‘You have travelled,’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘I envy that. Perhaps, when all of this is finished, I will go travelling too. You must tell me about Rome.’
When all of what is finished? Amelia wondered. Obligingly she talked of Rome, describing its grandeur and its stinks, its beauty and vendettas. The other woman listened intently.
‘But I think you have had a marvellous life too,’ Amelia said finally.
‘Oh?’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘What makes you say so?’
‘In an age when most women are the property of their father or their husband, you have forged a life for yourself. You run a shipping business; a very successful one, I gather. You are a partner in the bank. You are a woman of substance. That is very rare.’
‘It has not been easy,’ said Martha Redcliffe.
‘I did not for one moment imagine it would be. How do you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Persuade men to serve you. You have men in your household staff; you employ captains, sailors, warehousemen. As a woman, how do you make them listen to you?’
‘I pay them well,’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘Those closest to me obey me out of loyalty. Many served my husband, and now serve me in memory of him. The rest know that I can be very unpleasant indeed when I am crossed.’ She smiled. ‘I can be quite an evil bitch, when I choose.’
Amelia blinked, then laughed out loud. ‘Perhaps I should come and take lessons from you,’ she said.
‘Perhaps you should. Better still, come into partnership with me, and I will teach you what I know. I think we would work well together.’
‘You are kind,’ said Amelia, still smiling.
‘Or perhaps it is Reverend Hardcastle with whom you would prefer to form a partnership? You are still young and comely. And he has qualities that mark him out from other men. It would be a good alliance.’
‘Oh, please don’t. His sister is utterly determined that we should marry.’
‘But you do not wish it?’
‘I had one perfect marriage. I have no intention of looking for another. Reverend Hardcastle is a friend; I talk to him when I am troubled, and he does the same to me. There is no more, and there will never be any more.’
After a reflective moment, Martha Redcliffe said, ‘Perhaps you are wise to keep it that way. You are fortunate to have what you have.’
‘Yes. I suppose I am.’
Silence settled over the dark room. Outside the sea gleamed vivid blue. A magpie flitted past the window, settling in a tree in the nearby churchyard.
‘May I ask a question about the bank?’ Amelia asked.
‘Of course, but there is no guarantee I will be able to answer it.’
‘Rumours are beginning to circulate that the bank may not be safe. I should like to know if they are true. I ask on behalf of two elderly friends who have nearly all their money in the bank. If it were to go down, they would be destitute.’
Mrs Redcliffe looked grave. ‘I will give you the same answer I gave Reverend Hardcastle. The bank is overextended. Charles Faversham has borrowed recklessly, and invested even more recklessly. I am sorry for your friends. You should advise them to withdraw their money.’
Amelia watched the other woman. ‘But if they withdraw, someone else might hear of it, and think they should remove their money too; and then more people would notice, and more. That is how runs on banks begin, is it not?’
‘Indeed. But you need to think of your friends, and their safety.’
‘How likely is it, really, that the bank will fail?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Redcliffe smiled a little. ‘Only Charles Faversham knows the answer to that question.’
‘I have heard another rumour,’ said Amelia. ‘In an attempt to recover some of the bank’s losses and recruit its fortunes, Faversham has turned to smuggling.’
‘I have heard the same rumour. It may well be true; it is the sort of thing Faversham would do, if he saw advantage in it. In theory, the idea is not a bad one. In practice, it will fail because Faversham knows absolutely nothing about smuggling, and he will be taken advantage of by ruthless people who do.’
‘You could advise him,’ Amelia pointed out. ‘You could help him avoid the traps that will be set for him.’
Martha Redcliffe smiled again. ‘Charles Faversham does not listen to women, Mrs Chaytor. We have, he says, no head for finance. My words would be a waste of breath.’
‘But you cannot simply sit on the sidelines and watch as he drags the bank down. What about your own investment?’
‘If necessary, I am resigned to losing it,’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘Even more than your friends, I should not remove my money, and for the same reasons. Such an action by me might well seal the bank’s fate.
‘The bank would collapse, and the depositors would be ruined.’
‘Just so. I do not want that on my conscience. But of course, Mrs Chaytor, we speak only of rumours and not of facts. Charles Faversham continues to insist that the bank is sound. Perhaps he is right.’
‘Suppose the bank were to fail? Could you still carry on?’
‘I could, of course. I am engaged in another venture, Mrs Chaytor, one that is rather more important to me than the bank.’
‘Oh? How intriguing.’
The older woman smiled again. ‘Have you ever desired to make history, Mrs Chaytor?’
‘I can honestly say that I have not.’
‘In his will, Mr Redcliffe left me a fleet of four coasting ships. I have since built up that fleet to eleven vessels. I have fought against French privateers, Channel gales and the prejudice of my male competitors and customers, and I have defied them all. Now I am creating a monument to the work of my husband and myself. I am building a venture for which the world will remember us.’
‘And I am sure you will succeed. May I ask an entirely impertinent question? For whom are you doing all this? Who will inherit this venture, when you are gone?’
‘I have heirs, never fear.’
‘Then may I ask a still more impertinent question? How much laudanum do you take?’
Mrs Redcliffe smiled. ‘You are observant. I drink the equivalent of half a pint per day.’
Amelia drew breath. ‘That amount would kill most men.’
‘Which proves what I have always believed,’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘That I am stronger than most men.’
‘Yes. But for how long can you sustain this?’
‘Long enough. Do not fear; I know what I am doing. And when my time comes to an end, others will follow me. My story will live long after I am gone.’
*
‘I do not understand,’ said Mrs Chaytor several hours later. ‘How could this man not exist when Joshua saw him with his own eyes?’
It was late in the day. Stemp and Mrs Chaytor had returned separately from their journeys to Hythe, and both had come to call on the rector.
‘Noakes was trying to gull us,’ said Stemp. ‘He had a smug look about him, like a man who knew something we didn’t. He was right too. We still don’t know where this fellow is. I reckon once Noakes learned we were there, he sent the other cull into hiding. Begging your pardon, reverend, despite what you said the other day, I still think it’s Noakes’s gang that are working for the bank.’
‘Have you any evidence?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘No, reverend. But something about what they’re doing doesn’t smell right, in the same way that there’s something about the bank that doesn’t smell right. I reckon we’re looking at two parts of the same story.’
‘Very well. Keep an eye on Noakes and his activities, but be careful. And keep searching for the other man.’
‘Yes, reverend. I’m looking out for the courier, too, this man called Jean. Bertrand had a letter from him, and gave it to the young fellow on the beach. I reckon he must be the one who carries the manifests.’
‘You will need to explain, Joshua,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
‘What happens in the free trade, ma’am, is that one party pl
aces an order. The other party gathers the goods and then sends across a manifest, itemising the cargoes that are being shipped and the price. A downpayment is usually made by the first party, and then the cargo is brought across. The goods landed are checked against the manifest to make sure all is fair and square. From the conversation I heard on the beach, I reckon Jean carries the manifest and receives the downpayment. He then gives a letter to Bertrand to carry back to Noakes and his gang, and once they see the letter they load the cargo. It’ll all be checked against the manifest once they reach the other side. If all is well, the rest of the money will then be paid over.’
‘Very businesslike,’ she commented.
‘They’ve been doing it for hundreds of years, ma’am, they’ve got it all worked out. Oh, and one more thing. I’ve got someone else watching out for that Dutch lugger.’
‘Who?’ asked the rector.
‘Lieutenant Stark, from the navy. He’s master of the Black Joke. He patrols around here, hunting for French privateers. I told him about the Dutchman, and he said he’d look out for her.’
‘What was an officer of the Royal Navy doing in a smuggler’s den in Hythe?’ asked Mrs Chaytor. ‘But no, how silly of me. Surely the question answers itself.’
‘He does have a sideline in the free trade, ma’am,’ said Stemp, his face immobile.
‘And the go-between?’ asked Mrs Chaytor. ‘Are we any closer to finding him?’ She looked at the rector. ‘You had a theory it might be Cranthorpe.’
‘I think we can dispose of that notion. If I can break him down in one short interview, he surely hasn’t the nerve or disposition to be the lynchpin of a major smuggling operation. Forget Cranthorpe. What of Grebell Faversham?’
‘I too was entirely wrong. He is quite moonstruck, and lacks the enterprise to murder anyone. He is hopelessly ignorant of the state of the bank, and of banking generally. He also seems to have no interest in the clear opportunity staring him in the face, to marry Cecilia Munro and take her late husband’s place at the partnership table. “There is more to life than banking”, he said to me.’ Mrs Chaytor made a dismissive gesture. ‘I have wasted my time.’
‘Did he know anything about smuggling?’
Mrs Chaytor rolled her eyes.
‘And Mrs Redcliffe? Did you learn anything from her?’
‘Very little that we did not already know. She was quite matter-of-fact about her own involvment in the free trade. But when I suggested Faversham might also be involved, she was quite scathing. If Faversham turned to smuggling, she said, he would fail, because the smugglers would take advantage of him.’
Hardcastle rubbed his eyes. ‘What do you know about Mrs Redcliffe, Joshua? She told me she is in the carrying trade.’
Stemp nodded. ‘The big London negociants sometimes pay her to bring cargoes across from France. It’s not a regular thing. Most of the time her ships are engaged in the legit trade, along the coast and up the river to London. But if times are slack, she’ll let it be known that her captains are willing to make a run.’
‘So she knows the trade well enough. We have been wondering who might be the intermediary between the bank and the smugglers. We assumed that this intermediary would be someone with no connection with the bank. But must that necessarily be the case? What if it is Mrs Redcliffe?’
‘An intriguing notion,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘But on balance, I think it unlikely. Her opinion of Charles Faversham could not be lower. Would she be willing to trust and work with a man she clearly regards as incompetent?’
‘But if we are correct in our assumptions, and the smuggling operation has gone wrong, then the bank’s situation could be worse than before,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Will she stand by and let it go down?’
‘She claims that even if she offered advice, Faversham would not listen to her. That is entirely possible. I have another idea. Instead of stepping in to help Faversham, she is waiting for him to tip over the edge. When he does, she will step in, buy out Faversham and the other partners, pay off the debts with money from her shipping business and become sole owner. She will save the bank and become a heroine. What do you think?’
‘I think that idea sounds entirely fanciful,’ said the rector.
‘Yes. So do I, now that I come to examine it more closely. Ideas are like children; delightful when they first arrive, but increasingly disappointing as they grow older.’
‘However, I take your point about her dislike of Faversham,’ said the rector. ‘Like you, I cannot see the two of them working easily together. And I recall Mrs Redcliffe saying that she doesn’t take orders, she gives them.’
‘Suppose the intermediary does then have an association with the bank. Who else might it be?’ asked Mrs Chaytor. ‘What about Mr Maudsley, with his connections?’
‘We can rule out Maudsley,’ the rector said heavily. ‘He dabbled in smuggling, the same way the Tydde brothers do. And I believe he has not the heart or the stomach of a murderer.’
‘Then what of the remaining partner, Mr Cotton? Or Munro’s clerk, Mr Batist?’
‘Batist is everyone’s idea of the perfect bank servant: polite, conscientious, industrious, owing his entire loyalty to his employer . . . But it might be worth taking another look at him and his antecedents. He has connections with France; he might even have been born there. Batist may not be part of the free trade, but he may well have family or friends who are.’
Stemp nodded. ‘I’ll ask around,’ he said.
‘As for Cotton, he seems even more unlikely than Mrs Redcliffe. Everyone I have spoken to has been dismissive of him; a provincial dullard, someone called him. My own impression, I am sorry to say, confirmed this.’
‘Charles Faversham might disagree,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘According to Grebell, Faversham thinks he has excellent judgement. He has the Midas touch.’
The rector frowned. ‘That is curious. He told me that Cotton was a good provincial banker, but lacked breadth.’
Stemp intervened. ‘Your pardon, ma’am. But what did you just say?’
‘According to Grebell, Charles Faversham refers to Cotton as Midas.’
‘Blind me,’ said Stemp. ‘You pardon, ma’am. But last week, when we ran into Noakes and his crew down by Dungeness, I heard Bertrand use that name. “The latest consignment from Midas”, he said.’
‘And Cotton makes gunpowder,’ said the rector sharply. ‘By God, there may be a connection after all. Well done, Joshua. I shall have another word with our Quaker powder-maker. And this time, I shall see to it that he tells me the truth.’
*
Stemp departed a little later, the recipient of a shilling from the rector’s discretionary fund to buy gin for himself and his fellow special constables at the Star. Mrs Chaytor sat for a moment, looking at the rector. His face sagged heavily over the bones beneath, and there were shadows under his eyes.
‘I was right about Mrs Redcliffe,’ she said. ‘She is a laudanum user, and a heavy one. Her daily dose would kill an ordinary man.’
‘How, then, does she survive?’
‘Over time, as the opium takes hold, the body demands more and more. Only a large dose will feed the craving. The longer one is addicted, the more opium the body needs and the more it is able to tolerate.’
‘But in the end, surely, it will kill her,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Yes. Her body is like a spring being wound very tightly; eventually it will break. And I think she knows it. That explains the disinterest in things not directly connected to her, the single-minded focus on her own business . . . Except that she is very sympathetic to Cecilia Munro. She calls on her often, a couple of times a week. So she still has a heart, it would seem.’
‘What a tragedy,’ he said quietly. ‘She has spirit and courage, too, and I formed the impression of high intellect. How sad to see it going to waste.’
‘Indeed. And speaking of killing doses, my dear; how much did you drink last night?’
He regarded her for a moment before a
nswering. ‘Two bottles of port, and the better part of a bottle of brandy.’
‘Is this because of Maudsley?’
‘I suppose that started it. I felt, and feel, betrayed by him. To think that a man I regarded as a friend could have behaved in such a cowardly way sickens me. And it makes me question my own judgement. If I was wrong about him all along, what else have I been wrong about?’
He sat back in his chair. ‘What other mistakes have I made? Who else have I failed?’
‘Whoever you might have failed, you cannot help them if you go back to the bottle,’ she said abruptly. ‘Marcus, these people need you. They need your judgement, they need your intellect. The finest mind in the Church of England, someone once called you, did they not? But your mind is of no use to anyone if you choose to destroy it.’
Hardcastle was silent for a moment. There was no mistaking the anger in her fine blue eyes. Against his will, his own temper rose.
‘You sound like my sister,’ he said shortly. ‘I do not need lectures from her, or you, or anyone else.’
She rose to her feet with grace. ‘Maudsley betrayed you,’ she said. ‘Don’t pay him back by betraying us in turn. I’ll see myself out.’
He waited perhaps five minutes after she left, then opened the mahogany cabinet and took out a brandy bottle and a glass. He filled the glass to the brim, noticing as he did so that his hand was shaking. He stared at the glass for a long time, thinking about the past, the disappointed hopes, the shipwrecked career, the lost dreams. When he was a young man, people had talked of him as a future Archbishop of Canterbury. Now the archbishop was a nonentity, a butcher’s son, and Hardcastle was here in Romney Marsh.
He rose to his feet and walked over to the fireplace, holding up the glass to the light. The little flames glowed amber through the brandy, teasing him. He imagined the warmth of it running down his throat, the fumes rising to his brain, the oblivion that would come.
‘For the love of Christ!’ he said, and hurled the glass into the fire, smashing it. The brandy caught light at once. Tongues of blue flame flared up briefly, dancing across the coal, and then subsided and died.
The Body in the Boat Page 17