The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  ‘It sounds . . . fascinating,’ he said at the end. ‘You are clever, ma’am, to think of such stories.’

  ‘Oh, stories come naturally to me. I am a teller of tales, Dr Mackay; I am a spinner of dreams, a weaver of mysteries.’ Her hands made motions vaguely akin to spinning and weaving in the air. ‘We are alike in some ways, doctor. You deal with the physical realm, while I work in the realm of the mind; you heal the sick and make their bodies healthy and whole once again, while I elevate their senses and stir their imaginations. But our purpose is the same.’

  ‘You have the advantage of me, ma’am,’ said the doctor after a while.

  ‘We both make people happy, doctor,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘Don’t you see?’

  He did not see; but for the sake of that smile, he was prepared to pretend. He bowed again.

  *

  On the far side of the room, Mrs Chaytor turned to see Grebell Faversham approaching. Her heart sank. ‘Good evening once more, Mrs Chaytor,’ said Grebell. ‘I am sure that to your sophisticated eyes our little country parties must seem simple and homely. You must be used to much greater events than this.’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr Faversham, the music this evening has been of the highest quality. And unlike London, the room has been comfortable for all, and not so stuffy as many London soirées can be.’

  ‘To be sure, to be sure,’ said Grebell. ‘I myself often find the press of people in London to be overwhelming.’ He paused, his face going pink. ‘But you must find Romney Marsh very empty, after London and Paris and Rome.’

  He had clearly been making enquiries about her during the evening, she thought with displeasure. ‘But the Marsh appears to agree with you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, Romney air is very wholesome. So far this year, only a few people have died of marsh fever.’

  ‘Ah. Ah . . . yes. We are blessed in Rye. Up on our hill, we are safe from the marsh miasma. Rye is quite a delightful place. Do you know it well?’

  ‘I know it a little.’

  ‘You must call on us, next time you are there,’ he said, his blush deepening. ‘I know that my mother would be delighted to receive you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. You are kind.’

  ‘You are most welcome. Meanwhile, Mrs Chaytor, I wonder . . .’

  His voice trailed off. ‘Wonder what, Mr Faversham?’ she prompted.

  ‘I wonder if I might be permitted to advance a small hope? Should there be dancing after, would you be willing to partner me?’

  She turned her head then and looked directly at him. He is nowhere near as handsome as he would like to think he is, she thought.

  ‘I do not dance,’ she said.

  ‘Really? I cannot imagine why a lady of such grace and elegance as yourself does not dance.’

  ‘I have not danced since my husband died,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I must go and thank our host and hostess for the wonderful music.’

  *

  To the rector’s relief, the music and supper had ended with no dancing. He had arranged with Mrs Chaytor to drive back together to St Mary in the Marsh, on condition that she kept Asia to an easy pace so he could keep up with her. While Mrs Chaytor and Calpurnia were making their goodbyes to Cecilia, he stepped outside to wait for the carriages to be brought round.

  The long summer evening was clear, with a sky turning to deep blue. Long shadows stretched from the house across the garden. He stood still, and drank in the silence for a few moments.

  The silence was broken by voices from inside the house. ‘You are still determined to go?’ he heard Maudsley ask.

  ‘You know I must.’ The second voice was that of Hector Munro. ‘There’s no choice.’

  ‘I don’t like this. I have never liked it, right from the beginning. There must be another way.’

  ‘No, Frederick. We cannot carry on like this. We must find out what is happening.’

  ‘Then send someone else. It need not be you.’

  ‘We don’t know who we can trust in this business. You know that too. If I thought I could trust anyone, I might approach Hardcastle . . . But no, I must attend to this myself.’

  Unwilling to be an eavesdropper, the rector had been turning to go, but at the sound of his own name he stopped.

  ‘I want to make sure this whole affair is kept absolutely quiet,’ Munro was saying. ‘And speaking of keeping things quiet, what is Stone doing here? I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him.’

  ‘I invited him. It seemed the polite thing to do.’

  ‘Are you mad? What if he learns something? My God, if the Grasshopper finds out what we’re up to, there’ll be hell to pay!’

  ‘The Grasshopper won’t find out. Stone is a good fellow, but he is not the most perspicacious of men. Hector, I beg you. Think of Cecilia.’

  ‘I think of very little else.’ There was a tender note in Munro’s voice. ‘Frederick, all will be well. Men make this journey all the time.’

  ‘Then you are resolved,’ said Maudsley. His voice had gone quiet. ‘There is nothing I can say that will sway you?’

  ‘Nothing whatever. Father-in-law, I understand your fears. Put them away. I’ll not be gone for long.’

  ‘When will you go?’

  ‘There are a few things I must attend to first.’ The two men moved away then, and their voices faded and became inaudible.

  3

  The Absence of Hope

  Dawn broke over Romney Marsh. Church towers rose like stone fingers against the skyline. Light washed over the flat open fields, brilliant in the clear light. Sheep bleated softly in their pastures, watched by sleepy shepherds. Ducks quacked among the reeds that fringed the sewers, the network of drains holding back the waters that threatened to reclaim the Marsh. In the distance the green hills of Kent rose, a wall sealing off the Marsh from the rest of the world.

  Out of the sunrise came a young man, running. He wore rough fishermen’s clothes and a battered hat, and had long hair flowing down over his shoulders. His face was red and perspiring, for the morning was already warm, and his eyes were wide and shocked. Reaching the village of St Mary in the Marsh, a mile from the sea, he hastened down the village street. Finding the cottage he was looking for, he knocked hard at the door.

  The knock brought Joshua Stemp awake in a moment. He sat up quickly in bed. Maisie, his wife, was still asleep beside him, and so were their two daughters. He slid out of bed and went through the little cottage to the door, picking up his fisherman’s knife as he did so. Two weeks had passed since the encounter with Noakes and there had been no trouble, but Stemp was still uneasy.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he hissed.

  ‘It’s Florian Tydde, Josh. You’d better come out. There’s trouble down by the water.’

  Relief, of sorts. ‘I’ll be out directly.’ Stemp pulled on his clothes and tucked his knife into its sheath, then unbolted the door and stepped out into the bright, glowing morning. Seen in daylight, he was a short man with dark hair and cheeks scarred by smallpox. He stared at the fisherman, who was still breathing hard from his run. ‘Well?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Josh. But you need to see this, you being parish constable and all.’

  They started to walk towards the sea, the wind hissing over the flat fields around them. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘My brother Eb and I were out fishing last night. Come dawn, we saw a boat drifting. Then it got a little lighter and we could see more clearly, and Eb says, ain’t that Jem Clay’s boat? You know Jem. He lives nearby to us, in New Romney.’

  ‘I know him well.’ New Romney was only a couple of miles away; the fishermen and smugglers of New Romney and St Mary were often friends and allies.

  ‘Well, we thought first he was out fishing like ourselves. But then we realised the boat was empty, or it seemed to be, so we reckoned it must have come loose from its moorings. And then Eb says, look at the gulls circling round. What do you reckon is drawing them?’ Tydde swallowed.
‘It’s ugly, Josh.’

  Stemp looked at him sharply. ‘Is it Jem?’

  ‘No. We’ve never seen this fellow before. He’s dressed like a gent, too.’

  They climbed the rear slope of the dunes that fronted the sea and then slithered down to the beach. It was a little past high tide. They walked out across the short, wet strand to the boat, beached in the gentle surf. Another man waited here, armed with an oar to ward off the gulls who were still intent on their feast. Ebenezer Tydde, more stoic than his brother, nodded to Stemp. ‘Nasty, this.’

  It was more than nasty. Joshua Stemp was a hard man, but when he looked into the boat, even he felt a little queasy. The body of a man lay sprawled on its back across the rowing bench. The eyes were gone, plucked out by the greedy birds, and the soft flesh of the cheeks had been ripped away, exposing bone and teeth. The birds had been at the man’s throat, too, and the backs of his hands had been pecked to rags.

  The floor of the boat was full, a reddish mixture of salt water and blood. The front of the man’s waistcoat was soaked with blood, too, beginning to dry in the sun. In the middle of the waistcoat was a round hole, crusted with black.

  ‘God damn,’ said Joshua Stemp quietly, and the words might have been an invocation or they might have been a curse. He straightened and turned to the two fishermen. ‘All right, Eb, Florian. Get the boat up onto dry ground and stand over it. Keep those bloody birds off him, and don’t let anyone else come near. I’ll fetch the rector.’

  *

  By the time Stemp returned with Hardcastle forty-five minutes later, the sun was well up. The gulls had settled down, resting on the water or stalking along the beach, eyeing the boat with single-minded determination and waiting for the men to leave so they could resume their meal. The Tydde brothers sat on the thwarts, smoking pipes, their backs to the body. They stood up as the rector approached.

  ‘You’re the men who found the boat?’

  ‘Yes, reverend,’ said Ebenezer.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’ They recounted their story again while he watched their faces. He knew them by sight only; they were Ebenezer and Florian Tydde, the sons of old George Tydde of New Romney.

  ‘You’ve not touched the body?’ asked the rector.

  ‘No, reverend.’ Florian shuddered a little. ‘Didn’t fancy handling him, not at all.’

  The rector approached the boat and gazed at the ravaged body, bending down to inspect the wound more closely. The bloody hole was nearly an inch in diameter; the weapon must have been of large calibre, a heavy pistol or perhaps an army musket.

  He straightened. ‘While you were fishing last night, did you see any other ships or boats? Any other vessel at all?’

  The Tyddes shook their heads. ‘And did you hear anything? Any sound that might have been a gunshot?’

  ‘No, reverend,’ said Florian regretfully. He had the air of a man who wanted to be helpful, and was disappointed that he could not be so.

  The rector nodded and bent over the corpse again. There was too little left of the face to allow for recognition. Carefully, he began to go through the pockets, beginning with the bloodstained waistcoat. Here he found a watch, glinting gold when he pulled it out and held it up to the light. It was a fine piece, with a London maker’s name on the case. That was good news; the watchmaker could probably help him trace the owner.

  In one outer coat pocket there was a small pistol, plain and unadorned with a proofmark engraved on the barrel; Hardcastle recognised the mark as that of a London gunsmith. He thumbed back the cover of the pan and saw the priming powder; the pistol had not been fired. An inside pocket yielded coins – several shillings and some small change – and a notecase containing six of the East Weald and Ashford Bank’s new £1 banknotes.

  The rector straightened, and as he did so a glint of metal in the bottom of the boat caught his eye. He reached down into the blood and brine and pulled out a coin, a bright gold guinea. How it had come to be there was impossible to say; fallen from the man’s pocket when he was shot, perhaps? He laid the guinea down on the thwart beside the watch.

  There was a small valise resting in the bow of the boat. The rector wiped the bloody water from his fingers, then lifted the valise out onto the grass and opened it. A couple of changes of clothes, a hairbrush and clothes brush, a small writing case; a man of affairs, perhaps?

  The writing case had an engraved nameplate on the front. He picked it up and read the name, and stood suddenly very still.

  HECTOR MUNRO, ESQ.

  Slowly, Hardcastle turned to look at the body in the boat once more. The face had been obliterated, but he should have recognised that big, broad-shouldered figure. The watch would confirm the dead man’s identity, of course; but he knew he was looking at the body of Hector Munro. Maudsley’s son-in-law. Cecilia’s husband, father of the child still in her womb.

  He remembered the quiet confidence of that overheard voice. Nothing will happen to me. Men make this journey all the time. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer, wishing God’s protection for Hector Munro as he made his last journey of all.

  ‘Bad news, reverend?’ said Stemp.

  ‘It could not be much worse,’ said Hardcastle.

  *

  Dr Mackay arrived soon after from New Romney. The stocky middle-aged Scot had seen much worse than this in the course of his duties as assistant coroner; he clucked his tongue at the sight of the dead man’s face, and then examined the body with brisk care. He looked shocked when Hardcastle told him who the dead man was.

  ‘Aye, now you say it, I can see it’s him. But what the devil was he doing here?’

  ‘That is what I am asking myself. I assume the cause of death to be the gunshot wound?’

  ‘I can see no sign of other injuries. Of course, I’ll only know for certain when I get him on a table. Rigor mortis is not fully advanced; mind, last night was a cool one. If you’re wanting a time of death, sometime between midnight and four in the morning would be my estimate.’

  ‘By then the tide was coming in,’ said Stemp. ‘That would have carried the boat back in towards the beach. Good thing the boys found him when they did. The tide’s been going back out since dawn. If the boat had drifted back out to sea and got caught in the mid-Channel current, we might not have found it ’til doomsday.’

  Hardcastle nodded. ‘Find Jem Clay. Ask if he knows how his boat came to be here. Ask around among the other fishermen too; they might have seen something. And check with Mrs Spicer at the Ship, and also the New Inn and the rooming houses. If he drove down from Shadoxhurst, he’ll have left a horse and rig somewhere.’

  The parish constable nodded. New Romney was outside his patch, but he knew the Romney constable well; they often worked together. ‘What’ll you do, reverend?’

  ‘I must inform the family,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Do go gently with Mrs Munro,’ warned the doctor. ‘She is near her time. She is under my care, so I shall come up and see her when I am finished here.’

  ‘Magpie Court is rather outside your usual area, is it not?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘Mrs Munro found the doctor in Ashford was not very sympathetic to women in her condition. Knowing that obstetrics is a particular interest of mine, she asked for me instead. Tell her I will be there as soon as I can.’

  As soon as I have learned for certain how her husband died, was the unspoken thought. Hardcastle nodded, looked once more at the ravaged remains of Hector Munro and turned away towards the village.

  *

  Rumour on Romney Marsh sped faster than the wind. By the time Hardcastle returned to St Mary, the village was stirring. Heads turned as he walked down the street, and several people called to him, anxious, asking for news. He prevaricated: a body had been found; it was not known who it was, but it did not appear to be a local man. That reassured them; relief turned instead to curiosity.

  He knocked at the door of Sandy House, Amelia Chaytor’s home. Lucy the housekeeper admitted him and showed him in
to the morning room where Mrs Chaytor sat drinking strong, sweet black coffee. ‘I am sorry to intrude on you so early,’ he said, bowing.

  ‘Not at all. Like you, I rise with the larks. What has happened?’

  She could see most of it in his face; he told her the rest. ‘This is a dreadful imposition, I know, but will you come with me? Cecilia Munro is the only woman in the house apart from the servants and her young sisters. I would like someone to be with her when we break the news.’

  He meant someone strong. ‘Of course. I shall go and change. Lucy! Call Joseph and tell him to harness Asia and bring the gig round at once.’

  Ten minutes later they were away, the gig racing across the flat lands of the Marsh towards Newchurch, the green hills rising steeply beyond. They were silent, Mrs Chaytor concentrating on her driving, the rector holding on to his seat. The day was brilliant and clear, the sky a flawless blue, but the brightness of high summer was beginning to fade a little; today was the 11th of August, summer just beginning its long curve into autumn. The 11th, thought the rector. We were at Magpie Court only four days ago, listening to Elisabeth Mara sing. Hector was so happy, so proud of his little wife bubbling with expectant joy.

  We don’t know who we can trust in this business, Munro had said later. And then, There’s no choice. I must attend to this myself.

  They reached Ruckinge and slowed to walk up the long hill into the Weald. Trees closed in along the road, their branches intermingling overhead, dark and rustling. There were few trees on Romney Marsh, and after that wide, flat land open to the sky, this rolling wooded country felt enclosed, almost claustrophobic. It is odd, thought the rector, how in seven years the Marsh has begun to feel like home, and I am uncomfortable anywhere else. I must be getting old . . .