“Take a look at this,” I replied, pointing to the words in the ledger, and I read out the entry.
John Gorste, to whose house Crockett was taken.
* * *
Afterwards, I let Alexander and Ezekiel return to their respective homes and walked alone up Pillory Street. I would ride for Combermere on the morrow, but for now there was one thing I needed to do. I caught Hopwood the bailiff just before he was about to leave for the night. He gave me a curious look when I asked to see Cripps, but he opened up nevertheless.
“You’ll be asking for your old job back next,” he commented. “In fact, you can start now if you like. Sawyer cannot cope on his own.” He emitted a low chuckle as he registered my discomfort at the prospect.
I found Cripps slumped against the wall of his cell, his fleshy chin lolling limply against his chest. He stirred as the cell door creaked open, and regarded me warily.
“What do you want, Cheswis?” he demanded. “Are you not satisfied with having had me incarcerated in this hell hole?”
“Instead of the innocent man who you cuckolded?” I retorted.
Cripps sneered. “He does not deserve her. It is me who she loves. Fletcher bores her. Time will tell. You will see.”
“You are deluded,” I insisted, “but I am not here to discuss the rights and wrongs of your illicit relationship with a married woman. I should like to know more about Abraham Gorste.”
“Who?”
“Do not even think of dissembling with me, Cripps,” I snarled. “You are in enough trouble as it is. Gorste has killed three people already and kidnapped a fourth, Amy Padgett, the granddaughter of my housekeeper. If you value your neck, I suggest you start to co-operate.”
Cripps paled and looked over my shoulder towards the door. “G-Gorste?” he stammered. “I know no-one of that name.”
I was beginning to lose patience. I walked over to where the corviser was chained to the wall and grabbed hold of his shirt, thrusting his back against the wall. My face was now right up against his, and I could smell his noxious breath.
“I talk of your landlord, as you well know,” I hissed, “the man from whom you rent your cottage and workshop.”
Cripps looked momentarily confused, but then he began to smirk. “I know not of what you speak,” he said. “My landlord’s name is Frayne.”
“Frayne is the name of the chief steward at Combermere. Abraham Gorste is his deputy. You have met Mr Frayne before?”
“No, I pay my rent to his agent. Have done for years.”
“And this agent, you know him?”
“Of course, his name is Baxter. In fact, he recently moved into the cottage next door.”
I smiled with satisfaction. “I see. I take it you can describe this Baxter for me?”
“Naturally. Tall, about thirty years old, athletically built, unusual bright blue eyes. But I don’t understand–”
“Mr Cripps, you have just described Abraham Gorste. I think it’s about time you started talking.”
I have to admit that I had been so consumed with the need to find Amy that the colour of Gorste’s eyes had not registered with me, but, on reflection, I realised it was true, and both Kinshaw and Ralph had referred to the unusually penetrating nature of their assailant’s eyes. I knew that I had my man.
“Gorste bribed you to frame Fletcher for Henry Hassall’s murder, did he not?” I demanded.
“Bribery? No, of course not. What makes you think that?”
“Because you took money off Gorste to pay your debts to Roger Comberbach. In fact, you are fortunate he did, for if it were not for that, you may have been forced to accept the money offered to you by Sarah Fletcher to stay away from her.”
Cripps stared at me as the shock of discovery began to spread across his face. He slumped back against the wall of the cell.
“That’s not how it was,” he said. “I had no idea at first that Baxter – I mean Gorste – was actually the perpetrator of this murder – and as far as Fletcher is concerned, he must have forced Sarah to offer me the money to get rid of me. He must have known the child was mine.”
This, of course, was ridiculous. Cripps was so infatuated with Sarah Fletcher that he could not see the truth when it slapped him in the face. In truth, I felt sorry for him in some ways, for I knew from bitter experience the pain that unrequited love could cause.
“Fletcher does not have the slightest idea of what really happened between you and Sarah,” I said. “He merely thinks you have a crazy infatuation for his wife, which is, in fact, largely true. The money was Sarah’s idea. She feels guilty for what happened between you and her, and wishes to forget it ever happened.”
“And Sarah told you this?”
“Of course.”
“But what about the baby?”
“Again, you are deluded. Sarah gave birth this morning to a strapping baby boy. The timing is all wrong. If you were the father, the baby would have been premature and therefore much smaller.”
Cripps looked defeated. He sat in silence for a few moments, and I watched as tears began to fill his eyes and roll down his cheeks. He tried to wipe them away with his shirt sleeve, but the chain which held his arms to the wall prevented him from doing so.
I took a kerchief from inside my doublet and offered it to him. Cripps accepted it gratefully with his free hand.
“I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?” he said, eventually.
“You have,” I agreed, “but there is still something you can do to minimise the damage and help me to find Amy.”
Cripps nodded. “So what do you need to know?” he asked.
“Let’s start by talking about when Gorste began to persuade you to frame Fletcher for Hassall’s murder.”
“At first I thought Fletcher truly was the culprit,” explained the corviser. “I couldn’t believe my luck. John Davenport saw Hassall being half-drowned in the ship in the wich house where Fletcher worked, and he gave a perfect description of him. Then I found out Fletcher had a row with Hassall over pay, so I figured it must be him, especially when Davenport identified Fletcher as the man he saw attacking Hassall.”
“But then I came along and pointed out that Fletcher could not have been the attacker.”
“Yes. At first I was in denial. I didn’t believe you, which is why I continued to push for Fletcher’s indictment.”
“So when did Gorste become involved?”
“A day or so after the murder. I had been having trouble paying my bills, and Roger Comberbach was starting to lose patience with me. I realised I would need to pay my dues at the tannery or I would end up in gaol. Gorste had been staying in the cottage next door much more frequently, so I thought to ask him if he would defer one month’s rent so I could pay Comberbach. He agreed to do this, but I knew it would not be enough to settle all my bills – just enough to keep Comberbach quiet for a month or two.
“But then things changed. A couple of days after I first approached Gorste, he came to me again and offered to pay off my whole debt if I was to continue to press for Fletcher’s guilt.”
“And you did not think this odd?”
“Of course, especially in sight of the fact that Gorste had clearly spoken to Comberbach to ascertain the exact amount I owed him. I began to suspect he might have had something to do with Hassall’s demise, but I could not be sure.”
“And you did nothing?”
“To my shame, no. He had me over a barrel, as I had already accepted his money, and in truth I could not afford to turn down his offer.”
“And the idea of Fletcher being tried for murder was also attractive to you, no doubt?”
“Of course. That I cannot deny, but I swear I didn’t realise the full extent of Gorste’s guilt until much later.”
“And when was that?”
“Not until Kinshaw was assaulted for the second time and Adolphus Palyn disappeared. I suspected as much after Amy was kidnapped, for your step-son gave a description of Gorste, but Gilbert Kinshaw also described an athletical
ly built man with piercing blue eyes.”
“But you still persisted in trying to have Fletcher arrested.”
“Yes, of course. I was scared. Palyn had clearly disturbed Gorste in the act of attacking Kinshaw and paid for it with his life. It occurred to me that I was only a temporary solution, and that he would assume that I would eventually realise the true nature of his involvement in the murders. I realised that when that happened, I would be dead meat.”
“So you tried to appease him by continuing to fight on his behalf, to give him a reason to let you live?”
“Do you blame me?” demanded Cripps. “I had no option. If I’d done nothing, I’d have been murdered myself or ended up in gaol.”
“Which is exactly where you are,” I reminded him.
“That is true,” he conceded. “I should not have let this go so far. In truth I am relieved that this matter is out in the open and that I do not have to misrepresent my office any more. Tell me, Cheswis,” he continued, “what do you suppose will happen to me now?”
“That I cannot say,” I said, truthfully. “It depends on Croxton and ultimately on Sir William Brereton. I suspect you will lose your position as constable, but anything else depends on Croxton. I will ride to Combermere tomorrow, and let us hope for both our sakes that Amy is still alive.”
Chapter 25
Nantwich – Friday, August 16th 1644
Amy looked with disinterest at the trencher of food that had been placed in front of her. A slice of boiled ham, a piece of cheese, a hunk of bread, and an apple – pretty much the same fare as she had been forced to eat for the past twenty-two days – or was it twenty-three? She really had no idea anymore.
She turned over the piece of ham with her fingers and gave a ‘pah’ of disgust. How she could have eaten one of her grandmother’s delicious pies.
“I’d eat that up if I were you,” said the tall man who had brought her here. He fixed her with those piercing blue eyes that unnerved her so. “It’s all you’re going to get.”
Amy ignored the instruction and asked her captor a question. “When are you going to let me out of here? I’m bored, and I want to go home.”
“That depends on how much Mr Cheswis wants you out of here. Very soon, I hope, but you shouldn’t be bored. There are plenty of books to read.”
This much at least was true, she reflected, as she watched the man leave the room and heard the key turn in the lock, shutting her inside her prison for yet another day.
The walls of the curious hexagonal space in which she had been incarcerated were lined with bookshelves, wall to wall. Half of the shelves were stacked with books on all manner of subjects, most of which were beyond Amy’s twelve-year-old mind. The remaining shelves were empty, as though waiting for an impending delivery.
She had no idea where she was, for her captor had tied her up and blindfolded her as soon as he had managed to get her out of sight behind the wall at the corner of Ridley Field, and then, after a nervous fifteen minutes, during which she had been left entirely on her own, she had felt herself being hoisted onto the back of the man’s horse, before they had ridden for what seemed like miles.
She knew she had spent part of her journey in a boat, for she had felt the gentle rocking of the craft she had been put into and the rhythmic splashing of the oars as he rowed. She also knew she was in some kind of cellar room, for she had remembered being led downstairs when she arrived, and she had heard her captor’s footfall on the stone steps as he retreated each day to leave her in her enforced solitude.
Apart from the rows of bookshelves, the room was furnished with a settle, an oak table, and several chairs, and her captor had laid a bed of rushes on the floor for her to sleep on. He had generally treated her well enough, except, of course, for the day she had tried to escape, but that had been her fault, or at least so the man had said.
On that particular occasion she had tried to spear his hand with the knife she had been given to cut up her cheese and make a bolt for the door. She had been neither accurate nor quick enough, however, and for her pains she had received a clout on the side of the head, which had left her ears ringing for hours. He had then taken away her food and all the candles in the little room, leaving her alone in pitch darkness for a whole day.
She was a fast learner and had not attempted the same trick again. Her captor had learned a lesson too, and henceforth she had been forced to eat her food with her fingers.
She had been taken out of the room just once since her arrival. A couple of days after her escape attempt, her captor had burst into the room in an agitated manner and told her she was to be temporarily moved. She had been tied up, blindfolded, and led up the stone steps, before being forced to sit once again in what she assumed must have been a rowing boat. This time she had tried to count the strokes, but she lost count half way through the crossing when the man realised what she was doing and threatened to tip her into the water if she didn’t stop. She thought the journey had lasted about ten minutes, though.
She had then been marched along a wooden walkway, up some steps, and into a small room that echoed strangely. She had been fastened securely so she could not move, and gagged so she could not speak, before her blindfold had been removed and the man left her on her own.
She had found herself in a curious, circular container made of wood, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter, with two strange-looking pipes set into the wall, diametrically opposite each other.
She had been left there without food or water for what seemed like hours. At one point, she had heard voices outside the container, and she had kicked the side of the container with all the strength she could muster, but to no avail and, after a few minutes, the voices had disappeared into the distance.
Eventually, the man had come back for her, blindfolded her again, and rowed her back to her prison. But that was days ago, and the monotony of her existence had begun to blend one day into the next. She was beginning to wonder whether she would ever see the light of day again. How she missed the warmth of their house in Pepper Street, her grandmother’s cooking, Jack Wade’s jolly, joking demeanour, Master and Mistress Cheswis, and, of course, her best friend, Ralph.
She let out a long, deep sigh and tore off a piece of bread. The food may have been boring, but she realised that if she wanted to see her family again, she needed to eat, and what was it the man had said about Master Cheswis? Was he on his way to rescue her, perhaps? Yes, that must be it.
She got up from her chair and went over to the bookshelves, scouring the rows of books for something to read. As she did so, she suddenly heard raised voices coming from the top of the stairs above where she was standing and then a heavy thud. A few seconds later, footsteps descended rapidly towards the door, and the man burst through the doorway, brandishing the blindfold and some rope.
“Quickly, girl,” he said, “place your hands behind your back. We need to move.”
Chapter 26
Nantwich and Combermere – Friday, August 16th 1644
“If you think you are riding alone to Combermere to confront this madman, then you can think again,” said Elizabeth, when I revealed my plan the following morning. “It is too dangerous. He has already killed at least three people. I have already lost one husband to murder, and I do not intend to lose a second.” My wife wrinkled her nose and offered the kind of determined pout that I would normally not dare to contradict, but this was no normal occasion.
I had slept badly when I’d returned from gaol the previous evening. Elizabeth was already fast asleep by the time I crept into our bedchamber and settled down beside her beneath the sheets, and so I had no-one with whom to share the revelation of what Alexander, Ezekiel, and I had managed to unearth in the Booth Hall archives.
I had therefore tossed and turned all night, with long periods of wakefulness punctuated by weird and unsettling dreams – the huge naked frame of Gilbert Kinshaw lying on a table in Nantwich’s main square, being painted by a grinning Abraham Gorste. Alice, Jem Bress
y, Roger Wilbraham, and Thomas Maisterson dancing round the pillar in Ridley Field as though it were a maypole, and Jacob Fletcher and Eldrid Cripps throwing a baby to and fro to each other with Sarah Fletcher trying to catch it, as though they were playing a bizarre game of piggy-in-the-middle.
Each time, I woke up sweating, realising that my dreams had the potential to be nothing compared to the nightmare that awaited me in Combermere.
Once I had breakfasted, I gathered Elizabeth, Alexander, Mrs Padgett, and Jack Wade together in my old house in Pepper Street to hear what I planned to do. I even invited Ezekiel Green around, as he had been instrumental in helping me identify who was holding Amy against her will.
I was not surprised to hear Elizabeth’s objections to my plan to ride alone to Combermere, but I was unprepared for the reactions I received from the others.
“I fear Elizabeth is right,” said Alexander, “you cannot risk going to Combermere on your own. The correct procedure would be to tell Croxton everything and let him deal with it. He would send a detachment of troopers down there to arrest Gorste and free Amy.”
“Telling Croxton is the last thing we should do,” I insisted. “Do you really think a dyed-in-the-wool royalist like Thomas Cotton will take kindly to having his estate invaded by a group of roundheads? Gorste will deny everything, and Cotton will insist the soldiers return to Nantwich empty-handed. Such an action carries a significant risk of failure, and if that happens, it will be enough to put Amy’s life at greater risk than it already is. No, we need to be cleverer than that.”
“Don’t ask me to voice an opinion on this,” said Ezekiel. “When Croxton comes into the Booth Hall this morning, the first thing he will want to know is what we found out last night, so I will have to tell him. If he ever finds out I am colluding with you to deceive him by discussing you riding out to Combermere alone without telling him first, then I am certain to lose my job.”
“What about Wilbraham and Maisterson?” suggested Alexander, helping himself to one of the cakes that Mrs Padgett had brought out on a large platter. “Why aren’t you involving them? After all, Wilbraham accompanied you last time you went to Combermere.”
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