The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  ‘That may be difficult,’ the rector said. ‘My own information is that both men have gone into hiding.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Cole confidently. ‘We know their haunts, and we’ll track them down. Petchey will be in charge of watching the roads and tracks coming down from upcountry. He’ll search every wagon and cart and beast of burden. Captain Haddock and the Stag will patrol the inshore waters looking for the smugglers’ ship, and I’ll have watchers along the coast as well. One way or another, we’ll find this gang and take them.’ Cole rubbed his hands. ‘Twenty thousand pounds in gold! This could be the biggest seizure by the Customs for a century, perhaps of all time.’

  ‘Who is behind this, reverend?’ asked Petchey curiously. ‘Noakes and Fisk don’t have the brains to organise something this big, let alone the money.’

  ‘We think it may be a syndicate in the City,’ said the rector. The longer he could keep the role of the East Weald and Ashford Bank secret, the better. An idea was taking shape in his mind, but he needed time to think about it.

  ‘Once you have arrested these men, I wish to interrogate them,’ the rector continued. ‘I am certain that at least one of them will be able to give me information about the murders of Hector Munro and Sylvester Cotton.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cole. ‘I’ll be happy to help you, reverend. Ah, this is going to be a great day for the Customs Service.’

  Already, in Cole’s mind, this was to be a Customs coup; everyone else was forgotten. He departed with Petchey and Haddock soon after, still gloating. The rector did not mind; Cole was welcome to whatever credit there was. He himself was interested in two things only: finding the murderers, and saving the bank.

  Gazing out the window, he pondered again on the latter. He recalled what Ricardo had said, that the money received from the sale of the smuggled gold passed through the hands of the Grasshopper on the final stage of its journey back to England. It was possible – indeed, likely – that Stone and the other partners at the Grasshopper did not know the origin of the money they handled, and from which they took a percentage for their own profit. What had Munro said? If the Grasshopper finds out what we’re up to, there will be hell to pay.

  So, I know something the Grasshopper does not, Hardcastle thought. Now I must find a way to turn that to my advantage.

  *

  Ten days had passed since Amelia Chaytor had first written to Thomas Coutts, the London banker, requesting that accounts be opened for Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper. No response had come, and she was beginning to fret.

  Accompanied by Joseph, her groom, she drove to Shadoxhurst to see Cecilia Munro. Arriving, she was shown into the nursery, where she found Cecilia and Charlotte Faversham cooing over the baby. Just over a month old, Master Munro lay on his back and grinned up at the two friendly ladies. Then he caught sight of Mrs Chaytor and stared at her with round, questioning eyes.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Mrs Chaytor solemnly. ‘I trust my friends are keeping you suitably entertained? If they fail to do so, you must scold them. You are the man of the house, so be sure to assert yourself.’

  ‘Young Master Munro has no hesitation on that score,’ said Charlotte Faversham, laughing. ‘He has a fine pair of lungs, and is not shy of using them.’

  ‘He’s a bonny boy,’ said Mrs Chaytor, reaching down to chuck the baby softly under the chin and then kissing Cecilia. ‘How are you, my dear?’

  Her young friend was recovering well; the lines of grief and sorrow were still plain around her eyes, and might stay there forever, but her spirit was strong and resilient. ‘I am well,’ said Cecilia softly. ‘Mrs Redcliffe called again yesterday, and my dear Charlotte is always by my side. I am cared for and loved by my friends; I could ask for no more.’

  ‘You have a very dear friend in Miss Faversham,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘It is good of her family to let her stay with you for so long.’

  ‘Oh, they don’t notice my absence,’ said Charlotte airily. ‘Father is in the office day and night, attending to problems at the bank, and Grebell does nothing but mope and write bad poetry. He’s lost all interest in everything else.’

  ‘Why is Grebell moping?’ asked Cecilia.

  ‘He got in the way of Cupid’s arrow. He’s in love,’ said Charlotte. ‘Or at least, he thinks he is. Some silly little mort in Rye, I expect.’

  Perhaps then he will stop calling on me, thought Mrs Chaytor. She took her leave an hour later, and Charlotte walked her out to the stable yard, chattering happily as always. Mrs Chaytor cut across the flow with a sudden question. ‘Is your brother unhappy?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charlotte, with the callousness of a sister. ‘It’s good for him. Suffering builds character.’

  ‘And your father? Do you know what is wrong?’

  ‘Not entirely. But I know things are very bad, and we could lose the bank. Father is worried and frightened, and so is Mother.’ Her eyes searched Mrs Chaytor’s face. ‘Do you know what is happening, ma’am?’

  It dawned on her that Charlotte was not as empty-headed as she appeared. ‘I know something of it,’ she said. ‘I believe it is possible that your father will indeed lose the bank.’

  Charlotte nodded. She was much like her brother, with red hair and slightly protruding eyes and a mouth full of rather prominent teeth; unlike Grebell, she had the confidence to carry off her looks, and a vitality that made her sparkle even when, as now, she was being serious. ‘I feared as much,’ she said. ‘That’s what Hector said to Father when he came to call on us in Rye. You know. The week before he went away.’

  ‘You heard him say this?’

  ‘I was in the music room, next door to Father’s office, and the wall is a thin one. I could not help but hear their conversation. Someone in France or Holland was defrauding them, but they did not know how it was being done. Hector was going over to find out.’

  ‘Do you know where he was going? Was it to France?’

  ‘Yes, to Boulogne. He wanted to see someone called Vandamme. If Vandamme was not responsible, he said, he would bribe someone for passports and travel to Amsterdam, where he would call on another man called Staphorst. If it wasn’t Vandamme, it had to be Staphorst, he said. It sounded rather exciting, and not a little dangerous . . . Which, of course, it was,’ she finished soberly.

  How stupid we have been, thought Mrs Chaytor. The hours we have wasted, trying to persuade Faversham to confess, and prying into Grebell’s mind; and all the time, this girl has known what we needed to know.

  She was back in St Mary in the Marsh by late afternoon, and drove straight to the rectory. Hardcastle and Calpurnia were about to sit down to dinner, but the rector came out into the hall to greet her. ‘I shall not stay long,’ said Amelia. She related what Charlotte had said. The rector nodded. ‘I’ll write to Ricardo at once about Staphorst.’

  ‘We can trust him?’

  ‘He unravelled the ledger, and explained the fraud, when he did not need to do either of those things. Indeed, had he said nothing at all, we would be none the wiser. I think he is on the side of the angels.’

  ‘And this man Vandamme? Could Joshua contact some of his friends and ask around?’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ said the rector. ‘We know someone who goes in and out of France all the time. Remember?’

  ‘Peter. But will he talk to you?’

  Peter was the leader of a shadowy group of men known as the Twelve Apostles, confidential agents in government service whose secretive work often led them into France. The rector had met Peter just three times, and on two of those occasions Peter had been pointing a pistol at him.

  ‘He will,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He owes me a debt. Now I am calling it in.’

  THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT

  13th of September, 1797

  My dear Mr Ricardo,

  I am writing to you in haste concerning the matter we discussed last week. I recall your theory that the Staphorst bank in Amsterdam was likely to be involved. This has no
w been confirmed by a witness.

  Might I avail myself of your good offices once again, and prevail upon you to use your contact in Amsterdam to investigate Staphorst? I wish to know whether they have a connection with someone called Vandamme in Boulogne, and also whether there is any opportunity for someone at Staphorst to have committed the fraud.

  I am once again extremely grateful for any assistance you should choose to give.

  Yr very obedient servant

  REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE, JP

  After dinner, the rector walked down through the village to the Star. The common room was quiet that afternoon, empty save for a group of fishermen smoking and drinking gin in one corner. Bessie Luckhurst stood behind the counter, watching them. She brightened when she saw Hardcastle. ‘What’ll you have, reverend?’

  ‘Small beer, my dear.’ When she had brought the beer, he motioned her close and said quietly, ‘Do you know where Peter might be?’

  Her eyes were bright. ‘I am sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, reverend.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You’re a careful lass, Bessie, which is why he employs you. Tell Peter I need to see him, please. Without delay.’

  *

  Amelia Chaytor’s late husband had once said that he could always tell his wife’s mood by the music she played. When contemplative or thoughtful, she played Bach; when happy, she turned to Handel; Telemann was her choice when her mood became darker; and when strained or angry, she turned to Vivaldi. She was playing Vivaldi now, fast and furiously, music flowing from her fingers like a rip tide, while outside storm clouds gathered over Romney Marsh.

  She looked up as Lucy entered the drawing room, curtseying. ‘Mr Grebell Faversham to see you, ma’am.’

  ‘He is here? At this hour?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Shall I say you are not at home?’

  She took a deep breath. Both her body and mind were taut with tension. She was worried for Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, whom she saw every day and who still stubbornly refused to let her help them draw out their money; we must not be a bother to you was their constant refrain. She had written twice now to Coutts, and still not received a reply. And she was also full of premonitions. Something was coming, something momentous and shattering, after which life would never be quite the same.

  And now in the midst of everything else, here was Grebell Faversham, graceless and unconfident as ever, no doubt come to make inconsequential talk and waste another half hour of her life. She drew in another deep breath. Until the affairs of the two ladies were settled, she still needed Grebell’s goodwill.

  ‘No,’ she said glumly. ‘Show him in.’

  Slowly, almost hesitantly, Grebell entered the room and bowed. He had lost weight, she saw at once; his face looked thinner, and his blue brocade coat sagged a little at the shoulders. ‘Mr Faversham,’ she said, curving her lips into a smile. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Do sit down. Lucy will bring us some tea in a moment.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I will not stay for long, for the weather looks certain to turn.’ The young man sat down nervously, twisting his hands. ‘Mrs Chaytor, I called because there is something very important that I must say to you. But, I . . . It is difficult. I-I-I am not certain where to begin.’

  ‘Begin at the beginning,’ she said, still smiling a little. ‘That is the traditional way.’

  The young man swallowed. ‘Mrs Chaytor . . . you must have noticed by now that I am your very fervent admirer. Your deportment and manner, your grace and wit, your musical voice, your face, your eyes . . . I admire everything about you. You have all the virtues that I do not, and, and, I-I-I . . .’

  She sat frozen. He swallowed, mastering his traitorous tongue. ‘I love you,’ he said finally, and with that declaration his nerves passed and his voice softened. Now the words came clean and simple, straight from his tormented heart. ‘I have loved you from the moment I first saw you, at Magpie Court. I do not venture to hope that you could ever love me in return. I know am too poor a specimen of manhood, too weak and too foolish ever to live up to you. But that will not prevent me from adoring you, until the end of my days. And I . . . I had to tell you. For better or worse.’

  She sat still for a long time, hands clenched tightly, feeling faintly sick. Charlotte had been wrong; there was no silly little girl in Rye.

  She could cope with men like Lieutenant Stark. They were good-natured and thick-skinned, and one could rebuff them quickly and move on. But Grebell Faversham’s skin was almost painfully thin. He had a bright facade, good clothes, a handsome carriage; and almost nothing in the way of self-esteem.

  She could cut him cold, wound him, send him crawling away never to return; but that would be wanton cruelty. She chose her words with care.

  ‘I am honoured by your declaration,’ she said finally. ‘And I fear you are right to think that your love is not returned; but Mr Faversham, that is not because of any fault in yourself.

  ‘I loved once, with an intensity of feeling that consumed me. When my husband died, it nearly broke me. I will never fall in love again, partly because the memories of the love I lost are too strong, and partly because I do not think I can endure that kind of suffering a second time.

  ‘You are kind to tell me of your feelings, and I applaud your honesty. But your cause is a hopeless one. Find a woman who is worthy of you, and who can love you as you should be loved.’

  Outside, the wind was rising. The first raindrops thudded against the windowpanes. She could see the agony in his eyes as he rose to his feet. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I had no expectation that you could return my feelings. And it is kind of you to wish me well, but . . . you said it yourself. Lightning does not strike twice.’

  He smiled a little. ‘For once in my life, I have found something that I can stick to,’ he said. ‘My heart is fixed, Mrs Chaytor. If I must live the rest of my life in solitude, then so be it. My one remaining hope is that you will take comfort in knowing that, somewhere in the world, there is someone who loves you without reservation.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Do not be, I beg of you. To have known you at all is a privilege. To love you is an honour, and with that honour I am content. Farewell, Mrs Chaytor. Unless you expressly wish it, I shall not see you again.’

  17

  Matthew

  It was mid-September, and the nights were longer and cooler now. The comet had passed on, its cold light vanished into the blackness. A waning sickle moon shone above the faded sunset. Joshua Stemp rubbed his hands together and blew on them to keep them warm as he walked down the road from Dymchurch to New Romney.

  He had spent the day in Hythe, watching patiently for any sign of the gang, seeing nothing. Now, his other life called to him. The new moon was coming, and he, Jack Hoad, Murton, Luckhurst and some of the New Romney men were gathering that night at the Ship to talk over their next smuggling run. Hoad had met Finny Jack three days ago and settled on the 17th as the date; the meeting tonight was to plan the transport and storage of the cargoes once they were ashore.

  There were two men on the road up ahead, one of them pushing a handcart. The wheel of the cart squeaked a little. In the falling twilight the men were little more than shadows, but something about their size and the way they walked rang a bell in Stemp’s mind. I’ve seen these two before, he thought. The cautious instincts of a lifetime of crime asserted themselves; he dropped back a little, staring at the two shadows and racking his memory.

  He wondered at first if they too were heading for the Ship, but before they reached New Romney they turned off the high road and followed a dark track that led north and then west of the town, past the abandoned church at Hope. West of Hope they picked up another track heading south into the dark, deserted reaches of the southern Marsh. Silent as a spider, Stemp followed them.

  The stars glowed. Lamps showed yellow in New Romney to the north-east, and more distantly in the windows of Lydd three miles away, little flecks of gold in t
he night. On the horizon shone the beacon of Dungeness lighthouse. Directly ahead, all was blackness. But the men with the handcart clearly knew their way; they pressed on over the fields, the squeak of the rusty wheel carrying faintly to Stemp’s ears as he followed. Once they came to a sewer, a steep-sided drain crossed by a footbridge, the men ahead of him carried the handcart over the bridge and moved on.

  Suddenly the noise of the wheel stopped. A black silhouette lifted out of the ground ahead, jagged like a row of broken teeth; the wall of what had once been a church, abandoned and ruined in the wilderness of the Marsh. This was Midley. Centuries ago, Midley had been a thriving village full of life; but plague, poverty and marsh fever had long since driven its people away, and now only ghosts lived here.

  Cautiously, Stemp moved forward. He heard a murmur of voices, and saw the glimmer of a lantern. Touching the handle of his knife for reassurance, he crept on noiseless feet up to the base of the ruined wall, then slowly inched along it to the end. Crouching down, he peered into the interior of the church.

  The lantern stood on the ground. Its dim radiance showed him the two men with their backs bent, using iron bars to heave up flagstones from the floor of the ancient nave. Now he could see them clearly, he recognised them at once; they were two of the men who had been with Noakes and Fisk that night on the beach. Both were sailors, with blue tattoos on their hands and faces.

  ‘That’s good enough,’ said one of them. ‘Let’s start getting those boxes out.’

  ‘How many are we taking tonight?’ asked the second man. He had a soft, slurred accent from somewhere on the North Sea; German, perhaps, or Dutch.

  ‘Twelve, they said.’ The first man’s accent was pure Kent.

  ‘We’ll have to make three trips to the wagon, then. Them boxes are god-damned heavy.’