The Combermere Legacy Read online

  Adolphus crossed the bridge into Welsh Row and then left the busy main street to head back along the pathway that led behind the wich houses alongside the Great Cistern.

  It was quiet alongside the brine-filled reservoir. The footpath was not used as often as Great or Little Wood Street. Briners usually only ventured around the back of the line of wich houses when they needed to run a theet into the cistern. The track was therefore overgrown in places, nettles and thistles hugging the banks of the reservoir.

  Adolphus reached the stile at the end of the pathway and began to sigh with relief. He was now only a few yards from the safety of his home.

  Suddenly, he heard a rushing sound from his left, and a figure shot out from between the last two wich houses, careering into him and knocking him sideways into the brine pool. He turned over and looked upwards, but all he could see was the pair of menacing blue eyes. The man must have rushed back through Tinkers Croft and beaten him to the bridge.

  Adolphus felt himself being turned over, and a crushing weight fell onto his back, thrusting his face into the pool of brine. He could not move, and he realised with a burst of panic that he was going to die. Against all his instincts he inhaled and he felt a sharp pain course through his lungs.

  Suddenly he saw an image of St Mary’s Church, a memory from the distant past, and he realised he was looking at a view of his own wedding thirty years ago. The image floated before his eyes, and he realised with a pang of regret that he would not live to see his own Bridgett wed in that same church.

  And then, finally, as a feeling of unutterable peace began to take over his body, the image slowly faded into white, and he was gone.

  Chapter 16

  Nantwich – Thursday, August 1st, 1644

  Due to a number of unforeseen circumstances, and to my considerable frustration, it was the middle of the following afternoon before we were able to commence our ride back to Nantwich. I should have known we were in for a difficult day when Wilbraham stumbled into my chamber at eight o’clock in the morning with a face as grey as the sky during a winter snowstorm.

  “God’s Blood, Cheswis,” he moaned. “What the devil did we eat yesterday? I’ve been puking like a sick dog all night. I feel like someone has tied a rope around my innards and shaken them like a rag doll.” He then leaned over the foot of my bed and filled my piss-pot with vomit.

  “I take it that is not Cotton’s French wine that is talking?” I remarked, in as sanguine a manner as I could muster. “You did drink rather a lot of it.”

  “No it bloody wasn’t. And it’s not just me either. I just went downstairs for a walk in the hope of feeling a little better, and it seems half the house is sick.”

  To give Wilbraham some credit, this turned out to be not far from the truth. Of those who had sat down to table the previous evening, only George Cotton, Alice, and I seemed unaffected. The others had all remained in bed, seemingly too ill to move.

  It was not until he was able to force down a bowl of pottage at lunchtime that Wilbraham was in any fit state to ride, and so for most of the morning I was left more or less to my own devices.

  Once I had breakfasted, I took myself off to the stable block in search of news of how Demeter was faring. I found the young groom Martland there talking to a thin man in plain black garb, with greying hair and a long, prominent nose.

  “Ah, good morning, Mr Cheswis. You come at an opportune moment,” said Martland. “This is Mr Edwards, the coroner. I was just giving him my account of what happened to poor Mr Crewe. A tragic accident, I’m sure you will agree.”

  I greeted the coroner cordially, but thought I detected the kind of self-important posturing one often sees in petty officials of his kind.

  “Good morrow,” I said. “I had expected your work to have already been done, but I am pleased to have the opportunity to assist you.”

  “It was late when Mr Gorste called on me last night,” explained Edwards. “I came this morning as soon as I could, but in truth, sir, I cannot see how this can be simply written off as a tragic accident. There appears to be more to Mr Crewe’s death than initially meets the eye.”

  Martland flashed me a quick glance, and I smiled patiently at the coroner.

  “Whatever gives you that impression?” I asked. Although Edwards appeared in most respects to be typical of his kind, I had not anticipated him choosing the difficult explanation when a simple one was readily available. I quietly breathed a sigh of relief that the stray musket ball had been removed from the vicinity of the farrier’s workshop.

  “I am the owner of a stables in Whitchurch,” said Edwards. “I therefore know my way around a horse. Your mare does not seem the type to kick out unnecessarily, and she also has an injury on her hind quarters consistent with having been hit by a sharp object. I should like to know what that object was.”

  “I fear you are looking for a needle in a haystack, sir,” I said, “even if she was injured in the manner such you suggest. However, no-one saw my mare sustain the wound you mention, and there are a hundred ways a horse could sustain such an injury.” I laughed in order to make light of the situation, which was probably the wrong thing to do, for the official reddened, pulled himself to his full height, and began to bluster.

  “I fail to see what is so amusing. I have many years’ experience–”

  “You are right, Mr Edwards,” I said, realising I was making things more difficult than was necessary. “I spoke out of turn.”

  “Indeed. Then if there is nothing more, I will return to the farrier’s workshop to conclude my investigations and arrange for the removal of the cadaver. Good day, sir.”

  “He is a pompous oaf,” said Martland, once Edwards had gone. The young groom had been watching our exchange with interest, the corner of his mouth betraying a hint of a smile.

  “That is true,” I conceded, “but he is perhaps not quite so stupid as most officials of his kind. Until recently I was constable in Nantwich, and I know his type well, so let us hope that when he returns home he does what most of them do and chooses the easy option.”

  I was grateful to have Edwards out of the way, for if the coroner had been more persistent with his assessment of Crewe’s death, I would have had to deal with the local constable, which would have had the potential to be even worse. As it was, at least I was free to pursue my own investigation unmolested.

  “I see,” said Martland, with interest. “Then that would explain your interest in matters of crime.”

  I smiled and decided to indulge the young groom.

  “That is right,” I said. “Tell me, what do you make of the situation?”

  “From what I have seen, your mare seems a gentle creature,” he replied. “I cannot imagine that she would have kicked out at Mr Crewe without reason.”

  I nodded slowly. “And how is Demeter?” I asked. “Does she fare better this morning?”

  “Only slightly, I’m afraid,” said the groom. “She is still lame. I do not think a ride back to Nantwich would do her much good today. She needs to rest. My belief is that we should keep her here for a week or two under our care. We can lend you one of our horses in the meantime, and you can return for Demeter when she has recovered. I will need to seek approval from Mr Gorste, though.”

  “He is not here?”

  “He will return later. He left word that he would remain in Whitchurch this morning to carry out certain estate business on behalf of young Mr Cotton. It makes sense, as Mr Gorste is not in town every day. I would seek approval directly from Mr Cotton himself, except he is still abed. It seems several people were taken ill last night.”

  “So it appears,” I replied. “Tell me, were any of the kitchen staff similarly affected? They ate our leftovers.”

  “Not to my knowledge, sir. They are all at work this morning.”

  I thanked Martland, and, after a brief visit to see Demeter, I walked back to the house and sought out Wilbraham with a view to dragging him out of his slough of self-pity.

  �
�Come, a walk will do you good,” I said. “The fresh air will help settle your stomach.” The young merchant looked at me as though I had just proposed to extract one of his teeth, but nevertheless he forced himself to his feet and followed me gingerly down the stairs.

  We walked in front of the walled garden, past the stable block, and through the jumble of workshops near the kitchens, before heading off through the orchards towards the fish pools. As we passed by the workshops, I noticed a narrow path, which led between the brewhouse and a carpenter’s workshop, and into the jungle of trees behind the stable block. I realised this must have been how Demeter’s assailant had made his escape.

  Once I was certain we were out of earshot of the buildings, I recounted the events of the previous evening, and Wilbraham whistled with surprise.

  “So let’s get this straight,” he said. “There are three different parties trying to locate Abbot Massey’s treasure. The first party is ourselves, of course. Where do we stand?”

  “Quite well, I think,” I replied, “which is why Bressy is so keen on partnering with us. We know the names of five of the trustees – Hassall, Crewe, Ralph Brett, Mr Maisterson, and yourself. We also know that Bressy is either the sixth trustee or the unique seventh trustee who has no engraving but knows the identities of all the other trustees.”

  “Bressy must be the sixth trustee, because otherwise he would know who the other trustee is and therefore also the identity of the person causing all this mayhem.”

  “A fair assumption,” I agreed. “We also have three of the key words – yours, Maisterson’s, and Crewe’s, and, if I am correct, all we have to do is go back to Gilbert Kinshaw and we will be able to secure a fourth word.”

  “That sounds promising,” said Wilbraham. “The second party interested in acquiring the engravings consists of Bressy and Alice Furnival. What of them?”

  “They know Hassall’s word and Bressy’s own, which means between their party and ours, we should have access to all six. Bressy and Alice do not know much, but they have the whip hand because only Bressy knows his own key word.”

  Wilbraham nodded thoughtfully. We had just arrived at one of the fish ponds, which was teeming with trout being bred to stock the lake. Wilbraham sat down on a tree stump, still wearing a somewhat wan expression, and watched the young fish splashing around in the confined space of the pool.

  “That leaves the third party,” he said. “A person, or a group of people, quite prepared to commit murder to find the treasure. If it is the work of a single person, it is a man, for it was a man who kidnapped Amy, and only a man would have had the strength to drag Hassall to his death on Ridley Field.”

  Again, I had to agree with Wilbraham, but something was puzzling me.

  “On the face of it, the murderer only knows two words, Crewe’s and Hassall’s – maybe Ralph Brett’s too depending on whether he managed to extract the word from Kinshaw, but I doubt it. One thing does not make sense, though. Following Hassall’s death, Ridley Field was covered in holes. Someone had been digging there, which suggests that whoever did that has had access to more of the engravings than we think, for how otherwise would he have known roughly where to dig? Remember, these engravings have been in circulation for seventy years. The question is, who dug the holes? Was it Bressy or the murderer?”

  Wilbraham looked at me carefully and shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea,” he said, “but we will not find out if we sit here all day. Come. The walk has made me feel a little better. Let us find a bite to eat, secure a horse for you to ride, and then we can be on our way.”

  * * *

  The journey back to Nantwich was not a pleasant one, not least because the motion of his horse began to make Wilbraham feel ill again, and he spent most of the afternoon retching over his horse’s shoulder.

  For my part, I was more concerned about how I was going to face Mrs Padgett when we got home, for I was none the wiser as to Amy’s whereabouts than when I had left for Combermere the day before.

  Thomas Cotton had been full of apologies for the food poisoning. “It is not our wont to poison our guests,” he had said when he had emerged from his chamber shortly after lunch, looking decidedly green around the gills. “This has never happened before, and I fervently pray such an experience does not befall us again. I cannot imagine how this has come about.”

  Cotton was more than happy to treat Demeter for me and lent me a good-natured chestnut gelding called Rupert.

  “You might want to keep his name quiet in Nantwich,” he said, with a wry smile. “In truth, though, he has little in common with his royal namesake. You cannot accuse Prince Rupert of lacking balls.”

  I smiled indulgently at Cotton’s joke and thanked him for his hospitality. Whatever he was up to with Sir Fulke Hunckes and Alice, he had been a generous and courteous host, and he invited me to return two weeks later, once Demeter had recovered.

  It was around six in the evening by the time our horses crossed the river at Shrewbridge and made their way towards the sconce at the end of Pillory Street. We rode past the gaol and into the square, which was full of people milling around in the evening sunshine.

  I was just about to bid Wilbraham farewell when I noticed a familiar figure emerge from the Booth Hall. Marc Folineux had seen us coming and made a beeline straight for Wilbraham.

  “You have been a somewhat elusive quarry, Mr Wilbraham,” he said, reaching out to grab the reins of Wilbraham’s mount.

  “I have been away, as you can see, Mr Folineux. If you wish to see me, you need to make an appointment, as all others are expected to do.”

  “This I have tried to do on numerous occasions,” said the sequestrator, “but your staff are somewhat obstructive. I would remind you that I am one of the chief sequestrators, and it is in your interest to co-operate.”

  “Oh, that I doubt, Mr Folineux. If you wouldn’t mind, I suggest that it is in your interest to unhand my horse. I have been sick today, and at present you are in danger of having your smart black doublet covered by the remains of my lunch. Now, if you wouldn’t mind...”

  Folineux grimaced but let go of the reins. “Make sure you are at Townsend House tomorrow morning at nine of the clock,” he said. “You need to be assessed to determine your delinquency payments. Avoiding the issue will just make things worse for you.”

  Wilbraham merely scowled at Folineux, but I could tell from his demeanour that this time there would be no avoiding the reach of the sequestrators. Folineux straightened his jacket and watched Wilbraham ride down the High Street. His face wore a barely suppressed look of self-satisfaction, but then he turned his attention to me and glared.

  “And you be very careful, Mr Cheswis,” he said. “The arm of the Sequestration Committee is long. You’ll find we are capable of uncovering malignancy where it is least expected.”

  I would have said something in retaliation were it not for the fact that at that precise moment I caught sight of Alexander Clowes’s substantial frame weaving his way through the crowds towards me. My friend immediately noticed Thomas Cotton’s chestnut gelding and shot me a questioning glance.

  “Demeter is lame,” I said, “but it is a long story.”

  “Then it can wait,” he said. “I have news to impart. Nantwich has been an eventful place since you left.”

  I sensed Alexander’s urgency, and so, bidding Folineux a polite but cool ‘Good day’, I dismounted and followed my friend to a quiet corner of the square near the church.

  “We have a missing person and an attempted murder,” said Alexander, “and both involve Gilbert Kinshaw. This time, Sawyer and Cripps are at a loss to explain it. Their capacity for dealing with such matters seems to have been overreached.”

  “Kinshaw?” I exclaimed, a pang of foreboding gripping my chest. “What of him?”

  “He has been beaten within an inch of his life, early this morning. The bastard who did it knew what he was doing, and Kinshaw will be lucky to pull through, but he still refuses to speak to anyone o
ther than you about it. We should go there now while you still have the chance.”

  I gave a groan of despair. If Kinshaw still had Elizabeth’s engraving, I could guess what had happened to him.

  “And the missing person?” I enquired.

  “Adolphus Palyn, father to Bridgett Palyn and friend of the Davenports.”

  “The briner?” I said, somewhat nonplussed. “What was he doing at Kinshaw’s?”

  “He was being fitted out for a suit of new clothes. Had an appointment there this morning about the time Kinshaw was attacked but never returned home.”

  It only took a few minutes to walk up Hospital Street to Kinshaw’s house. Sawyer and Cripps, I noticed, were nowhere to be seen, but Colonel Booth had placed a couple of guards on the front door. When they realised who I was, one of them went inside and fetched a footman, who took me upstairs to a dimly-lit room at the back of the house, where Kinshaw lay in a large four-poster bed. The only other person in the room was a slightly built, balding man with spectacles, who I recognised as Christopher Thomasson, Kinshaw’s physician.

  “He is very weak,” said the doctor, “so you will need to have patience. He has taken a terrible beating, but he was adamant you should be brought here as soon as you returned.

  I conveyed my gratitude to Thomasson and surveyed the mound of wobbling flesh swathed in bandages that lay in front of me.

  “Is that you, Cheswis?” grunted Kinshaw. “What took you so bloody long?” The merchant’s face was horribly swollen and bruised, which made him difficult to understand, but he still managed the belligerent tone to which I was accustomed.

  “You have a nerve, Mr Kinshaw,” I barked. “I have been searching high and low for Amy Padgett, who, as you know, was kidnapped by the same madman who did this to you. If you hadn’t lied to me about the engraving, you might have saved us considerable trouble and saved yourself a beating.”