‘I see. Who was it that said, no man can serve two masters?’
‘It was the Apostle Matthew, and clearly he was never a clergyman in the Church of England.’
‘If you continue to investigate you will displease the dean, and if you do nothing, you will displease Lord Clavertye.’
‘Quite.’
‘So, your solution was to do something while pretending to do nothing. But why pretend to be drunk? Why not just keep your head down and play King Log?’
He thought of telling her that there was not much pretence involved. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘the man – or men – who killed Mr Miller and the boy at the rectory were almost certainly in the room today; or if not, they had agents there. I have been questioned repeatedly about the events of that night, most recently by the coroner. Someone suspects that I know more than I am letting on.’
‘Ah,’ she said softly. ‘Keeping your head down is not enough. You want to convince them that you are harmless.’
‘And what can be more harmless than a foolish, forgetful old drunk? It is a role,’ he said with sudden bitterness, ‘that I was born to play.’
She did not know how to answer this, and they both sat in silence for a moment. The rector’s head ached. He wanted a drink, a real drink, not beer.
‘Tell me what you have done so far,’ she demanded, and he blinked at the sudden authority in her voice. The drawl had gone too.
‘Most of it you know already,’ he said reluctantly. ‘In fact, you and Mr Turner knew more than I did. The man may have been French, and he was a man of enough substance to own a gold watch. And he was held prisoner at the looker’s hut; for some time, would you say?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There was a chamber pot in the room where he had been confined. I won’t bore you with the details.’
Once again he looked at her in astonishment; she was like no woman he had ever met. Her calm was phenomenal. He paused and gathered the thoughts circling in his cloudy mind.
‘The morning after the murder at the rectory,’ he said, ‘I worked out that there were three ways of trying to solve the puzzle. One was to try to establish the identity of the dead man, which I judged impossible. We know a few more things about him now, but we are still a long way from the truth. Another was to find out exactly what had happened out on the Marsh that night. We have now done that. We know that there were two lots of Preventive men, and two lots of smugglers.’
‘And two skirmishes,’ she nodded.
‘Yes. And we also know that there is a mysterious group called the Twelve Apostles, who may have been present and may be intimately involved in the affair, or alternatively, may have nothing whatsoever to do with it . . . Increasingly, I feel that I have been chasing a red herring. Understanding the events on the Marsh has got me no closer to the truth.’
‘Has it not? I would not say so. For one thing, we can now leave aside the affray to the north, the fight between Mr Juddery’s men and our near and dear neighbours in this parish. Neither party had anything to do with the events down here. That narrows our field of inquiry. For another, we have a very strong circumstantial link between the second party and our dead Frenchman. When I visited the looker’s hut, I also found the trail he took after he escaped, and followed it across the fields. He was heading east, straight for St Mary’s Bay, when he was killed. Had he carried on, he would have certainly encountered either Mr Blunt’s men, the second band of smugglers, or both.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘You mentioned three ways of solving the puzzle. What is the third way?’
The time had come, he knew, but his reluctance remained. The last words of the dead man were like a confession, to be kept private and secret. He stared at the altar, asking silently for forgiveness. Then he told her.
‘Tell Peter . . . mark . . . trace,’ she repeated softly. Her voice held some of the same reverence that he felt. The dead man had entrusted them with something precious; they must use this knowledge well, and not let him down.
‘He was speaking English? You are quite certain?’
‘I am entirely certain. Tell Peter, mark, trace.’
‘Was there an accent?’
‘His voice was nearly gone; there may have been an accent, but I did not detect it. Why?’
‘How is your French, Reverend?’ He looked at her, and she said softly, half under her breath, ‘Trace. Tra-ace. Trahis.’
Revelation exploded in the rector’s mind. He clenched his fist and struck his own forehead, his headache quite forgotten. ‘Trahison! I can hear it clearly now, it wasn’t trace at all, it was trahison! Treason! So Turner was right. He was French.’
‘But his first words were in English.’
‘Poor, poor boy, he was dying; his mind was wandering. Actually, my dear, I don’t think he knew where he was, or what language he was speaking. He was so desperate, desperate to tell someone, anyone, so that his death would not be in vain . . . Mrs Chaytor, may I congratulate you on your splendid reasoning? My tired old brain has been struggling with these four words for days. You have worked them out almost at once.’
‘You should have told me sooner,’ she said smiling. ‘Peter, of course is a name. Possibly not a real name. The smugglers around here all use nicknames when they are on a run.’
‘Yes, of course. Old Fred, Nasty Face, Pinch-Purse, Big Belly, the Clubber, Yorkshire Tom.’ He chuckled. ‘There’ve been at least six Yorkshire Toms over the years, and they all have two things in common. None of them is called Tom, and none has ever been to Yorkshire. I think they make up the names to amuse themselves.’
‘Boys will be boys,’ she said drily.
‘Indeed. Now, what do you suppose mark might mean? A mark that would indicate treason? An identifying mark, by which the traitor would be known; a scar, a mole, a tattoo? Or a mark indicating a place where they could find the traitor? The looker’s hut, perhaps? Or a mark on the door of a house? They used to put secret marks on the door of the church tower to indicate whether a run cargo was stored inside . . .’
His voice trailed off. Mrs Chaytor, watching him, thought that some of the colour drained from his face. ‘Oh, dear heavens,’ he said softly. ‘I have indeed been going about this all wrong. Entirely wrong, right from the start.’
‘My dear man, whatever do you mean?’
‘It is not a mark. It is Mark, Mark the Evangelist. Tell Peter, Mark, treason. Mrs Chaytor, we have stumbled across the track of the Twelve Apostles.’
*
‘I need air,’ he said. ‘Will you come and walk with me in the churchyard?’
‘If someone sees us talking together, might they become suspicious?’ she asked as they rose.
‘We shall tell them that you are making a donation to repair the church roof,’ he said, opening the door of the pew, ‘and we are examining the condition of the roof in order to determine the size of the donation.’
‘Is the church roof in need of repair?’
‘My dear Mrs Chaytor, the first immutable law of the Church of England is that the church roof is usually in need of repair. And when the church is as close to the English Channel as we are, it always is.’
Outside, there was a fresh wind blowing and clouds were building up on the south-western horizon beyond Rye. The rector looked at the sky and wondered if there was rain coming. They walked in silence for a moment, past the yew tree and across the churchyard with its rows of mossy tombstones, and stopped and looked down for a moment at the fresh earth covering the grave of the young man. Mrs Chaytor waited quietly while the rector bowed his head and uttered a short soft prayer.
‘It brings it all home,’ she said after a while.
‘What does?’
‘Seeing the grave. I confess I have been rather fixed on poor Mr Miller. I have regarded your man as more of an academic exercise. Standing here now, I am reminded that he too was a real man who lived, and died.’
She looked at him, her blue eyes very clear. ‘L
et me hazard a guess. We talked earlier about the nicknames used by smugglers. Might the Twelve Apostles be a gang of smugglers, whose members each take the name of one of the twelve?’
‘It would seem to fit. It would make them a rather small gang of smugglers by local standards; it is not uncommon for fifty or a hundred men, or even more, to take part in a run. But perhaps these are the core brotherhood, with other men working for them. Or perhaps they are smuggling different goods. Any involvement with smuggling would also explain Blunt’s interest.’
‘And two men were killed because of some connection with this gang?’
He nodded slowly. ‘It is a working hypothesis.’
‘One thing bothers me,’ she said after a little pause. ‘Well. Many things about this affair bother me, but one frets me particularly. Why go to such lengths to stage Miller’s death as an accident? Why not simply claim that the smugglers had shot him?’
‘Because then the coroner would have returned a verdict of unlawful killing,’ said the rector. ‘The case would be treated as murder, and Lord Clavertye would be required to investigate it. That is the last thing Blunt wants. It is my belief that Blunt is corrupt, that he is receiving money from at least some of the smugglers, and an investigation might well turn up evidence of this. But if the death is treated as misadventure, the case is closed and Clavertye has no legal reason to investigate. Blunt carries on in perfect security.’
‘Ah,’ she said gently. ‘I should have thought of that. I was sure that Blunt was lying about Miller’s death, but I could not understand what he was covering up, or for whom. Now it makes sense.’
‘I have never liked Blunt,’ said the rector, ‘and I now see why. He must know who the killer is, and why Miller was killed, but he will sweep all of that under the carpet. It takes a very special kind of evil to cover up a murder in order to protect oneself.’
‘And Blunt did more than lie,’ she said. ‘I believe he bribed that odious coroner to deliver the verdict he wanted. I watched them together before the inquest opened. I can read lips, a little.’
He blinked at her. ‘You can?’
She disregarded this. ‘I did not understand everything they said, for they were turned partly away from me. But Blunt repeated the same phrase several times: “as arranged”. And each time he did so, the coroner nodded. And he said something else too, about a question. “If the question comes up, you must stop it.” That was what he said, I think.’
‘Ah. I wonder if that is the question that I kept hoping the coroner would ask?’
‘Which was?’
‘Why, when Blunt and his men had retreated to New Romney, did they send for Dr Morley from St Mary to attend the body? Why not ask the doctor at New Romney?’
‘Perhaps Dr Mackay was out on another call. We could find out, I am certain.’
‘Yes. There must be a good reason for his absence. What puzzled me was why the coroner did not ask the question. Of course the issue lies outside the scope of the inquest, which was to determine how the two men came by their deaths. But he asked plenty of other questions that were also outside the scope of the inquest. Surely natural curiosity would have compelled him to ask this question as well?’
‘Unless he was told not to ask it; or paid not to ask it. Which might mean that Dr Morley was summoned to New Romney for a particular reason.’ Mrs Chaytor gazed out over the fields. ‘I don’t like Dr Morley very much,’ she said.
The rector could guess why; Morley was young, single and handsome, and had something of a reputation as a ladies’ man. It would be unsurprising if he had paid court to Mrs Chaytor, and even more unsurprising if she had declined his advances.
He glanced at her, but she had already dismissed Morley from her mind. ‘So, Blunt carries on as before,’ she said. ‘And poor Mr Miller lies up in Deal, buried and forgotten. Is there really nothing Lord Clavertye can do?’
‘Oh, there is a great deal that he can do. He could order a separate investigation into the possibility that Blunt is taking bribes. He could investigate the coroner and whether the inquest had been conducted properly; or whether the jury had been tampered with. What did you make of the jury?’
‘They appeared to be thoroughly domesticated. Whether they were paid or not is hard to say. But the coroner as good as directed them to find a verdict of death by misadventure, and they did so without hesitation. Yes, I agree, Lord Clavertye could investigate them.’
‘But will he actually do so?’ asked the rector. ‘Clavertye is a rising star in politics. If he orders an investigation without cause, and someone important complains to London, his shining reputation will be tarnished. We will have to present Clavertye with the evidence, complete, wrapped and tied up with ribbon, before he will act.’
‘Then, what shall we do?’
The rector glanced over at the corner of the churchyard, where a plain wooden cross marked the last resting place of the young Frenchman. He sighed. ‘Let us review what we do have,’ he said, running his hand through his hair. ‘It is Friday night. A party of smugglers lands at St Mary’s Bay.’
‘Are they, or are they not, the Twelve Apostles?’
‘For the moment, let us assume they are. Let us also assume that Blunt has been tipped off about their arrival. He has requested additional men from Deal, and he is waiting near St Mary’s Bay with these and his own men, including the unfortunate Miller. But why? If the smugglers are paying him off, why does he pick a fight with the Twelve Apostles?’
She mulled this over. ‘Perhaps there was a falling out among thieves. Perhaps they are not paying him enough.’ Then she opened her eyes. ‘If Mr Miller was part of Blunt’s gang, he might have known that Blunt is corrupt. Or – heavens! He might have been corrupt himself. Perhaps he was receiving money from the Twelve Apostles.’
‘That is pure conjecture,’ he reproved her gently. ‘But I think we must consider the possibility that Miller was not on the side of the angels. But we have still to resolve the question of why Blunt was waiting for the Apostles, and that brings us back again to the question of who they are. We have assumed they are smugglers, but what if they are something more?’
‘Such as?’
The rector turned his head and looked east towards France. ‘The dead man was French. Is that a coincidence?’
‘You think the Twelve Apostles might be French spies? Now look who is engaging in conjecture.’
He bowed to her. ‘Quite so. Let us return to what we know. Meanwhile, in another part of the Marsh, the Frenchman has been captured, subdued after a struggle, and locked in the back room at the looker’s hut. His possessions have been taken from him.’
‘But he knows that the Apostles are due to make their run,’ she said, ‘so he is desperate to escape.’
‘And somehow, we do not yet know how, he effects that escape and runs eastward to meet the Apostles. To warn them? That is what his last words would seem to mean. “Tell Peter and Mark there is treason.” Someone had betrayed them to Blunt. But his escape is discovered too soon, and he is pursued and killed before he can reach his destination.’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘the Apostles collide with Blunt’s men in the dark. The Customs men are routed, they run away. But before they do so, someone shoots Mr Miller.’
‘Next, the rifleman who killed the Frenchman hears the shooting. Perhaps he mistakes how far away the firing is, and decides that discretion is the better part of valour. He goes back to the looker’s hut, where hastily he collects the dead man’s belongings and his own kit. He is in great haste, perhaps even in something of a panic.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He overlooks the gold watch, which somehow ended up in the corner of the room, invisible in the darkness. Perhaps he drops the watch as he hurries out of the hut, or perhaps it had been knocked there earlier during a fight; it doesn’t matter. The killer retreats over the fields and is not seen again.’
Mrs Chaytor nodded. ‘At around the same time,’ she said,
‘Blunt returns to the scene of the action. He finds Miller lying dead, and drags his body away until he rejoins his own men. Together, they carry the body to New Romney and Blunt sends for Dr Morley. What do you think?’
‘I think it is an admirable summary of what we know – and has a number of gaping holes that remind us of what we don’t know.’
She laughed. ‘What we need to establish now is the connection between Blunt and the man or men who kidnapped and killed the Frenchman.’
They paused for a very long time, while the clouds continued to build on the western horizon. ‘Can you think of one?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘And even the picture of events that we have just painted rests on so many assumptions and guesses that it is hardly sustainable. I fear it is coming on to rain, and we have looked at the church roof for long enough.’
*
As they walked back through the churchyard, she turned her head to look at him. Her eyelashes were very fine, he decided. Her blue eyes were also very serious.
‘I said that earlier that if you continue to investigate you will displease the dean, and if you do nothing, you will displease Lord Clavertye,’ she said. ‘But that is not the end of it.’
‘Oh, quite. What Lord Clavertye has asked me to do is to spy on my neighbours, my parishioners. Oh, I know that is not what it is, but that is how it will be seen. And if they find out – when they find out what I am doing, they may turn against me. As I said to young Turner, the free-traders can be dangerous if crossed. And if the French are somehow involved too . . .’
‘But you will go on. As will I.’
‘Mrs Chaytor, I greatly value your ideas and your perceptive nature. But it would not be right for me to encourage you to continue; especially not when, as you have pointed out, there is danger ahead.’
‘You cannot prevent me, you know,’ she said gently.
They had reached the lychgate. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why carry on?’
She paused, looking out across the Marsh with her eyes far away. ‘I think of them,’ she said at last. ‘I think of the last moments of their lives. I think of Miller, shot by his own folk without even the chance to defend himself, dying in agony, his blood pouring out onto the ground; dying all alone, far from his home in Deal. Did he have a family, I wonder? And the French boy, running and running across the Marsh in darkness, probably able to hear the man following him, knowing that the moment of his death was approaching. How terrified he must have been in those final minutes!’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 8