Hoad shifted on his wooden bench and stared hard at the rector. ‘Why do you want to know, Reverend?’
‘Jack. Do I ask your business when you go out to sea at night? Take my word for it, this has nothing do with the free trade.’
Stemp nodded and lowered his voice still further to a bare murmur. ‘There’s a rumour, only a rumour, mind, that Blunty killed Miller. They had a quarrel earlier in the day, so ’tis said. And some say, when the Twelve Apostles came over the Marsh, Miller called out to them. That’s when Blunty shot him. Then he came back and tidied things so it would look like an accident. That’s what they say.’
‘Who says, Joshua?’ In the silence that followed, the rector added, ‘I repeat, this has nothing to do with the free trade. Reassure your associates that I am not interested in them.’
Stemp and Hoad looked at each other, and the latter nodded. ‘There’s a fellow called Snathurst,’ said Stemp. ‘He’s one of Blunty’s men at Dymchurch. He’s bent, like the rest of that crew.’ The fisherman looked around, and then leaned forward and whispered, ‘He knows something about that business. He let it be known that he’d sell what he knew, if anyone was interested in payin’ his price.’
The rector controlled his sudden excitement. ‘He wants money?’
‘He’s known as Five-Guineas Snathurst. People reckon that for five guineas, he’d cut his own grandmother’s throat.’
‘And do you know how I could get a message, in private, to this Five-Guineas?’
‘I reckon it could be done.’ Stemp came to a decision. ‘In fact, leave it to me. But, you be careful, Reverend. Don’t go askin’ too many questions. You don’t want to upset the wrong people.’
‘Don’t worry, Joshua,’ said the rector, draining his pot. ‘I can handle myself. I’ve spent most of my life upsetting the right people.’
He walked slowly home, feeling the wind at his back. He did not see the shadows in the rectory garden, but in the morning he found footprints in the soft, rain-dampened soil around the roses. He realised, sombrely, that his every move was now being watched.
14
Shaking the Tree
On the early evening of Saturday 28th May, reasonably sober and tidily dressed, the rector presented himself at Sandy House. A butler, a quiet elderly man who the rector had not seen before and whom he guessed was hired in from the agency in Rye, admitted him with grave courtesy. Amelia herself came out to greet him, smiling, looking very fetching in a pale green high-waisted gown. ‘Prepare yourself for a little shock,’ she said taking his arm. ‘I have invited Dr Morley.’
He stared at her. ‘I thought you disliked the man.’
‘I find him odious. But have faith. There is method in my madness.’
She escorted him into the drawing room, where the other guests were already gathered, and presented him to a pretty young woman in an elegant silk gown. ‘This is my friend Mrs Merriwether,’ said Amelia. ‘She and her husband live at Merriwether Hall, down near Rye. I was staying with her, and I have carried her back with me for dinner.’
‘Enchanted,’ said the rector bowing. He knew Merriwether Hall, a tumbledown country house just on the border of Kent and Sussex; Lord Merriwether, its owner, was an old man renowned for his tight purse and terrible temper. This lady must be his daughter-in-law.
‘I recall meeting you in Rye two years ago, Reverend,’ she said cheerfully. ‘It was the reception for the Warden of the Cinque Ports, do you recall? It was quite a splendid occasion. The Duke of Dorset was there, and so many other grand names. I declare that as a little country mouse, I felt quite overwhelmed.’ She prattled happily, he smiling and nodding his head and pretending to listen while he looked at the other occupants of the room. Turner the painter, drinking sherry and gazing morosely out of the window, clearly wishing he was back at his easel with a brush in hand. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, both already a little bit merry. Captain Shaw, slightly less untidy than usual, attempting to make small talk with Eliza Fanscombe, who was barely responding to him. Her father, for once not in riding dress but wearing instead a plum-coloured coat and highly vulgar waistcoat, standing and talking in his most hearty voice to Dr Morley, the man who was cuckolding him, while his wife watched him with her pointed nose drawn back a little, her eyes full of dislike. Another man, elegant in dark blue silk, turned and caught the rector’s eye, and bowed a little; Foucarmont.
He took a glass of sherry and let Mrs Merriwether run on until Amelia came and fetched her away to talk to Turner. The rector turned then, and found Foucarmont beside him.
‘It is a pleasure to see you once again, Monsieur Hardcastle,’ the Frenchman said in his perfect, faintly accented English. ‘I trust that you are well?’
‘I am very well, sir. I did not expect to find you here. I had not seen you about for some days, and assumed you had returned to London.’
‘Not yet, though I shall return very soon. I must say, I do enjoy this charming village. The vistas and the sea air are so restful, after the bustle of London. Tell me, in the autumn, is there much shooting in these parts?’
Something tingled down the rector’s spine. ‘There is wildfowling,’ he said. ‘Are you a sportsman, sir?’
‘I enjoy shooting, when time permits. I have never taken to your English sport of fox-hunting; I confess that it puzzles me. It is the most inefficient method of killing foxes that one could imagine.’
‘Killing foxes is not the true object of the sport,’ said the rector drily. ‘It is more of a side-effect,’ and the Frenchman laughed. They talked for a while longer; the rector found him pleasant company.
They went in to dinner, he escorting Mrs Merriwether, seating her and then bowing to Miss Fanscombe as she took her seat on his other side. She too was wearing a high-waisted gown, with a décolletage that might have been appropriate for a London ballroom but was somewhat out of place on Romney Marsh. If she drops a spoon down there, he thought, averting his eyes from her cleavage, it will fall all the way to the floor . . . Turner was staring at her; so was Miss Roper, her eyes bright with sherry and mischief. The rector realised that this evening was unlikely to turn out well.
*
In fact, everything went very well at first. Bessie from the Star, neat and bright as a new-minted pin, had come in to help Mrs Chaytor’s maids serve and clear away; she and Turner ignored each other studiously throughout the meal. The food was excellent, the wine also, and the rector drank enough to make himself go red in the face and laugh a little more loudly than usual, but not enough to dull his perceptions. Fanscombe drank heavily; Morley barely touched a drop, and he glanced pointedly at the rector’s glass from time to time.
Amelia Chaytor guided the conversation dextrously. She drew Turner out of himself and coaxed him to talk about painting and those artists that he most admired. Captain Shaw, surprisingly, turned out to be very interested in painting and confessed with a mild blush that he dabbled a little in oils himself; but only as a hobby, he hastened to add, he was not a serious painter. Turner looked relieved. Fanscombe and Foucarmont talked about horses, and then just when some of the rest of the party were beginning to grow bored, their hostess steered the conversation skilfully away to Paris, where she had lived for several years after her marriage. Miss Roper and Miss Godfrey were familiar with Paris too, and Mrs Fanscombe suddenly came out of her shell and talked with lively animation of the city where she had been born. From Paris they turned to music, and Mrs Merriwether said smiling, ‘Our dear friend is quite a skilful musician in her own right, did you not know? Amelia, my dear, you must play for us after dinner.’
At the end of the meal they rose and the ladies withdrew, leaving the rector, Fanscombe, Morley, Turner, Foucarmont and Captain Shaw with the port decanter. It was, thought the rector, quite the most uncomfortable gathering he had attended for a long time. They talked about horses again, or rather Fanscombe did; under his bluff surface he was as nervous as he had been the day Hardcastle had called on him, and the port did nothin
g to steady him. Morley sat and listened, a faint sneer on his face. Foucarmont talked calmly of London society, which made Captain Shaw fidget for he had never been to London and knew nothing about society. Turner said nothing, studying them all. The rector drank two glasses of port, and the conversation withered and died.
With relief they joined the ladies in the drawing room, where Mrs Merriwether was playing the harpsichord. They applauded as she finished, and she rose and curtseyed smiling. ‘Amelia, dear,’ she said, ‘it is time you showed off your talents.’ Amelia rose with what the rector thought was genuine reluctance, and took her place at the instrument. She played Bach, and the rector thought that Mrs Merriwether had not exaggerated; her playing was both skilful and beautiful.
At the end she turned, smiling and inclining her head as they applauded her. ‘You are far too kind to my poor talents,’ she said. ‘Reverend Hardcastle, would you be so kind as to ring the bell for tea?’ The maids appeared and began setting out tea. ‘I am so glad to have you all here,’ said Mrs Chaytor, still sitting on the bench by the harpsichord. ‘While you gentlemen were talking over your port, we had a small discussion here in the drawing room. I, or rather we, would like to ask a favour of you.’
Despite the port, the rector felt his spine tingle again. Foucarmont inclined his head gallantly. ‘Whatever you wish, madame.’
‘It is this. Do you recall poor Mr Miller of the Customs who came to an untimely end on the Marsh three weeks ago? His widow lives in Deal; she has three small children, and little means. I would like to get up a fund to support her.’
‘Why, of course,’ said the Frenchman. ‘It would be a pleasure to contribute. After all, this poor man died while doing his duty. Do I understand correctly? He was killed by accident, by his own weapon?’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘that of course is another story.’
There was a little silence. ‘Lucy, Bessie, that is all,’ said Mrs Chaytor gently. The two maids departed, both extremely unwillingly, and closed the door behind them.
‘What do you mean, another story?’ asked Shaw, genuinely puzzled. ‘Surely the evidence at the inquest was clear.’
‘Oh, captain, don’t tell me you believed that charade. Everything about that evidence was wrong, and I am quite convinced that the coroner was bribed to render a verdict of misadventure.’
‘Bribed!’ said Fanscombe. He too was red in the face, and sweating heavily. ‘By whom, pray?’
‘Goodness, Mr Fanscombe, truthfully I have no idea.’
‘But what are you suggesting, Amelia?’ exclaimed Mrs Merriwether, and Mrs Fanscombe said levelly, ‘Yes. I think you should make it clear what exactly you do mean.’
The rector sat immobile, holding his cup of tea and watching the rest of the room out of the corners of his eyes. No one was looking at him; every eye was fixed on Mrs Chaytor.
‘I said I had an eye for detail,’ said Amelia. ‘I noticed at once an inconsistency in the testimony given. It was said that Mr Miller carried a pistol through his belt, and that the accidental discharge of this pistol caused his wound.’ She stood up. ‘But I ask you if this is possible. His pistol would have been here,’ and she picked up the sugar tongs and held them against her own waist, ‘pointing downwards and away from his belly. Had the pistol discharged, the ball would surely have hit him in the leg, not the belly. Am I not right, Dr Morley?’
‘You are, ma’am,’ said Morley.
‘Now, just hold on a moment,’ said Fanscombe, leaping to the conclusion which the rest of the room had already arrived at. ‘If you are right and the man didn’t shoot himself, then someone else must have shot him.’
‘What do you say, doctor?’ asked the rector.
Morley stirred where he sat on the settee beside Miss Godfrey. ‘I think it entirely likely that Mrs Chaytor is right,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I too had my doubts about that verdict.’
‘Great heavens,’ exclaimed Captain Shaw, ‘then why did you not say something at the time?’
‘Because I was not asked,’ said Morley. ‘My testimony concerned only the actual cause of death, which was a gunshot wound. It was for others to determine how that wound was inflicted. But, in my opinion, Mrs Chaytor is quite correct. The wound Mr Miller received could only have been caused by a pistol pointed directly at his belly and fired from very close range.’
‘Meaning that someone else must have fired the pistol,’ said the rector.
Morley shook his head. ‘Any view by me as to how that pistol came to be fired would be pure speculation on my part.’
‘Well, then,’ said Turner, ‘by all means let us speculate. We have concluded that Miller did not shoot himself. That leaves us with two possibilities. Either he was shot by a smuggler, or he was shot by one of his own men.’
‘We went over this at the inquest,’ said Shaw, still looking puzzled. ‘According to Mr Blunt’s testimony, the nearest smugglers were fifty yards away.’
‘But,’ said Mrs Merriwether, equally puzzled, ‘that would mean that someone from his own side – oh, how dreadful!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Foucarmont gravely. ‘It is possible that this man Miller may have been killed by someone from his own side. Such things happen, sadly. Men lose their heads and fire their weapons at random. I can recall many instances of soldiers being killed by their own side in the heat of battle. And things grow worse, of course, when it is very dark. But such an incident would still count as an accident.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘You are right. It could have been an accident.’
Eliza Fanscombe was sitting on the window seat and the rector could sense she was growing irritable; probably because she was not the centre of attention. ‘Why does it matter?’ she asked crossly. ‘He was only a Customs officer, for heaven’s sake.’
‘But my dear, he was still a man,’ said Miss Godfrey gently.
‘He was a rat!’ said Miss Fanscombe. ‘A creeping, crawling rat, sneaking around in the dark where he had no right to be.’
‘Eliza!’ said Mrs Fanscombe sharply.
‘Oh, fiddlesticks, Eugénie. All the Gentlemen are trying to do is make a living, and those horrid Preventives creep around trying to stop them, shooting at them and even hanging them when they catch them. It isn’t right! They should let them alone!’
‘Eliza!’
Miss Fanscombe kicked her heels petulantly, but fell silent. The rector watched her out of the corner of his eyes, thinking about the midnight rides and her disappearances from the house during the smuggling runs. Heavens, he thought, I have overlooked her entirely. I have concentrated on Fanscombe and Foucarmont; but what if she too is involved?
He needed time to think about this. Turner was frowning. ‘What do you make of all this, Reverend?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’
The rector frowned also. ‘I too was puzzled at the inquest,’ he said, affecting not to see the smiles that flitted across the faces of some of the others. ‘I was interested in the questions that were asked, but even more by the questions that were not asked. For example: Dr Morley, why were you summoned down to New Romney to examine Mr Miller when there is already a physician and coroner’s deputy in that town?’
‘Search me,’ said Morley. ‘I assumed at the time that Dr Mackay was out on another call. I was as surprised as anyone to learn later that he was at home all the time. And yes, I would have expected that question at the inquest.’ He paused. ‘I am also surprised that you remember, Hardcastle. You were a little under the weather at the time.’
This time some of the smiles were open. ‘I found later that I could recall a great deal,’ said Hardcastle smoothly. ‘Do you agree that the coroner might have been bribed, as Mrs Chaytor suggests?’
‘Oh, that is certainly possible. But there were others present who also could have asked more searching questions about Miller’s death. Lord Clavertye, for example.’
‘Great heavens!’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘Are you suggesting that Lord Clavertye bribed the coro
ner? Whatever reason could he have?’
‘I am suggesting no such thing, ma’am. I agree that His Lordship would appear to have little reason to take such a course of action,’ said Morley, and he glanced at the rector. The latter nodded and said, ‘Indeed not. I have known His Lordship for many years, and he is a man of the highest probity.’
‘But he has been very quick to wash his hands of this affair,’ said Mrs Fanscombe, looking hard at her husband and then around the room.
‘Has the investigation has been abandoned?’ asked Miss Roper. One could see the disappointment in her face; endless opportunities for gossip would be lost.
‘No, no,’ said Fanscombe hastily, ‘not in the least. Only, His Lordship has asked me to, er, well. Take no extraordinary measures. Those were his words. And then there is the dean, of course.’
He shut his mouth suddenly, with the air of a man who realises he has said too much. Morley shot him a look of mild disgust. ‘Of course, we must not over-exert ourselves to find the truth,’ he said. ‘Two unknown men have died of violent causes, a public official may have been bribed, a second may have died accidentally but equally may have been murdered. It is hardly a matter for serious concern.’
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs Merriwether. When you put it that way, how dreadful it all sounds.’
‘It is dreadful, ma’am, for the families of those involved and for all the people hereabouts,’ said Morley quietly. ‘I for one am quite moved by Mrs Chaytor’s account of the distressing position of the widowed Mrs Miller, and shall dig deep into my pocket to help her. I trust you will do the same, Fanscombe; it is the least you can do.’
Suddenly, shockingly, Fanscombe slammed to his feet and stood glaring down at the doctor. ‘What are you insinuating, Morley?’
‘I am insinuating nothing. I merely hope that you will see fit to make a suitable contribution to the fund for Mrs Miller.’ Fanscombe remained standing, and the doctor added sharply, ‘Sit down, man, you are embarrassing our hostess.’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 18