‘Forgive me for calling without notice,’ said the rector, sticking briskly to the civilities. He repeated his line that he had been passing by and dropped in on the spur of the moment; well, it was true in a way. ‘Has a date been set for the inquest of the man found in the churchyard?’
‘Monday. You will receive your summons tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, that sets my mind at ease. I don’t suppose it has been possible to identify him?’
‘No,’ said Fanscombe. His manner changed; he sat down suddenly, slumping behind his desk. ‘Not yet.’
The rector sighed. ‘Two murders of unidentified men in two weeks, and both near the church and rectory. What is the world coming to?’ He lowered his voice, conspiratorially. ‘I say. You don’t suppose the two deaths were related in some way? Might there be a connection?’
‘How should I know?’ The fact that, as justice of the peace, he was supposed to be investigating exactly that question seemed to have passed Fanscombe by.
‘But it is curious,’ the rector persisted. ‘And another thing is curious too. All sorts of people now remember seeing the first fellow, the Frenchman, around the village. I don’t suppose you saw him, by any chance?’
Fanscombe raised his head again, and the rector saw now the beads of sweat on his face and neck. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Hardcastle! Why are you asking? Didn’t the dean specifically tell you to stay out of this matter and not bring scandal down on the Church?’
So Cornewall and Fanscombe had talked; hardly surprising, given that they were both important local landowners. ‘It is a trifle difficult to stay out of the matter when people keep dumping bodies on my doorstep,’ said Hardcastle mildly. ‘Believe me, sir, I have no intention of becoming any more involved than I am already. Do you need me to make a statement before the inquest?’
‘No,’ said Fanscombe waving a hand. ‘The man was clearly killed in a brawl, and there is little for the coroner to do. Your evidence on the day will suffice.’
The rector nodded. ‘Then I will take my leave,’ he said, rising. ‘You will have guests, of course, and wish to attend to them.’
‘Guests?’ said Fanscombe, staring at him. He had started to sweat again.
‘A guest,’ amended Hardcastle. ‘Your brother-in-law is staying with you, or so I was told?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Fanscombe, slamming his hand down on his desk. ‘Is there anything that we say or do that is not subject to village gossip? Is nothing private?’
‘My dear sir,’ said Hardcastle in alarm. ‘Please believe that my remark was entirely innocent. I had no intention of giving offence. I had thought that the reunion of your wife with her dear brother would be a matter for rejoicing.’
‘And so it is,’ said a voice from the doorway.
Hardcastle turned, and bowed. The man in the doorway was tall, slender and rather graceful, beautifully dressed in fashionable silk coat and waistcoat with a snow-white cravat sporting a diamond pin. The buckles on his shoes glittered. ‘M. de Foucarmont,’ he said.
‘Reverend Hardcastle, is it not?’ The man’s voice was as elegant as his clothes; he spoke accented but beautifully fluent English. ‘We met last summer, when I was a regular visitor to this house. It is a pleasure to meet you again, monsieur.’
‘And you also,’ said Hardcastle, bowing again. ‘I’ll take my leave now, Fanscombe. Please don’t bother, I will show myself out.’
As he left the study he heard the Frenchman say, ‘Charles, I have just been out to the stable to see your new Arabian mare. She is an absolute beauty. I am minded to buy her, if you can bear to part with her.’ Then the study door closed. The murmur of voices continued, and the rector was just wondering whether he dared to tiptoe back and listen at the door when someone else came into the hall. It was Fanscombe’s fair-haired daughter, also dressed for riding; she held a leather riding crop in her gloved hand.
‘Miss Fanscombe,’ he said gravely, abandoning his earlier design and bowing.
‘Reverend Hardcastle,’ she said, throwing gloves and crop onto a side table. ‘What brings you out of your lair at the rectory?’
‘I was passing by,’ he said, ‘and thought I would call in. You must be delighted to see your uncle once again.’
She went rigid for a moment, as if a spasm had passed through her body. ‘Delighted,’ she echoed. ‘Are you on your way? I’ll have the man fetch your coat.’ She snapped her fingers at the footman, who scurried away.
‘Thank you,’ said the rector. ‘I expect you must also be terribly sorry about your other guest.’
‘What?’
‘The one who arrived by boat,’ said the rector. ‘They are saying in the village that he is none other than the poor young man who was shot a few days later. A very sad affair, and very puzzling too.’
The girl looked at the riding crop as if she was considering using it on him. ‘I do not listen to alehouse gossip,’ she said coldly, ‘and neither should you, sir. There is no connection whatever between our guest and that man. The man who was our guest has returned to London, from whence he came. Good evening to you, sir.’ With that, she tilted her chin and stalked out of the hall.
And that, thought the rector, taking his coat and stepping out into the sunset light, was a young woman repeating something that someone else has told her to say; or I have never heard the like.
*
Gloaming was descending on the Marsh. He saw lights in the windows of Sandy House, Mrs Chaytor’s residence, and knocked at the door. Her housekeeper admitted him at once and Amelia Chaytor herself came out into the hall to greet him. ‘I will not stay,’ he said, ‘I merely wanted to see if you were well, and hear the results of your visit to Deal.’
‘It was awful,’ she said briefly, passing a hand over her forehead. There were fine lines of exhaustion around her pretty eyes. Small wonder, the rector thought; by his calculation she had driven about sixty miles in the last two days, and conducted a harrowing interview into the bargain. ‘But I learned something that may be important. Miller worked for the Treasury before joining the Customs. He was involved in investigative work, and it seems clear that he was still in contact with his old Treasury friends. Mrs Miller remembered one in particular, called George. She said George had been to see her since Miller died; I don’t know if that is important. She also said that her husband was often away from home on his investigations.’
‘He was a government confidential agent,’ said the rector slowly. ‘I wonder . . . Go on.’
‘He was recently away for a month, and returned only a week before he was killed. He was in France.’
‘France!’
‘I know. Was he spying, do you think?’
‘Very likely. He may have been trying to ferret out the French connections of the smugglers in order to learn more about when and where they would make their next runs. Or he may have been doing something altogether different. But what was he doing on Romney Marsh facing the Twelve Apostles?’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Indeed. Every answer brings more questions. And none of the answers get us any closer to finding evidence of who killed him, or why. What have you learned?’
He told her that Paul had been staying at New Hall, but that Fanscombe and his family denied this was so. ‘I cannot pursue this line without antagonising the Fanscombes, which I am not ready to do.’ Not yet, he thought.
She nodded, and then swayed a little. ‘My dear, you must rest,’ said the rector.
‘I shall. My maid is heating water for a bath. I shall soak in that and go straight to bed.’
‘Good. I am departing for Appledore in the morning. I want to have a word with Captain Shaw.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘It has occurred to me that his utter lack of competence at the inquest was a little unconvincing. I cannot imagine that his militia found nothing on their sweep over the Marsh. Perhaps he or one of his men saw something but did not realise its importance.’
She smiled sli
ghtly. ‘I think you are clutching at straws.’
‘But straws are all we seem to have . . . I may return late, but I hope we will have an opportunity to talk before the inquest.’
She smiled again. ‘I am sure we shall.’
‘Goodnight, my dear Mrs Chaytor,’ he said softly.
10
The Isle of Ebony
The following morning the rector rose early, forgoing his usual walk and making a quick breakfast of eggs, kidneys and smoked fish. He then went into his study and sat down at his desk, took out a clean sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write to Lord Clavertye.
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.
18th May, 1796.
My lord,
You asked me to keep you informed of developments with respect to the sad affair of Mr Curtius Miller, and also the anonymous man found dead that same night here at the rectory. The latter event remains as mysterious as ever, but some information has come to light about Mr Miller. It appears that he may formerly have been employed as a confidential agent by the Treasury; and that even after joining the Customs service, he continued to have contacts with his old employers. Indeed, I would go so far as to suggest that Miller may have continued to work for the Treasury all along, and that his role as a Customs officer was a disguise, or cover, which he adopted as part of a Treasury investigation.
Would it be possible for Your Lordship to approach the Treasury, in confidence of course, and ask whether Miller still had a connection there? For if my hypothesis is correct, then it is possible that the men Miller was investigating, whoever they may be, learned somehow of his real identity and had him killed. At the very least, there is more evidence to suggest that his death was no accident. Might Your Lordship then consider approaching the coroner and asking whether he considers his present verdict to still be sound?
On another note, my lord, I wonder if I might trouble you on another matter. This concerns M. de Foucarmont, a French emigré who visited Mr Fanscombe last summer, and is at present staying with him again. He purports to be Mrs Fanscombe’s brother. If Your Lordship has any information that can establish this man’s bona fides, I should be most grateful to receive it.
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
Outside, the groom was leading his horse up to the door. He rose, sealed the letter and placed it his pocket. ‘I’ll be off now, Mrs Kemp. I may be late tonight, so do not wait dinner for me. Leave out a cold collation, that will be sufficient.’
The housekeeper gazed at him unblinking. ‘And where are you off to?’
‘Nothing you need know about, Mrs Kemp. Lock the doors when night comes, but leave the lamps lit, if you please. My pistol is loaded and in my desk, if you feel the need to protect yourself.’
‘Lord’s sake, Reverend Hardcastle! I wouldn’t have a notion of how to use your pistol. A good stout poker from the fire will be good enough to keep those ruffians out of the house.’
The rector smiled. Mrs Kemp was on the mend.
St Mary was too small to have a postmaster; he stopped at New Romney to post his letter to Clavertye and then rode on up the high road to Appledore through a fine fair morning. As he rode, he reviewed what he had learned yesterday. First, fascinating but probably of no relevance, there was the fact that Dr Morley was having an affair with Mrs Fanscombe. Second, Mrs Fanscombe’s brother had returned to the village after a long absence, arriving on the 4th of May, the same day that Paul was last seen. Coincidence? Possibly . . . Third, Miss Fanscombe was lying about Paul, and not lying particularly well. She knew full well that he was the murdered man, and she did not appear especially upset about this. If she knew, then so did the rest of the family. And fourth . . . Blunt was not the only man in the district who was afraid of something. Fanscombe had been half-frantic, his normally bluff exterior crumbling to expose his nerves.
The latter might have been caused by something simple, of course. Fanscombe might have learned of his wife’s affair, and confronted her; and in any battle of wills and words between Fanscombe and his wife, the justice of the peace was bound to come off worst. There was the rumour that he and Foucarmont were not on good terms. But what he had seen yesterday evening was not anger or resentment or jealousy. It was pure, stark fear.
He had seen something of the same look on Blunt’s face, when the landlord of the Star asked him about the Twelve Apostles. Both men had secrets. Both knew far more than they were telling about what had happened that fatal night. And both were trying desperately to prevent the truth from coming to light.
And what is the truth? he wondered for the hundredth time. Whatever it was, it was not a simple matter of smugglers and Customs officers coming to blows. Another game was being played. The news that Curtius Miller had been spying in France had rung an alarm bell in his mind. It was possible that Miller was spying on the smugglers, but the rector did not believe this. He thought about the French army said to be massing around Boulogne, and of how in six hours that same army could be marching over these very fields. Suddenly the sun did not seem so warm.
*
It was late morning when he arrived at Appledore, a pretty village situated just where the flats of the Marsh rose up into green rolling hills and heathland. The new semaphore station sat silent on its hill above the village, waiting for the day when the French invasion fleet would set sail. The rector called at the Black Lion, where the landlady, Mrs Scrivenor, welcomed him warmly. Fodder and water were provided for his tethered horse, and the lady promised to set aside luncheon for him. He drank a pint of small beer and set off, hobbling a little, to find Captain Shaw.
He found his quarry at the blacksmith’s, standing and watching the re-shoeing of his horse. Inside his wrinkled uniform the captain of militia was as skinny and unprepossessing as ever. He looked surprised when the rector walked into the smithy yard.
‘Reverend Hardcastle? A pleasure to see you, sir. You’re some way from your own patch.’
‘It felt like a fine day for a ride,’ said the rector smiling. ‘Speaking of such things, is this your horse, captain? He’s a beauty.’ They discussed horses for a few minutes, the rector quickly discovering that the captain knew even less about the subject than himself. The clunking of the blacksmith’s hammer punctuated their conversation from time to time.
Gradually the rector steered the conversation around to the most recent killing at St Mary. ‘You do seem to have bad luck,’ Shaw said. ‘Two corpses in less than ten days, one on your doorstep, the other as good as. I hope you have had no trouble yourself, sir.’
‘Oh, none whatever,’ said the rector, thinking of waking up and seeing the shadows of armed men on the walls of his bedroom. ‘The rumour is that the most recent one was a bandit or a smuggler killed by his own men. Is there any truth to that, do you think?’
Shaw, frowning, confessed that he had not heard this. ‘I can ask Mr Fanscombe for permission to send another patrol down to look around St Mary, if you are worried.’
‘No, no, do not trouble him, or yourself,’ said the rector. ‘After all, your last patrol found nothing, did they?’
‘No,’ said Shaw ruefully. ‘Then, of course, we were made to look fairly silly when Mr Turner and the lady then found the place where poor Mr Miller had his accident. My men failed to spot a thing. That is quite unforgivable, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, I don’t think anyone blames you, captain. Of course, your fellows didn’t arrive until some hours later, did they?’
‘Quite so. I received a runner from Mr Blunt at about nine thirty on the morning after the incident, and one from Mr Juddery a few minutes after. Dr Morley’s message arrived somewhat later; closer to ten, I would say. But then of course I had to wait for an instruction from Mr Fanscombe before I could move. That finally arrived, and I called my men out at about eleven and sent a party down to the Marsh to search the area; they would have reached St Mary by perhaps two in the afternoon. When they returned to camp
in the evening, I dispatched a second patrol to keep an eye out for movements around the village in the night. I continued this for the next three nights until ordered to cease by Mr Fanscombe. During that time, we saw no signs of suspicious movement or activity.’
What a very complete answer, thought the rector. Almost like he was reading a written report. I wonder who else has been asking him this question? Lord Clavertye, perhaps? ‘I suppose you had to wait for Fanscombe’s consent before you could send out your men,’ he said.
‘That’s right, sir. In a civil matter, such as this is judged to be, only a justice of the peace or the lord-lieutenant can order out the militia, and then only as an aid to the civil power, obviously.’
Obviously. The young man was speaking as if he was regurgitating a law book. The rector swallowed, aware of his parched throat. ‘Do your fellows patrol often by night?’
‘Not often.’ Was it his imagination, or had Shaw’s voice changed a little? ‘The Preventive men don’t usually invite our assistance. They reckon we would take all the glory.’ The captain smiled without much humour, shifting his bony frame within his badly fitting uniform. ‘I reckon if we were let loose, we could clean up the smugglers in no time.’
‘I daresay you could,’ the rector said. ‘But meanwhile, you are holding yourself in readiness for greater things, hey?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. If the Frogs do decide to invade, me and my men are the first line of defence.’
Then God help England, thought the rector. He could think of no more questions that would not arouse Shaw’s suspicions. Either Shaw had been telling the truth on the stand at the inquest, or he was playing with a very straight bat indeed . . . And then the captain surprised him with a question of his own.
‘What do you think, Reverend? All these deaths so close together. Are they connected in some way? Or is it all just coincidence?’
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