‘Yes. We are fortunate, are we not? We have never been turned out of our own homes, pursued, beaten, robbed of all we own. We are so lucky, to be allowed to live our own lives in tranquillity.’
‘Long may we continue to do so,’ said Amelia, but she thought about the menace now gathering its power on the far side of the Channel, and wondered how long that tranquillity could last.
*
Down on the beach the last boats emptied, the French crews hastening back across the Channel before daylight exposed them to British patrol vessels or their own coastal batteries. Stemp clapped Bertrand on the shoulder. ‘Go safely.’ A thought struck him. ‘Are you still working with Noakes and his crew?’
‘No. I have, what is it you say? Called it quits, after the last run. They paid well, but I do not like them. Also, that horrible dog. It pissed in my cabin, do you believe it? I cannot get rid of the smell.’
Stemp laughed. ‘With luck, dog and master won’t be around for much longer.’ If Cole and his men had done their jobs, Noakes might already be in custody. It was a pleasant thought. ‘I’m glad you gave it up, Bertie. You’re an honest man.’
‘There is no need to insult me,’ said the Frenchman.
‘Forgive me. I forgot for a moment who I was talking to. The leader of that gang, the fellow with the Puckle gun. Do you know anything about him?’
Bertrand shrugged. ‘He has authority, that is certain. The others, even Noakes, do what he wants with no questions. But he is not the chief. There is another, whose name they never mention. It is he who gives this man his orders.’
‘This other man. Is he French, do you think?’
‘I do not believe so. All that gang are English, or Dutch.’
‘Dutch,’ said Stemp, thinking of the sailor at Midley. ‘Bertie, do you know anything about a Dutch lugger that’s been seen around these parts? Two masts, broad beam, Rotterdam rig?’
‘Ah, you mean the Hoorn. She sails out of Flushing. Her skipper is a man called Sloterdyke. Sometimes he is a privateer, sometimes a smuggler.’
Stemp raised his eyebrows. ‘Armed, then.’
‘Four sixes and a long nine, I am told.’
‘That’s a lot of metal. What does she run?’
Bertrand spread his hands. ‘Who can say? The other Dutch ships carry gin and lace; I imagine she does the same. Tom, the tide is turning. I must go.’
Stemp clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Go safely,’ he said again. ‘You did a good night’s work tonight.’
‘It is so. Tomorrow, we go back to the wicked life,’ said Bertrand. He grinned at Stemp in the light of the dying torches, and turned to call orders to his crew.
*
Dawn broke pale over St Mary in the Marsh. The village lay silent, sleeping after the long night.
In his bedroom the rector stirred, hearing someone knocking hard and urgently at the door. He cursed whoever was doing it and hoped they would go away. The knock was repeated, and he pulled a pillow over his head.
Another knock: this time Mrs Kemp rapping on the bedroom door. ‘It’s Mr Cole to see you, reverend.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Cole! From the Customs!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Tell him I’ll be down directly.’ Muttering, the rector pulled on a heavy quilted dressing gown over his nightshirt and went downstairs. His shoulders and back ached, and the chill of the sea seemed to have settled in his bones.
Cole was waiting in the hall. ‘What is it?’ the rector asked.
‘The gold,’ said Cole. His face was pale with fatigue and anger. ‘It’s gone.’
19
The Run
The story was quickly told. Petchey and his men had been found, fettered with their own manacles and dumped by the roadside beyond Old Romney. The wagon that had carried the gold was tracked down soon after, abandoned along with its team near Midley church. Tracks showed that the kegs of gold had been loaded onto handcarts and taken away east across the shingle banks to the sea.
‘You had men patrolling the coast,’ said the rector sharply. ‘Did they see nothing?’
Cole’s shoulders slumped. ‘They clubbed two of my watchers, too, before they could give the alarm. None of the rest saw anything. They were distracted by the lights and fires when the refugees came ashore.’
‘And did no one see them? Or the ship?’
‘No,’ said Cole miserably. ‘In all the confusion on the beaches . . . they could have been anywhere. I am sorry, reverend.’
Serendipity had favoured the smugglers. They could not have foreseen the arrival of the refugees when they set the date for this run weeks ago, but they had used the situation very expertly to their advantage. The refugees were perfect cover. Who would notice one more ship, or a group of men around her? Who had the time to stop and see what they were doing? Doubtless, too, once the cargo was loaded, they had mingled with the departing flotilla and escaped unnoticed.
‘And your men? Are they hurt?’
‘They all have sore heads. Petchey is in a bad way. I’ve asked Dr Mackay to have a look at him as soon as he can. My God, Hardcastle. My career in the Customs is finished. My reputation is entirely ruined.’
‘Self-pity won’t bring it back,’ Hardcastle said sharply. ‘Get hold of yourself, man. Get some men out to trace the movements of that wagon, and find out where it came from. I assume the driver and guards escaped?’ Cole nodded. ‘Search for them. And contact the Stag and see if Captain Haddock saw anything.’
‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.’ The Customs man still looked utterly defeated. ‘I’m sorry, reverend. I have let you down.’
‘You have failed for the moment, yes. But there is still time to make good, if you act promptly.’
Cole departed, and the rector walked stiffly into his study and rang for coffee. He had tried to encourage Cole in order to stiffen his backbone, but in truth this was a disaster. Another £25,000 worth of gold had gone across the water, to swell the coffers of a French Republic hell-bent on the destruction of England.
Biddy knocked and entered with the coffee. ‘How are our guests?’ the rector asked.
‘All still sleeping, reverend.’
‘Good,’ said the rector. ‘Let them rest. I am going to dress. Ask Amos to go round to Mr Stemp’s house, present my apologies and say I need to see him as soon as is convenient.’
*
Stemp arrived at the rectory half an hour later. His eyes were red and his pocked cheeks were a little hollow. The rector took one look at him, unlocked the mahogany cabinet, took out a bottle of brandy and added a stiff tot to Stemp’s coffee. Almost as an afterthought, he did the same to his own.
‘Cole has failed,’ he said.
He told the story briefly, Stemp listening intently. ‘I can’t say as I’m surprised, reverend,’ the constable said at the end. He himself had outwitted Cole many times out on the Marsh; he knew how easy it was to do.
‘Sadly, neither am I.’ Hardcastle spread his hands. ‘However, what’s done is done. As soon as you have rested, I need you back in Hythe. Call up your special constables and take them with you. I want a watch set on the port, night and day. Assuming Noakes and Fisk joined the gold run, and assuming they crossed the Channel with the shipment as they did before, then they should return within the next few days. I want to know the moment they return to Hythe. And we must find Jean the courier. I am reliably informed that he will return on the 23rd, four days from now. Find him, follow him, learn who he meets and where he goes and what his real identity is.’
‘Yes, reverend. What do we do about Noakes and his boys, if we see them?’
‘Watch them, but keep clear of them for the moment. Customs are a weak reed, and we don’t have enough strength on our own to take these men. I am calling for reinforcements.’
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
19th of September, 1797
By express
My lord,
It is with deep regret that I inform you that
a further shipment of gold belonging, I believe, to the East Weald and Ashford Bank was taken out of the country yesterday evening. This happened despite the efforts of Mr Cole, the supervisor of Customs, who I am afraid has let us down badly.
I intend now to track down and arrest as many of the gold-running gang as possible, and hope that by doing so I shall also identify the men who killed Hector Munro and Sylvester Cotton. As these men are dangerous and well armed, I may need to summon assistance. I humbly request your lordship’s permission to approach the colonel of the East Kent Volunteers and ask that a file of men be made available.
I await your lordship’s consideration,
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
The rector sealed the letter, listening once more to the noises in the house. Most of the refugees had risen by now and were being fed in the dining room; he could hear Calpurnia’s voice in the drawing room, other voices too speaking in French, a low and quiet murmur in the background. It was unusual to hear the big house so full of life, and Hardcastle had to admit to himself that the sound was not unpleasant.
He laid the letter to one side and was about to ring the bell when there came a soft knock at the door. ‘Enter,’ he said.
The door opened and the priest he had assisted last night entered the room, walking slowly, still looking pale and tired. His arm was freshly bandaged, and another white bandage covered the top and side of his head. In place of his blood-soaked cassock he wore one of Hardcastle’s own dressing gowns. He pressed his hands together at his breast. ‘Forgive me for not bowing,’ he said gravely in accented English, ‘but my head still gives me a little pain. I am the Abbé de Bernay.’
‘And I am the Reverend Hardcastle,’ said the rector. ‘Do sit down, sir, please. Are you being looked after? I fear I am a poor host, but I have had pressing business this morning.’
‘Your servants could not be more kind, nor your sister.’ The priest smiled. ‘She has been entertaining me by reading extracts from her latest book.’
‘I am so sorry to hear it. I shall ask her to stop.’
Bernay smiled again. ‘In fact, her work is not without merit. The Gothic is an interesting genre. It tells us a great deal about the workings of the mind, what the Germans refer to as psychologia. And I am delighted to see that, in The Cardinal’s Jewels, Mrs Vane has set out to expose the corruption that lurks in the dark heart of my church.’
Hardcastle blinked. ‘She has?’
‘Be assured of it. She writes about abuses of power that I myself have witnessed at first hand. Sir, I came here to thank you for taking us in, you and all your people. We shall be forever in your debt.’
The rector shook his head. ‘No thanks are necessary. You came to us in need and we offered you charity.’
‘You are, like myself, a man of God; that is how you see the world,’ said Bernay. ‘But I am curious about the smugglers who brought us across the water, refusing any payment for doing so. I detected little in the way of godliness among them, yet they too offered us charity.’
‘The smugglers on both sides of the sea have a passionate hatred of authority,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and they saw you as authority’s victims. Helping you was an act of rebellion.’
‘You are their priest, and also a justice, or so I understand. Do they not resent your authority?’
‘I apply it with a light hand,’ said the rector. ‘Also, they know that I myself am no friend of authority. I have a long-standing feud with my archbishop, and my appointment to this living constitutes a form of internal exile. Yours is not the only Church with a dark heart.’
Bernay smiled. He had a pale, narrow, intelligent face with sombre dark eyes. ‘You speak English very well, sir,’ Hardcastle said. ‘May I ask where you learned it?’
‘I taught theology and science for a time at one of the Irish colleges in Paris; hence my interest in psychologia. It became useful to learn the language.’
‘I see . . . How do you come to be here? I thought all priests fled France when the Terror began, four years ago.’
‘When the Terror ended, the Directory offered assurances that freedom of religion would be tolerated. Priests were welcome once more, so long as they abided by the law and did not preach against the Republic. I returned to minister to my flock. Now the Directory claims the Church supported the royalists, and has turned against us once more. I am one of ten priests who fled north, pursued by dragoons. I am the only one who survived.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Hardcastle quietly.
‘So, truly, am I. I ask myself why I should live when others died, and find no answer. One of the many tragedies of death is how it makes the living feel guilty, just for being alive.’
‘But you are alive, and there are others living who now need you,’ said the rector. ‘You were chosen to survive for a reason, sir. I am sure of it.’
Bernay did not answer. The subject of conversation needed to be changed before the other man’s bitterness overwhelmed him. On the spur of the moment, Hardcastle said, ‘You are clearly a learned man, sir. You know about psychologia, and you are curious about the mind and the soul. Therefore, may I ask you a question? It concerns a problem I am trying to solve.’
‘I will answer if I can,’ said Bernay.
‘What prompts a man to steal? I do not mean little thefts, taking bread to feed one’s family, or even idle pilfering for the sport of it. Why would a man steal a vast sum, larger than the fortunes of many who count themselves wealthy? What would lead a man to behave in such a way?’
He saw a spark come into the priest’s eyes. His instinct had been a good one; an abstract problem to discuss gave him respite for a few minutes from the tragedy he was living through. Bernay leaned forward a little. ‘I would ask first: are you certain it is a man?’
Hardcastle considered this. ‘It is a fair question. In the case I am thinking of, there are not many women who would have the opportunity to steal. But there are several men who might have done so.’
‘I see. As to motive; well, you mentioned sport. For some, the bigger the prize, the more enjoyable the game. They steal because they can. Another explanation is that the money is only a means to an end. The thief has some design in mind, some purpose for which he intends to use the money. Given that a large sum is involved, this scheme must be quite large and complex. Stealing on this scale is not a whim. Your thief will have planned this operation carefully, and probably over some length of time.’
‘He has also killed two men, in order to conceal the theft and his own identity.’
‘That, for me, is conclusive. Men who steal for sport rarely kill, unless they are cornered and there is no way of escape. Your criminal has grand ambitions, and will let nothing and no one stand in his way. He may indeed feel that his ambition is a righteous one, and the cause itself justifies murder. Thus, the theft is only a part of some much larger scheme. That is what my study of psychologia would tell me.’ The pale face regarded him. ‘Do you know who the criminal might be?’
‘Not yet. But I am beginning to understand who it might be,’ said Hardcastle.
THOMAS COUTTS & CO., THE STRAND, LONDON
16th of September, 1797
Mrs Chaytor,
Please forgive the delay in replying to your letter to Mr Coutts of the 2nd inst., and your subsequent communications. I have to inform you that Mr Coutts is indisposed at the moment, which prevents him from replying in person. I have however taken note of the content of your letters, and will attend to the matter as soon as my other duties permit. This is a very busy time for the bank, so I fear it may some while yet before we can respond to you fully. I trust you will understand.
Yr very obedient serv’t
JAMES HORNBY
SENIOR CLERK
SANDY HOUSE, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
20th of September, 1797
By express
Mr Hornby,
I am in receipt of your letter of the 16th inst., and am replying
by return of post. Your reply is not acceptable to me. I asked Mr Coutts to attend to this matter urgently. The fact that your master is indisposed does not excuse his clerks from carrying out their duties.
‘No, ma petite. Sealing wax is not good to eat. Put it back on the desk, there’s a good girl.’
I require you to take action now. If you do not, I shall inform Mr Coutts of your failure to attend to my express wish. I shall also write to my dear friend Lord Grenville, the Foreign Secretary, who doubtless will make his own views plain to Mr Coutts.
I expect a full response from you in the very near future.
Faithfully,
MRS AMELIA CHAYTOR
Retrieving the sealing wax, Mrs Chaytor sealed the letter and handed it to Lucy, who took it away to the waiting messenger. ‘What am I to do with you?’ she demanded in French of the little girl sitting on her lap. ‘You are a nuisance and a pest.’
‘I am not a pest,’ said the girl.
‘Indeed you most certainly are.’ Amelia held the girl up and kissed her on the forehead. She, her parents and younger sister were one of three families billeted at Sandy House. The child had taken to Mrs Chaytor almost at once, and for the last two days had followed her around the house like a small, cheerful shadow.
‘May I have a sweetie?’ asked the child.
‘What makes you think you deserve a sweetie?’
‘I am a good girl.’
‘But you are not a good girl. Indeed, we have already established that you are a pest.’
The small, serious face considered this. ‘But I am a good pest,’ the child announced.
The Body in the Boat Page 26