A Soldier of Substance

by D. W. Bradbridge

  “You mean…?”

  “Of course, man! Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I have not considered how a Nantwich man – and the town constable to boot – manages to get a pass to visit Chester in times such as these? You have already made clear you had an association with Thomas Steele, himself a parliamentarian. Not only that, you are not alone in Chester; something you did not tell me. I saw you walk past here this afternoon with two other men and an empty cart. My guess is you have other business here in Chester in addition to your dealings with me. Am I right?”

  I shrugged and nodded in resignation. “I had no idea I had been so transparent. What do you plan to do about it?”

  “Absolutely nothing, of course. I am also for Parliament, which is to your good fortune. Indeed, I already have one son who has given his life for the cause. He died on the field at Kineton Fight. The other serves under Sir Alexander Rigby. Ironically enough, he is probably among those setting up siege works at Lathom.”

  I gazed at Seaman in open-mouthed surprise. “I had no idea,” I said again.

  “Well, you wouldn’t,” said Seaman, “and stop awning at me like an imbecile,” he added. “It’s quite simple, really. It does not pay to be in open support of Parliament in Chester. Look at what happened to Brereton and Edwards. I have my livelihood to protect, and many of my business partners like Francis Gamull are strong and loyal supporters of the King. But let us discuss this later. We will have to call a constable, certainly, but our priority is to gather enough information to keep the local constable busy and to keep him from jumping to conclusions, in order to give you the opportunity to get away tomorrow. Let us focus on the matter at hand.”

  Seaman was in the right of it, of course; of that there was no doubt. But still, I couldn’t fathom how a man, having to face up to the brutal murder of his sister in his own house, could behave so calmly and logically. I quickly pulled myself together and looked around the yard for clues as to how the murderer could have got in.

  “There is just one entrance to this courtyard,” ventured Seaman, reading my mind. “It leads out the back towards the cathedral precincts.”

  I walked over to the solid wooden gate and saw that it was secured by two solid bolts.

  “Locked,” said Seaman, thoughtfully. “So we know that the murderer did not come in this way.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “He could have been let in by Katherine.”

  “But the door is locked. How do you account for his escape? He couldn’t have locked the door from the outside on the way out.”

  “True,” I conceded, “but it is not beyond the capabilities of a fit man to climb the gate.”

  “Sure, but why would he do that?” demanded Seaman.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Perhaps he wanted to incriminate somebody within the house.”

  At that moment, I heard sounds on the steps above me, and Roberts re-appeared, followed closely by the servant, John Gibbons, a slightly built man in his late thirties with angular features and a receding hairline. His face was white with shock, save for his eyes, which were red, as though he had been weeping. Behind him was a round-faced woman, who introduced herself as Martha Woodcock. She gasped and put her hand over her mouth when she saw the body.

  “Mr Gibbons, is it?” I asked, addressing the servant, who was standing quietly, his head bowed.

  “Yes, sir,” said the man, barely daring to look at me.

  “I understand you found the body,” I said. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Gibbons and Martha Woodcock exchanged glances, and I thought I caught a hint of a nod from the housekeeper.

  “We were in the kitchen,” said Gibbons, “Martha an’ I, an’ we thought we heard a commotion outside. Some banging, like, an’ I could ‘ave sworn I heard a scream. I thought nothing of it, but I were already on my way to throw out the food scraps. It were then that I saw Mistress Katherine an’ the murdering whoreson bastard who did this. He were halfway over the gate.”

  I looked at Seaman, who nodded at me as if to confirm the legitimacy of my theory.

  “You saw the murderer?” I asked.

  “Aye, I did. Leastways I saw someone escaping over the gate. Withering great fellow he was too.”

  “But you didn’t see him actually committing the murder?”

  Gibbons frowned and looked at me in puzzlement. “What are you getting at, sir? I saw him escaping. It were him alright.”

  “And did you try to stop him?” I asked.

  “I ran towards him but he were too quick. Over the gate like a flash he was.”

  “A scranny little sod like Gibbons would have had no chance, if he was as big as he says,” cut in Roberts.

  “At least I tried,” said Gibbons. “As for a cripple like thee-”

  “Aye, alright,” said Roberts, “but what were you doing down there, anyway? You could have cleared up the food scraps later. Don’t tell me you were after talking to Mistress Katherine again?”

  Gibbons stiffened, and his face turned a vivid shade of red. “You’ve no right!” he spat, suddenly lunging at the footman. I had been watching this exchange with interest, but now Seaman and I sprang into action and dragged Gibbons away before he could reach Roberts.

  “Would one of you care to tell me what this is all about?” I demanded.

  “Had a soft spot for her, didn’t he?” breathed Roberts, straightening his collar and trying to regain his composure. “He was always trying to talk to her. Thought he had a chance, he did.”

  “I think I can vouch for that theory,” cut in Seaman. “Katherine always felt Mr Gibbons carried a torch for her.”

  “But I would never have hurt her,” said Gibbons, an element of fear entering into his voice. “I was in love with her.”

  I nodded and turned my attention to Martha Woodcock, who was sniffing into a handkerchief. “What about you, mistress?” I asked. “Did you see any of this?”

  “No sir,” said Martha. “It’s as John said. We heard noises up here and John went down with the scraps, but I never saw nothing myself.”

  “And how long did it take for Mr Gibbons to return after he left the kitchen?”

  “About five minutes or so,” said the housekeeper.

  Gibbons saw where the conversation was heading and his features turned a peculiar shade of grey. “But I just stood with her,” he said. “I swear that’s the truth. I just couldn’t bring myself to leave her.”

  I studied Gibbons carefully and tried to make sense of his demeanour. He was now shaking violently and clutching his arms around his chest, both symptoms of shock. He could easily have made an approach to Katherine, I mused, and murdered her in a frenzy brought on by rejection, but something told me he was telling the truth.

  I strode over to the bench on which Katherine Seaman’s body was still sprawled and picked up the cheese wire by her foot.

  “Does this cheese wire belong to the kitchen, Mrs Woodcock?” I asked. The housekeeper studied the bloody object with evident distaste and shrugged.

  “I couldn’t say, sir,” she said. “It looks like ours, alright, but they all look the same to me. Mr Seaman uses similar ones in the shop. What I do know is that we lost ours the other day. We’ve been using a knife to cut cheese in the meantime.”

  “I see,” said Seaman. “So the cheese wire could have been brought down by Gibbons, or by Whitby when he accompanied Katherine to the courtyard, or by Katherine herself, or by someone else, as yet unknown, who had the express intention of murdering Katherine with it.”

  “Precisely,” I agreed. “Mr Seaman, it’s about time we called a constable. I believe Mr and Mrs Whitby were just about to leave. Perhaps we could ask them to call a constable on their way home. If they are needed to act as witnesses, I’m sure they can make themselves available at a later date. In the meantime, please give Mr Gibbons a cup of wine to calm his nerves, but make sure he goes nowhere.”

  Once Gibbons had been set down in the kitchen under the c
are of Mrs Woodcock and the watchful eye of Roberts, Seaman and I broke the dreadful news to Isabel Seaman and the Whitbys, all three of whom reacted, as expected, with utter shock. Whitby was the most practical, and after a suitable break to compose themselves, he and his wife left in search of a constable, leaving me in the dining chamber with Seaman and his wife.

  “Tell me,” I said, “your sister seemed preoccupied all day today. Was she usually so highly strung?”

  “No,” replied Seaman, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Although, I grant you, she was in an unusual mood today.”

  “Have you any idea why that might be?”

  “She said nothing to me.”

  “What about Edward Chisnall? I noticed your sister’s reaction when he turned up in your store this afternoon. She looked like she’d seen somebody who had come back from the dead.”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Seaman. “Chisnall is an officer in the garrison at Lathom House, and Katherine was in Ormskirk herself only a matter of days ago. She may have seen him then and been surprised that he had also travelled to Chester.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “So what is your connection to Ormskirk exactly?”

  “We used to live there,” said Seaman. “Actually, my family originally hails from Bolton, but we moved to Ormskirk as children. My sister, Jane, married a local man and still lives there, but Katherine and I moved away when we came of age. It was Jane and her husband who Katherine was visiting recently. Chisnall, incidentally, is also a local man, and we have known him for a number of years.”

  I thought about this for a moment. Chisnall, I realised, had left the Seaman house before Katherine had been found, giving him plenty of time to have gone round the back of the building and entered through the back gate. Katherine also knew Chisnall, so may have been persuaded to open the gate for him. Was there, perhaps, some connection between Chisnall and Katherine that I hadn’t been told about? If so, I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  I then changed my attention to the question of William Seaman’s business dealings and his connection with the likes of Francis Gamull and Robert Whitby.

  “You were celebrating the conclusion of a business deal with Francis Gamull today,” I ventured. “It must have been an important deal because you went to some expense.”

  Seaman frowned and exchanged a quick glance with his wife. “Why do you ask?” he said, guardedly.

  “Pay no attention to me,” I said, dismissively. “I’m just curious. Your sister seemed to be vexed by something you’d done this evening. I wondered if there was a connection?”

  Isabel Seaman, who had been quiet up to this point, touched her husband on the arm to get his attention. “I think you’d better explain to Mr Cheswis,” she said. “It will be for the best.”

  Seaman pursed his lips in irritation and poured himself another cup of wine. “Very well,” he said. “Katherine did not approve of the contract I had struck with Francis Gamull. I suppose I had better explain. My mother, who is now no longer alive, was the daughter of a wealthy merchant from Bolton called Henry Oulton. Henry, my grandfather, who is now in his eighties, made his fortune selling calf-skins to the Spanish and established a trading post in the town of Saint Jean de Luz near the Spanish border, the same town I told you about yesterday. This business was, for many years, run by my uncle, and after him by my cousin, but both are now dead. For many years, I had used this business as the French import post for Francis Gamull’s calf-skins, importing wines and other goods in the opposite direction. You saw some of the produce we import this afternoon. Following my cousin’s death, I have now become the sole heir to Henry Oulton’s fortune, including the import business. My grandfather, who has retained control of the business over the years, is now ailing, and Francis Gamull has expressed an interest in purchasing the business. I have signed a contract to sell that business to the Gamulls once I inherit, and Francis Gamull has made a pre-payment against that contract. Katherine thought I should not have signed that agreement, although I can’t think why.”

  “And Robert Whitby? Where does he fit in?”

  “Nowhere, really. When Francis Gamull’s father, Thomas, died many years ago, his mother married Edward Whitby, who died in sixteen thirty-nine. Francis’s mother retains control of her husband’s assets for her lifetime, after which everything passes to Robert. Over the last few years, Francis and Robert have developed a mutual understanding on a number of issues. Neither of them are fools.”

  I scratched my chin in deep thought and tried to take stock of what I had seen. There were several people who could have killed Katherine Seaman. Chisnall was certainly one, as were Whitby and any of the three servants. But what about Francis Gamull, a man powerful enough to arrange for others to carry out such a task for him? How did he fit in, and was there something that William Seaman was not telling me? My curiosity had been awakened, and, despite the feeling that I was running the danger of becoming embroiled in something far more dangerous than I could imagine, I said the one thing that would guarantee my further involvement.

  “I shall be travelling to Ormskirk myself tomorrow,” I said, “perhaps I can carry this news to your son and your sister and make some discreet enquiries while I am there? If your son is serving under Rigby, I should have no trouble locating him.”

  Seaman looked me in the eye for a moment, and then his face broke into a conspiratorial grin.

  “I knew there was something more to you than meets the eye,” he chuckled. “If you are prepared to do that for me, then I would be immensely grateful, but I think you had better be on your way before the constable arrives. Am I right in thinking Daniel Cheswis is not the name on your pass?”

  I inclined my head in acknowledgement.

  “Then in that case the constable will never find you,” said Seaman. “I think you know what to do.”

  I certainly did. I shook Seaman heartily by the hand and, thanking his wife for the hospitality, marched purposefully through the kitchen, descended the steps into the courtyard, and unlocked the gate. Finally, after taking one last look at Katherine Seaman’s prone and bloody corpse, I slipped out into the street and merged silently into the crowds opposite the cathedral.

  Chapter 10

  Chester – Thursday March 7th, 1644

  I slept fitfully that night, my dreams punctuated by alternating visions of Katherine Seaman’s staring, lifeless face, and a huge manchego cheese being slit from top to bottom by a cheese wire, its rind oozing red blood where it had been cut. I awoke bathed in sweat, to find Alexander and Simon sat on their mats, dressed and ready to leave.

  This was no surprise in itself, for I had returned to The Boot the previous evening to discover that both my friend and my brother had come back early from their evening exploring the city’s various hostelries.

  “Best to avoid getting fou drunk, Daniel,” Simon had explained, a little too self-righteously for my liking. “We have work to do tomorrow. We need our wits about us.” With that, he had fallen asleep on the floor, snoring like a horse, and leaving me to relate the story of Katherine Seaman’s murder to Alexander, who listened to my experiences with increasing incredulity.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Your friend, a secret parliamentarian sympathiser, is the heir to a large mansion in Bolton and a considerable fortune, including multiple trading interests in France and Spain, and he has effectively sold part of his inheritance before his grandfather’s death?”

  “So it would seem,” I agreed.

  “And the one person who knows about this, his sister, is murdered whilst he dines with you in his own house and in the presence of several other people who may have an interest in the grandfather’s death.”

  “Indeed. Robert Whitby, Edward Chisnall, and the servant, John Gibbons, all had motives and the opportunity to commit the murder.”

  “Not forgetting Seaman himself.”

  “True,” I admitted, “although Seaman was with me the whole evening, apart fr
om when he went with the footman, Roberts, to view the body. If Seaman is involved, then so must both Roberts and Gibbons be. Think about it. Roberts would have had to have collected Seaman specifically so he could go and commit the murder, and Gibbons would have to be lying about having seen the murderer escaping over the gate.”

  “Correct. An unlikely scenario, I admit, but Seaman certainly had the motive.”

  “That’s also true,” I conceded.

  “And what is more, there appears to have been a significant and unexplained connection with Lathom House. Seaman has a son and a sister both within easy reach of Lathom, not to mention the suspect, Chisnall, who is an officer in the garrison there.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. Identifying the murderer was certainly no straightforward matter. It was then that I noticed a curious look on my friend’s face, a look of anticipation that I had not seen since January, before Edward Yardley had paid with his life for the murders of William Tench and Will Butters, and before Hugh Furnival had been swallowed up by the raging waters of the River Weaver in full spate.

  “It seems we have another murder to solve,” said Alexander, with relish. “You seem to have a talent for seeking them out.”

  In all honesty, when I was sat in Seaman’s drawing room, I had also felt animated at the challenge of seeking out the perpetrator of this foul crime, my enthusiasm stimulated, no doubt, by the potency of my host’s fine wine. But the burden of this unsolicited responsibility was already beginning to weigh down on my shoulders and, in the cold light of day, I saw it for what it was: an unwelcome and unnecessary complication.

  I swung my legs over the edge of the room’s only bed, thankful that, as the most senior of our party, I had not had to sleep on a mat on the floor, and stared, bleary-eyed, at the wall.

  At that moment, there was a gentle knock at the door, and Thomas Corbett appeared, with some bread, cheese, small beer, and a pitcher of fresh water drawn from the nearest well. I took a large cup of water and swallowed it gratefully, for my mouth was dry as a bone and still tasted of the wine I had drunk the previous evening.