Yes, Mrs Redcliffe had gone away, the frightened caretaker confirmed; no, he did not know where, or for how long. It was clear that he knew nothing.
Captain Austen went on to raid the warehouse belonging to Mrs Redcliffe’s shipping business, and found it empty and echoing, its cargoes long since carried away. Two small coasters moored in the haven were searched as well. Nothing was found. By now word had got out that there were redcoats in town, and the streets of Hythe were turning hostile. Austen withdrew his men, pursued by barking dogs and a shower of bottles flung from the upper windows of houses.
‘There’s no sign at the warehouse that she departed in haste,’ said Austen, reporting to the rector. ‘Everything is clean and orderly. I’d say she’s been preparing for some time.’
‘She’s been at least one step ahead of us all the way,’ said the rector. ‘Very well. She needs to keep in touch with Sloterdyke and the Hoorn, so she won’t go very far from the coast. Beat the hills behind Saltwood and Lympne; if you find nothing, continue to work your way west.’
‘That’s broken country,’ warned Austen. ‘There could be a hundred hiding places there, and while we are searching one, she will be moving on to the next.’
‘I know.’
*
That night Amelia Chaytor slept little, and she rose early, tingling with nerves. She made her usual breakfast on strong, sweet coffee and went out for a walk, hoping the exercise might calm her. But the day was bright and cool and windy and the sea was running high; the rush of wind and bitter taste of salt in the air only heightened her senses. She returned home and attacked her harpsichord, playing with a violence that rattled the drawing room windows and made the younger maidservant cover her ears and scurry into the kitchen.
So engrossed was she in the music that she did not hear the gig arriving outside the door. Only at Lucy’s knock did she lift her fingers from the keyboard and look up.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Grebell Faversham to see you, ma’am.’
Amelia slammed her fingers down onto the keyboard again with a clash of tortured strings. ‘That simpering nitwit is the last person in the world I want to see.’
‘I’ll tell him you’re not at home, ma’am,’ said Lucy, starting to withdraw.
‘No, wait.’ Amelia held up a hand. It was possible, just possible, that Grebell had come to tell her something useful, something that might help in the search. ‘Show him in, please, Lucy.’
The young man who entered her drawing room looked like death. His face was white and his eyes, normally so prominent, were sunken and red. For God’s sake, she thought irritably, what is he doing here? Don’t tell me he has come to pour out his heart again. Did he not hear me, when last we spoke in Rye?
‘Sit down, sir,’ she said. She did not offer refreshment. ‘What brings you here? Are there further problems at the bank?’
‘I fear I do not know. Mr Martin made it clear, the day he arrived, that my services were no longer required. He has appointed his own manager in my place.’
That was hardly the most surprising news. ‘Then what is your business here, Mr Faversham?’
‘I have come to beg your forgiveness. I know I broke my word to you, and it is tearing me apart. I cannot bear it that you should be angry with me. Please tell me there is some way that I can make things right, and . . . and earn your esteem once more.’
She stared at him. She saw a pathetic, tiresome young man, gazing at her with the eyes of a puppy begging for affection. A few simple words would probably be enough to reassure him and send him away. But she was already nerve-sick, and there was no room in her heart for compassion. She spoke coldly.
‘You promised that you would not importune me,’ she said.
‘I . . . I have no wish to do so. I only desire that you should not think ill of me. Tell me that you forgive me and I promise you, I will go away and never see you again. I will leave your life forever. Only, spare me a few words of comfort.’
She stared at him, her blue eyes unforgiving. ‘But I do think ill of you, Mr Faversham. You promised to help my friends, and then you abandoned them. You were the manager of the bank; the responsibility was yours. You could have overriden your father’s orders and made an exception for Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper. At the very least, you could have warned us the day the run began. But no. You lacked the courage to stand up to your father and do what you promised, solemnly and faithfully, to do for me and my friends.’
She saw the despair in his eyes, but hardened her heart. ‘You came to me seeking forgiveness. You do not have it. Now, please leave me alone.’
She watched him rise and walk slowly out of the room. She heard the front door close behind him.
‘Damn,’ she said, and once again slammed her hand down onto the keys with a force that jarred her fingers and sent jangling, discordant notes echoing for a long time in the room.
*
At midnight on the 3rd of October, Joshua Stemp walked into the ruined nave of Blackmanstone church carrying a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. A figure wrapped in a cloak waited for him, hat pulled down over its face.
‘God damn,’ said Stemp. ‘I know you. You were the one with that blasted Puckle gun. Noakes claimed you didn’t exist.’
The figure swept off her hat and bowed. ‘That was Noakes’s feeble attempt at humour. The man you were looking for was not a man. Well met, Yorkshire Tom.’
‘Miss Fanscombe.’
‘Let’s stick to our Marsh names. I am the Rider.’
‘Are you now?’ Stemp surveyed her. ‘Would you really have shot me?’
‘You’ll never know,’ said the Rider cheerfully.
‘All right, enough games. Where can we find your chief?’
‘I can’t tell you, not yet. She still changes locations every night, and she doesn’t tell us where we are going until we get there. I’m trying to work out if there is a pattern.’
‘Tell us some of the places you have been, and we’ll set a watch in case she decides to return.’
‘We’ve been upcountry the last couple of nights, a hut in the wood near Monks Horton and another on the hill above Postling. But we were down on the Marsh before that, at Burmarsh and then a barn near Newchurch.’
‘So she is sticking close to Hythe.’
‘Yes, for the moment. She may be waiting for the next opium run, but I think she is also staying in touch with her own contacts upcountry. She has yet to sell the opium from the last run.’
‘And where is that opium?’ asked Stemp.
‘I don’t know. She moved everything out of Midley, but where it went after that, she didn’t tell me. I know some of the boys were out for several nights, shifting it in small batches, but that’s all.’
‘Come along now, Rider. You said you were her confidante.’
‘I also said she is becoming more secretive. She trusts no one now, not even me. She barely sleeps, even with the laudanum. I think she is starting to break.’
‘Well, your job is to help us find her before she does.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ the Rider snapped. ‘I’m the one taking the risks here, remember?’
‘All right, keep your wig on. Can you tell me one thing I don’t understand? Back at the end of July I found Noakes bringing in a single chest of opium in a boat. But I found twenty boxes at Midley, maybe more. Surely they didn’t bring it in one box at a time?’
‘No. What you saw was the first run, an essay. We brought in one box to see if we could ship it to London and sell it easily. When that worked, we knew we had a system. Then Sloterdyke started running in tons of the stuff.’
Stemp nodded. ‘I’m glad that’s sorted,’ he said. ‘I don’t like mysteries. When do we meet again?’
‘I need time to work out what she is doing. Give me until Saturday. I’ll know something more definite by then.’
*
Two more days passed. The searchers made their weary way across the hills
and marsh, battered by the incessant wind. Each evening Austen and Cole and Juddery rode back to St Mary to report. Nothing.
‘Be patient,’ said Hardcastle. ‘She cannot hide forever.’ He thought that Miss Fanscombe was probably right; Martha Redcliffe could not go too far away from the Marsh, not with a full shipment of opium waiting to be sold and another on the way. I will give Mrs Redcliffe this, he thought, she is bloody persistent.
But then, so am I.
On Friday afternoon, restless and worried, the rector called on Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper. They were, they assured him, much improved, the worry and strain of the last month entirely forgotten; they were their old selves again. But Miss Roper’s eyes were no longer as bright as they had been, and the tremor was still there in her hand. He realised, with some pain, that it would probably never go away.
He returned to the rectory an hour later to find Cole waiting in the hall. The Customs man’s face was sharp with excitement. ‘We’ve found the opium, reverend. In a barn on Oxney. There’s at least fifty boxes there. Two tons, probably more.’
It wasn’t gold; but it might be enough to restore Cole’s battered reputation within his service. And two tons of opium had been removed from the market, and could do no more damage. ‘Well done,’ the rector said warmly.
‘I intend to bring the opium to New Romney, reverend. May I have your permission to use the gaol as a storehouse? It’s the most secure building in the town.’
The rector paused. Customs had a bonded warehouse in Rye, which would be more secure still; but Rye had its own Collector of Customs who, if the opium came into his jurisdiction, would probably try to claim the credit for its seizure. Cole deserved a chance to regain some credit of his own. Reluctantly, he said, ‘Very well, but for a few days only. I’ll swear in some special constables to help you guard the building until the East Kent Volunteers arrive.’
‘My men can manage, sir.’
‘Don’t be a fool. When Mrs Redcliffe learns you have seized the opium, she will come after it with force. You will need all the men you can muster.’
*
Hardcastle set out for New Romney the following morning, but had driven only half a mile when the dog cart, battered by two months of long journeys, lurched sideways with a crack and then sagged down towards the ground. Spilled from his seat, the rector climbed to his feet and then limped around, inspecting the damage. One spring had broken, and when the bodywork crashed down it had snapped the axle as well. Muttering some very unclerical language, he unharnessed the horse and rode back to the village, gave orders for the collection and repair of the dog cart and then rode the two miles to New Romney.
It was Saturday, market day, and the long street was busy as usual. All eyes were on the column of wagons drawn up outside the gaol, and the long boxes that Cole and his men were unloading and carrying inside. Armed Customs officers were already crouching in the upper windows. The rector walked inside and found Cole directing his men as they stacked the boxes in the cells.
‘We’ve got the lot, reverend. Fifty-two boxes, more than two tons. This is an entire shipload.’
‘They must have run this in at the same time as they took away the gold,’ said the rector, thinking of that chaotic night when the French refugees arrived. ‘Well, we’ve stymied them now. And if the Stag can track down the Hoorn and end her career, we might just break up the entire operation. Well done again, Cole.’
‘Thank you, reverend.’ The rector walked next door to the town hall, where four reasonably reliable men were waiting. They were fishermen and smugglers, but they were also friends of Joshua Stemp; they would obey his orders, up to a point. He swore them in as constables, and told them what was wanted. ‘These men are no ordinary free traders. They are violent killers, who have murdered several people already. They’ve also been helping to arm our country’s enemies against us.’
‘Are you talking about Noakes, reverend?’ demanded one of the fishermen.
‘I am.’
‘Say no more. I hate that bastard.’
‘And his dog,’ said another man. The rest nodded.
‘Good. Then charge your weapons and go next door. You’ll take orders from Mr Cole.’ He smiled at them. ‘It won’t be for very long, I promise.’
Out in the street Hardcastle met Ebenezer and Florian Tydde hurrying towards him, the older brother with a pistol and the younger with a heavy cudgel. Ebenezer waved towards the town hall. ‘Is this to do with Mr Munro, reverend?’
It was hard to tell what rumours were flying around the town, but Hardcastle nodded. ‘We’d like to help, if we may,’ said Ebenezer. ‘Seeing how it was us that found him. We feel responsible, like.’
‘If we can help take the men who killed him, that would be a good thing,’ said Florian seriously. ‘Mother would sleep easier too.’
The rector swore them in, and sent them to join Cole. He watched the busy street, full of people, conscious of the staring eyes. Any one of them could be a watcher for Martha Redcliffe. Word was probably already on its way to her. And she would not take this defeat lightly. Sooner or later, probably sooner, she would make her response.
‘I wish that blasted girl would get on with it,’ he muttered. Stemp was due to meet Miss Fanscombe again that night. He became aware of someone at his elbow.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but are you Reverend Hardcastle? From St Mary in the Marsh?’
‘I am.’
‘I thought I recognised you, reverend. I’m from Mr Dobbs in Rye. He sends this letter to you, urgent. I was on my way to St Mary, but then I saw you in the street.’
‘Thank you.’ The rector reached into his pocket for money for the messenger and then broke the seal and read. Standing in the middle of the bustling street, he felt the blood leave his face.
‘Oh, dear God,’ he said quietly.
*
‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Chaytor. She had risen to greet him; he saw how tense she was, and the lines at the corners of her eyes. ‘Is it Eliza?’
He shook his head. ‘I have had a message from Dobbs, the magistrate in Rye. Grebell Faversham was found dead yesterday evening. He had been shot.’
She stood motionless for several seconds before she found her voice. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she said, sinking slowly into a chair.
‘One of the household grooms heard a gunshot. They found Grebell in the stables soon after. He was already unconscious, and died a few minutes later.’
Hardcastle knelt, taking her hands in his. ‘Amelia, I am so sorry. This was not a murder. It seems quite clear that Grebell took his own life.’
‘I see,’ she said. Her face was white, her eyes a deep and vivid blue as the shock began to take hold.
‘This was enclosed in Dobbs’s letter,’ said the rector. ‘It was found in his room. It is addressed to you.’
Hardcastle handed over the single sheet of folded paper. She took it with numb hands. ‘Do you wish me to remain while you read it?’ he asked.
‘Thank you, but no. I should quite like to be alone. Do you mind?’
He bowed and left the room, pausing for a quick word with Lucy in the hall. Mrs Chaytor waited until she heard the front door close behind him, and then broke the seal. The letter contained a single, shaky line of writing.
I have no wish to live in a world where you despise me.
23
Blackmanstone
That Saturday night, Joshua Stemp waited at Blackmanstone for more than an hour. There was no sign of the Rider.
He reported her non-appearance to the rector on Sunday morning. ‘I’m worried, reverend.’
‘I know. So am I.’ Hardcastle had many concerns that morning; Eliza Fanscombe’s non-appearance was only one of them. ‘She said earlier that if she missed the first meeting, she would come instead the following night. Go again tonight, if you will, and see what transpires.’
After church, the rector walked down to Sandy House and knocked at t
he door. A tearful Lucy greeted him and ushered him into the hall.
‘She won’t see anyone, reverend. She won’t take food or drink, only a little coffee this morning. She just sits there and looks out the window, with that letter beside her. I’ve never seen her this bad, sir, not since Mr Chaytor died.’
‘Lucy; did Grebell Faversham call again last week?’
‘He did, reverend, but only briefly. She was angry with him, and sent him away.’
‘Ask her, please, if she will see me.’
‘Yes, reverend.’ He waited for a long time in the hall before Lucy returned. There were fresh tears on the young housekeeper’s face as she ushered him into the drawing room.
Mrs Chaytor sat facing the window. She did not turn her head to look at him. ‘I could have written when I was in a calmer state of mind,’ she said before Hardcastle could speak. ‘I could have sent a letter, offering him my forgiveness. That is all he wanted. To know that I did not hold him in contempt.’
Hardcastle waited. ‘I was so worried about Eliza that I could think of nothing else,’ she said. ‘Grebell was a nuisance, a distraction. I wanted him to go away and leave me alone. And he did.’
Still he said nothing.
‘I hope you have not come to offer me words of consolation,’ she said. ‘Because I do not want to hear them.’
‘I have come to do whatever I can,’ said the rector. ‘If you wish to talk, I will listen. If you wish me simply to be silent, I will do that too. And I will understand if you prefer to be alone.’
‘I know your intentions are kind,’ she said. ‘But I am not . . . I am not ready to be helped. I would esteem it a great favour if you would go.’
Hardcastle nodded and turned towards the door. ‘There is just one thing,’ he said. ‘Eliza did not come to Blackmanstone last night, as she said she would.’
This time her head did turn, and the agony in her blue eyes shocked him to the core. ‘Stemp will go again tonight,’ he said. ‘I will let you know what transpires.’
‘Please do,’ she said, and then she turned back to face the window again.
The Body in the Boat Page 32