The Combermere Legacy

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “It is six o’clock,” I said. “Let us dig.”

  And so Wilbraham, Maisterson, Alexander, and I dug a hole around five feet in diameter and about three feet deep, throwing the spare earth to the side. Bressy, meanwhile, sat like an overseer on his horse, his carbine at the ready, in case anything unexpected should happen. As we dug, his face grew steadily darker, until after about half an hour he called on us to stop.

  “We are wasting our time. There is nothing here,” he said.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the arms of my sleeve and leaned on my spade.

  “That, Mr Bressy, is self-evident,” said Maisterson, with a grimace. “It would appear that we have either misunderstood Massey’s message from the engravings, or that the missing word from Brett’s engraving was crucial.”

  “I think we have understood the message correctly,” I ventured, “but it would appear we are in need of my wife’s engraving. Damn that man, Kinshaw.”

  Wilbraham flung his spade on the ground in disgust and sat back down on the steps of the stone pillar.

  “So what now, Bressy?” asked Alexander, climbing out of the hole we had just dug.

  The royalist spy looked at my friend sardonically and raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought that would have been obvious, Mr Clowes,” he replied. “I do not think you can be of any more help to me, but remember, I know who the murderer is and that he is in possession of the final engraving. I therefore have an alternative plan. I don’t know about you.”

  And with that, Bressy put his carbine over his shoulder, swung his gelding round, and galloped off towards the edge of the field furthest from the earthworks.

  “Wait,” I shouted. “What about Amy?” But Bressy was already gone.

  “Shit,” said Alexander, kicking a huge clod of earth back into the hole whence it had come. “What now?”

  Wilbraham and Maisterson said nothing. They merely looked on, horrified and speechless, but I slumped down on the mound of soil and clay and put my head in my hands. Tears started to fill my eyes as I began to realise the extent to which I had failed. I had failed everyone who had meant anything to me, failed to identify the murderer, failed to locate the treasure, and, above all, I had failed to identify the location where Amy was being held.

  I had also let down Croxton, and by working with two sequestered royalist sympathisers and co-operating with a royalist spy, I had run the risk of being accused of spying for the King myself. And what had I achieved? Precisely nothing.

  Bressy now knew all the words except for the final one, and he knew the identity of the person who held both Amy and the final engraving, but, like a bumbling fool, I had let him escape.

  But then, from the depths of my despair, it came to me. Seventy years on from Roger Crockett’s death, there was, it occurred to me, one set of documents which had consistently pointed me in the right direction, but I had not taken the trouble to read them properly. Supposing there was an alternative scenario for what happened on that winter’s day on Welsh Row, one that I had not considered, but one that was perfectly possible if you read between the lines.

  All six of Massey’s trustees who we were aware of – Richard Wilbraham, John Maisterson, Richard Hassall, John Brett, Thomas Bressy, and Crockett’s replacement, Edmund Crewe, had been mentioned in the collection of witness statements originating from the investigations following the coroner’s inquest presided over by John Maisterson.

  If all six had managed to become involved heavily enough to feature in the murky proceedings that followed Crockett’s murder, then surely there was a good chance that the seventh trustee would also be mentioned in these documents. All we had to do was re-read and understand exactly what had happened on that day in December over seventy years ago. There was, I realised, only one person who could now help me to get to the bottom of this mystery.

  “Ezekiel Green,” I said, to a startled Alexander. “I need to see Ezekiel Green.”

  * * *

  Ezekiel still lived with his parents in a well-appointed cottage off Churchyardside, behind the grammar school, where his father was a schoolmaster. In front of the house was a small, well-kept garden, and it was here that we found Ezekiel, sat on a plain wooden bench holding a trencher of bread and cheese. The young archivist raised his eyebrows with curiosity and rose to his feet when he saw me coming.

  “This is a surprise, Master Cheswis, Master Clowes,” he said, wiping crumbs from his breeches onto the cobbles. “What brings you here?”

  “I have a theory I would like to put to the test,” I said, “but to do that I need your help.”

  “Of course. How can I be of service?”

  “It has occurred to me that the answer to the riddle of who killed Henry Hassall and Geffery Crewe may lie in the court documents and witness statements that you showed me recently. Until now, we have always assumed that Roger Crockett was lured over the bridge to his death in revenge for his churlish behaviour relating to the lease on Ridley Field – that the attack was planned by a group of people, of which the Hassalls were the ringleaders, but which also included prominent members of Nantwich’s other leading families. Our assumption was that the aim was simply to give him a good beating, but that things got out of hand, thanks to the blow delivered to Crockett’s head by Edmund Crewe.”

  “Certainly,” said Green. “That is the accepted view. The question was always whether it was Crewe alone who killed Crockett or Crewe in conjunction with several of the others, the degree to which the murder was pre-planned and, if such a plan existed, how deeply Wilbraham, Hassall, and the other accused were embroiled in it.”

  “Yes, but supposing the motive for dragging Crockett to the other side of the river was entirely different, that the argument over Ridley Field was just a smokescreen.”

  Ezekiel cocked his head to one side and looked at me thoughtfully. “You mean the plan all along was actually to get hold of Crockett’s engraving?”

  “Exactly. We know Edmund Crewe became one of the six trustees after Crockett’s death. What we don’t know is how Crewe came to be in possession of the engraving after Crockett’s death. Bridgett Crockett would not have simply given it away. That is for sure.”

  “Then you are suggesting Crockett was somehow persuaded to bring the engraving with him the day he died? How would that have been achieved?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” I admitted. “It is all conjecture, but let us say, for the sake of argument, that Maisterson, Wilbraham, and Hassall tried to cut him a deal. It would appear that the other trustees had long since come to the conclusion that Crockett was unsuitable as a trustee. Perhaps they decided to offer to let Crockett farm Ridley Field if he gave up his engraving and his position as a trustee.”

  “But why would they do that,” asked Ezekiel, “if they were aware of the importance of Ridley Field?”

  “At that stage they probably weren’t,” I said. “Remember, ‘Ridley’ was the word on Crockett’s engraving. Only he knew the significance of the field in regards to the location of Massey’s treasure, which is obviously why he was prepared to risk his standing in the town by resorting to underhand means to acquire the lease.”

  “I see, but if that was the case, Crockett obviously turned down the offer,” said Ezekiel.

  “Certainly, which is why everything came to a head on the day of his death. Having failed in their negotiations, Hassall and his mob decided to try and frighten Crockett into submission, so they beat up his friend Thomas Wettenhall. Crockett was so shocked that he changed his mind immediately, grabbed his engraving, and ran over the bridge to try and negotiate with those who had attacked his friend.

  “Of course, the affray got completely out of hand, and Crockett was fatally wounded by Crewe, either acting alone or with the help of several others, depending on whose statement you believe. It is clear from several of the witnesses that the affray was co-ordinated, but what was not planned was the severity of the beating taken by Crockett.

  “Th
e original plan was not to kill him. This is shown by the actions of Richard Wilbraham, who came charging out of his house in his bed clothes to try and calm things down, and that of Anne Hassall, whose behaviour appeared to change from that of a raging mad woman to that of a caring nurse within the space of a few minutes.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Ezekiel, “but how will any of this help you identify the murderer at large today?”

  “A very good question,” I conceded. “I believe the answer lies in the behaviour of Richard Wilbraham. It is clear that he was implicated up to his ears in the murky plot. It is no accident that Bridgett Crockett made especial mention of him in the days following her husband’s death, and that he was the main focus of Thomas Palyn’s subsequent perjury case. And why would John Maisterson go to such lengths as to frame Palyn were it not vital that Palyn changed his story?”

  “This is all by-the-by, of course, because of crucial importance is what Roger Wilbraham did when he tried to take control of the situation, when he saw Crockett dying in the street.”

  “He helped Crockett into a nearby house for a while, from where he was accompanied by a number of women back to The Crown,” said Ezekiel.

  “Correct. We have no record of what went on in that house, but I would hazard a guess that this was where the engraving changed hands. And where do you suppose this house is located?”

  “On Little Wood Street, if I recall correctly,” said Ezekiel, his eyes lighting up as he began to realise the significance of what I was saying. “Why, if I’m not mistaken, that is the very same house that Constable Cripps lives in.”

  “I knew it,” I exclaimed in triumph. “In that case, all we need to do is to go back to your archive and dig out the list of witnesses. The name of the owner of that house is surely listed.”

  “Of course, but I can only gain access to the Booth Hall on the morrow. Colonel Croxton has the keys, and I dare say he will not be particularly enamoured if we disturb him on a Sunday evening.”

  “We cannot wait that long,” I insisted. “Amy’s life is at stake. Let us find the colonel and see whether you are right.”

  Chapter 24

  Nantwich – Thursday, August 15th 1644

  Croxton, as it happened, took a little while to locate. Rather surprisingly, given the tensions that had built in Nantwich between Sir William Brereton’s network of deputy lieutenants and the moderate county elite typified by Colonel Booth, he was to be found in The Lamb, sharing a dinner table with the garrison commander, and, unluckily for us, having left instructions that he was not to be disturbed.

  As we attempted to march through the gateway constructed between the mud walls which now surrounded the coaching inn, we were stopped abruptly by a determined-looking sergeant brandishing a halberd. He, in turn, was flanked by two foot soldiers, both of whom regarded us with suspicion, their hands on their swords, ready to draw them should it look like we were about to cause trouble.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” demanded the sergeant, eyeing Alexander warily.

  “We would speak with Colonel Croxton,” I said. “I understand he dines here this evening. It is a matter of the utmost importance.”

  The sergeant stared at me, stony-faced. “Not tonight, you won’t,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “Tell him Cheswis and Clowes are here,” said Alexander. “He will see us if you tell him that. It is a matter of life and death.”

  The sergeant sneered, baring a set of crooked, yellow teeth.

  “Oh aye? So says everyone. Well you’re not getting in here, so you might as well piss off. We have strict instructions to leave the two colonels alone. They have important business to discuss.”

  Alexander took a step forward to plead with the sergeant, who immediately levelled his halberd at my friend’s chest.

  “Step back, bellman,” he warned, “or you will soon resemble a stuck pig at a hog roast.”

  I was about to protest at the sergeant’s overly aggressive manner when I heard a gentle cough behind me, and Ezekiel spoke up.

  “Excuse me, Sergeant,” he said, in a slow but insistent voice. “If you would be so kind as to tell the colonel that Ezekiel Green is here, and that I may have found the information he seeks, I am sure he will be happy to hear what I have to say.”

  I watched the sergeant’s face closely, and for a moment I could have sworn he was going to strike Ezekiel, but suddenly he stepped back, nodded curtly, and pointed towards a wooden bench against the wall next to the main entrance.”

  “Wait there,” he instructed. “I will check whether the colonel is disposed to see you.”

  Alexander ran his hand through his hair in relief and gave Ezekiel a look of open-eyed wonderment.

  “How in God’s name did you manage that?” he asked.

  Ezekiel shrugged and sat down on the bench, keeping his eyes on the two soldiers, who were still watching us keenly.

  “Croxton’s not stupid,” he said. “He knows Master Cheswis has been delving into the archives to solve the mystery of where Massey’s treasure is located. He asked me to keep him advised of any developments.”

  It was several minutes before Croxton appeared, but when he did, he strode purposefully through the doorway, slamming the door against the wall behind him. The colonel was clad in a fine slashed green doublet with red lining and matching breeches, but his face was like thunder.

  “What in damnation is the meaning of this, Cheswis?” he growled. “What can be so important as to disturb me at this hour?”

  “We need the key to the Booth Hall, Colonel,” explained Ezekiel.

  “The key? And you have dragged me from my table for that? I trust you have a good explanation for why it could not wait until tomorrow?”

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Alexander, Ezekiel, and I were clattering across the cobbles of the square towards the Booth Hall. One or two soldiers loitering outside the taverns glanced across at us with curiosity, but most were too busy with their own business to notice three men in a hurry.

  Ezekiel, to my considerable relief, had possessed the good sense to be economical with the amount of information he had given to Croxton. He had explained my theory as to how Roger Crockett’s engraving had changed hands on the day of his death and how accessing the court archives would help us to identify Massey’s sixth trustee, and, by process of elimination, the identity of the person who had killed Henry Hassall and Geffery Crewe.

  Fortunately, he had refrained from mentioning anything about Jem Bressy. The last thing I needed was for Croxton to arrange for a regiment of troopers to chase the royalist spies across half of Cheshire. With my priority Amy’s safety, the young clerk had been astute enough to realise that such an action could potentially put Amy in danger.

  He had also correctly guessed that Croxton would not regard Amy’s well-being as sufficiently important to second any of his men to search for her. The kidnap, after all, was essentially a civil crime. In addition, Ezekiel had persuaded Croxton that prioritising the identification of the sixth trustee would be the quickest way to recover Elizabeth’s engraving, putting us in a prime position to recover Massey’s treasure before Bressy. Ezekiel, I was pleased to admit, was proving himself to be a most able assistant.

  With daylight beginning to fade and the interior of Booth Hall being as gloomy as ever, Ezekiel had sensibly thought to borrow a lantern from The Lamb, and from this he lit the candles in the sconces on the walls of his office.

  “I shall return forthwith,” he said. “The documents have been returned to their rightful place downstairs. I shall need to relocate them.”

  “So what is the significance of these witness statements?” asked Alexander, once Ezekiel had disappeared into the gloom of the archive room. “Why are they so crucial?”

  “The documents give an indication of the furore Crockett’s murder caused at the time, for they include the statements of dozens of working folk who just happened to be around Welsh Row on that day. All
manner of people provided statements – bakers, briners, weavers, their goodwives – and it is the sheer volume of these documents which gives us a wider and more reliable view of what happened that day and helps give credence to the argument that the attack on Roger Crockett was deliberately orchestrated. Not only that, they help us come to the inevitable conclusion that events did not go as originally planned.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, there are numerous accounts of bystanders carrying tools such as dubbing hooks, fire shovels, and pikestaffs, items which could be used as weapons. A coincidence? I don’t think so. There were also many statements to the effect that Crockett was struck not only by Crewe, but was set upon by many people.

  “More importantly, as soon as it became clear that the plan had gone awry, the armed men vanished into thin air, and Crockett was helped by a number of women, several of whom had been haranguing him only minutes earlier.”

  “And that was when Richard Wilbraham appeared on the scene and led Crockett away.”

  “Correct – and now we shall see where he was taken.”

  Ezekiel was standing in the doorway, the relevant volume in hand. He laid out the manuscript on his table and flicked through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  “If I am correct,” he said, “there are several witness accounts which describe Crockett being led away to a house on Little Wood Street, but the actual name of the owner of that house is mentioned only in the assimilated list of witnesses.”

  Ezekiel held a candle above the book so I could read the page properly, and I scanned the list of witnesses – two whole pages of them. As I did so, an icy chill began to creep up my spine, and I knew I had identified the name of my quarry, for there, amongst the Hassalls, Wilbrahams, and Maistersons was a name I was not expecting to see.

  Alexander must have noticed the look of surprise on my face, for he looked at me quizzically. “What is it, Daniel?” he asked.