The Winter Siege (Daniel Cheswis Book 1) by D. W. Bradbridge

Author:D. W. Bradbridge [Bradbridge, D. W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-12-09T00:00:00+00:00

18

Nantwich, Hankelow and Hunsterson – Friday, December 22, 1643

The next few days did nothing to ease my state of mind, and I lapsed into a mood every bit as grey as the freezing mist which cloaked the Cheshire countryside. The wich house and my constabulary duties kept me busy for much of the day, but my leisure time was spent moping around the house and driving Mrs Padgett to distraction by constantly rearranging the contents of her kitchen, so much so that by the Wednesday evening she was threatening to pack her bags unless I took myself off to a tavern to cure the malaise that had taken hold of me.

The gnawing cold was beginning to prey on the minds of the people of Nantwich too. The snow had stopped again, but there was a certain depression in the demeanour of the townsfolk as they went about their business. Everybody seemed to be moving a little slower than normal, and the streets seemed unusually quiet. There was something else too, an intangible feeling of tension in the air like the calm before a storm. We all knew it was coming, and the colour of that storm was crimson.

The biggest concern for me was the continued absence of Simon. By the Friday morning, neither he nor Nuttall had been seen for four days. Enquiries made at Lady Norton’s house and Simkins’ workshop revealed that neither had reported for work and none of Simon’s friends or acquaintances had seen him anywhere near the town. He had certainly not slept at his home since Sunday night. I even paid a visit to the home of his flame-haired fiancée, Rose Bailey, who was frantic with worry. There had not been so much as a word to her either.

Of course, I was concerned for Simon’s safety, but far more worried about what he and Nuttall were up to. It began to dawn on me after a couple of days that Simon had deliberately avoided telling me about their activities on the Sunday evening, in the knowledge that he and Nuttall would be gone the next day. I felt helpless knowing that there was at least one murderer on the loose, perhaps more.

My mind turned to the enigmatic Elizabeth Brett. What did she know about the activities of her husband and of his protégés? What was it that she would not tell me? Surely it could not be feasible that she knew absolutely nothing of their whereabouts?

Then there was the issue of John Davenport, whose connection with the whole affair continued to perplex me. My friend had returned home to his family and, to all intents and purposes, was resuming his normal life, although he seemed to be displaying the common sense to keep his head low. A visit to Davenport’s to check up on his family’s welfare had revealed nothing, although Edward Yardley had seen me coming and berated me on the street for not putting Davenport on trial both for fraud and for the murder of Tench.

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