‘No!’ roared the rector. ‘He was someone! He was a man, a young man who should have lived long and died happy and peaceful in his sleep at a ripe old age. And I shall find out who killed him, Dean, by God I shall, no matter how long it takes me!’
‘No! I forbid this! You will stay out of this matter! Those are the direct orders of the archbishop!’
He had told Mrs Kemp he intended to wash his hands of the matter. Cornewall was now ordering him to do exactly that. And that was all the impetus he needed to make his final decision.
‘I don’t give a damn about the archbishop,’ he thundered in his pulpit voice, ‘and I don’t give a damn about you! I will see justice in this matter. Do you understand, sir? Do you understand me?’
‘Understand you!’ exploded Cornewall. ‘Listen to you, man! You are so drunk you can barely understand yourself, and it is not yet gone six in the evening! You are a disgrace to the Church, Hardcastle, and a disgrace to yourself. By God, sir, if you carry on like this very much longer, one fine day you will find yourself out of this living and out on your ear. Do you understand me?’
The rector took a deep breath and resisted the temptation to plant his fist on the dean’s long nose, much as he had done on a memorable occasion at Cambridge twenty years ago. ‘You have no authority over me, Cornewall,’ he growled. ‘My superior is the archdeacon, not you. And the archdeacon cannot remove me from my living, not without Lord Clavertye’s consent.’
‘The archdeacon will do exactly what His Grace and I tell him to do,’ sneered the dean. ‘As for Clavertye, don’t count on him to protect you for ever. You’ll offend him in the end, just as you offend everyone around you. No, don’t bother to see me out.’ He raised a finger. ‘I am warning you, Hardcastle. I will be at the inquest tomorrow, watching you. Stay out of this affair, or I will make it my personal business to see that you are removed from this living and expelled from the clergy!’
In the silence that fell after the dean’s carriage had departed, the housekeeper came with her shuffling gait into the study. The rector held up a hand. ‘Mrs Kemp, I am sorry. That man had no right to be so rude to you.’
‘No, Reverend Hardcastle,’ the woman said, her face unchanging. ‘That is your prerogative. Shall I go to the cellar and fetch another bottle?’
‘If you please,’ said the rector heavily.
5
The Inquest
The inquest was held at the Star the following day, starting at eleven in the morning to allow the coroner and his jury time to travel down from Ashford. By the time the rector arrived the common room was already full, much of the population of St Mary in the Marsh having turned out to see the show. In this parish, the death of a Customs officer was a matter for curiosity and, perhaps, secret celebration; but everyone wanted to know what had happened at the rectory. Even decent women who would otherwise never darken the door of a public house were there, thought the rector. He saw Mrs Chaytor talking with Fanscombe’s wife, Eugénie, a small sharp-faced Frenchwoman, and bowed to them both. Fanscombe’s daughter, Eliza, a well-proportioned young woman in her late teens, was not far away, enjoying the admiration of a group of young men.
He made his way through the press, and people made room for him cheerfully. ‘Good day to you, Reverend!’ someone called. ‘Going to give evidence, are you?’
‘I shall do my duty as a citizen,’ he answered, smiling a jovial smile. They laughed, and a couple of men slapped him on the back. He was a popular figure in the parish, and not just because he bought them drinks and kept quiet about their nocturnal activities. Everyone tolerated him; many respected him, and some actually quite liked him.
Reaching the bar, he looked across at Bessie Luckhurst, looking very neat with her hair pinned up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Turner the painter, leaning on the end of the bar.
‘What can I fetch you, Reverend?’
‘Strong ale,’ he said. ‘The strongest you have.’ The girl raised her eyebrows but said nothing, taking down a mug and filling it.
Walking off his hangover that morning had given the rector time to plan his tactics for today. He had sworn to Cornewall that he would find whoever shot the boy, but he knew also that discretion was in order. Clavertye’s warning had been unnecessary. The killer had already taken one shot at him; if he thought that Hardcastle was on his trail, he would strike again. The men of the parish, too, would not take kindly to any intrusion into their own affairs; they respected and tolerated him, yes, but there were limits beyond which he could not go.
He had to pretend, therefore, that he was in no way interested in this affair, while in fact he had to remain very interested indeed. So he sipped his ale – by thunder, this stuff was strong – and watched from the corner of his eye as Luckhurst and another man dragged a trestle table to one end of the common room and then placed two chairs, one for the coroner and one for his clerk. The twelve jurors, all Ashford men – no one from the Marsh could be trusted to be impartial where smuggling was concerned – sat silently along one wall, looking apprehensive as the locals stared back at them and murmured behind their hands. Hardcastle thought they looked like castaways who had suddenly found themselves among a tribe of cannibals.
Seated at his table, the coroner began unpacking his case and his notes. Someone else came and bent down beside him, a big man with a beefy face: Blunt. The Customs man talked quietly but urgently, and the coroner listened, eyes still fixed on his papers, nodding from time to time. Fanscombe, the justice of the peace, joined them too, spoke briefly and then withdrew. Turning his head, the rector saw Captain Shaw in his scruffy uniform, standing next to the door and watching this interaction.
On the far side of the room Cornewall sat watching too, his arched eyebrows drawn together a little and his forehead furrowed. He had seen the rector enter the room, but had pointedly ignored him. ‘Did the dean stay here last night?’ the rector asked Bessie.
‘Aye, he did,’ said the girl. ‘I don’t think much of him. He’s got a poker stuck up his bum, if you ask me. Why can’t all clergymen be like you, Reverend Hardcastle?’
‘I don’t think that is a thing to be wished for, my dear. Is Lord Clavertye arrived?’
Bessie pointed and the rector looked across the crowded room to see Lord Clavertye leaning against a wall, arms folded across his chest. He too was watching Blunt and the coroner, Hardcastle saw. Fanscombe had joined Dr Morley, both talking quietly; the doctor looked bored. Juddery of the Excise stood alone, conscious of the waves of silent dislike radiating from the villagers around him.
‘Ah, good stuff,’ said the rector, sighing and holding out his empty mug. ‘Another, Bessie, if you will, there’s a good lass.’
The coroner was a long thin man with a long thin face and spectacles that kept slipping down his nose and threatening to fall off. He rapped his gavel on the table and declared the inquest in session.
‘At the request of the deputy lord-lieutenant,’ he said, looking around the room, ‘I shall conduct a joint inquest into the deaths of the anonymous man found at the rectory, and of Curtius Miller, Customs officer, who died on the Marsh.’
Curtius Miller, thought the rector. At least one of our dead men has a name . . . Blunt was speaking. ‘Is this usual practice, sir? I understand joint inquests are held only when the deaths are in some way linked.’
‘It is my hope that this inquest will establish whether they are linked, Mr Blunt,’ said Clavertye, still leaning against the wall.
‘Indeed, my lord,’ said the coroner, ‘though I would remind you that the purpose of this inquest is to establish how these men came by their deaths. It is not for this court to investigate why these men died, or to determine issues of guilt or innocence. That is for a subsequent inquiry to determine,’ and he bowed to the deputy lord-lieutenant, who inclined his head in acknowledgement. Hardcastle wondered how the man who had once prosecuted cases before the House of Lords liked being lectured by a county coroner.
‘One moment first,’ said
Clavertye. ‘May I ask the court what has become of the bodies of the deceased?’
The coroner consulted his notes. ‘The unnamed man has been buried in the churchyard here in St Mary in the Marsh. The body of Mr Miller was reclaimed by his family and taken to Deal, his home. Both bodies were viewed by Dr Morley in his capacity of deputy coroner, and I am satisfied that his examination was complete.’
‘Very well, carry on.’
‘The court calls Dr Morley.’
Morley, slim and debonair, took the oath and sat down, taking out his pillbox and popping a liquorice pastille into his mouth. The coroner shuffled his notes and adjusted his glasses. ‘In your written report to me, you stated that you examined the body of the man found at the rectory. Will you tell the court when you examined the body and what you found?’
‘Reverend Hardcastle sent me a message on the morning of the seventh of May, stating that a death had taken place. I attended the body as soon as possible thereafter. I found that the man had been killed by a single gunshot, a rifle bullet, which severed an artery close to his heart. I believe that death was almost instantaneous. This accorded very closely with what Reverend Hardcastle told me.’
‘We will hear the rector’s testimony shortly, doctor. For the moment, please confine yourself to your own observations.’
‘I accept the court’s correction most humbly.’ Morley bowed. A small, feminine titter ran around the room, and the doctor permitted himself to smile a little. The rector took another gulp of his beer.
‘At what time did you estimate death to have taken place?’
‘Judging by the appearance of rigor, around midnight.’ Morley paused. ‘Reverend Hardcastle will doubtless confirm this in his own evidence.’
He really does look bored, thought the rector. He does not care about the dead man. He simply wants to get this over with.
‘Were there any other distinguishing features about the body?’
‘Apart from a few cuts and bruises, none.’
‘And was there any evidence on the body that might confirm his identity?’
‘None whatever.’
‘Any distinguishing marks?’
‘None. Until the time of his death, the man had been healthy and fit.’
‘You also examined the body of Curtius Miller, late of His Majesty’s Customs. Will you explain the circumstances?’
‘Shortly after returning from the rectory,’ said Morley, ‘as I sat down to a much delayed breakfast, I received another message from Mr Blunt of the Customs. He asked me to attend the body of one of his men then lying at New Romney. I proceeded to New Romney and examined the body.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘This man too had died of a gunshot wound, this time to the belly. I found that the weapon, a pistol ball, had damaged the abdominal artery. This man would have bled to death quite quickly.’
The rector sat puzzled, his ears ringing a little from the strong ale. Why call Morley all the way to New Romney, two and a half miles away, when the town had a doctor of its own? Dr Mackay was also an assistant coroner, fully qualified to conduct post-mortem examinations. ‘And did you estimate the time of death?’ asked the coroner.
‘Again, very close to midnight. The state of rigor was almost identical to that of the other body.’
Lord Clavertye held up a hand. ‘Do you have any idea as to how this wound might have occurred, doctor?’
‘I can only observe that the shot had been fired at very close range, my lord. There were powder stains and grains of unburnt powder on the deceased’s clothing. Any further observation would be beyond my competence.’
‘Thank you. You may stand down, doctor.’
*
‘State your name.’
‘Joseph Mallord William Turner.’
‘And your profession?’
‘I am a painter.’
‘A painter of houses?’
‘No, a painter of pictures.’ Sniggering in the common room.
‘You were abroad in the village at midnight on the sixth of May?’
‘I was taking the air, yes.’
‘According to your statement, you heard shots coming from the direction of St Mary’s Bay.’
‘I did.’
‘Did you hear any noise coming from the direction of the rectory?’
‘None whatever.’
‘No?’ The coroner raised his eyebrows. ‘Not the sound of a rifle, perhaps?’
‘The rectory was to the north of me, and there was a stiff wind blowing from the east. It would have carried any sound away from me.’
‘I see. Now, tell the court about the following morning.’
‘I went down to St Mary’s Bay to paint, as is my custom. Returning from my morning’s work, I discovered the place where I believed the free-traders had run their cargo ashore. I followed their track for about half a mile inland, where I found the scene of a skirmish between the free-traders and Preventive men. Searching the area, I saw several traces of burnt wadding from muskets or pistols which had been discharged nearby, and a large bloodstain on the grass next to a ditch. I also spotted the footsteps of men making off to the south towards New Romney. They were in great haste; I would say they were running from the fight.’
‘The smugglers?’
‘No, from the direction of the footprints I would guess it was the Preventive men.’ Someone in the common room started to laugh and then turned it into a fit of coughing. The coroner looked over his glasses at the witness. ‘Have you anything further to add, Mr Turner?’
‘Yes. I think I may have seen the man who was killed at the rectory, two days before the murder.’
Everyone sat up very straight at this. The silence was broken by the rector, belching.
‘Where did you see this man, Mr Turner?’
‘Right here, in St Mary. I saw him walking past the entrance to New Hall, Mr Fanscombe’s house. He was about my age. He was dressed in a brown coat and breeches and a darker brown waistcoat, with black half-boots. He had a gold watch on a fob. I knew at once that he was not from around here.’
There were murmurs in the audience; it was clear that one or two others remembered seeing him too. ‘You have an eye for detail, Mr Turner.’
‘I am a trained artist, sir.’
‘Have you anything else to add?’
‘Yes, sir. It crossed my mind that he was French.’
Another murmur ran around the room. The rector saw Eugénie Fanscombe’s eyes flicker. ‘Why do you say that?’ asked the coroner. ‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No, I exchanged no words with him, nor did I hear him speak. It was something about his face, the set of his jaw and the cast of his mouth. I cannot explain further.’
‘Indeed,’ said the coroner drily. ‘But that hardly counts as evidence.’
‘Nevertheless, the man was French, sir. I am quite certain of it.’
*
‘State your name.’
‘Mrs Amelia Chaytor.’
‘You are married?’
‘I am a widow.’ Three years, and the words still hurt.
‘Mrs Chaytor, your statement to the justice of the peace accords closely with that of Mr Turner. You found the same marks on the sand, the same scene of the skirmish, the same bloodstain.’ The coroner paused. ‘Mrs Chaytor, I know this must be very distressing for you, and if you wish to be excused, I would quite understand.’
‘I am not remotely distressed,’ said the light, softly drawling voice, ‘and I do not wish to be excused.’
‘Very well. Did you see any sign of a weapon at the scene of the death of Mr Miller?’
‘None. I fear that I can add nothing to the account that I gave in my statement to Mr Fanscombe.’
‘Then you may step down.’
‘A moment, though, if you please. I do have an additional statement to make concerning the young man who died at the rectory.’
A murmur ran around the common room. The coroner, who objected in principle
to the idea of women being called as witnesses in court, and had only called this one because Lord Clavertye had insisted, glared at her over his spectacles. ‘As you please. Make your statement.’
‘Yesterday afternoon, after I had given my statement to Mr Fanscombe, I walked the path from St Mary in the Marsh to Ivychurch. About halfway between the two villages there is a patch of marshland, with a looker’s hut on its edge.’
The coroner raised his hand. ‘A moment, if you please. What is a looker’s hut?’
‘The shepherds use looker’s huts for watching over their flocks in summer’, said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I believe this paricular hut is also sometimes used by sportsmen as a blind for shooting duck. I trust the gentlemen in the room will correct me if I am wrong.’
No one corrected her. The rector belched again and asked for his mug to be refilled.
‘I cannot say what instinct of curiosity drew me there – perhaps it was woman’s intuition?’ No one but the rector would have caught the note of irony in her voice. ‘But at all events, I went into the hut. The building, as some here would doubtless confirm, is divided into two rooms; the forward room, where the shepherds sit when they watch the sheep, and a second, windowless room at the rear, which I suspect is normally used for storage.’
There was dead silence in the room, and the rector wondered whether Mrs Chaytor knew that some of those who used the looker’s hut for ‘storage’ were the local smugglers. He decided she probably did.
‘It was clear that the hut had been recently used,’ she continued, ‘and further, that one of the rooms, the smaller, had been used as a place of confinement. I saw marks on the door where someone had tried to kick it down. The wood around the hasp was splintered, indicating that he might have succeeded; certainly the door was no longer locked. I also found pieces of rope on the floor.
‘In the other room, the front room, there was a table with crusts of bread and other scraps of food, all of which had been much worried by mice. But in a far corner of the room I saw a glint of metal in the shadows, and upon taking a closer look, I found this.’
She reached into her reticule and held up a gold watch on a chain and fob. A buzz of fascinated voices rose, and the coroner banged his gavel on the table for silence. ‘I opened the case, and found it to be of French make,’ said Amelia Chaytor, looking across at Turner. ‘I also found signs of damage, such as might have been caused by recent submersion in water.’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 6