‘Take your men into Dymchurch, and give them some food and a few hours to rest at the inn. When they are able, start searching again. We must not give up, Maudsley.’
‘I had no intention of giving up, Hardcastle.’
Exhausted and freezing, the rector rode home to St Mary a couple of miles away. There, he asked Mrs Kemp for hot water for a bath, where he soaked until he could feel warmth in his bones again. When he started to fall asleep in the hot water, he climbed out, put on a nightshirt and slept on the bed for a few hours. Then he dressed, ate some bread and beef, drank a glass of claret and went out and joined the search once more. It was raining heavily now, the wind blowing grey curtains of rain across the Marsh.
By the end of the day they were all freezing again, and soaking wet. No torch would stay lit in this wind and rain, and the rector dismissed his searchers to find billets and food and dry their clothing. They would start again in the morning, and if necessary the day after, and the day after that. They would not stop until they found Charlotte Faversham.
Living or dead, he thought. And with every day that passed, the greater the likelihood that she would be dead.
There was one remaining chance. Stemp was due to meet Eliza at Blackmanstone at dusk. If she knew where Martha Redcliffe was, then there was a good chance she would know where the kidnapped girl was too. He had to hope, and pray, that Eliza would come.
Changing into dry clothes, he slumped down in his study by the fire to wait. A little later, Calpurnia opened the door and raised her eyebrows in enquiry; he shook his head. Quietly, she closed the door again and left him to his solitude.
*
By the time Stemp approached Blackmanstone the rain had eased off a little, but the wind was still cold and strong. The light was the colour of slate, the distant hills already blurred into the sky; the silhouette of the church was hardly distinguishable from the air around it. He approached slowly, his boots squelching in the mud.
He stepped through the ruined doorway into the nave. Shadows descended black around him.
There was movement in the dripping undergrowth ahead. ‘Rider?’ he whispered. ‘Is that you?’
Something grabbed his hair and jerked his head back so he was staring up at the sky. Before he could move or even think, a knife stabbed into his neck just below his right ear, slicing open the skin. He felt the blood begin to flow.
‘Oink, oink, piggy,’ said Noakes’s voice soft in his ear.
24
The Corners of the Earth
Stemp’s hat had fallen off, and rain was beating on his face and running into his eyes. He stood very still, not moving. It would take Noakes less than a second to cut his throat.
‘Hold him,’ said a woman’s voice.
Another pair of hands seized Stemp’s arms and wrenched them painfully behind his back. Noakes let go of his hair, but the knife still stayed, its point resting in the side of his neck.
Light glowed suddenly as a lantern was uncovered. Stemp saw a ring of men around him, cocked hats dripping rainwater, knives and pistols in their hands. Some of them were grinning at him. One was a woman, cloaked with a bonnet framing her face. In the lantern light he caught a flash of sallow skin and dark, glittering eyes.
‘Bring her,’ said the woman.
Oh, Christ, Stemp thought. He felt sick.
Out of the shadows came Fisk, shoving Eliza Fanscombe before him. She struggled, trying to fight him, but the big man had her arms pinned tightly behind her; when she attempted to kick him, Fisk wrenched her arms upward until she cried out with pain. They stopped in front of the woman. Eliza turned her head then, and saw Stemp.
‘Sorry, Tom,’ she said.
Martha Redcliffe slapped Eliza across the face, so hard that her head rocked back. ‘My little traitoress,’ she said. ‘My dear, treacherous little bitch . . . You have been an utter fool, you know. In time, I would have given you riches. You would have been one of my heirs. Now you’ve thrown it all away.’
‘You killed Batist,’ said Eliza.
Martha slapped her again, the sound sharp and hard. Eliza’s nose began to bleed.
‘I don’t care why you betrayed me,’ said the woman. ‘It matters not a whit. Now, listen to me. Very shortly you will go to sleep. When you wake, you will find yourself in a certain house in Amsterdam. You know the sort of house I mean, I am sure; I need not furnish you with details. You will be manacled by the leg to your bed, so you cannot escape. And you will remain there until you die; which might be quite a long time from now. Through the weeks, or months, or years of suffering that remain to you, you will remember this: no one betrays me and survives.’
Heedless of the danger to himself, Stemp began to struggle. ‘Leave her alone, you bitch!’
Martha Redcliffe ignored him. ‘I’ll tell them to put you in the same room with the Faversham chit,’ she said. ‘You’ll both want someone to talk to. Misery loves company, they say.’
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bottle, removing the stopper. ‘Give her this, Frank,’ she said to one of the other men.
‘No!’ shouted Stemp. He struggled, blood streaming down his neck. Eliza fought too, but Fisk wrenched her arms behind her back again, crippling and immobilising her. The man called Frank forced Eliza’s mouth open with his fingers. She bit him; he cursed, but did not pull away. The laudanum bottle was rammed between her teeth, tipped up and emptied down her throat. She struggled for a while longer, then slumped, swaying, her head lolling to one side.
‘Take her away,’ said Martha. Fisk threw the unconscious woman over his shoulders like a bag of coal and carried her out of the ruined church. Martha retrieved the empty bottle and said to the other man, ‘Take the blue light down to Littlestone, and light it immediately you get there. Then come back to Hythe as quickly as you can. We’ll sail as soon as the wind changes.’
‘What about this one?’ asked Noakes, shaking the still struggling Stemp. ‘What do we do with him?’
‘Whatever you like,’ said Martha, her voice indifferent. She walked past Stemp and out through the ruined doorway, carrying the lantern and followed by the rest of her men. Only Noakes and the man holding Stemp from behind remained. Noakes removed his knife and walked around in front of Stemp, his ugly face grinning in the shadow.
‘Two against one,’ said Stemp. ‘That ain’t fair, Noakes.’
‘Fuck you, pig,’ said Noakes, and he slammed his fist into Stemp’s face.
*
The clock in the hall chimed ten. The rector stirred and opened his eyes. Exhausted and aching, he had fallen asleep in his chair.
The fire was burning low. He rang the bell, and Biddy came in quickly. ‘Has there been any word from Mr Stemp?’ he asked.
‘None, reverend.’
He must still be waiting for Eliza, who had doubtless failed to show up again. Damned unreliable girl, he thought irritably, and then chided himself; she was the one who was in danger. He rose stiffly and put some more coal on the fire, then sat back and watched the flames. His bones still ached, but he could no longer sleep; he was consumed with worry. He sat listening for the knock at the door that would herald the arrival of Stemp, with news.
No knock came. Eventually he dragged himself up to bed, where he uttered a brief prayer for the safety of Charlotte Faversham and then fell into a restless, exhausted sleep.
He slept only a few hours, and woke up at dawn, worrying. It was Thursday, the 12th of October. Clouds, low and grey, raced overhead, torn and tossed by the wind. He dressed and went stiffly downstairs to drink a cup of coffee in the morning room.
Someone knocked at the door. It was a Customs man, another of Cole’s riding officers. ‘They burned a blue light near Littlestone, reverend, around midnight. The Stag came downwind to search, but found no sign of the Dutchman. Mr Cole thinks the light might have been a decoy, to pull Stag off her station.’
‘So Hoorn can have a clear run inshore,’ said the rector. The wind was strong from
the north, and Stag had been drawn away to the south, miles from Hythe with the wind against her. A pound to a shilling, he thought, the Hoorn is coming to Hythe tonight, perhaps even today.
The messenger departed. Almost at once there was another knock at the door. This time it was Maisie Stemp, sleepless and worried.
‘Josh didn’t come home last night, reverend. I waited up all night for him, and still he’s not here.’
The rector nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Stemp. I reckon he has found the track of the kidnappers, and is following them. I will go after him, and send you word as soon as may be. Go home and rest, my dear. All will be well.’
She departed, looking dubious. ‘Biddy,’ said the rector, ‘tell Amos to bring the dog cart round, as quickly as he may.’
His face and the tone in his voice frightened her. ‘Is all well, reverend?’ asked Biddy anxiously.
‘No,’ said Hardcastle, his voice grim. ‘Something is wrong. Quickly, girl, fetch Amos.’ He hurried into his study and opened his desk, taking out his pistol and checking the priming. Biddy ran in after him, looking more alarmed than ever.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Amos says the dog cart still isn’t repaired.’
‘Then I will take Mrs Vane’s gig.’
‘Lord love us, sir,’ said Biddy helplessly, ‘but it’s still not mended either. She’s still never sent for the wheelwright.’
The rector let out his breath. ‘Very well. I shall have to find another carriage. I am going out. Inform my sister and Mrs Kemp, if you please, that I may be some time.’
Outside the wind still raced across the Marsh, bitter and cold, but the rain had stopped entirely. Little patches of blue showed here and there through breaks in the cloud as the rector hurried down the street to Sandy House. The housekeeper answered the door.
‘Lucy, is your mistress up? I must speak to her urgently.’
Hearing the tension in his voice, Mrs Chaytor came out into the hall. Her face was pale, the skin stretched and drawn sharply over the bones beneath. ‘What is it?’
‘Joshua Stemp went to meet Eliza last night, but didn’t come home. I must find him. May I borrow your gig?’
‘Wait five minutes while I change. Lucy, tell Joseph to harness Asia.’
‘There is no need for you to come.’
‘You know what a terrible driver you are.’
In less than five minutes she was back downstairs, wrapped in a heavy black cloak. In its folds, he knew, would be her pistol. The gig was outside, waiting. He handed her up to the driving seat and took his place beside her.
The ground was soft from last night’s rain, but the gig was light and the mare strong and fresh. They raced up the village street and along the grassy lane to Blackmanstone in a shower of mud and spray, the wind whipping around them. The wind had backed a little, more north-west than northerly now.
Blackmanstone’s ruins were dark in the dull light. Mrs Chaytor drew the gig to a halt. The rector dismounted and then drew his pistol and walked across to the doorway.
Joshua Stemp lay sprawled on the wet grass just inside. His face was so bloodied as to be unrecognisable, one eye swollen completely shut. More blood had streamed down the side of his neck, caking in his shirt. One of his arms was bent at a terrible angle. He was not moving.
Quickly, the rector lifted Stemp’s undamaged arm and pulled back the coat to expose the wrist. His fingers searched the cold skin and found nothing. He cursed and tried again. This time his own numbed fingers found the right spot. There, faint and slow, was a pulse.
He heard a hiss of breath behind him as Mrs Chaytor arrived. ‘He is alive. Have you any brandy?’
She handed over a small pewter flask from the pocket of her cloak. Opening Stemp’s mouth, he tipped in a few drops and then turned the other man’s head so the liquid would run down into his throat. When nothing happened, he tried a little more. Stemp began to choke, and the rector quickly lifted his head and shoulders. Stemp coughed again and opened his undamaged eye.
‘Reverend,’ he croaked.
‘Thank God. Can you stand?’
‘Not sure.’ A little more brandy restored circulation. Between them, he and Mrs Chaytor were able to help Stemp to his feet, and then walk him with painful slowness out to the gig. Groaning with the pain of his arm, Stemp lay back on the driving bench, Hardcastle cradling the constable’s head in his lap and holding on to him. Mrs Chaytor stood precariously in front of them, bracing herself against the splashboard while she turned the gig and drove back towards the village. Stemp clutched at Hardcastle with his good hand.
‘Must tell you.’ His voice was a rasping whisper, barely audible.
‘Wait,’ said the rector. ‘We’ll get you to St Mary and send for Dr Mackay.’
‘No. Tell you now . . . Eliza. Taken.’
Hardcastle shivered. ‘Taken where, Joshua?’
‘Hythe. Ship . . . Holland.’
‘Did they say when?’
‘Today. Wind . . . changes.’
The rector looked up sharply. The wind was backing again, almost in the west now. ‘They’re taking Eliza with them?’
‘Both girls . . .’ Stemp coughed, and then cried out with pain. There must be ribs broken, as well as the arm. Hardcastle looked up at Mrs Chaytor. ‘Did you hear?’
‘Yes.’ She shook the reins.
*
In the village all was confusion, people crowding around to find out what had happened, Maisie Stemp weeping as her husband was lifted out of the gig and carried inside by Murton and Jack Hoad. Luckhurst was there in the crowd, too, and Hardcastle took his arm.
‘Go to New Romney, as quickly as you can; take my horse. Find Dr Mackay and tell him to come here. Then go to Mr Cole, and tell him to signal the Stag. The Hoorn is somewhere near Hythe; Captain Haddock must pursue with all possible speed. Cole must gather his own men, and send runners to Mr Juddery and Captain Austen. They must march their men up to Hythe as fast as they can go. Quickly, Tim. There is not a moment to lose.’
Mrs Chaytor was back in the driving seat of the gig. Her eyes were pits of dark blue, almost black in her white face. ‘We are going to Hythe,’ she said. It was not a question.
The wind was in the west, strong and steady, perfect for a ship laying course for Holland. ‘I don’t know how we’ll stop them. I don’t know if we’ll even be in time.’ He climbed up beside her. ‘You said this horse could fly.’
It was three miles from St Mary in the Marsh to Dymchurch. They drove it at reckless speed, the wheels of the gig slipping and sliding in the mud, the mare straining at her harness as Mrs Chaytor urged her on. Hardcastle held on to his seat, trying to wipe the spray and mud and flecks of grass from his face. He tried to pray, to ask God to help them reach Hythe in time and save the two young women, but for some reason the words of the ninety-fifth Psalm came instead to his mind.
For the Lord is a great God,
and a great King above all gods.
In his hand are the corners of the earth,
and the strength of the hills is his also.
The sea is his, and he made it,
and his hands prepared the dry land.
They came to the first cottages of Dymchurch, where the track met the high road running north. The rector craned his neck, looking out to sea for the Stag. ‘Any sign of her?’ called Mrs Chaytor.
‘Nothing. The messenger will only just have reached New Romney; probably, they have not even made the signal yet. We’re on our own.’
They turned onto the high road, running north-east as straight as an arrow along the line of the Dymchurch Wall, passing the church at the far end of the village. There were pools of water from last night’s rain, but the road itself was good and hard. Mrs Chaytor shook the reins again. ‘Now, Asia, my dear,’ she said to the horse. ‘Show us what you are made of.’
*
No one spoke for a while. The gig’s wheels rattled and roared on the hard road, and Asia’s hooves hammered a con
stant tattoo, her iron shoes striking sparks. The wind of their passage tugged at them. The carriage thrummed with vibration. Hardcastle watched the gloved hands of his driver on the reins, guiding the horse around potholes that might break a wheel or an axle, sweeping out to curve around slower-moving drays and packhorses and passing them as if they were standing still.
This was a race they had to win. From the little that Stemp had been able to say, they knew both Eliza and Charlotte were still alive, and that Martha Redcliffe intended to take them to the Netherlands. If they could get to Hythe in time they might, somehow, stop the Hoorn from sailing, or at least delay her until the Stag could arrive. How they would do that, Hardcastle knew not; he knew only that it had to be done.
The hills above Hythe grew closer and closer, drear and green in the cloudy light. They swept past another dray loaded with bricks. Ahead, a post-coach was about to pass a wagon coming the other way. Their own gig would have to slow to let them pass.
Mrs Chaytor’s eyes narrowed and her lips compressed into a thin line. ‘Hold tight,’ she said.
Hardcastle gripped the seat and the frame of the gig, and uttered another prayer. Closer and closer came the other vehicles, both seemingly unaware of the onrushing gig. Mrs Chaytor’s gloved hands tugged at the reins and the gig swung out to overtake the post-coach, heading straight for the oncoming wagon. They would never make it, Hardcastle thought. She will have to pull up, or there will be a crash.
She did not pull up. The gig raced on, iron-rimmed wheels chattering on the stone road, the wind rushing around them, the wagon looming ahead of them, closer and closer. Hardcastle braced himself.
The wagon driver saw them coming, and stared in disbelief. When the gig was fifty yards away he began to shout, sawing on the reins of his plodding horses. Alarmed, the driver of the post-coach turned in his seat and began to yell as well. Mrs Chaytor’s eyes narrowed. Thirty yards, twenty, ten, the road ahead full of vehicles and teams, and then at full rushing speed the gig shot past the post-coach. Someone inside the coach screamed in alarm. Ahead, the wagon was almost on top of them.
The Body in the Boat Page 34