The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  ‘The time for lies has now passed. From this moment onward, you and I shall deal solely in the truth. You knew that the East Weald and Ashford Bank had turned to smuggling, because you gave the order that it should do so. You, Munro, Cotton; how many others in the bank knew?’

  Faversham stared at him. ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘It is true also that you are no ordinary smugglers,’ the rector went on. ‘Your commodity is gold, taken out of England in defiance of the law and sold abroad, the money coming back to you by devious channels through the European money markets, so that payments cannot be traced.’

  ‘Gold? European money markets?’ Faversham shook his head. ‘I have no knowledge of any smuggling, of gold or otherwise. This is ludicrous.’

  ‘That’s better. You were almost convincing there. But I know all the details, you see. Four thousand, four hundred and eighteen ounces went out on of the 22nd of July; three thousand one hundred ounces, purchased from the East India Company, on the 23rd of August; need I go on? I can also furnish details of the remittances, too, and the dates you received them. Faversham, you have gone rather pale.’

  ‘Get out of my office, and out of my bank. At once, do you hear me?’

  ‘I have not finished.’

  ‘If you do not leave, my servants will throw you out.’ Faversham’s hand moved towards the silver bell on his desk.

  ‘Summon your staff, by all means,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Then they can listen, while I accuse you further of defrauding your own bank and your partners, and deliberately plotting the ruin of your deposit holders. And your employees, too, of course, who will lose their livelihood when the bank fails. I don’t imagine any of them will see a penny of the £35,000 you have taken, or will shortly take.’

  Faversham’s hand had halted. He sat motionless now, staring at the rector, his once-handsome face showing fear in every line and pore. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Why, Faversham? Why wreck your own bank? Yes, it is in trouble, but surely it could have been saved. More partners could have been found to bail you out. Now look at it.’ The rector gestured around the room. ‘All of this is about to fall. The bank is doomed, and you are the man who has ruined it.’

  ‘I am no such thing, damn your eyes!’

  ‘I do not believe you. I ask again: why? Is money all that matters to you? Is it more important even than the lives of your own partners? And who did you hire to kill them, Faversham? I don’t imagine for one moment you have the courage to pull the trigger yourself; and in any case, that is not how you work. You’re the planner behind the scenes, the man who brokers the deals and pulls the strings. Whom did you pay to kill Munro and Cotton?’

  ‘You must be mad to imagine such things.’ Faversham rose to his feet, sweating, and walked across to the sideboard. He unstoppered the decanter of madeira and poured a glass full, then drank it in a single draught. After a moment some of the colour came back into his cheeks, and he wheeled around to confront Hardcastle.

  ‘You have no jurisdiction here. I am not required to answer your questions.’

  ‘Indeed you are.’ Hardcastle reached into his pocket, pulled out the attorney-general’s warrant and handed it over. Faversham read it, his face guarded, then handed it back.

  ‘I will say this much to you, Hardcastle. I did not kill Munro or Cotton. I had no reason to. And I have never taken a penny from this bank that was not my lawful share. Yes, someone is defrauding us. Munro found out about it, tried to investigate against my advice and was killed. Cotton discovered something, I don’t know what, and was murdered before he could talk to you. But I am not the embezzler, and I have killed no one.

  ‘And as for your allegation of smuggling: prove it. Find a single piece of evidence that links us with gold smuggling, or any kind of smuggling at all. You cannot, can you?’

  ‘I have a ledger detailing dates and amounts of transactions.’

  ‘Can it be proven that this ledger comes from the East Weald and Ashford Bank? It cannot. Does it say that the numbers refer to gold? It does not. Does it indicate that any gold belonging to anyone was moved unlawfully out of the country? It does not.’

  ‘So, you know the document to which I refer. You have seen it? Did Munro write it out, perhaps from figures you gave him?’

  ‘You can prove nothing.’

  ‘I will find the evidence, never fear,’ said the rector. ‘You claim you are not the embezzler. Very well; tell me who it is, or who you think it might be. If I can apprehend them, you may still save your bank.’

  ‘Tell you!’ Faversham gave a kind of strangled laugh. ‘Thank you, no. I have no desire to share the fate of Munro and Cotton. I have told you all I will ever tell you. Now, get out.’

  ‘I can charge you here and now with smuggling and murder. Sir John Scott’s warrant gives me the authority to arrest you and hold you in close confinement.’

  ‘And when the Duke of Richmond, the Lord-Lieutenant of Sussex and my patron, hears you have no evidence, he will first compel my release, and then devote himself to breaking you.’ Faversham smiled an unpleasant smile. ‘I’ve called your bluff, Hardcastle. What will you do?’

  Hardcastle watched the other man for perhaps half a minute, until Faversham began to stir nervously. ‘I shall take my leave,’ the rector said finally. ‘But I give you fair warning. I shall return. Good day, Faversham. Don’t trouble your servants; I know the way to the door.’

  16

  Grebell’s Confession

  Monday, of the 11th of September; a month to the day since Hector Munro had died.

  Rising early, as ever, the rector walked Rodolpho down to the sea at St Mary’s Bay, the sky dim under scudding clouds. Here he slipped the wolfhound’s lead and watched the dog race away down the strand and fling himself into the waves, barking happily. Beyond lay the rolling sea, slate grey and flecked with foam.

  Hardcastle’s mood was as bleak as the morning. In challenging him to produce evidence, Faversham had tacitly admitted to his part in the gold smuggling. But he had insisted he was not responsible for the fraud and the murders; and the rector believed him. Despite his bravado at the end, there was no mistaking the desperation and fear in the man’s face and voice. He knew full well that the bank was being systematically defrauded and destroyed.

  That said, Faversham was largely responsible for his own predicament. The smuggling had surely been his idea in the first place. Part spider and part fly, he was now trapped in the web that he himself had spun, and the more he struggled to fight free, the more deeply ensnared he became.

  And it was entirely possible that Faversham’s own life was in danger. There had been three active partners in the bank, three who had plotted to smuggle gold, and now two of them were dead. It was not fanciful of Faversham to think that he might be next.

  After leaving the bank, Hardcastle had called on Dobbs, the magistrate in Rye, where he produced Sir John Scott’s warrant and gave him a heavily edited account of his investigation, leaving out all mention of gold and embezzlement but warning that Faversham might be in danger. Dobbs had grumbled about Hardcastle interviewing people on his turf without informing him, but had promised to be vigilant. They both knew that with just three constables to police a town of two thousand, there was a limit to the protection Dobbs could provide. Faversham would be advised to hire guards of his own, to protect himself and his family.

  Worryingly, too, Dobbs had heard rumours about the stability of the bank. Two of its partners had died by violence; what was really going on behind that handsome brick facade on the high street? Dobbs was contemplating whether to withdraw his own money; but like so many others, he had no idea where to put his savings if he did. The East Weald and Ashford was the only bank in the area.

  Hardcastle thought again about Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, and Stemp and Luckhurst and all the others he knew who would be ruined if the bank collapsed, and felt a cold depression settling over him.
He whistled to Rodolpho, put the sodden dog on the lead and walked home.

  After breakfast he settled in his study and attempted to work, but could not concentrate. He heard his sister rise; some time later, the sound of her singing came from the drawing room. Does she ever do any work on that blasted book, he wondered. But Calpurnia was not responsible for his dark mood. His own inability to halt the coming calamity was surely the source of that.

  Just before midday, Joshua Stemp knocked at the door of the rectory and was ushered into the study. ‘Reverend, I was hoping to see you. There’s someone here would like to meet you.’

  The man with Stemp was in his mid-twenties, tall and dapper in a blue uniform coat and white breeches. ‘Lieutenant Newton Stark, master of His Majesty’s ship Black Joke,’ said Stemp, a little self-consciously. ‘The Reverend Hardcastle.’

  Stark bowed. ‘How can I assist you, sir?’ the rector asked.

  ‘First allow me to apologise for the imposition,’ the navy man said. ‘I ran across Mr Stemp in Hythe this morning, and knowing he worked for you, I asked if I might meet you. I’d like to put a question to you, sir, if I may.’

  The rector gestured both men to seats. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s about the bank, sir. The East Weald and Ashford. I’ve a fair amount of gelt there, prize money, and profits from some other ventures. I’d always believed it a good, sound bank. But yesterday I heard a hark-ye that they might be in trouble. I spoke to Mr Stemp, as I know he uses the same bank, and he said I should ask you.’

  ‘I warned Mr Stark you might not be able to tell him much,’ said Stemp. ‘With the investigation going on and all.’

  ‘I understand entirely,’ said Stark. ‘But I’d be grateful for reassurance, Reverend, if there is any to give. I’ve just been ordered north for a few weeks, and we sail with the tide tomorrow morning, so I have to go straight back to Dover. There’s no time for me to nip over to the bank and pull out my money, so I’ll have to leave it there and hope for the best. But if there is anything you can tell me . . .’

  Hardcastle nodded. ‘I am afraid the rumour you heard was true, Mr Stark,’ he said. ‘The bank is indeed experiencing difficulties at the moment.’

  ‘Ah. Bad news. Is it likely to go smash, do you think?’

  The rector opened his mouth to say that there was a distinct possibility. An image of Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper formed itself in his mind.

  ‘No,’ he said, and his voice was firm and definite. ‘The bank will not fail, and your money will be safe. You have my word on that.’

  Relief was plain in the pleasant young face. ‘That’s good to hear. Thank you, reverend. You are quite positive that all will be well?’

  ‘I am,’ said the rector. ‘And you may say the same to anyone else who asks you.’ He wished Stemp would stop staring at him. ‘What takes you north, lieutenant?’

  ‘There’s word the Dutch fleet is making ready to put to sea. Admiral Duncan wants the services of the fastest ship afloat, so he sent for Black Joke.’ The young man grinned, his natural good cheer restored by the rector’s assurances. Was I ever that young, Hardcastle wondered, and that full of confidence?

  ‘Will Duncan’s fleet fight?’ he asked. ‘It’s not four months since half the navy mutinied.’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ said Stark. ‘But Black Joke’ll fight, and that’s probably all that’ll be needed. It’s only the Dutch. Well, reverend, I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you again. You’ve quite bucked me up.’

  They rose, just as Biddy knocked and came in, curtseying. ‘Mrs Chaytor to see you, reverend.’

  The young man perked up even further as Amelia Chaytor entered the room, and his eyes brightened. ‘Mrs Chaytor; Mr Stark,’ the rector said.

  ‘Lieutenant Maurice Adolph Newton de Stark, Royal Navy, at your undoubted service,’ said the officer, bowing with a sweeping motion of his arm. ‘It is both an honour and a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And yet, I am perplexed. I have served in these waters for many months; how is it that we have never met?’

  ‘Maurice Adolph Newton de Stark,’ repeated Mrs Chaytor, ignoring the question. ‘Goodness; such a lot of names for so young a man. Will you grow into them with time, do you think?’

  He grinned at her. ‘Father’s Austrian. He wanted to give me seven or eight forenames, like himself, but mother chiselled him down to three. The old girl drives a hard bargain.’

  ‘Your mother sounds a most tenacious lady.’

  ‘Very much so. And fortunately, she has passed that quality on to me,’ said the young man happily. ‘Is there a Mr Chaytor lurking in the wings, or are you happily unattached? Or even, unhappily attached?’

  ‘Suppose there is a Mr Chaytor,’ she said. ‘Would that put you off?’

  ‘It would depend on how big he is. My friends call me Newton.’

  ‘Do they? My condolences. Perhaps you could go back to your father, and ask him for another name from the family storehouse.’

  His grin increased. ‘What name would you recommend? Choose one for me, ma’am, I beg you. Not just an ordinary name; any word in the lexicon, so long as it sums up my character in full.’

  Mrs Chaytor looked him up and down. ‘Trouble,’ she said.

  Stark clutched theatrically at his chest. ‘Skewered. A simple jack tar like myself is no match for the wit of a clever lady. Reverend, thank you once again, and farewell. I shall return when my ship is next in these waters.’ He grinned again at Mrs Chaytor. ‘And whether that is a promise or a threat, I leave you to decide.’

  *

  Stemp was red in the face. ‘I’m so sorry, ma’am,’ he said after Stark had departed. ‘He’s a good lad, really. He’s harmless; unless you’re a French privateer, that is.’

  ‘I am certain of it. He reminds me of Rodolpho,’ said Mrs Chaytor, smiling. ‘How are you, Joshua? Has your hunt met with any success?’

  ‘Still no sign of the man who hired the boat. And Noakes and Fisk have both gone to ground. No one has seen them for at least a week.’

  ‘Cotton was killed just over a week ago,’ said Mrs Chaytor suddenly.

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. They vanished the day before the murder.’

  The rector nodded. ‘Noakes and Fisk killed Cotton, and are lying low in case anyone connects them with the murder and comes looking for them.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You were right, Joshua. Noakes and his gang are working for the bank, and also for the embezzler. But where is the link? How do we prove it? We’ll get nothing more out of Faversham; if I press him further, or even visit him again, I will only put him in more danger.’

  ‘We need to find the go-between,’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘Him, or that courier, Jean, or the man who hired the boat. If we can get to one of those three and break them, we can learn the rest of the operation and bring all the various pieces of the puzzle together.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ observed Mrs Chaytor. ‘Joshua and his friends have been searching diligently, but this gang has covered their tracks exceedingly well.’

  ‘That’s the truth, ma’am,’ said Stemp.

  ‘But they cannot hide forever,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The next gold run is a week from today. Noakes and Fisk and their friends will have to come out of hiding, and when they do, hopefully Mr Cole and his officers will be able to lay them by the heels. You need not look so sceptical, Joshua. Like yourself, I am quite aware of the limitations of the Customs. But Cole knows when the gold will be run, and he knows what to look for. Even he should be able to pull this off.’

  Stemp’s look of scepticism did not alter. ‘I remember that you were also going to ask some questions about Charles Batist,’ the rector said. ‘Have you learned anything?’

  Stemp nodded. ‘Like your friend said, reverend, Batist senior came over from France with his wife and son just after the last war. They lived in Hythe for a while before going up to Ashford. But they weren’t the first of the family to come to England. Th
ere’s been Batists settled in and around Hythe for thirty or forty years.’

  ‘Did you learn anything about them?’ the rector asked.

  ‘They’re honest, decent folk; which ain’t at all usual for Hythe, I can tell you. There’s a cousin who has done well for himself as a brickmaker, and another who’s a clerk, and there’s a baker whose two sons both work with him. There’s one who works as a sailmaker, but beyond that there’s no connection with the sea, no sailors or boatmen. I asked Mr Sawbridge, the magistrate, and he couldn’t recall any of the family being in trouble with the law.’

  ‘So there’s no one who can be connected with smuggling?’

  ‘Seems not, reverend. At least, no one I could find.’

  ‘Well, it was always a long shot,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Carry on watching in Hythe, and let me know the moment any of the gang reappear.’

  *

  Humphrey Cole, supervisor of Customs, arrived at the rectory early the following afternoon. With him were one of his subordinates, a riding officer named Petchey, and Captain John Haddock of the Stag, white-haired and resplendent in blue uniform.

  ‘My apologies, reverend,’ said Cole as soon as they were seated. ‘I was away in Deal, in conference with the Collector of Customs there, and only received your letter yesterday. I sent at once for Captain Haddock, and I have also invited Mr Petchey, my senior riding officer, to join us.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for coming.’ Swiftly, Hardcastle described what he knew about the gold-smuggling operation, carefully making no mention of the bank. ‘The gang appears to be based out of Hythe. We are certain that Henry Noakes and John Fisk, both boatmen of Hythe, are involved. We are searching for a third gang member, a young man of slender build who is well spoken; beyond this we have no further description of him. Also, gentlemen, you should be aware that this gang are in possession of a weapon called a Puckle gun, a repeating firearm of considerable power. Be careful in your approach to them.’

  ‘I’ll put all of my officers onto this,’ said Cole, ‘and I’ll send to Dover and Deal to ask for reinforcements. I’ll have forty men on the Marsh by the end of the day. And I’ll order the arrest of Noakes and Fisk, wherever they may be found.’