The rector collected his thoughts, and when he spoke his voice had the ring of absolute truth. ‘Captain Shaw,’ he said, ‘I really don’t know what to think.’
*
Back at the Black Lion, Mrs Scrivenor had been as good as her word. A grilled sole followed by mutton cooked in beer and seasoned with pepper along with two more pints of ale filled the hollow that the rector had felt growing within himself during the interview with Shaw. Mrs Scrivenor looked after him personally. He was not a regular here, but she always remembered him and gave him the best service. Either she liked him, or she had a general weakness for reprobate clergymen.
‘A pipe after your meal?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I forgot, Reverend, you don’t smoke.’
‘Can’t afford tobacco,’ he said, winking at her. ‘The duty on it is far too high.’
She laughed merrily at the thought of anyone on Romney Marsh smoking tobacco on which duty had been paid. ‘And,’ he added, ‘I imagine all the best stuff gets packed straight off to London.’
‘I expect you are right,’ she said, giggling still as she cleared the table. ‘You should see the pack trains going through here in the middle of the night. A hundred laden beasts there was, after that last run, on their way up to Tenterden and on to London, and not a blessed thing the Preventives could do about it,’ and she laughed again. The rector chuckled appreciatively along with her.
‘Straight up the high road?’ he said. ‘Bold devils, aren’t they? I’d have assumed they would use the tracks through the woods, up to Ruckinge and Shadoxhurst, maybe. I’ve been shooting up there, and I’d say there are lots of secret little byways where a pack train would never be noticed.’
‘Oh, there’s no doubt they’re getting bolder,’ said the landlady. ‘I reckon they think they have the Preventives under their thumb. They think no one can touch them.’
‘That might change if the militia were called out to join in.’
‘Oh, sir! We can’t have the militia called out on a matter like this. With them dispersed all over the countryside hunting free-traders, who would defend us from the Froggies? And anyway, that Captain Shaw. Catch a smuggler? He couldn’t catch a cold.’
She nodded to a man in a red coat sidling up to the bar, a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves. ‘Isn’t that so, Sergeant Haldon?’
Sergeant Haldon ordered a jug of pale ale for himself and some of his men and confirmed sourly that this was so. ‘He’s as big a blessed fool as ever put on an officer’s epaulettes, and that’s saying something. Five nights he had us tramping over the blessed Marsh, and not a blessed thing did we see.’
Five? ‘I fear I am responsible for your discomfort, sergeant. I am the rector of St Mary in the Marsh. Here, allow me to pay for those drinks for you and your men. No, no, sir, I insist. It was at my behest that you were called out.’
‘Thank you, Reverend, you’re a gentleman. Well, for certain we were out four nights around St Mary, but not on the first night. We didn’t come within two miles of the place.’
‘Oh?’ said the rector lightly, and held his breath.
‘That’s right, sir. We went a little way east of Ivychurch and floundered around in the blessed freezing water for several hours. Never did know what it was about. Not a soul in sight but us, and not a building to be seen either except for some blessed old looker’s hut. Finally got the recall about three in the morning and came home. It took me all next day to get me blessed boots dry.’ He raised a glass. ‘Your very good health, Reverend.’
*
The temptation was to go back and confront Shaw, and demand to know why he was lying. But Shaw of course would protest that he had not lied; he had not told the rector what his men were doing the night before the first two murders, but then, Hardcastle had not asked. And if the rector did start asking questions now, he would risk giving his own game away.
Straight bat, Shaw, he thought. Very well played. But what the devil are you up to? He realised now that while he had been questioning Shaw the captain had also been probing him, very delicately and subtly, trying to find out how much he knew. Was Shaw trying to hide something?
Or – and the thought hit him like a bolt from the blue – did Shaw also have his suspicions, and was he too investigating the murders on the Marsh? He mulled this over, and the more he thought about it the more the latter theory began to look distinctly possible. Shaw might even have Lord Clavertye’s backing. His Lordship is a subtle and devious bastard, he thought, quite capable of setting two investigations in motion and not telling either party about the other.
All of this needed more thought.
He asked Mrs Scrivenor, once the sergeant had gone, about the pack train the other night. She told him of hearing the clopping hooves and rising from her bed and peeping out through a gap in the curtain to see the train go by, shadowy in the dark night, each horse led by a masked man with a cudgel or a firearm; it was a sight she was used to, of course. ‘And then, once they were gone, all was quiet once more?’ he asked.
‘Not quite. About an hour later, another party came up from the Marsh. They were a smaller group; I couldn’t see how many in the dark, but perhaps only ten or a dozen. All of them were mounted, which is unusual; free-traders don’t tend to ride. They stopped to water their horses at the pump, just across the road there.’ Mrs Scrivenor waved at the village pump and watering trough a few yards away across the street. ‘I thought at first they must be Preventives, but then I realised that they were free-traders too. I overheard two of them talking; they said they were going to Ebony.’
If she had heard them talking from her bedroom at the top of the inn, thought the rector, she must have had hearing like a bat; it was much more likely that she had been downstairs with her ear pressed against the keyhole. He pretended to lose interest in the subject, and instead engaged his nearest neighbour in a discussion of the price that wool was expected to fetch later this summer.
He left the inn at about two, well fed and watered, mounted his equally well-fed and watered horse and turned up the Tenterden Road and headed slowly inland. From Mrs Scrivenor’s account, he strongly suspected that the second group might well have been the Twelve Apostles. The number of men fit the bill, and he suspected that the big man with the square chin was just the sort of well-organised ruffian who would have horses waiting once they landed. If Ebony was their hiding place, it was just possible that he could discover a few more clues about them.
Mrs Chaytor was right. Every time they answered one question, another question presented itself. What was Shaw doing down by the looker’s hut with his men? Was he in league with Blunt? Or had he merely been carrying out orders sent by Fanscombe? That could mean that Fanscombe was in league with Blunt. Or Blunt might have deceived them both, persuading Fanscombe to call out the militia in hopes of intercepting the Twelve Apostles. But, no matter which one of these stories – if any – was true, why did it matter so much? Why was it so important that the Twelve Apostles be stopped?
The answer must be staring him in the face; but he could not see it. Once, years ago during a service, he had been about to recite the Creed and had opened his mouth to speak, only to find that his mind had gone blank. He knew the words, knew them as well as he knew his own name, but his mind refused to summon them up. In the end he had to reach around for the prayer book and remind himself, something he never did. The feeling he had now was akin to that. All the clues were staring him in the face, but his mind refused to give up the answer; and this time, there was no handy book to jog his memory.
*
Long ago, the Isle of Ebony had been a true island in the middle of the River Rother, home to a community of shipwrights who built ships for the nearby port of Smallhythe. Its church, like his own, was dedicated to St Mary the Virgin, the Star of the Sea, and was now about the only relic of its maritime past. Five centuries before, great storms had changed the course of the Rother so that it now ran into the sea at Rye. The old river channel had dried up. All that remained at Ebony now was the ch
urch, a few tumbledown cottages and flocks of sheep grazing the sides of a green hill.
Even though the scene was green and peaceful and the only other living things in sight were the sheep, the rector approached cautiously. He was following the trail of the men who had invaded his home and threatened him with violence, who had coldly beaten to death one of their own number whom they suspected of betraying them.
At the foot of the hill he halted, looking for a place where he could conceal his horse. Two decayed cottages stood across the road from the base of the hill, one with its roof fallen in, both clearly long abandoned. The rector dismounted stiffly, groaning a little with effort, and led the horse behind one of the cottages. Hitching the reins to a wooden post over the wellhead, he walked around the cottage, looking through the empty windows. All was dilapidated; there were no signs of any recent occupation or use. He looked up the hill to the church, took a long look around to see if anyone was watching, and then circled slowly around to the far side of the hill until its slope concealed him from the road. Then he started to climb.
He could walk any distance on the flat, it seemed, but these days climbing hills seemed to leave him out of breath. It took him five minutes to climb the hill, and he was red in the face and perspiring heavily when he reached the top. He stood in the church porch for a while, looking at the churchyard overgrown with weeds among the tombstones and listening for any sound of movement inside; all was silent.
Taking a long deep breath, nerves tingling, he tried the door. At first he thought it was locked, but in fact the hinges were simply stiff with rust. He walked cautiously inside, and looked upon a scene of ruin. Half the wooden box pews were missing – carried off by someone for firewood, quite probably – and there were holes in the roof the size of a man’s head, through which sunlight poured. Bat droppings lay thick on the floors and, he was sorry to see, on the altar. The church was desolate, and clearly had been for a long time. A non-resident clergyman and no parishioners would leave any church at the mercy of thieves and the weather.
Which made it just the sort of place to appeal to smugglers, he thought. He walked down the nave, stepping where possible around the bat droppings, towards the vestry door, which stood wide open. He looked into the room and saw more decay, a heavy wooden table covered in dust, a broken window, patches of damp on the walls where the plaster was beginning to disintegrate. A tall oak wardrobe stood with its own door ajar.
A noise came faint to his ear, and he froze, straining his hearing to concentrate. Nothing. He had just begun to relax when he heard it again, and again, louder now; the jingle of harness and the quiet clip-clopping of hooves; horses, making their way up the hill towards the church.
He looked at the church door, but the hill was devoid of cover, and he was bound to be spotted as soon as he stepped outside. Heart pounding, he looked around wildly for a place to hide. The wardrobe! The hooves were right outside the church now. Praying silently, the rector hurried to the wardrobe and opened the door. Divine providence was watching over him; the wardrobe was empty. Quickly he stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him and then he stood silently in the dusty darkness, trying not to make a sound.
The hooves halted, and from outside the church he heard a man’s voice. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He had heard that voice three days ago, on Sunday night, when the Twelve Apostles invaded his bedroom.
‘There’s no one about, but we’ll be careful all the same. Take a good look around, then tether the horses out of sight behind the church and join me inside.’
The church door creaked open. Booted footsteps echoed off the stone floor, ringing a little in the silence. In his hiding place the rector heard a low exclamation of disgust, probably at the mess the bats had made. The footsteps receded, going up the nave, then suddenly grew closer, coming back down the church and stopping outside the open vestry door and halting. Inside the wardrobe the rector stood absolutely still, holding his breath.
The other man stood in the vestry doorway for a moment that, to the rector, seem to last for an hour. Then the other man whistled a few bars of ‘Rule Britannia’ and the footsteps started again, receding and moving back into body of the church. The rector let his breath out very, very slowly.
‘All quiet outside, Peter.’ More footsteps, a second voice joining the first. ‘All well in here?’
‘Just as we left it, Matthew. Ghastly place.’
‘Suits our purposes,’ said the second man. ‘Did the cargo reach London?’
‘It did, in perfect condition, and London instructs me to convey its satisfaction to all of you. Payment will be made in the usual way.’
‘Good.’ There was a pause. ‘I keep thinking we should do something for poor old Dusty.’
Speaking of dust, thought the rector, the air in here is full of it. He could feel it tickling his nose and the back of his throat, and knew he would sneeze unless he could get some fresh air. He opened the door about an inch and pressed his face against the crack, breathing shallowly, and the ticklish feeling receded. He found too that by putting one eye to the crack he could see through the vestry doorway and out into the church, where the two men stood talking. He saw the big man, dressed in a gentleman’s riding coat and breeches now, his head uncovered; he had fair hair, and there was no mistaking that square chin and jaw. A pound to a shilling, thought the rector, remembering Turner’s words, that one of the horses outside is a roan. The other man, facing him, was smaller and older with thinner dark hair; he wore rough workmen’s clothes, but there was nothing of the workman about his stance, nor his attitude to the other man.
They were still speaking, and he concentrated on what they were saying, feeling sweat run down his forehead and drip from his nose. ‘I saw Annie the day before yesterday,’ the big man was saying. ‘I called at the house in Deal. She was pretty cut up, of course, but she had her sister with her. I waited around for a little to see if anyone was taking a particular interest in her, snooping around and so forth.’
‘And?’
‘All quiet. She did have one caller, handsome piece in a gig. The widow from St Mary.’
‘Oh? What did she want?’
‘Come to offer charity, I expect.’
The other man grunted. ‘The lads would like to chip in something for him. After all, he was one of ours.’
‘Good, I’ll throw something in too. Collect the money and I will take it to her. Now, Matthew, tell me what has been happening in St Mary.’
‘There’s to be an inquest, of course, on that bastard Mark. Our watcher in St Mary will be present at that.’
‘Tell her to attend carefully to the details and report anything that might concern us.’
The man called Matthew nodded. ‘Once that’s over, I hope things will calm down. The worry is that either the Church or the deputy lord-lieutenant will start poking their noses into things.’
‘I’ll have one of my friends lean on Clavertye. The Church will give us no trouble.’
‘I don’t mean the dean and chapter, I mean that bloody rector. I don’t trust him.’
The big man chuckled. ‘I won’t have a word said against the rector. He’s a splendid chap, with more balls than most of you put together. What about Blunt?’
‘Business as usual for old Blunty. Collecting bribes and shouting at people. What the fuck happened, Peter? I know he turned on us last autumn, but we thought we had sorted things out, remember? We thought we had paid him off again. So what does he do? He sets another ambush for us, and poor Dusty and Paul both get killed trying to stop him.’ The man called Matthew paused. ‘What do you reckon happened to them, Peter?’
‘It’s easy enough to work out.’ Peter, whom the rector guessed was also called George, was sombre. ‘Blunt intended to lie low and let us walk past him, then follow us to the looker’s hut. There we would run into Shaw’s men lying in wait, and Blunt and his lads would then close the trap behind us. We could be caught between two fires. That is what Paul was t
rying to warn us about when he was killed. Thank God, Dusty Miller worked it out too, and called out a warning as we came over the Marsh, so we could turn the tables on them. But then the bastards killed him.’
The rector’s spine tingled. What had Sergeant Haldon said? A little way east of Ivychurch . . . not a building to be seen except for some old looker’s hut. Matthew was speaking.
‘You reckon Blunt did it?’
‘Either he or one of his men. Makes no matter, Blunt is responsible.’
‘Blunt,’ said Matthew viciously. ‘Let’s settle him, Peter, let’s really settle him. Dusty and Paul were good men. Let’s make sure Blunt doesn’t die too quickly, or too painlessly.’
‘We settle him one day, but not yet. Right now, Matthew, we need to prepare for the next run. They tell me this one will be even more important than the last.’
‘Oh? What is the cargo?’
‘Much the same as before; I’ve no more details yet. Next full moon is the fifth of June, a Sunday. Any word on the local yokels, and what they might be planning?’
‘Not certain yet. Our watchers say there is a rumour they might try a run down near Dungeness on the sixth. It’s not certain, though.’
‘Well, confirm as soon as you can, then leak word to the Preventives. If the free-traders are down at Dungeness, the Preventives will go after them. We’ll make our own landing further north, somewhere around Greatstone and then cut up past New Romney. That should take us away from trouble.’ He paused. ‘Blunt will be looking for us, of course, but we will be harder to find this time.’
‘Yes, especially now that bastard Mark won’t be squealing to Blunt every time we make a move.’
‘Very well, Matthew. We have a little over a fortnight in which to get organised. As ever, I leave everything down here in your capable hands.’
The two men strolled towards the church door. As they reached it, the rector heard Peter say, ‘Then, this will be my last run for a while. I’m needed in Italy. But you’ll keep the organisation in being, and stand by for further instructions. I’m sure our masters will continue to find employment for you.’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 13