As time passed the sun began to dip, turning orange in the dusty light. Dim in the sky was a streak of white light. The rector recalled the Morning Post a few days earlier, announcing the discovery of a new comet. In ancient times, the appearance of a comet in the sky was a matter for great wonder. These days, it seemed, they were two a penny; every time one opened the newspapers, Miss Herschel had discovered another one.
It was late when he reached Ashford, pulling his weary horse to a halt outside the rectory. Freddie Woodford, the rector, strolled out into the yard, wearing a dilapidated blue coat and breeches with a hole in one knee. ‘Hail, traveller from afar. How was the journey?’
‘Long,’ said Hardcastle with feeling, stepping stiffly down from the box. ‘I hope there is some beer in the house, Freddie, because I am parched.’
‘Martha is pouring a glass even as we speak. Come inside.’
After a light supper, they reclined in chairs by the fire, Hardcastle still stretching his aching arms. It had been a very long time since he had driven so far. Mrs Chaytor, he reflected, would have thought a journey of thirty miles by carriage to be a pleasant day out.
‘You’re being very abstemious, old fellow,’ said Woodford, looking at Hardcastle’s half-full port glass.
‘It is a habit I am trying to cultivate,’ said the rector.
‘Oh? What has brought this on? Have the quacks been nagging you about your liver?’
‘No. But I find that I conduct my present duties better when I have a clear head.’
‘A sober magistrate? Whoever heard of such a thing!’
‘Freddie. That joke is even older than you are.’
Woodford laughed. ‘Where do your investigations take you tomorrow?’
‘I’m going up to Canterbury, but first I intend to call at the bank and talk to Batist, the head clerk. Do you know him?’
‘Oh, yes. My personal affairs are handled in London, of course, but I also have an account at the East Weald and Ashford, for parish funds and the like. I usually deal with Batist when I’m there. He’s a good fellow. His father’s the ’pothecary here in town.’
‘Is the family French? It occurred to me Batist might be a corruption of Baptiste.’
‘Very well deduced. They are indeed French by origin.’
‘Did they come over when the revolution began?’
‘No, they’ve been here longer than that. Batist senior has been settled in Ashford with his family since I’ve been rector, which is getting on for fifteen years. Exactly when they came over from France, I couldn’t say . . . By the way, forgive me for changing the subject, but we’ve had some very good news from France. A courier came through two days ago, from Lord Malmesbury’s mission on his way to London. It seems his lordship is confident that the French are ready to settle. We could have peace by Christmas.’
‘Oh, huzza. Let us pray it is so,’ said the rector fervently. ‘God knows, we’re in no fit state to defend ourselves. We have no coastal defences, most of our army is deployed overseas and the navy is still half-mutinous. Peace is our only hope.’
‘To peace,’ said Woodford, and they raised their glasses and drank.
*
Ashford’s high street bustled in the morning. The harvesters had started work at dawn, rushing to get their work done before the weather broke; by sunrise, the big corn wagons and their heavy teams were already thundering down the road, barging their way through the press of coaches and delivery drays. Dust hung thick in the air.
The East Weald and Ashford Bank, a handsome brick building at the far end of the high street, was busy too. Corn was big business in Ashford; the negociants from London were down to inspect the warehouses and buy consignments, and the bank was full of people. That was why the original Ashford Bank had been founded, of course, to facilitate this trade; Hardcastle recalled that Maudsley’s father, old Henry, had been a prosperous corn chandler before going into banking.
Charles Batist, the chief clerk, was a slender man in his thirties, impeccably dressed with light brown hair tied back simply. His manners were as fine as his clothes, and his voice bore no trace of a French accent. ‘Reverend Hardcastle, welcome, sir. May I thank you for the beautiful manner in which you conducted Mr Munro’s funeral? It was a very moving and uplifting service.’
‘Thank you, Mr Batist.’ Hardcastle glanced around the bank, full of corn dealers and merchants. ‘I have a few questions for you concerning Mr Munro, if I may? I see how busy you are, so I will be as brief as possible.’
‘Of course. This way, reverend, if you please.’
Batist’s office was like the man himself, neat and quiet; the furniture was plain, the oak panelling decorated only with monochrome prints of local scenes. ‘I understand you worked closely with Mr Munro after he became a partner,’ said Hardcastle as they sat down.
‘It was my privilege to do so, sir. Mr Munro was, if I may say it, a very fine banker. His knowledge was thorough and his judgement excellent. He was also a very decent man; a gentleman.’
Munro and Batist were about the same age. ‘Would you say he was your friend?’
Batist looked down at his desk for a moment, then back up at Hardcastle. ‘I was honoured to have his friendship, yes.’
‘I am sorry. I did not intend to distress you.’ Batist made no response. ‘As his friend and colleague, you must have been privy to his affairs,’ the rector went on. ‘Therefore, I am sure you can guess my next question. Where was Mr Munro going when he departed on the morning of the 9th?’
‘I wish I knew, reverend. Truly I do.’ Batist was tense in his chair, and the rector realised there were lines of strain in his face as well. ‘But I am afraid he did not tell me.’
‘Did Mr Munro often go away without telling you his plans?’
‘Sometimes, sir, yes.’
‘Mm. Do you know about this investment in Baltic timber that Munro and Faversham were arranging?’
‘I know of the investment, sir, but not the details. I should explain that I am responsible for this branch of the bank only. What happens among the wider partnership is not always disclosed to me.’ It was said as a simple statement, without rancour.
‘Mr Munro told his wife and Mr Maudsley that he was going to London,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Could this timber investment have been the reason for his departure?’
‘It is possible, sir, but I really could not say for certain.’
The rector changed course. ‘I understand that Mr Munro came here to the bank on the Tuesday, the day before he departed. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir. He spent the morning here. There were some papers that needed signing: letters of credit for the corn merchants, primarily. I can show you the papers, if you wish.’
‘Thank you, but there is no need.’ I would not know what I was looking at. He could show me anything. ‘Did he spend all day at the office?’
‘No, only an hour or so. As there were no other matters requiring his presence, he went to see his solicitor. After that, so far as I know, he drove straight home. Certainly he did not return here that day.’
Or ever, was the unspoken thought at the end of the last sentence. ‘Who is his solicitor?’
‘Mr Cranthorpe. His offices are close by in the high street.’
Hardcastle thought again of the Dutch ship, and asked the question that had nagged him all yesterday afternoon. ‘Mr Batist, do you know if Munro, or any of the partners, ever had investments or ventures in the Netherlands?’
‘I’m sorry, reverend, but I do not know. Once again, I have little knowledge of what happens in the bank outside this branch.’
‘Given the state of war that exists between the Netherlands and Britain, would it even be possible for an English bank to do legitimate business in the Netherlands?’
‘Yes, sir, I believe it would,’ said Batist, surprisingly. ‘One of the Scottish banks, Hope, had offices in both countries before the war, and still has large investments in Amsterdam. The government allows Hop
e to continue to trade with the Netherlands, despite the war. I believe that, in exchange, Hope also supplies intelligence to the Admiralty. There may well be other banks in the same position.’
Hmm, thought the rector. It turns out he does know more than just the business of the Ashford branch. Aloud he said, ‘Do you think Mr Munro might have dabbled in smuggling?’
‘Smuggling!’ Batist stared. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’
‘It is one of the lines of enquiry I am following,’ said the rector. He waited.
‘I have to say, sir, that from what I knew of Mr Munro, he would be most reluctant to involve himself in anything illegal or criminal.’
‘But you are not certain.’
‘I am sorry, sir. I was Mr Munro’s friend, but I was not always his confidant. What he did in his life outside the bank, I would not know.’
‘And as his friend, do you know of any other reason why Mr Munro might have been killed? Was there anyone who bore a grudge against him? One of the other partners? A bank employee, or a client?’
Batist looked helpless. ‘So far as I know, sir, Mr Munro had no enemies, within the bank or without. He was a good man, and as I say, a thoroughly decent one. I can think of no reason, absolutely none at all, why anyone would wish to kill him.’
8
A Woman of Substance
Hardcastle called at Cranthorpe’s offices, where a clerk informed him that the solicitor was ill with jaundice and would not return to the office for some time. When questioned, the clerk recalled that Mr Munro had called on Mr Cranthorpe on the afternoon of the 8th of August, and the two of them had been closeted for over an hour. No, he did not know what they had discussed, and even if he did, the clerk added stiffly, he could not disclose it.
Retrieving his dog cart from the rectory, Hardcastle drove north to Canterbury, fifteen miles away. The road followed the valley of the Stour through the North Downs, the cornfields giving way to meadows studded with sheep. The sun was warm on his back, the wind gentle on his face.
Ashford had been a brash, bustling market town; Canterbury was a small city, ten thousand souls living in the shadow of the great cathedral. Hardcastle left his horse and rig at the Fountain Inn, tossing a coin to the groom. He was tempted to stop for a quick glass, but resisted. Cotton was a Quaker, and therefore probably an abstainer; it might be unwise to call on him with breath smelling of beer.
Sylvester Cotton received the rector in his office on the first floor of the bank’s premises on the high street. He was in his mid-fifties, thin and ascetic-looking with sandy hair and a pinkish complexion with a few liver spots. Two fingers of his left hand were missing, a third bent and crooked.
Cotton saw the direction of Hardcastle’s gaze. ‘An old wound,’ he said, holding up the hand. He had a slow, almost lazy voice, an East Kent accent softened by a good grammar school in his youth. ‘There was an explosion in one of my powder mills. A piece of barrel hoop did that to me. I was lucky; my superintendent of works was killed beside me.’
‘Gunpowder?’ said the rector. ‘You were a powder-maker, sir?’
‘Still am. I have three mills out on the River Stour, working night and day. Powder is much in demand these days.’ Cotton’s light blue eyes stared at him. ‘Now you’re going to ask, why is a Quaker making gunpowder? Aren’t they supposed to be peaceful people, against war and killing?’
‘That has always been my experience,’ said the rector.
‘I make gunpowder; I don’t use it. Other people fire the guns. If blood is spilled, it’s them that has to live with the consequences. Me, I’ve never harmed another human being in my life. My conscience is clear.’
‘I see.’
‘You don’t approve, do you? But you’re a Church of England man; you should rejoice to see me serving my country. I provide the gunpowder so our sailors and soldiers can defend our shores from the perfidious French. By your lights, I should be assured of salvation.’
‘It is not up to me to approve or disapprove,’ said the rector, ‘nor to judge your case for salvation. And I am not here in my clerical capacity. I am here as a justice of the peace, investigating the death of your late partner, Mr Hector Munro.’
‘Well, then, you’re off your turf. You’re a Romney Marsh JP, ain’t you? If that’s so, then your writ don’t run up here.’
‘I have a warrant from the deputy lord-lieutenant authorising me to conduct my investigations anywhere in Kent. Do you wish to see it?’
Cotton waved the matter away as if it were of no account. ‘Well, I can’t help you, in any case. I barely knew Munro; I was not acquainted with his affairs, and I have no idea where he was travelling to when he left home. Which is the question you were about to ask, ain’t it?’
‘It is,’ said the rector. ‘You were not, for example, involved in this investment in Baltic timber?’
‘I heard about it, but it was nothing to do with me. I’m a country banker in Canterbury. That’s all I know about, or care about.’
‘Were you on good terms with Munro?’
‘Saw the fellow at partners’ meetings, that’s all.’
‘Is that why you didn’t attend his funeral?’
Cotton looked at him. ‘I’m a Quaker. We are not welcome in your churches.’
The rector ignored this. ‘In your estimation, is it possible that Munro may have become involved in smuggling?’
Cotton’s face flushed, and he sat forward in his chair. ‘What?’
‘Smuggling,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The free trade, Mr Cotton. Is it possible that Munro was connected to it?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Cotton. His voice had sharpened and he was speaking more quickly. ‘A man of good standing in the community, a partner in our bank—’
‘Many men of good standing dabble in smuggling,’ the rector reminded him. ‘Only last year, the Dean of Canterbury was forced to resign thanks to allegations that he had taken money from smugglers. I am sure you heard of it.’
‘No partner in this bank would be involved in anything so heinous,’ declared Cotton emphatically, and his face grew redder still. ‘I am a God-fearing man, reverend, and I would not countenance any such activity by my partners. And now I think it is time to bring this interview to an end. I have already told you all I know.’
*
The Archdeacon of Canterbury was a very tall man who had been educated at Oxford, meaning that in terms of both height and dignity he looked down on the rector, who was a Cambridge man. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Hardcastle? You do not often leave your lair down on Romney Marsh. I presume something serious has brought you here.’
‘I am investigating a murder,’ said the rector. They were seated in the archdeacon’s office in the cathedral precinct. From a distance came singing, the sound of the choristers practising for evensong.
‘Really? Oh, yes, of course, you are also an officer of the law. This appointment as a JP was supposed to be temporary. Is there any sign of it coming to an end?’
‘You would have to ask Lord Clavertye about that,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I shall not detain you for long. I wish to ask you about Sylvester Cotton.’
‘Cotton? That Quaker hypocrite, who prays for peace while making gunpowder?’
‘And lends money to the Church,’ said Hardcastle.
‘We use his services, yes. His is the nearest bank. It is convenient.’
‘Do you recall when Cotton’s Bank was taken over by the East Weald and Ashford? What were the circumstances?’
The archdeacon wrinkled his nose as if a very bad smell had suddenly entered the room. ‘Really, Hardcastle. You are asking me about matters of which I have very little knowledge, and even less interest.’
‘You are a senior official of this diocese,’ said Hardcastle. ‘You must have some remembrance of the event.’
The archdeacon ruminated for a moment. ‘Just after we went to war with France, a rumour began to circulate that Cotton’s Bank was unsound. People began pulling ou
t their deposits; I believe in banking parlance this is known as a “run”. Like all these country banks, of course, Cotton had lent far more money than he had on deposit, and he had not enough cash in hand. He came to me in desperation, asking the Church for help. I informed him there was nothing we could do, and sent him away. The next news I had was when Mr . . . I don’t recall his name – someone from the East Weald and Ashford wrote to inform me that he had taken over Cotton’s Bank, and would be retaining Cotton as a partner.’
‘And that stopped the run?’
‘It would seem so. The East Weald and Ashford Bank is very large and well found; as they never cease to tell us,’ the archdeacon added. ‘Though I did hear a rumour that they borrowed heavily from the City in order to cover Cotton’s losses.’
‘Oh? Where did you hear that?’
‘I really cannot remember,’ said the archdeacon in a bored tone. Outside, the cathedral bells were ringing. ‘And now, if you will forgive me, evensong is about to begin. I do not recommend you join us. We have been honoured by the archbishop’s presence, and as you know, the very mention of your name causes him to turn purple. Should he see you, then I fear for the sanctity of the Third Commandment. Leave by the side entrance, if you please.’
*
Wearily, Hardcastle drove back to Ashford, where he spent a second night with the Woodfords. In the morning he bade them farewell. ‘Thank you so much for offering a bed to a tired traveller. When this business is over I promise to return for a proper visit.’
‘You owe us for an interrupted Christmas last year, don’t forget,’ said Martha Woodford. She was a bright, forceful woman of forty who enjoyed managing people. ‘This time you shall come to us for a week, and nothing whatever will drag you back to your mouldy old Marsh. I shan’t permit it.’
Hardcastle drove through another bright, hot morning down the turnpike to Hythe, giving thanks as he did so for the continued run of fine weather. He passed fields full of harvesters at work, stripping the crops to bright stubble. After about three hours the ground fell away sharply to the south and he looked out over Romney Marsh shimmering in the August heat, the thin spike of Dungeness lighthouse rising in the far distance. He felt a sudden uplift in his heart. He had come here as an exile, driven by his own excesses and a series of scandals out of the bosom of the Church and confronted with a stark choice: Romney Marsh, or a living in one of the remoter colonies. He had chosen the Marsh, and had never regretted it.
The Body in the Boat Page 10