The Combermere Legacy Read online

  “Aye, sir,” said Martland, “but this kind of flint is only used in the walled garden, and we did not take the horses through there. I cannot imagine how she got an injury like this.”

  I handed Demeter’s reins to Wilbraham and moved round to where Martland was holding Demeter’s foreleg between his own legs. Her hoof was oozing blood where Martland had removed the sharp piece of stone. The implication of the groom’s words were that someone had deliberately jammed a piece of flint into the hoof. I already had my suspicions as to who might have been callous enough to do such a thing.

  It was then that I noticed something else. On Demeter’s hind quarters was a red mark the size of a coin. I touched it and was astonished to see a few flecks of dried blood on my fingers.

  “God’s death!” exclaimed Martland. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, grimly, “but wait a minute.” I looked at where the prone body of Geffery Crewe was lying and then tried to picture where Demeter must have been standing when she kicked him. I cast my eyes down towards the stone floor, and my eyes immediately focussed on a dull, metallic object lodged between two of the stones. I got down on my knees and prised the object out from between the slabs.

  “Here,” I said. “Demeter must have stood on it after she kicked out.”

  Cotton, who, during this interchange had been looking from Martland to myself in a bemused fashion, suddenly realised the importance of what I had discovered.

  “Good Lord, man,” he breathed. “A musket ball! Are you suggesting that someone shot your horse?”

  “Not shot, sir,” I said. “Firstly, no-one heard a gunshot, as far as I can make out. If they had, someone would have already mentioned. Secondly, if you look at right angles to where Demeter would have been standing, you can clearly see where the musket ball must have originated from.”

  Cotton glanced over towards the rear of the workshop, where an open barn door led out to a small yard. Beyond this lay a jungle of trees and untended vegetation, which lined the banks of Danesmere.

  Cotton stared at me in bewilderment, but Wilbraham immediately understood my meaning.

  “The trees are too close,” he said. “The musket ball has only scratched your mare’s skin. If someone had shot her from that range, she would have been in no condition to kick Crewe.”

  “Maybe someone threw the musket ball, or used a stone-bow, or some other such weapon,” I said. “But truly, it is of no import, for the intention was not to hurt Demeter, but to murder Crewe.”

  Cotton blanched and stared at me as though he had been shot himself. “Murder?” he croaked. “At Combermere?”

  “Yes, Mr Cotton,” said Wilbraham, warming to the task. “By making Master Cheswis’s mare kick Mr Crewe in the head. Very clever,” he added, turning to me with a wry smile. “If it works, the murderer achieves his aim. If it doesn’t, and the horse’s kick misses Crewe’s head, there is very little to prove that there was a deliberate attempt to kill him, and the perpetrator survives to try again later.”

  “So it would seem,” I agreed.

  Cotton, meanwhile, was regarding us both with a frown. “Something,” he said, “makes me suspect you both already knew Geffery Crewe was in danger. Please tell me that is not the case.”

  “I’m afraid you are right, Mr Cotton,” admitted Wilbraham. “It is connected with the engravings we showed you, although more than this we cannot tell you.”

  Cotton bridled. “You cannot tell me?” he protested. “A man is murdered on my property, and you suggest I do not have the right to know why? I suggest we bring the local constables here and conduct a full investigation.”

  At this point, I held up my hand to intervene. “Mr Cotton,” I said, “I’m afraid that would not be the most appropriate course of action at the moment. I would suggest it would be more sensible if we let the murderer think he has got away with it and let the coroner, at least for the time being, conclude that this was merely a tragic accident.”

  “You mean hide the evidence – the horse’s injuries and the musket ball?”

  “Precisely. This murderer is a dangerous man, but he is also determined, and he may well reveal himself again soon. I would ask, in the meantime, that no-one outside these stables discusses what has happened here with anyone else.”

  “Except with my son, of course,” said Cotton. “He will need to know.”

  “Especially your son, sir,” I said. “At the risk of sounding disrespectful, your son’s movements have not yet been accounted for, and he has guests here who we would rather not be made aware of these developments. Do you know, incidentally, why they are here?”

  Cotton looked at me with astonishment. “Of course not,” he said. “What are you suggesting? They are guests of my son. That is his business. What does it have to do with you?”

  “In all probability, absolutely nothing,” said Wilbraham, sensing trouble. “I promise you we will reveal our reasoning in due course, but in the meantime we would appreciate your discretion. I assure you it will be in your best interests.”

  Cotton hesitated a moment, but then nodded. “You have my word,” he said. “I would not accept this from anyone but a Wilbraham. But what about the two grooms?”

  Martland and Beckett had been stood listening to this exchange with incomprehension on their faces.

  “They will need to be sworn to silence too,” I said.

  “But your mare has been in their care since we arrived here,” pointed out Wilbraham. “How can you be sure they have nothing to do with this?”

  “I can’t,” I admitted, “but I have seen enough of them to be convinced that they care for the horses under their charge. I may be wrong, but I do not get the impression that either of them would deliberately hurt a horse. In any case, apart from we three, they are the only two others who know of my suspicions with regards to Mr Crewe’s death. If word gets out, it will not be too difficult to track down who is to blame.

  Martland looked at me nervously. “I know not of what you speak, sir,” he said, “but Joe and I know how to keep our mouths shut.” The other young groom, Beckett, nodded enthusiastically.

  “Then let us see what transpires,” said Cotton, addressing Wilbraham and myself. “I invite you both to join us for supper this evening, where you will have the opportunity to meet the rest of our house guests.”

  Chapter 14

  Combermere – Wednesday, July 31st, 1644

  Supper, as it happened, was a rather sombre affair, which, although not surprising given the circumstances, was undoubtedly a shame, for the Cottons had gone out of their way to impress their guests with a generous array of delicacies. There was a herring pie, a shoulder of mutton cooked with thyme, and a soup with ox tongues, followed by nuts, cheese, freshly baked bread, and a syllabub.

  Due to the disturbance caused by the events in the stables, the kitchen staff had been late with their preparation, so it was fully seven o’clock before we took our seats in the library. By this time, having not eaten properly at midday, both Wilbraham and I were famished.

  There were eight of us in total – George and Thomas Cotton, the latter’s wife, a demure woman who said very little all evening, Lord Herbert, Sir Fulke Hunckes, Alice, Wilbraham, and myself. Thomas Cotton and his guests, it emerged, had been taking a stroll through the orchards at the time Crewe had been attacked, and all seemed genuinely shocked at the turn of events.

  Alice, I was surprised to find, showed no sign of being in the least discomfited by my presence at the dinner table in such exalted company. This I took to mean that she had already been given prior notice of my status as an invited guest and had had sufficient time to get used to the idea. To my amusement, she began treating me as those I were a new acquaintance.

  Wilbraham, to his credit, once again introduced me as an up-and-coming merchant from Nantwich, exaggerating my status beyond its true level. Both Hunckes and Thomas Cotton eyed me with suspicion, especially when I explained that Alice and I had b
een acquainted with each other since childhood. This revelation, I noticed, caused Alice to purse her lips in irritation.

  “Nantwich has not been a happy place for me,” remarked Hunckes pointedly, as he peered across the table at me. “To my mind it is full of rebels and traitors.”

  I smiled evenly at Hunckes. In truth, I did not begrudge the governor of Shrewsbury his viewpoint, for his most recent memory of our town would have been limited to the despoiled interior of St Mary’s Church, stinking of the sweat, vomit, and excrement of royalist prisoners. Hunckes, I recalled, had been in command of the regiment of foot that had been tasked with guarding the exit to the sconce at Welsh Row End during January’s battle. His unit had been hopelessly outnumbered by the men of the garrison flooding out of the town to aid Fairfax’s army, and as a result he and all his men had been captured in a rather ignominious manner without being able to put up much of a fight.

  “That particular time was not a happy experience for many of us,” agreed Wilbraham. “For my part, I did not particularly relish my house being bombarded with red hot iron bullets by my Lord Byron’s artillery. I support the King as you do, Sir Fulke, but we have all had our crosses to bear during this conflict. As for Mr Cheswis, he did not sign the Remonstrance which was circulated in Cheshire prior to the conflict, and which identifies Parliament supporters. That should be enough to demonstrate his good faith.”

  I had to suppress a smile, for this was a clever move by Wilbraham designed to diffuse a potentially uncomfortable situation. It was true that I had not signed the document Wilbraham was referring to. What he had failed to say, however, was that, at the time, I would not have been considered important enough to have been approached as a potential signatory. Whether Hunckes fully accepted what Wilbraham had said, I could not tell, for the governor of Shrewsbury merely offered an impenetrable smile and remained silent.

  Thomas Cotton, however, flashed Hunckes a warning glare. “I must apologise to you, gentlemen,” he said. “You are most welcome at Combermere. I think Sir Fulke was merely trying to express his surprise that in such difficult times as these, you would take the trouble to come out of your way to visit us here.

  Hunckes emitted an almost imperceptible snort, but Wilbraham did not miss it.

  “Sir Fulke, Mr Cheswis and I are here on personal business with Mr Cotton on an issue relating to an inheritance matter that concerns both of us, but not you,” he said. “That is all I will say on the matter, unless, of course, you would like to discuss the intimate details of your own business affairs.”

  Hunckes exchanged glances with Thomas Cotton and reddened, but he bowed his head slightly in acquiescence.

  “You are quite right, Mr Wilbraham,” he said. “That was most ignoble of me. I apologise unreservedly for my lack of tact, but these are difficult times, and sometimes it is not easy to know with whom you are dealing.”

  “On that we can all agree,” said Lord Herbert, speaking for the first time, “but by the same token, not everyone is desperate to make his choice by casting his lot definitively with one side or the other.”

  Cotton, I noticed, frowned at this, and Wilbraham looked at the ageing lord with interest.

  “Do you speak from experience, my lord?” he asked. “I understand you refused a request from his Highness Prince Rupert to garrison Montgomery earlier this year.”

  “Of course,” replied Herbert. “In sixteen forty-two I was imprisoned by Parliament merely for advocating moderation in their language pertaining to their judgement of the King for making war on Parliament. Ever since that day I have been wary of antagonising either side. It does not pay to pick a fight needlessly.

  “It has been clear for some time that Sir Thomas Myddelton, major general for the six counties of North Wales, together with the Earl of Denbigh, has harboured ambitions to push south into the Severn Valley. The only thing that has stopped him has been the need to provide support to Sir William Brereton in Nantwich and, more recently, to Sir Thomas Fairfax in York, but now, with Prince Rupert defeated and licking his wounds in Chester, you can be sure Myddelton will be looking at Montgomeryshire with more interest. He has already taken Oswestry, to Sir Fulke’s detriment.”

  “That is true,” agreed Hunckes. “The Committee of Both Kingdoms gave him the permission to resume his plans not two weeks since. If it were not for the fact that he has been detained with the issue of what to do about Prince Rupert in Chester, he would already be in Wales.”

  “Exactly,” Cotton continued. “Don’t misunderstand me. I have no love for Myddelton, but my interest is in preserving my house intact and protecting my valuable library from being plundered. Sometimes it is better to sit on the fence. As things stand it is now Lord Powys at Red Castle near Newtown who has sided most visibly with the King, and consequently it is he who is now in the firing line.”

  “Yes, my lord,” agreed Hunckes, “but reinforcements are on their way. We have it on good authority that Sir Thomas Dallison has been sent south from Chester with a portion of the Prince’s own regiment of horse to support Lord Powys, to fortify the area, and raise troops and money for the King.”

  “Indeed. Which all goes to prove that life will become more uncomfortable, if not intolerable, for the inhabitants of Montgomeryshire in the near future.”

  I felt sorry for the eccentric old aristocrat. He had spent most of his life in the service of the monarchy, had even been responsible, during his time as ambassador to France, for helping arrange the marriage of the present King to Queen Henrietta Maria. He was quite clearly a royalist, and yet he was now an old man, who wanted nothing more than to live out his days in peace and avoid unnecessary conflict.

  Fortunately, George Cotton had noticed Lord Herbert’s reluctance to discuss politics, and so the discussion was moved on to more mundane things. I was asked about my ambitions within the cheese business and about my recent marriage to Elizabeth, a subject, which, rather disconcertingly, appeared to interest Alice greatly. Herbert entertained us at length with anecdotes from his youth and from King Henry’s court in France, and Alice explained that since her husband’s death she had continued to publish and print Hugh Furnival’s newssheet, The Public Scout, in Shrewsbury, thanks to the help and co-operation of her husband’s partners and employees, as well as the support of local booksellers. It was no wonder, I thought, that she had the ears of the town’s governor.

  * * *

  Once the main courses had been served and the mood had begun to lighten somewhat, thanks in large part to the good quality French wine Cotton had plied us with, I realised that the time was rapidly approaching when I would need to instigate the plan of action that Wilbraham and I had agreed would be necessary, if we were not to return to Nantwich empty-handed.

  “You will need to search Crewe’s room,” Wilbraham had said, pointedly, when we had returned to our chambers earlier that evening.

  “And why is that my responsibility?” I had countered, knowing full well that Wilbraham was right. “We should draw lots for it.”

  “Don’t be so dung-witted, Cheswis,” the young gentleman had replied. “You are the skilled investigator, and I am the one used to conducting small talk with the gentry. It is best I keep the guests occupied, whilst you conduct a search.”

  I had emitted a long and weary sigh of resignation, for there was no countering Wilbraham’s argument.

  “And how am I supposed to find out which room is Crewe’s?” I had asked.

  “You forget. I have been here before. Crewe’s room is in the servants’ block on the ground floor on the opposite side of the house. Third door on the right after the kitchens.”

  And so it was that, as soon as the nuts, cheese, and bread had been placed on the table, Wilbraham had aimed a conspiratorial grin in my direction and launched himself into a rambling account of King James’s visit to Townsend House in 1618, a series of anecdotes no doubt passed onto him by his father, for Wilbraham had not even been born at the time of the old King’s visit.
r />   Once I was sure the guests were all fully engrossed in Wilbraham’s story, I excused myself on the pretext of needing to go in search of the privy and left the library by the main door next to the central staircase.

  Following Wilbraham’s instructions, I descended the main stairs and, grateful for the fact that no-one was around who might question my movements, went straight through a doorway on the other side of the hall and passed the entrance to the kitchen, where, as I had correctly guessed, the household staff were too busy consuming the remains of our food to be concerned about house guests roaming the corridors of the servants’ quarters.

  The area of the house I now found myself in was very different from the opulence of the library – a plain corridor with walls of cold, grey, monastic stone. I realised I was in the remains of Abbot Massey’s original residence. I walked across the stone-flagged floor, taking care to make as little noise as possible, until I reached the solid oak door to what I presumed to be Crewe’s bedchamber. Tentatively, I turned the handle, pushed the door ajar, and entered the room.

  The chamber was sparsely furnished, with a plain truckle bed, a rough-hewn table, and a rickety-looking stool pushed underneath it. On the floor by the window was a large wooden chest, which had been opened and its contents strewn across the floor; mainly clothes, but also a bible and some papers.

  Most significantly, though, standing behind the door, wearing a malevolent grin and brandishing a pistol, was the unmistakeable figure of Jem Bressy.

  I recoiled with shock at seeing my enemy at such close quarters, and gave a high-pitched gasp of astonishment, but Bressy merely waved the pistol at me and gestured towards the truckle bed.

  “For God’s sake, do not squeal like a girl, Mr Cheswis,” he said, simply. “Sit down, if you please. We need to talk.”

  I must confess, it is not every day that I face the barrel of a gun held by a trained killer such as Bressy, and many would call what I was about to do inexplicable, but at that precise moment I saw with perfect clarity what I needed to do to ascertain for certain whether Bressy had any involvement in Amy’s disappearance.