The Combermere Legacy Read online

  “Correct. It’s not immediately apparent, for the rest of his body is unmarked, but a single blow to the back of the neck can kill a man outright, especially if the killer is trained to do such a thing.”

  Croxton raised an eyebrow and looked at me quizzically. “You are suggesting that Hassall was murdered by a trained assassin?” he said. “The thought is preposterous, surely? Hassall was merely a local merchant, who happened to serve in the town guard. He volunteered to defend this town in Parliament’s name and did so loyally as far as I am aware. Why would someone want to murder a man like that?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied, with honesty, “but what I do know is that, when viewed from behind, Fletcher bears a significant resemblance to the royalist spy you wish us to locate.”

  “Bressy?”

  “Precisely. I cannot be sure, but I would hazard a guess that Bressy is already in Nantwich and that he paid a visit to Hassall shortly after Fletcher left. It is just possible, I suppose, that Fletcher assaulted Hassall by pushing him into the ship. However, a more likely scenario is that Bressy did this, half drowning him in the process. What we don’t know is why Bressy picked on Hassall, how and why he led him out of the town, and why he decided to murder him in Ridley Field.”

  “That is an interesting theory,” said Croxton, “but, if you are right, that means that Fletcher is innocent, and we must free him.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “If I am right, and Bressy is indeed in town, then it is better that he does not suspect we know he is here. Apart from which, Fletcher is safer in gaol until we can prove he is innocent.”

  I was surpassing myself. I had spent six months regretting my involvement with Brereton, rueing the fact that I had been dragged unwillingly into the world of the intelligencer. However, I realised with surprise and some consternation that I was starting to talk like one. Consternation, not just because of the potential presence of Bressy, a man with whom I had crossed swords twice before, but because of the shocking realisation that I was beginning to enjoy myself.

  “Very well,” said Croxton, replacing his hat. “I will hold him without charge for a week. After that we will have to charge him or let him go. I suggest you make haste with your enquiries. If it is as you say, Bressy cannot have gone far, and, if he has not yet solved the matter of which we talked earlier, then he will surely return.”

  * * *

  Jacob Fletcher lived in a ramshackle worker’s cottage about halfway up Wall Lane, the main thoroughfare through the salt-making area of Snow Hill. The house was surrounded by wich houses, and, across the street, brine workers loitered around the door of one of them, smoking their pipes and chattering.

  A wooden theet ran from the entrance in the direction of ‘Old Biot’, the town’s brine pit, denoting that a kindling had been scheduled, but there was no activity, for the kindling had been cancelled owing to the weather. There was no celebration on the part of the briners, for a cancelled kindling meant no money.

  When I knocked on the door of the cottage (alone, for Alexander had returned home to face the ordeal of explaining our latest task to Margery), several people looked warily in my direction, and a shutter closed noisily behind me, a pair of curious eyes disappearing behind the wooden slats.

  After a few seconds, the door was opened by a careworn young woman with two small children attached to her skirts. From the look of the swelling in her abdomen, it was clear that another child was on its way. To my surprise, a flash of recognition crossed the woman’s face as soon as she opened the door.

  “Master Cheswis,” she said, “what brings you here?”

  “You know me, mistress?” I asked.

  “But of course. My name is Sarah. My mother you know as Mistress Johnson, who has oft times helped your wife keep house, as and when she has needed to earn money to make ends meet. These are difficult times, as you know, and my mother has been grateful for the work. To what do I owe this courtesy?”

  It was clear that not one of Sarah Fletcher’s neighbours had possessed the courage to inform her about her husband’s arrest, even though, judging from the looks I was being given, the whole street was fully aware of what had happened in Ridley Field.

  “It would be advisable if we were to talk indoors instead of in full view of your neighbours,” I said.

  The inside of the Fletchers’ home was as one might expect – small and cramped. It was well-maintained, but palpably the home of a poor family. There was a plain oak table and several chairs in the hallway, but very little else. I also noticed a hole in the thatched roof.

  “That needs mending, but we cannot afford to pay the thatcher,” explained Sarah. “We must hope that this weather does not break with a storm, otherwise it will get wet in here.”

  I smiled in sympathy and turned to the matter at hand. There was no easy way to inform the woman about what had happened to her husband, so I told her with as little ceremony as I could get away with, taking care to state my belief in his innocence and Croxton’s pledge to allow me a week to prove it.

  I watched as her expression changed, not to one of horror, as I expected it might, but to one of anger and resentment.

  “I know it is a sin,” she said, “but I cannot bring myself to be sorry that Mr Hassall is dead. I know he put bread in our mouths, but he took it away too. He was not a good man.”

  “Your husband said he tried to cheat him,” I ventured.

  “He was always doing that,” replied Sarah. “Not just to Jacob, but to others too. If there was a way for him to avoid paying for all the work carried out, he would find it. If any salt was wasted or fell from one of the barrows, you could be sure someone would pay for it. If too much ale or cows’ blood was used during the kindling, the same would happen, and if there was any opportunity to lengthen the kindling by an hour or so, then he would take it, putting everyone at risk of being fined by the Rulers of Walling.”

  “So was anything different about yesterday?”

  “Not really,” said Sarah, pushing wisps of sandy hair back under her coif and wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “other than the fact that Jacob was drunk when I returned from my mother’s at ten o’clock. He was so upset at the way he had been treated by Hassall that he had half emptied the barrel of ale we had bought the day before.”

  “So tell me what happened?”

  “Jacob, being young and strong, had been placed in charge of moving the barrows of salt into the store room. With the kindling finished, there was only a limited amount of salt to move, and Jacob is good at this work, so he finished his task half an hour quicker than he expected. Master Hassall, however, wishes to pay by the half day, and as Jacob was half an hour short, he was docked a full half day’s pay. This is money we cannot afford to lose.”

  I made a quick mental calculation. If Fletcher had been seen arguing with Hassall at eight-thirty and was next seen by his wife at ten, it was theoretically just possible for the person seen attacking Hassall at nine to have led the victim to Ridley Field, committed the murder, and returned to Snow Hill by ten, but certainly not enough time to have got roaring drunk too. Although I was personally convinced that Jem Bressy was the person seen at nine, this was going to be difficult to prove, as the only person who was witness to Fletcher’s drunkenness and his presence in Snow Hill at ten was his own wife. I had a feeling her testimony would not cut much ice if Fletcher were forced to face a trial. I had the suspicion I was going to need to locate Bressy before I could prove Fletcher’s innocence.

  “Can you account for why Hassall behaves in this manner?” I asked.

  “I could not say,” replied Sarah. “Perhaps he feels he needs the money too. Historically, the Hassall family has been a family of high status in these parts, but Henry Hassall was a younger son, and has only his wich houses to his name, plus some land which he leases to tenant farmers. In fact, he hasn’t been the same since he lost the lease to Ridley Field.”

  I looked up sharply. “Ridley Field?” I said. “I thought
Ridley Field was farmed by Robert Hollis from Welsh Row End. I did not know Hassall was the leaseholder.”

  “He was until recently. The Hassalls have leased Ridley Field on and off for generations. However, last year, Master Hassall was outbid by Master Hollis, who had sub-let the field from Hassall for several years. Those close to him say it was a shock for Master Hassall, for the income made all the difference to him. And now he is dead. It is a well-known story that the last time the Hassall family lost the lease to Ridley Field, it also resulted in a murder. It is as though the field were cursed.”

  I gazed in amazement at Sarah Fletcher. The conversation had taken an entirely unexpected turn.

  “A murder?” I exclaimed, with incredulity. “When was this?”

  “Many, many years ago, long before I was born. It was in Queen Elizabeth’s time. The landlord of The Crown was murdered in a dispute over the lease of Ridley Field. It is a story often told by Nantwich folk, but I am not aware of the finer details. I am only young. However, there are Nantwich people still alive who knew those involved. The murderer, I believe, was never caught.”

  I whistled quietly. It seemed rather too much to expect that a tale from seventy years ago could have anything to do with a crime that had just taken place, but it was worth finding out – and I knew just the person who might be able to help.

  * * *

  “The murder of Roger Crockett?” said Mrs Padgett, inquisitively.

  In addition to being a fine cook, my housekeeper was the font of all knowledge as far as Nantwich history was concerned, and she looked at me now with raised eyebrows.

  “That is a murky tale, which is best left buried in the past,” she opined. “It is a story which affected many of the leading families in this town and created ill feeling which lasted for a generation. Why would you want to go delving into such matters, may I ask?”

  Mrs Padgett was surrounded by pots and pans, and clouds of steam almost obscured her from view. Vegetables lay chopped and ready for cooking on the table, and a shoulder of mutton bubbled away in a pot on the stove, giving off an enticing aroma of meat and herbs. I had to concentrate to keep my mind from wandering towards thoughts of lunch.

  “I don’t know,” I said, truthfully, and recounted the events of that morning, including the grisly discovery of Henry Hassall’s body. “It is probably nothing, but I understand that Crockett’s murder also involved a member of the Hassall family, and, like today’s killing, occurred shortly after the Hassalls lost the lease to Ridley Field. It seems unlikely, I know, but I wondered whether there might be some connection.”

  Mrs Padgett put down the knife she was using and wiped her hands in her apron.

  “It happened a long time ago,” she said, “before the Great Fire, when Nantwich was a very different place, but my grandmother told me the story – she was alive at the time these events occurred. Crockett was a local businessman, who had grown rich on the profits made by The Crown Inn, but he was considered somewhat uncouth, as was his wife, who was commonly held for a loud-mouthed slattern. As a result neither was accepted by the town’s elite.”

  “But that is no grounds for murder,” I interjected. “I understand there was a dispute over the lease to Ridley Field, though.”

  “That is true. Master Crockett was an acquisitive sort, and when the lease to Ridley Field was up for renewal, he negotiated the lease directly with the landlord without allowing the existing leaseholder, Richard Hassall, the opportunity to renew. The argument over the field went on for months, splitting the town down the middle and causing much unpleasantness. Most of the town’s leading families, the Maistersons and Wilbrahams amongst them, sided with Hassall. On the day he was supposed to take possession of the field, Crockett was set upon by a crowd of Hassall’s supporters and beaten so badly that he died of his injuries.”

  “I understand the murderer was never apprehended,” I said.

  “That’s right. My grandmother always told me that a friend of Hassall’s named Edmund Crewe struck the fatal blow, but he was spirited away by Hassall’s friends and family and never seen again. Crockett’s wife, however, tried to blame the majority of the crowd who had attacked her husband, and attempted to have Hassall and several others, including Richard Wilbraham of Townsend House, indicted for murder.”

  “But she failed?”

  “That’s right. The coroner, who was a Maisterson, found that Crewe alone was responsible for the killing, and so the matter was brought to a close. The Crockett family continued to run The Crown, and Bridgett Crockett lived well into her eighties. I remember her from my youth; a bitter old woman, and not without reason, I suppose. Anyway, when she died, the Crockett family left Nantwich. I have no idea what happened to them.”

  It was a fascinating tale, but, of course, it shed no light on what might have happened to Henry Hassall that morning.

  “That is all I know,” said Mrs Padgett, somewhat apologetically. “However, the record of the inquest may still exist. I do know that some of the records from that time survived the Great Fire which destroyed this town in fifteen eighty-three. Young Ezekiel Green would know. There may also be records in Chester. It is said that after the inquest, Bridgett Crocket did not give up in her quest for vengeance and bribed one of her servants to testify that Richard Wilbraham was among the crowd who killed Crockett. The servant, it is said, only recanted his story when accused of perjury and threatened with the hangman’s noose.”

  I thanked Mrs Padgett for her help and left her to her cooking, making a mental note to speak to Ezekiel Green at the first possible opportunity. It would not be the first time I had asked Green to guide me through court archives in pursuit of the truth.

  Deep in thought, I wandered over to the front door and opened it to let the air circulate within the house. As I did so, I noticed that the sky had darkened ominously and a soft rain had begun to fall. Behind the building in the square, a jagged fork of lightning illuminated the sky, followed immediately by a sharp crack of thunder. A storm would be much welcomed, I thought. Perhaps it would clear the atmosphere.

  As I stood in the doorway and watched the globules of rainwater growing steadily larger, I glanced the opposite way down the street towards the Beast Market and Beam Street, and was surprised to see Jack Wade limping his way up the street, his wooden leg clunking loudly on the cobbles. He gave a grimace of pain and rubbed the area around his stump as he reached me, gasping heavily with the effort.

  “You must come quickly, Master Cheswis,” he breathed. “There has been a break-in at your house on Beam Street.”

  “A break-in?” I exclaimed, with concern and disbelief. “How can that be? And Elizabeth? She was at home?”

  “No, sir. She had been accompanying me to deliver the items you had put aside for Gilbert Kinshaw. We took the horse and cart, and we had just returned. The sound of Mistress Cheswis opening the door must have disturbed the perpetrator, for he charged down the stairs and barged his way out through the front door before we could react.”

  “And how is my wife? She is hurt?”

  “No, sir. A little shaken, perhaps, but that is for reasons other than the mere intrusion.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, catching a strange look in Wade’s expression. My apprentice hesitated a moment before fixing me with a penetrating stare.

  “The intruder,” he said, “he was no casual burglar. Both Mistress Cheswis and I recognised him instantly, a man who neither of us wished to see again. Tell me, Master Cheswis, what in the name of Jesus is going on, and why is Jem Bressy walking the streets of this town?”

  * * *

  That evening, at dusk, I sat out in our back yard with a tankard of ale and watched the stars appear one by one in the northern sky. It was a calm, cooling evening, the storm of earlier in the day having washed away the sultriness in the atmosphere. I had invited Elizabeth to join me, but she had declined, being unable to rest until the mess left by Jem Bressy had been cleaned up.

  Bressy had ransac
ked the house from top to bottom. Cupboards and drawers had been opened and searched, clothes strewn everywhere. Curiously, the spare room used by Ralph Brett for storage had come in for particular attention, and I was thankful that much of the contents had been delivered to Gilbert Kinshaw earlier that day. Nonetheless, Brett’s ornate chest had been smashed and the contents strewn over the floor. Oddly enough though, nothing had been taken, not even the Duke of Hamilton’s knife, which surely must have been worth something.

  I sat and pondered what Bressy was doing back in Nantwich and wondered at the chaos which one man could create in such a short space of time. What, I wondered, was this treasure that Bressy had spoken of? Did it exist, and, if so, where had it been secreted? What, if anything, did Henry Hassall have to do with this, and why would Bressy want to kill him – and why take the trouble to take the wich house owner to Ridley Field to meet his death?

  More interestingly, might there really be a connection with the seventy-year-old murder of Roger Crockett, the erstwhile landlord of The Crown, or were the apparent connections between the two killings just coincidence?

  Finally, and most crucially for Elizabeth and myself, what on earth did her deceased husband, Ralph Brett the elder, have to do with all of this? A professional like Bressy, I acknowledged, did everything for a reason. So what, I wondered, did Ralph Brett possess that Bressy needed so badly?

  I sighed, drained my tankard, and headed back inside the house. The summer storm might have cleared the atmosphere, but I perceived storm clouds of an entirely different kind on the horizon, and I had no option but to wait for them to break.

  Chapter 5

  Montgomery – Thursday, July 25th, 1644

  It was not what she was expecting. Squeezed into the confines of the middle ward of Montgomery Castle, this half-timbered mansion was the main abode of Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and it seemed somewhat incongruous set against the backdrop of the castle’s forbidding stone towers, which flanked the gateway to the fortification, itself standing atop the steep, rocky ridge to the west of the town.