position at twenty to six as well?”
As if to emphasise the point, just as I mentioned it, the church bells began to chime from across the river, and Wilbraham’s smile began to fade.
“No,” he admitted. “That did not occur to me.”
“Gentlemen,” interjected Maisterson. “This argument is pointless. Our measurements can at best be an approximation of where we think the treasure might be. After all, we don’t even know for certain that Evensong was celebrated at exactly the same time when Massey set this riddle for us.”
This was a good point, acknowledged as such by Wilbraham, so we all sat down on the steps of the stone pillar and waited for Bressy to arrive.
“We look like a bunch of bloody gravediggers,” commented Alexander.
“Aye, that is correct,” I agreed, “and we must take care to remember who it is we are dealing with here, lest it turns out to be our own graves we are digging.”
And that thought was enough to reduce everyone to silence for
the next few minutes. Eventually I caught sight of a movement behind the hedgerows at the far end of the field, and Bressy rode into view, a loaded carbine in one hand, the barrel lying menacingly across the neck of his mount.
“I see you are taking no chances,” I said, as Bressy drew his black gelding up alongside us.
“Do you blame me?” he retorted. “We are out of musket range, but I have no idea what you have told the sentries on the walls.”
I looked over my shoulder at the red-coated soldiers patrolling the wooden walkway that ran along the inside of the earthen banks, a few feet from the top. One or two of them were showing an interest in what we were doing, but fortunately none of them had thought to come over and talk to us.
“I have taken a considerable risk coming here on my own,” continued Bressy, “but you can be sure, if you have set a trap for me, things will not look good for you.”
“Relax, Mr Bressy,” said Maisterson, “the soldiers have no idea who you are. They are merely curious. It is not every day that a group of men with spades gathers here like this. We must be creating a rather odd impression.”
“Then I suggest we make haste,” said Bressy. “I see Mr Wilbraham has been busy and has already marked out the spot.”
“You were watching me?”
“Of course. I realised there was no guarantee of sun today, and so I planned to mark out the spot myself yesterday, but then I saw you already had the same idea, so I left you to it.”
Wilbraham scowled, but Bressy merely gestured towards the wooden stake.
“Gentlemen, I suggest you start digging,” he said. “Time is short.”
And then, as if on cue, the clouds parted momentarily, and a brief shaft of sunlight illuminated the ground. The top of the shadow, I noticed, was pointing no more than a foot or so from where Wilbraham had placed his marker.
The Combermere Legacy Page 20