‘Find out why Curtius died and who killed him,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘It won’t bring him back, but it will give me and my children some ease. Find out the truth for me, Mrs Chaytor.’
‘I will do what I can.’ She stepped up onto the seat of her gig, drew on her driving gloves and released the brake. Neither woman noticed the heavyset young man standing in a shadowy doorway further down the street, watching them both. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Miller.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Chaytor. Remember me.’
On the way home Amelia Chaytor whipped up the reins again until the gig raced at reckless speed along the road from Deal to Dover. I will remember you, Annie Miller, she thought, you may depend upon it. And as for you that killed him: damn you, damn your dark corrupt soul to everlasting hell. I may not yet have the evidence to convict you of the murder of Curtius Miller, but I will find it. And then, I will take great delight in watching you swing.
A very special kind of evil, the rector had said. She did not name the killer yet, not even to herself; but in her mind, she was certain that she knew who it was.
9
The Gentleman from France
On the afternoon of Tuesday 17th May, while Mrs Chaytor was still driving back from Deal, the rector strolled into the village. He had lunched, resisting the temptation to have a second pint of claret with his cold beef, and he smiled cheerfully at his parishioners as he passed down the street. Joshua Stemp looked up from his own doorway, where he sat mending a net.
‘It’s turning out fine, Reverend.’ The clouds were breaking up and the afternoon sun poured in warm shafts down onto the village and its surrounding fields.
‘It’ll stay fine tonight,’ replied the rector. ‘A good night for fishing?’
‘Only if the cloud comes back. It’s nearly the full moon.’ The fisherman winked. ‘Moonlight scares the fish away.’
And gives the Preventive men a good sight of your boats coming ashore, thought the rector as he walked on. He reached Rightways, the last cottage on the eastern side of the high street, and knocked at the door.
‘Enter!’ called a voice from within. The rector pushed the door open and followed the sound of the voice into a parlour, reeling faintly as he entered the room. Even though the window was open, the reek of paints and solvents filled the air and made his eyes water.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Turner in his usual curt way. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Do you want a drink? I only have gin.’
‘No,’ wheezed the rector, ‘no, thank you.’ He made his way to the window, where he drew several deep breaths of fresh air and then turned to face the painter again. Turner had a nearly finished canvas up on an easel and was applying the final touches to it, occasional brushstrokes followed by long periods of contemplation of the result.
‘You want to ask me about the Frenchman,’ said Turner.
‘Indeed I do.’ The rector sat down on the window seat, hoping he was not sitting on any fresh paint. ‘If you would be so kind, that is.’
‘Ask away, sir. I’m not sure how helpful I can be, but I will try.’
‘First of all, what made you think he was the man killed at the rectory? I’m not aware that anyone described him, or what he was wearing.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know. I took a guess. If when I described him, and your man had been older, or wearing different clothes, I daresay someone would have corrected me. But when no one did, I knew I was right.’
‘You said you saw him on Wednesday, the fourth. What time of day was it?’
‘Getting on for evening.’ Turner thought. ‘About six, at a guess.’
‘Did you see him again after that?’
Turner shook his head, concentrating on a brushstroke. The rector waited and then said, ‘Where did you see him?’
‘Down the road. Just by the gates to New Hall.’
‘You said he was walking past the entrance.’
‘Yes. Although . . .’ Turner paused and turned to face him. ‘That is what I thought at the time, but looking back now, I am not so certain. He might have come down the drive from New Hall and turned into the road. And I recall thinking, when I first saw him and realised he was French, I thought he was perhaps some relative of Mrs Fanscombe. I can’t imagine any other reason for a Frenchman to be in St Mary, can you?’
‘It seems an obvious conclusion,’ said the rector, nodding slowly. ‘Did you see where he went?’
‘He walked down the road a little way, then turned and made off across the fields to the west.’
‘Anything else? Did he look around to see if anyone was watching him? Did he seem agitated, or nervous?’
‘Quite the contrary, and he did not look around. He did not see me, for example, or at least I am pretty certain of it. He looked like a gentleman out for an evening constitutional in the country. And I thought no more of it until I heard all the news, and then I began to think, hullo. I wonder if that is the same fellow? And it turns out it was.’
The rector rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Turner. You have been most helpful.’
‘Glad to be of service. What is this about?’
‘I do not yet know,’ said the rector slowly.
‘Oh, come, sir. All three of these murders are linked, aren’t they? And that Customs man never shot himself. Anyone who believes that verdict is an imbecile.’
‘Perhaps so. But at the moment there is no evidence to support any other view.’
He looked hard at the painter. He had told no one except Mrs Chaytor about the visit of the Twelve Apostles to his bedroom. Now he said, ‘Something is happening here that goes beyond mere smuggling, I think. I gave you a warning once, and I will repeat it. Be careful what you do, and what you say and to whom, and where you go, especially after dark. And don’t tell anyone else what you have told me, especially about the connection with Fanscombe.’
On that other occasion Turner had scowled, a feckless young man rejecting the advice of a cautious older one. This time he did not scowl. ‘You don’t need to tell me, sir,’ he said soberly. ‘But thank you for the thought, all the same.’
He came, with unusual courtesy, to show the rector out. At the door he said, ‘I saw two other people around the same time. I don’t see a connection, but you might.’
The rector nodded. ‘The first was Dr Morley,’ said Turner. ‘Now he had been at the Fanscombes’. He turned right out of the drive and walked up the road into the village. I remember it because I called good evening as he passed, and he cut me dead. It’s never happened before; he has always been quite cheerful. He has even been complimentary about my pictures, which is more than most people in this aesthetic desert can manage. But this time he walked right past me without a word.’
Hardcastle thought about this. ‘And the other?’
‘Another stranger. This one was passing through. He was mounted on a big roan. I must say, that fellow could ride. He came through the village on an easy canter, and even though he was a bit on the heavy side he looked like he was glued to the saddle.’
‘Heavy side?’
‘Well-fed,’ said Turner, glancing at the rector’s own girth. ‘Green riding coat and breeches. I thought at first it was Fanscombe, but this fellow was a far better rider than old Sack-of-Potatoes. He was younger too, perhaps mid-twenties. Fair hair, strong-featured face with a strong jaw and chin. I got the impression that his eyes missed nothing as he rode. As he passed the gates of the Fanscombe place he turned his head and looked up the drive for just a second, then rode on. I thought he was admiring the house; it is a handsome property, after all. Is that helpful?
‘It is,’ said the rector slowly. ‘Very helpful. Thank you again, Mr Turner.’
The painter watched him, clearly bubbling with curiosity, but he bowed. ‘Glad to have been of service. Call again any time, Reverend.’
The rector bowed in his turn and then walked back up the street, deep in thought. The mask of course made things difficult, but everything else tallied. He was quite certain that Turner
had just described the leader of the Twelve Apostles, the man who had threatened him in his bedroom two nights ago.
*
Ivy wreathed the door of the cottage where Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper lived, and crawled artistically up the walls. Eventually it would crumble the walls and grow into the roof where it would tear down the thatch, but Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper were not bothered; they were already in their sixties, and by the time the cottage fell down they would both be in their graves. They welcomed him in with great cheer and offered him tea in their little drawing room, served with sandwiches and a hard, inedible cake that made him long for Mrs Kemp’s gingerbread.
Miss Godfrey poured out the tea. ‘Would you like a little something to go with it, Reverend?’ asked Miss Roper, holding a flask in her hand.
‘You are a queen among women, Miss Roper.’
‘Oh, Reverend Hardcastle, you do say some odd things,’ she said, giggling archly and pouring brandy from her flask into his tea. She added a liberal dose to Miss Godfrey’s cup and her own, and then sat down and raised her cup. ‘Your very good health, Reverend.’
‘And yours, ladies.’ They drank, and he felt a faint shiver as the hot brandy ran down his epiglottis and into his stomach. His hostesses had lived here together in St Mary in the Marsh for many years, and were the subject of a certain amount of local gossip; some said that they were sapphic lovers, others opined that they were witches. The rector thought the first was quite likely, the second doubtful, but did not really care either way. They were among his most loyal parishioners; indeed, in terms of church attendance, they were about his only loyal parishioners.
‘Now, dear Miss Godfrey, dear Miss Roper,’ he said after the teacups had been refilled, this time with the ratio of tea to brandy a punishing half and half, ‘you had something to tell me about the Frenchman.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘We saw him twice, didn’t we, my dear? The second time was the evening of the Wednesday; that is what struck us about Mr Turner’s testimony, for we must have seen him at about the same time.’ Questioned gently, they corroborated what Turner had said. The young man had walked out through the gates of New Hall and then west across the fields looking quite nonchalant; ‘almost too cool, wouldn’t you say, my dear?’ asked Miss Godfrey of Miss Roper. ‘I thought he was putting on an act, trying to pretend to be insouciant. So different from when we first saw him, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, my word, yes!’ said Miss Roper. ‘He was quite a sight then!’
‘And when was this?’ prompted the rector.
‘Why, it was several days earlier, Reverend. It was very early one morning, wasn’t it, dear? We often rise early, especially in fine weather, before the sun and go for a walk; it is so glorious to see the sun rise and listen to the larks. One feels so especially alive at that hour, don’t you think?’
‘And it was at that hour,’ said the rector gently, ‘that you saw the young man?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘We were walking towards the sea, down the path to St Mary’s Bay, and we met him coming towards us. Soaked from head to foot, he was, and breathing as if he had just run a race. We did not know him, but we stopped to ask if he was in need of assistance. He said no, his boat had overset, and now he was going back to New Hall to put on dry clothes. He was staying there, he said, as a guest of Mr and Mrs Fanscombe.’
Had Miss Godfrey lit the fuse of a grenade and then thrown it into the room, she could not have caused greater astonishment to the rector. ‘Are you certain it was the same man?’ he said cautiously. ‘When he spoke, did you detect an accent? French perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Miss Godfrey, thinking hard. ‘He was well-spoken, but I don’t recall that he had an accent.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Miss Roper. The tea had run out, so she simply filled their cups with neat brandy. ‘I remember distinctly, dear. He had ever so strong a French accent, and I thought to myself, he has just landed in a boat from France! It must be the beginning of the invasion.’
‘Clara, dear,’ said Miss Godfrey severely, ‘you thought nothing of the kind. You invented that much later, once you heard that he was French.’
‘Oh, yes, so I did! Oh, Reverend Hardcastle, do forgive me. My wits are not what they once were.’ And she giggled merrily. ‘But, I have just remembered something else – oh, dear, at least I think have! There was that other Frenchman who came to New Hall. Do you remember him, Rosie?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘It was such a surprise, was it not, to see him again? It has been several months since he last called. Reverend, do you remember Mrs Fanscombe’s brother? Monsieur de . . . Monsieur de . . . Oh, dear.’
‘Monsieur de Foucarmont,’ said Miss Roper, enunciating with great rigour. ‘One must be so careful when pronouncing these foreign names,’ and she giggled again.
The rector recalled meeting Monsieur de Foucarmont on a couple of occasions in the past, and hearing him introduced as Mrs Fanscombe’s brother. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper eagerly filled in the details. Foucarmont was an emigré, one of the French gentry who had been forced to flee France in fear of their lives after the Revolution broke out. Mr Fanscombe was not particularly fond of him; there were rumours that the two men had quarrelled, and some time last autumn Foucarmont had ceased to pay visits. All of this information, it seemed, came from the gossipy servants at New Hall.
‘And now you say this man is back?’
‘Oh, we are quite sure it is him,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘It was on one of our early morning walks again, wasn’t it, dear? It was really only just light when we went out for our ramble. And there he was, riding up from the south all wrapped up in a cloak, quite muffled up, but we were positive it was him. He rode very well, with a fine seat in the saddle. Clara and I have always admired a fine seat in the saddle.’
‘And when was this, pray?’
‘Why, it was Wednesday morning. The same day that we saw the young man for the second time.’
‘Two Frenchman in one day!’ giggled Miss Roper. ‘It really must be an invasion, don’t you think?’
*
The rector decided to make his excuses while he could still stand upright, and began to take his leave. Just before the front door he turned to his two hostesses. ‘Ladies, forgive me, but just one more question. Does Dr Morley often call at New Hall?’
They looked at each other. ‘Yes,’ said Miss Godfrey, beginning to giggle. ‘But only when Mr Fanscombe is absent.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’
‘Because he is tupping Mrs Fanscombe,’ said Miss Roper, who then shrieked with laughter. ‘Clara, really!’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘Reverend, I do apologise. I fear my friend is a little tipsy.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said the rector, bowing. ‘Ladies, thank you for a delightful tea.’
Outside in the street he took a few deep breaths in attempt to sober up. The sun was dipping down into the west, and a mellow evening light streamed through the village. The bleating of sheep came from nearby fields. A crow cawed somewhere in the distance.
He turned towards the rectory, but he had only taken a few steps when he halted again.
Paul had been staying at New Hall. Fanscombe must have known him, Mrs Fanscombe too. Yet neither seemed to recognise him from Turner’s description at the inquest. Or . . . He remembered the sudden flicker of Eugénie Fanscombe’s eyes. They know something about this, he thought; and perhaps her brother does too.
He had promised Clavertye that he would be discreet. So far, discretion had got them a little information, but not enough. It was time, perhaps, to take a few risks.
Turning, he walked south through the village past Turner’s cottage and on down the New Romney road until he came to a handsome stone gateway on the east side of the road. The gates stood open. The rector walked up the drive past a massive chestnut tree in flower, its white candles glowing in the evening light. Beyond was a fine brick building with an elegant white-trimmed facade, the roof
s of outbuildings visible behind it. More trees lined the park, effectively separating the house from the village, although when he glanced around he realised that a gap in the trees gave a view of the rear elevation of Rightways, Turner’s cottage.
The rector walked to the front door and rang the bell. A footman opened it, bowing and ushering him into the hall and taking his coat. ‘I wish to see Mr Fanscombe, if he is at home,’ said the rector.
The footman bowed again and withdrew, and presently Mrs Fanscombe came into the hall, dressed in a rather décolleté rose-pink gown that offset her black hair and sharp black eyes and long nose. Put a whippet in a pink gown, thought the rector irreverently, and it would look exactly like Eugénie Fanscombe. She and Morley! Good heavens, the things that happened under one’s very nose. I wonder how I had not heard about this before?
‘What brings you here, Reverend Hardcastle?’ Her voice was sharp, overriding the natural softness of her French accent. ‘Why do you wish to see my husband?’
‘Oh, it was nothing of great importance,’ said the rector hastily, bowing. ‘I was merely passing, and thought of a question I wished to ask him. It concerns the inquest for that poor man who was found in the churchyard, that is all.’
He waited for a reaction. There was none; either she knew nothing, or she was an excellent actress. Reluctantly, Mrs Fanscombe signalled to the footman, who bowed and left the hall. He was back in a moment, bowing again. ‘Mr Fanscombe will see you now, Reverend.’
With Eugénie Fanscombe still watching him, he followed the footman across the hall and into Fanscombe’s study. The contrast between this study and the rector’s own bookroom could not have been greater; the room was bright and tidy and there was not a single book in sight. Most of the walls were covered with pictures of hunting scenes and dead animals.
Fanscombe, still in his blue riding coat, stood up sharply behind his desk as they entered. ‘Shall I bring refreshments, sir?’ asked the footman, bowing again.
‘No. Get out.’ The footman closed the door behind him, and the justice of the peace looked sharply at Hardcastle, every trace of his usual bonhomie quite vanished. ‘What do you want, sir?’ he asked brusquely.
The Body on the Doorstep Page 11