The flagstones, cast aside, revealed a stair leading down to the crypt. The two men went down the stair and disappeared. Stemp sat thinking for a moment. He knew all about the Midley crypt – every smuggler did – but it was rarely used. The room was damp, and perishable goods like silk and lace in particular suffered if kept there for very long. He wondered what these men might have stored in this inhospitable place.
He did not have to wait long to find out. Puffing, the two sailors climbed out of the crypt again, carrying between them a long wooden box. Stemp stiffened; the box was identical to the coffin he had seen in Noakes’s boat two months before. The sailors loaded the box onto the handcart, then went below and returned with a second; then a third, and a fourth.
‘That’s enough for this load,’ said the Englishman, picking up the lantern. ‘Come on.’
Stemp sat in darkness, listening to the squeaking of the wheel fading slowly away. The crescent moon glowed yellow in the deep blue starlight. That the men would return was certain; what was not clear was how long they would be gone. He guessed they were using the handcart to ferry the boxes to a wagon waiting nearby, probably on the road that led from Lydd up to Old Romney. If that was where the wagon was parked, then he had only a few minutes before the two sailors returned for their second load.
Quickly, he rose from his hiding place behind the wall and trotted across the nave to the stair. The smell of damp earth and stone rose from the dark hole in the church floor. Carefully, Stemp descended into the blackness of the crypt. He reached out and touched stone walls oozing water. Once his hand brushed across a row of hard, curved bars; the ribcage of a skeleton, embedded in the wall.
The toe of his boot struck something hard. He bent and groped in the blackness and found another of the long wooden coffins. Another beyond it, and another; God, there was no end of them. He counted twenty at least, and stopped in horror, the hair rising on the back of his neck. What if they were coffins? What if all these boxes contained the victims of some nameless massacre?
Gasping a little, Stemp stooped over the nearest box and pulled out his knife. Wedging it between the coffin lid and the box, he forced the blade upward. Nothing happened; the lid remained firmly nailed down. Clenching his teeth, Stemp tried again. This time the nails shifted a little. Straining, sweat breaking out on his forehead, Stemp continued to heave, and finally the nails yielded with a screech of protesting metal, the lid of the box springing up so suddenly that he nearly lost his footing.
A reeking stench rose from the box in the darkness, sickly and sweet, heady and clogging his nostrils and throat so that he nearly gagged. It was not, thankfully, the smell of a decomposing body. Covering his mouth and nose, Stemp bent over the box. It was lined with lead to keep out damp and corruption, and was filled with cloth bags containing small lumpy objects. Stemp slit one of the bags open and drew out something flat and solid covered in a leafy wrapping. The stink in his nostrils increased, and his head swam a little.
‘Opium,’ he said aloud.
Thin and ominous, the squeak of the handcart wheel came to his ears.
Instantly, he slammed down the lid of the coffin and then stamped on it hard to drive the nails back into the wood. He could do no more; he had to hope that the theft would not be discovered until daybreak. Back past the skeleton he ran, up the stairs to the surface of the nave and then the shelter of the wall. Here he slid down onto the grass, trying to control his breathing. Lantern light glowed in the nave once more, and the squeaking stopped.
‘Pah!’ said the Englishman. ‘Smell that? The place stinks of poppy.’
‘How did that happen?’ asked the other.
Stemp held his breath.
‘Maybe one of the boxes got damaged and the lid came loose. Hope we didn’t do it when we handled them, or the chief will have our guts. Come on, Willy, let’s not hang about. We need to get that wagon loaded sharp, if we’re to be away by midnight.’
Silent under the waning moon, Joshua Stemp slipped away over the empty Marsh towards St Mary, and home.
Reverend,
He’ll meet you at St Mary’s Bay this evening, at sunset. Best you go alone.
B.
The drawing room door was open. He could hear Calpurnia’s voice, declaiming passages from her book to the wolfhound.
‘I defy you, Cardinal Principio! I defy you, I say! You will not lay one hand on me, or on my family’s jewels!’
‘Think you so? You are alone in my palace, surrounded by my minions. I have but to speak one word, and they will drag you down to my dungeons, where, aided by the thumbscrew and the rack, you will quickly divulge all that you know. I shall have your jewels in my hand, soon enough!’
‘Hah! Hah, I say! Do you not know that I am the finest swordsman in all of Burgundy? Your minions will fall before my sword like ripe corn before the sickle’s blade. Bring them on, Cardinal; if you dare!’
The rector rang the bell on his desk. ‘Biddy,’ he said to the maidservant when she appeared, ‘will you please ask Mrs Vane if you may close the door to her room? I fear her deathless prose is playing havoc with my concentration. How Rodolpho endures it all is a mystery greater than anything to be found in her stories.’
‘I shall, reverend,’ said Biddy, smiling. ‘Also, Mr Stemp is here to see you.’
‘Ah, Joshua,’ said the rector as Stemp entered the room. ‘Any progress to report?’
‘Not yet, reverend. But I had a rather strange adventure last night.’ He related his travels in the dark, and then pulled out the opium cake wrapped in its leaves and laid it on the desk. ‘I reckon all the coffins are full of these. Noakes and that gang are taking gold out of the country, and bringing opium in.’
The rector frowned. ‘You are certain it’s the same gang?’
‘I’m positive those two were with Noakes on the beach, reverend.’
‘Of course, they might be working for two different people,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Taking out gold for one paymaster, bringing in opium for another.’ He turned the cake over in his hand. ‘Opium is a curious thing to smuggle, though. Have you heard of this before?’
Stemp shook his head. ‘Could be Noakes is also running opium on his own. Manningham at the Swan says someone is selling the stuff; raw cake, like this, not laudanum. And the last few times I’ve seen Noakes, I’d swear he’d been taking something himself. He didn’t look natural, not even for Noakes.’
The rector frowned. His head was still full of Bessie’s message, and the forthcoming meeting with Peter. ‘Very well,’ he said, handing the cake back to Stemp. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for those two sailors, and tell your friends to look out for them also. If you spot them again, follow them. They might lead us to Noakes.’
*
‘Turkish,’ observed Mrs Chaytor, looking at the cake lying on her drawing room table. She unwrapped the brown leaves carefully, exposing a flat oval cake with a hard, dark grey crust.
‘I suspect this is of rather fine quality. May I keep it, Joshua?’
‘I’d be grateful if you would, ma’am. I’m not happy about having it at home, where my girls might find it.’
‘Quite right too. There is enough opium here to kill quite a number of people, if ingested freely.’ She too was frowning. ‘What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am. But I’m not at all sure I like it.’
‘What is wrong, Yorkshire Tom? Would you not run opium yourself?’
‘’Course I would, ma’am, without a second’s thought, if there was profit in it. It’s Noakes and his gang that concern me. I don’t like anything those men touch.’ Stemp repeated what Manningham had told him. ‘There’s something wicked behind all this, I’m sure of it.’
‘And why did you bring it to me?’
‘Reverend Hardcastle didn’t think much of it. He’s concentrating on the gold.’ Stemp tapped the opium cake. ‘But the same men are handling both the gold and the opium. What if they are connected in some way?’
‘W
hat indeed,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘As you said before, Joshua, these might be two parts of the same story.’
When Stemp had gone, she wrapped the opium cake in its leaves once more and then called for her gig and her groom.
*
A few minutes later she was away, driving fast through the windy morning to New Romney. It was market day, the town’s long street busy with people, and she slowed Asia and proceeded at a more sedate pace to Dr Mackay’s house. Here she stepped down, handing the reins over to the groom, and knocked at the door. A servant showed her at once into the doctor’s office.
‘It is a pleasure to welcome you, ma’am,’ said Mackay. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘I need your professional opinion on this,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
She placed the opium cake on the doctor’s desk and began to unwrap it. ‘I believe this comes from Smyrna,’ she said.
‘Pardon me, ma’am, but how do you know?’
‘By the colour, and the size of the cakes. Constantinople opium is more red in colour. Perhaps we should test this, to be certain.’
Mackay went to his instrument table and returned with a scalpel. Carefully, he cut away one side of the cake. Beneath the grey outer crust the opium was deep black and glistening, the consistency of pitch. The smell in the room was very strong.
‘Certainly Smyrna,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
‘Very fine quality,’ said the doctor. ‘This should fetch a premium price when it reaches London.’
‘Oh? How much, do you think?’
‘The average price is thirty shillings per pound weight; including customs duty, of course. But the price varies according to quality.’
Mrs Chaytor nodded. ‘I am always surprised to find how expensive opium is. I understand it is quite easy to produce, in the right climate.’
‘But it is much in demand, ma’am, and that pushes up the price. Personally, I wish it were more expensive still. I am of the belief that opium is already too widely available. Some in my profession prescribe laudanum and other opiates for virtually any illness, regardless of whether it will be efficacious or not. If the drug were more costly, they might think again.’
‘You once prescribed laudanum for me,’ Mrs Chaytor pointed out. ‘For headaches.’
‘Indeed I did. For headaches, back pain, toothache and disorders of the bowel, laudanum is a sovereign remedy. But I might point out that I gave you a very weak solution only; and had you returned the next week and asked for more, I might well have refused you. As I am sure you know, Mrs Chaytor, opium is very effective at quelling pain, but it is also powerfully addictive. Once it gets its hooks into you, it is very, very hard to throw it off. I have seen many cases where the patient is cured of the initial ailment, but is then left with something far worse: a lifetime of dependence on the drug.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I have seen such cases too. We may have another problem on our hands. According to Mr Stemp, someone is selling opium, just like this, here on the Marsh.’
‘Raw opium?’ Mackay stared at her in horror. ‘Ma’am, opium is a very powerful drug, which should only be handled by those qualified in the medical profession. Raw opium is poison.’
‘So people who try to make their own pills or potions, and are ignorant of opium’s properties, will be putting themselves in danger.’
‘Very much so. We will see deaths from this. I am quite certain of it.’
‘And deaths from more than one cause, I suspect. Mr Stemp also thinks some of the criminal gangs may be using opium themselves, and if that is so then we are all in danger. I have seen in Rome what happens when opium unbalances the criminal mind.’
They looked at each other for a few moments. ‘Very well,’ said Mrs Chaytor finally. ‘We have established the nature of the threat. But why might anyone want to smuggle the drug?’
‘For the same reason they would smuggle anything: to avoid paying taxes. The import duty on opium is 45 per cent.’
‘And is there enough demand to make smuggling the drug worthwhile?’
‘I know that more and more doctors are using it, yes. Beyond that, I fear I know very little about the trade itself.’
‘I have a friend who imports opium. He should be able to tell us more. Keep this cake safe and secure, doctor, if you will. I may well call on you again. There is something very wrong about this affair, and I intend to find out what it is.’
SANDY HOUSE, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
16th of September, 1797
My dear Willie,
I trust this letter finds you well, and Anne also. I hear many rumours about a forthcoming peace with France, and I venture to hope that they are true. I long for the day when both nations can at last lay down their arms and resume their former amity. And when that day comes, then you, my friend, will be deserving of the highest honour and praise. I know full well how hard you have worked to bring this peace about.
I am writing to you now, though, not as Foreign Secretary but in your other role as a director of the Levant Company. It would appear that someone among our local free traders has begun smuggling opium into the country. But I am puzzled as to why. Can the trade possibly be lucrative enough to make smuggling worthwhile? Or is there some ulterior motive at work here, something that I cannot fathom?
The opium comes from Smyrna, and is brought into the country in large wooden boxes rather like coffins; beyond that, we know nothing. If there is anything you can tell me about the opium trade that would help me to understand further, then I would be most grateful.
Please convey my fond affection to Anne, and I remain your most faithful friend,
AMELIA
Orange in the haze, the sun sank down over the distant hills of Kent. On Romney Marsh, the light flowed level over the fields, lighting the grass-covered dunes that fringed the sea and glistening off the incoming tide. Far away to the east, the cliffs of the French coast shone a rusty orange, reflecting the sunset glow.
A man waited in the shadow of the dunes, a stocky, muscular man in a dark, nondescript coat and breeches and heavy boots. When he heard footsteps on the sand, his hand moved to the pistol at his belt, but he relaxed a little when he saw the rector coming towards him.
‘Good evening, Matthew,’ said the rector. ‘Where is Peter?’
‘Over there.’ The man who called himself Matthew motioned with his hand in the direction of France. ‘I got the message and came instead. This had better be good. There’s a storm of shit falling on us already, and we don’t have time to run errands for some damn’ fool clergyman.’
His leader, Peter, liked and respected Hardcastle. Matthew himself, the rector knew, was more ambivalent. ‘Then I shall detain you as briefly as possible,’ he said. ‘Do you know of a man called Vandamme, in Boulogne?’
‘Yes.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Bit of everything. He’s a banker, but he’s also a broker for pretty much any commodity you care to name.’
‘Does he work with the smugglers?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And does he ever handle gold?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Matthew after a moment. ‘Why do you ask about Vandamme?’
‘Do you know of a courier named Jean who crosses over to France from time to time?’
The other man shifted a little. His blunt-featured face hardened. ‘What do you know about Jean?’
‘He smuggles gold into France. Did you know that?’
Matthew shifted again. ‘Jean works for us,’ he said. ‘Some of the time, anyway. We use him as an occasional courier, for routine messages only; the important stuff we carry ourselves, of course. He lets us know when he’s going to France, and if we have messages to deliver, he carries them. Yes, he’s probably also a smuggler, and we know he takes a few guineas with him on each trip and sells them illegally to Vandamme. We look the other way. It’s not going to break the Bank of England, and Jean is useful to us.’
‘Jean does not carry the gold,’ said the re
ctor. ‘He crosses the Channel before each run and negotiates the deal. Then he sends word back to England, and the rest of the gang bring the gold over. And it is not a few guineas. During the past ten months, this gang have shipped more than £90,000 worth of gold to France. And they are planning to send still more.’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Matthew.
‘Quite,’ said Hardcastle. ‘We think they then send the gold to Amsterdam, where they sell it. The profit from the sale makes its way back to England by devious routes.’
Matthew shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That gold never goes to Amsterdam.’
‘Oh? Then where?’
‘It goes straight to the French national treasury in Paris. Your smugglers are running gold directly to the enemy.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Among other things, Vandamme is also a government-appointed agent. Buying gold from smugglers is one of the things he does. He sends the gold to Paris, and gets a reward for doing so. Up until now it’s been individual smugglers running a few guineas here and there, whatever they can carry in their pockets. But £90,000 . . . Jesus, that would keep an army in the field for months. No wonder we’re losing the bloody war.’
‘Tell me more about Vandamme,’ said the rector.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Someone is stealing from the smugglers, taking profits from the sale of the gold. Could Vandamme be that man?’
There was a thoughtful pause. ‘It could, of course,’ said Matthew. ‘Anything is possible in this foul and treacherous world. But I’m doubtful. Smuggling is a business built on trust. You don’t do business with people you can’t trust absolutely.’
The rector remembered Stemp making exactly this point, after Munro was killed. ‘If it became known that Vandamme was embezzling from a client,’ Matthew went on, ‘then other people will start to wonder about him. Some might find out they had been defrauded, too, or imagine they had, and Vandamme would be found floating face down in Boulogne harbour.’
The Body in the Boat Page 24