“In July fifteen seventy-three, over twenty people were bound to appear at the assizes in Chester, at which Edmund Crewe was indicted for murder in his absence. Then, in February fifteen seventy-four, most of these twenty-odd people appeared again before the chief justice to answer Bridgett Crockett’s appeal of murder.
“As a result of this, six individuals, named as Richard, Anne and William Hassall, Richard Wilbraham, Thomas Wilson, and Robert Grisedale, were bailed to make a further appearance. However, at the Michaelmas assizes, all six were discharged by proclamation.”
“So that was the end of it, and Bridgett Crockett had failed?”
“Well, as far as Bridgett was concerned, yes, although it was by no means the end of the matter for Palyn, and he may well have lived to regret testifying against such powerful families as the Wilbrahams, the Hassalls, and the Maistersons.”
“Why do you say that?”
Ezekiel grinned, and he opened one of the dusty volumes that had been bookmarked.
“This is where it gets really interesting,” he said. “In fifteen seventy-five, Palyn was arrested for allegedly stealing goods belonging to a traveller who was lodging at The Crown. He was indicted by a well-known thief called Roger Brook, who claimed Palyn was his partner in crime. Both Brook and Palyn were sentenced to hang.”
“All seems very straightforward,” I said. “Palyn, after all, was hardly a pillar of virtue, or so it seems.”
“Quite. However, according to what Bridgett Palyn has told me, what happened on the day of the proposed execution was most illuminating. Apparently Brook was led to the gallows laughing and joking, confessed to the robbery, and was then immediately pardoned. Very strange behaviour indeed. Palyn, however, believing himself about to die, merely claimed he had been condemned as a result of a truth he had told regarding the death of his master, Roger Crockett.”
“So Palyn believed he had been framed in revenge for the testimony he had given?”
“Clearly so, a belief which did not change when John Maisterson suddenly appeared on horseback and offered him a reprieve, if he would confess that he had been bribed by Bridgett Crockett to give false evidence to support her appeal of murder.”
I gasped with disbelief. “So the whole case was cooked up by John Maisterson. Brook was in Maisterson’s pay all along.”
“Such is the inference. These are Bridgett’s words, of course, and she has her own axe to grind. However, she says that, on the gallows, Thomas Palyn said he did not actually see Crockett being murdered, and as a result was pardoned. However, she also says he was later sued for perjury by Wilbraham and Hassall in the Star Chamber. Of course, I am not able to gain access to the documents of that case, but I presume that what Bridgett says could be verified by cross-checking against the records of the Star Chamber trial.”
“You have done well, Ezekiel,” I said, with genuine admiration. “You have been most thorough. This is a fascinating story, but what is the relevance of this information today, do you suppose?”
Ezekiel raised his eyebrows and looked at me disbelievingly.
“Why, don’t you see it, Master Cheswis? Could it not be that Bridgett Crockett was so grateful to Thomas Palyn for his continual support of her case, right up to the point where he would have died for her, that she entrusted the Palyn family with continuing the fight for her cause. Crockett herself, I have found, eventually remarried and left the country.”
I sat and considered Ezekiel’s words for a moment, then slowly started to chuckle to myself.
“Something is funny, sir?” asked the young clerk with surprise.
“No,” I said. “I mean yes, in a way. I was just considering how I would break the news to Thomas Maisterson and Roger Wilbraham that their ancestors were up to their necks in a quagmire of corruption. I can do little but laugh, for if I did not laugh at this state of affairs, I would surely cry.”
Chapter 19
Nantwich – Sunday, August 4th, 1644
“You are pushing at the very boundaries of where you will be permitted to tread,” warned Alexander, ominously. “Maisterson and Wilbraham will not allow you to malign the memory of their ancestors by repeating what you have just told me. I advise you to keep it under your hat.”
Alexander was leaning against the wall of his house, waiting for Marjery and his children to ready themselves for church. It was another bright, sunny morning, and Ralph had skipped onwards into the square with Elizabeth hot on his heels, trying to calm him into the sort of behaviour commensurate with our weekly visit to God’s house.
Mrs Padgett, although still in no mood to venture too far from her front door, had expressed the desire to pray for the safe return of Amy, and Jack Wade, as gallant as you like, had led her down the street on his arm, his wooden leg clomping loudly on the cobbles.
Although I generally found the shared family activity of attending Joshua Welch’s sermon to be an uplifting experience, even taking into account the Puritan minister’s fire and brimstone approach to Sunday worship, on this occasion I was too preoccupied to make the most of the walk up Pepper Street, and so I had hung back to discuss Ezekiel’s findings with Alexander.
“I do not see the relevance,” my friend had said. “Whatever feud existed three generations ago, between the Maisterson, Wilbraham, and Hassall families on the one hand and the Crocketts and their employees on the other, does not exist today. The Crocketts have long since left Nantwich, and Adolphus Palyn is not your murderer, for Palyn was in Nantwich when Geffery Crewe was killed.”
“Perhaps Palyn knew something about Massey’s treasure that we are not aware of,” I suggested. “Something passed down by Bridgett Crockett.”
Alexander snorted loudly. “Now you’re just speculating,” he said. “There is nothing to link Adolphus Palyn to this business other than his surname and the fact that he has gone missing at a time when he had an appointment with Gilbert Kinshaw, who held one of Massey’s engravings. You are clutching at straws, Daniel.”
In truth, I had to confess that Alexander was probably right. After the market had finished the previous day, I had taken the trouble to seek out Bridgett Palyn at her parents’ home, and she was able to tell me very little, other than to confirm what she and Ezekiel had discussed.
The story of the injustice that Thomas Palyn had suffered had been passed down three generations of Palyns with remarkable clarity, but Bridgett could tell me little about her father’s disappearance. He had left home on Thursday morning to be measured for a suit of clothes, but, apart from being seen by Alexander on his way to Kinshaw’s workshop, there were no other witnesses who could recall seeing him at all. Adolphus Palyn had simply vanished into thin air.
The most obvious explanation was that he had simply left home and deserted his family for reasons unknown, perhaps due to some unspoken marital disagreement, or that he had become ill and fallen in the river. It would not have been the first time that such an event had happened. Even if the solution was a more sinister one, the most likely scenario was that he had simply seen something at Kinshaw’s that he should not have. Nonetheless, there remained a nagging doubt in my mind that I had missed the one tiny piece of information that would bring the whole conundrum into focus.
After I had finished talking to Bridgett, I had joined her and a select group of neighbours, including the Davenports, in conducting another search of virtually everywhere within the earthen walls of the town where Palyn might have gone, although the crowd of helpers was much smaller than it had been on the previous two days. Palyn’s wife, I noticed, could not face the task either.
We searched along the banks of the Great Cistern, along the Water Lode and down amongst the reeds by the river bank, down by the Beete Bridge at the bottom of Pillory Street, and in every back yard we could without causing a disturbance, but nothing was to be found.
We had returned downcast, swearing that Palyn would reveal himself when God permitted and not before.
St Mary’s was busy with worsh
ippers when Alexander and I finally arrived, and I took my place on my pew next to Elizabeth. She gave me a reproving look, but I merely shrugged apologetically and surveyed the scene around me.
There were, it seemed, plenty of churchgoers whose minds were preoccupied with matters other than Welch’s sermon. Wilbraham fidgeted nervously in his pew at the front of the church, looking around at the rest of the congregation. He caught my eye and gave me a curt nod.
Maisterson, on the other hand, sat stock still in his pew, next to his wife, staring straight ahead at the empty pulpit, waiting for Welch’s arrival. Colonel Booth was also present, as was Thomas Croxton, brimming with the confidence that power can give you. Next to him, stony-faced, sat Marc Folineux. Gilbert Kinshaw, I noticed, was not present, still too ill to attend.
I barely listened to Welch’s sermon, although I do remember prayers were offered for the safe return of Adolphus Palyn and the swift recovery of Gilbert Kinshaw. As soon as the service was finished, I saw Elizabeth and Ralph safely out of the church and asked them to wait for me by the gate to the grammar school. I then sought out the one person I particularly wanted to see.
* * *
Roger Comberbach was leaving the church with his two brothers, Thomas and John, his partners in Nantwich’s largest tannery. All three had their wives with them as well as an assortment of children of varying ages, so I was not expecting it to be easy to attract Comberbach’s attention, but to my surprise, as soon as he saw me, he raised his hand in acknowledgement, and, after a brief word with his wife, he weaved his way through the crowd in my direction.
Comberbach was in his early forties, but, despite his slightly greying hair, he cut the clean athletic figure of a much younger man.
“Well met, Daniel,” he exclaimed. “I hear you may want a word with me.” Comberbach’s familiarity came as a result of our shared experience fighting shoulder to shoulder in front of Acton Church against Byron and his army of Irish malignants. Before January, I had simply been Master Cheswis to him.
“Word travels fast,” I replied. “I presume young Edmund Wright is the source of this information.”
“Indeed. He fears you may wish to exact revenge on him for his choice of female company.”
“Tush. He is a nervous young fellow,” I said. “He needn’t worry. That is my brother’s business, and he is in Yorkshire somewhere. No, the person I am more interested in is Eldrid Cripps. You have some dealings with him, I believe.”
“Cripps?” said Comberbach, frowning. “What do you want to know about him for, and on whose behalf?”
“I act on behalf of Colonel Croxton. There are some aspects of Cripps’ recent behaviour that I am interested in. In particular I should like to know more about the money he owes you.”
Comberbach opened his eyes wide with astonishment. “By the saints, Daniel,” he said, looking from side to side. “Keep your voice down. How on earth do you know about that?”
I stared at him expectantly for a moment, but deliberately said nothing, waiting for an answer.
“Oh, very well,” said the tanner, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation, “but he doesn’t owe me a farthing anymore. He settled his whole debt, all fifteen pounds of it, yesterday. All in one go. Lord knows where he got the money from.”
“Fifteen pounds,” I said, “that’s a significant amount of money for a man like him, the equivalent of several months’ pay at least, I’d wager.”
“Aye, that’s true, but he’d built up his debt over six months or so, buying leather for his business. Last month his payments dried up altogether, so I lost patience.”
“And so you threatened to expose him and have him thrown into gaol as a debtor? That would have ruined his standing within this town. He would never have been able to live that down or pay the money back.”
“I know,” admitted Comberbach. “I’m not proud of that, but what was I to do? It was the only option open to me – and,” he added, with a self-satisfied grin, “it worked, did it not?”
“So it seems. Tell me,” I persisted, “if you dealt with Cripps regularly, you must know something of the man. What else can you tell me about him?”
“Not much, really. Lived on his own. A fairly secretive fellow, to be honest, but I never thought badly of him until he stopped paying us. Rents his cottage and workshop directly from the person who owns the whole building.”
“And who might he be?”
“I’ve no idea. The place has been rented out for as long as I can remember, at least since I was a child.”
“And the other half of the house?”
“Empty for about a year, I believe, at least until recently, although I understand someone new moved in there a couple of months ago. A travelling pedlar type, so I’m told. He’s not there most of the time – and before you ask, no, I don’t know his name.”
I would have delved more into what Comberbach knew about my successor had I not been disturbed by the sudden appearance of a grinning Colonel Thomas Croxton and the contrasting sombre-faced figure of the sequestrator, Marc Folineux. Comberbach gratefully took the opportunity to make his excuses and fled into the crowds, aiming squarely for Barker Street and the safety of his tannery.
“Not something we have done, I hope?” commented the colonel, looking down his nose at the rapidly retreating tanner.
“I think not, sir,” I replied. “What can I do for you?”
“An update on your progress with regards to the investigations I tasked you and Clowes with, if you please. What can you tell us?”
“Rather less than I might have been able to if you had not just allowed Roger Comberbach to escape,” I said, flatly, “but rather more than I should be discussing in front of Mr Folineux.”
I noticed a smile hover around the corner of the sequestrator’s mouth, but Croxton’s broad grin disappeared instantly.
“Very well,” he said, stiffly. “You have a point, even though Mr Folineux is a trusted member of Sir William’s inner circle, and his loyalty is not in question. You may report to my office tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. In particular, I should like to know what you were doing gallivanting off to Combermere Abbey with the likes of Roger Wilbraham. You have until then to get your story straight.”
For a moment, I thought Croxton was about to stalk off in anger, but Folineux gave a light cough and addressed me.
“Master Cheswis,” he said, “as you have most recently enjoyed the hospitality of Mr Thomas Cotton, perhaps you may be of service to me. You will have seen much of the Combermere estate whilst you were there, I take it?”
“Some of it,” I replied, guardedly.
“And the inside of the house itself?”
I groaned inwardly, for I knew exactly where Folineux was heading, and I had no particular desire to cause a problem for the Cottons, who had been gracious hosts during my stay.
“You wish to sequester the Cottons?” I asked. “I did not realise Nantwich had a claim on their estate.”
“The Cottons own much property hereabouts,” replied Folineux, evenly, “and the arms of the sequestration committee are long.”
“You did not think to ask Roger Wilbraham about this when you visited him on our return to Nantwich?”
“Oh, indeed, but Mr Wilbraham was less than forthcoming, which is no surprise. I thought that, as a loyal servant of Parliament, you might be more inclined to help.”
Folineux smiled meaningfully, and I glanced sideways at Croxton, but the colonel’s face was undecipherable.
“Very well,” I sighed. “What do you need to know?”
“I will require you to go through everything you saw when you were there, in order to compile a mental picture of the Cotton family’s assets – what you saw in the house, the stables, the workshops – everywhere. As you will imagine, when I turn up somewhere, much tends to go missing. We can do this tomorrow, after you have completed your business with the colonel.”
“Certainly,” I replied, trying hard to hide my relu
ctance. “It will be my pleasure to help in any way that I can.”
“And your duty,” added Folineux.
“Indeed.”
“And there is one more thing,” added the sequestrator. “In my experience, the master of the house is, by sheer coincidence, I’m sure, very often absent when I come to call. Who is in charge of the household there?”
“The chief steward was absent when I was there,” I replied, “but you may wish to make yourself known to his deputy. His name is Gorste, Abraham Gorste.”
Chapter 20
Combermere – Thursday, August 8th, 1644
“Ahem.”
Abraham Gorste looked up from his accounts book and assessed the soberly dressed figure who had appeared, as if out of nowhere, in the farm manager’s office. The man had possessed the temerity to cough at him instead of addressing him in the manner to which he was accustomed, and Gorste did not like it. He did not appreciate being disturbed from his work at the best of times, but since the chief steward’s return from his ailing sister’s bedside, he had been more disinclined than usual to tolerate interruptions.
With the Grange being constantly short-handed and the farm manager himself busy in Whitchurch, he had been lumbered with the task of settling the bills of numerous individuals who had not been paid since the beginning of the steward’s period of absence. Amongst other liabilities, there was a whole army of labourers who had to be paid for threshing and winnowing the corn, as well as a bill from the local pinder for rounding up several cattle that had strayed off the farm onto neighbouring land. He had work to do, so the last thing he wanted was to be interrupted by a stranger who had not even bothered to knock.
“And who might you be, sir?” he asked, unable to completely keep the irritation from his voice.
The Combermere Legacy Page 18
