‘Oh, I am tired of hearing about Miller!’ declared Fanscombe’s daughter, her highly visible bosom heaving as she too rose to her feet. ‘All we hear is how sad it is that he died, and oh, his poor widow! What of all the free-traders, good and gallant men who have died over the years, hunted down by craven men like Miller?’
Turner was right, thought the rector. The body of a woman, but the mind of a child. Before anyone else could speak, he said, ‘My dear Miss Fanscombe, we are not speaking here of ordinary free-traders. The men that Mr Blunt and Mr Miller were hunting on the Marsh that night were a gang known as the Twelve Apostles.’
They all stared at him. ‘The Twelve Apostles!’ said Turner sharply. ‘Lord Clavertye mentioned that name several times, at the inquest.’
‘Indeed he did.’
‘How do you know about them?’ asked Shaw, his face more puzzled than ever.
‘Indeed,’ said Foucarmont. ‘I too should like to know the answer to that question, monsieur.’
‘I keep my eyes and ears open,’ said the rector simply. ‘There is plenty of gossip about these men, if you know where to listen for it.’
They continued to stare at him. Eliza Fanscombe, so furious at being ignored that she quite forgot her manners, stamped her foot. ‘This is nonsense! The free-traders are gentlemen, like brave knights of old, or Robin Hood and his men! If they are outside the law, it is because the law is wrong! And if the Preventives come after them, then they deserve everything they get!’
‘Eliza,’ said Fanscombe heavily, ‘you are making a spectacle of yourself. Sit down.’
‘Do as your father says,’ commanded his wife. ‘Mrs Chaytor, I do apologise.’
‘Don’t you dare apologise for me, Eugénie! Don’t you dare criticise my conduct, not you, not of all people!’
Mrs Fanscombe stood up. ‘Eliza, I do not care a fig for your behaviour towards me. But you are embarrassing your father.’
‘I am embarrassing him? Oh, that is rich. You can say that to me, when you carry on under his very nose with that man?’ And she flung out one arm, her accusing finger pointing directly at Dr Morley.
The room froze. Everyone sat or stood, staring at the young woman. She looked wildly around, then burst into tears and fled the room; they heard the front door slam a moment later. Within the drawing room, attention now transferred to Mrs Fanscombe. She looked around at the others, calmly meeting their eyes, her little whippet’s face sharp and determined.
‘Mrs Chaytor,’ she said calmly. ‘Thank you very much for your hospitality. I hope to see you at New Hall very soon.’ She made an elegant little curtsey and departed with a swish of skirts.
‘You should go after her,’ said the rector to Fanscombe, and the latter, standing like a man in a trance, shook himself, remembered to make a sketchy bow to Mrs Chaytor, gave one glance of agonised fury at Morley, and departed in haste. Dr Morley rose unhurriedly to his feet and bowed too. ‘I think the time has come for me to take my leave also,’ he said drily. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chaytor, for a most fascinating evening. Mrs Merriwether, it was a pleasure to meet you. Ladies.’ He walked to the door, turning once to glance keenly at the rector, and then he too was gone.
Slowly, the atmosphere in the drawing room relaxed. ‘Goodness,’ said Mrs Merriwether, ‘what exciting lives you lead in St Mary. Did no one know they were having an affair?’
‘Oh, everyone knew,’ said Miss Roper, ‘except poor Mr Fanscombe, of course. Now that he knows, the affair will probably end. What a pity.’
‘Yes,’ said Turner sourly. ‘Now you will have to find someone else to gossip about.’
*
When all the others had gone, all save Mrs Merriwether who was staying the night, the rector faced Amelia Chaytor in the empty drawing room. ‘Well?’ he prompted gently.
‘Well, we have certainly set the Fanscombe family at each others’ throats. I advised M. de Foucarmont, as I showed him out, that if life becomes too difficult at New Hall there are excellent rooms at the Star. What did you think?’
‘Fanscombe looked bluff and bewildered, but he began to perspire heavily when you raised the notion that there might have been corruption at the inquest. He was generally unconvincing, but gave up no secrets.’
‘Certainly not enough to put a noose around his neck,’ she said, ‘or Blunt’s. What did you make of the mysterious M. de Foucarmont?’
‘He behaved impeccably. He listened very intently but did not make a judgement, and only volunteered an opinion when he thought it might be helpful. Although he was keen to know how I knew about the Twelve Apostles.’
‘Yes, his manners are quite beautiful. He apologised profusely for the behaviour of the Fanscombes, even though he had no reason to do so. That in itself is interesting.
‘The main thing that puzzles me is the behaviour of Eliza.’
‘Does it? I am not puzzled at all. She is young, not overly intelligent, thoroughly spoiled, and bored. She has never forgiven her father for re-marrying. She is in the mood for rebellion. She envies the smugglers, for they are rebels too in their own fashion. What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Did we do well?’
‘We did well. I thought perhaps I had overplayed my hand when I mentioned the Apostles.’
‘Not at all. I thought that was a master-stroke. Now they know that we know about the deeper plot.’ She smiled, a little wearily. ‘Whoever they are, and whatever the deeper plot is.’
He was sure of her now, and he was relieved; the thought of not being able to trust her had caused him an almost physical pain.
‘We must watch the Fanscombes,’ he said. ‘When people fly into a fit of passion they are likely to make mistakes, as I know only too well . . . As for the rest, I think we made our position clear without giving away too much of what we really know. We told them our suspicions about Miller’s death and hinted at murder, and we let them know that we know about the Twelve Apostles. They know too that we are still investigating, and do not intend to stop. Now, we must wait and see how they react.’ He smiled a little. ‘We have shaken the tree, my dear. Now we must see what falls from it.’
15
The Fire is Kindled
The rector walked home quietly in the evening light. Behind him, he knew, Mrs Chaytor was locking her doors and windows and shutters. She had told him, when he asked, that she had a pistol and knew how to use it. He was not surprised. He had long since given up being surprised by Amelia Chaytor.
He let himself in through the rectory gate and looked around. He saw no shadows; when he walked around the house there were no more bootprints in the grass. But he knew, beyond any doubt, that the house was still under watch. That night he too shut the doors and windows securely, drank a single glass of brandy in thoughtful silence by the fire, and went to bed nearly sober.
The following day was Sunday 29th May, just over a week before the next run was due to take place. He conducted matins to a nearly empty church, and afterwards in the church porch shook the grimy hand of the old man from Brenzett and greeted Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper. ‘Is there any news from the Hall?’ he asked.
‘Oh, my,’ said Miss Godfrey, lowering her voice dramatically. ‘The word is that Mr Fanscombe became raving drunk, produced a pistol and threatened to blow out his brains in the drawing room unless Mrs Fanscombe ended her affair with the doctor. And she said, as calm as anything, that he could do whatever he liked. And then M. de F-f-f . . . the French gentleman took the pistol away from Mr Fanscombe and made him go to bed. And then young Miss Fanscombe became hysterical and accused her stepmother of being, well . . . you know. No better than she ought to be.’
Thoughtfully, Hardcastle walked back to the rectory. He ate his cold luncheon as usual in solitary silence, thinking about unseen watchers outside, the rumours among the fishermen, the malevolence of Blunt in the street after the second inquest, the Twelve Apostles in the shadows preparing for their run. He thought of the Fanscombe household and, with no particular remorse, the i
mplosion of the family. He spent some time considering Foucarmont, urbane, precise, careful; the French emigré who was fond of shooting and wildfowling.
If you think of the devil, you will presently find him at your elbow. He had just risen from the table when there came a knock at the front door, and Mrs Kemp appeared in the study doorway with a card. ‘A French gentleman to see you, Reverend,’ she said, her lip curling with distaste. Mrs Kemp disliked all French people on general principle.
A moment later Foucarmont walked into the study, smiling and bowing. ‘What a splendid collection of books,’ he said, looking around. ‘I perceive that you are more than just an ordinary clergyman, monsieur. You are a man of letters.’
‘I had pretensions in that area, once upon a time,’ said the rector, unlocking the cabinet and pouring two glasses of brandy. He passed one to Foucarmont, who raised it in toast. ‘Your very good health, monsieur.’
‘And yours also, sir. Is this a social call?’
‘Of course, you know already that it is not. I came in part to apologise for the Fanscombes. Their behaviour was quite unacceptable. I am sure Mrs Chaytor is much distressed.’
‘It takes rather more than a spoiled young woman’s temper tantrum to distress Mrs Chaytor, sir. But I do not understand. Why should you wish to make their apologies? It is not, after all, as if you are kin to any of them.’
A slow smile spread over Foucarmont’s face. ‘You are perceptive, sir. No, I am not Madame Fanscombe’s brother; thank God,’ he added thoughtfully.
‘Forgive me for being inquisitive, sir, but what then brings you to the Marsh?’
‘A love of sea air? A chance to gaze out over the water at my homeland, which I miss so terribly? No, it is none of those things.’ Foucarmont shook his head. ‘I think you have guessed a great deal about me. Allow me to fill in the blank spaces for you.’
The rector waited while Foucarmont sipped his brandy. The Frenchman then set down his glass and leaned forward a little. ‘What I am about to tell you must not leave this room,’ he said. ‘Even the ever-watchful Mrs Chaytor, who I see is your friend, must not be told. You are in enough danger already, and she too.’
‘I am honoured that you should choose to confide in me. May I ask why?’
‘Because I hope to persuade you to step back from this affair and take no further risks. Monsieur Hardcastle, I must reveal myself. I am an agent in the service of the British government. My visits to Romney Marsh are part of an investigation into a very serious and very dangerous affair. You are now caught up in that affair. I hope to detach you from it. I do so with the aim of ensuring that both you and Mrs Chaytor remain safe.’
‘That is very good of you,’ said Hardcastle.
Foucarmont bowed. ‘My mission,’ he said, ‘is to seek out the gang of men you know as the Twelve Apostles. I intend to capture them if possible, to kill them if not.’
‘I see,’ said Hardcastle slowly. ‘And who are these men, sir?’
‘They are traitors to their king and country,’ said Foucarmont quietly. ‘They are employed by the Directory in Paris. Their smuggling operation is a masquerade, which covers their real activities and real purpose. The cargoes they run into England from France are small and of little value. What is important is what they carry out of England. They have sources of information in very high places. Will you believe me, monsieur, if I tell you that even the most secret decisions made in Mr Pitt’s Cabinet are known to Monsieur Barras and his minions in Paris within a week? And the Twelve Apostles are the men who carry those secrets.’
He paused, watching the rector for reaction. ‘Go on,’ the latter said.
‘I first became aware of these men and their activities last year. I set several traps for them, which they eluded; they are very skilful. I then changed my own tactics, and with some difficulty I inserted an agent of my own into this group. This man reported every move the gang made to me. Last October, we set another trap for them and this time we very nearly caught them. They escaped by chance, but now they were aware that they had been exposed. They disappeared from sight, and I thought for a time I had succeeded in, as the English would say, putting them out of business.’
The rector opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Yes?’ said Foucarmont inquiringly.
He had been about to ask if the agent’s name was Mark, but in the nick of time thought better of it. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Do go on, sir.’
‘In April, my agent informed me that the gang had reassembled and was preparing another operation. He gave me details of the time and place. I used my authority to bring in the Customs service and also reinforcements from the militia. Unfortunately, once again things went wrong. The trap was sprung too early and the Apostles escaped. Sadly, very shortly thereafter, my agent’s true identity became known.’ Foucarmont leaned forward a little further. ‘I can tell you in confidence, monsieur, that it was his body that was found in your churchyard. Now, do you need any further evidence of the ruthlessness of these men?’
Hardcastle shook his head. ‘What happens next?’
Foucarmont nodded. ‘The loss of my agent is a blow, but not an irreparable one. I have made new plans, and gathered my forces. This time, I am certain that there will be no mistake.’
The rector thought of 6th June. ‘Are Mr Blunt and Captain Shaw in your confidence? And Mr Fanscombe?’
‘Fanscombe to a very limited degree. He transmits my orders to Mr Blunt and Captain Shaw as if they were his own. As far as they know, they are working for the justice of the peace and, through him, the lord-lieutenant.’
‘And the lord-lieutenant? What does he know?’
‘He has been kept in the dark. This affair is entirely secret, and the fewer people who know of my real role, the better. Believe me, sir, only the urgency of the situation compels me to reveal my identity to you now. I hope that, as you are a clergyman, I can trust in your entire discretion.’
Hardcastle inclined his head. ‘And you sit behind the scenes,’ he asked, ‘pulling the strings?’
Foucarmont spread his hands. ‘That is how we work in my world, I fear.’
‘And the other man? The young man who was staying at New Hall the week before the two deaths? Was he also working for you?’
‘He was, and I hear that you believe him to be the same man as was killed here at the rectory. I fear you are labouring under a misapprehension. The man staying at the Hall did work for me, and still does. He is a courier and watcher. On the Wednesday evening before the events you have been investigating, he took a message to Appledore. On my orders, he then proceeded to London to wait for me there. He is still very much alive and well. About the man whose body you found, I fear have no idea.’
‘And the name of your courier?’
‘His name is Jacques Morel. He is, like myself, a French emigré. I have known his family for many years. Of course, in my service he goes by an alias; indeed, several of them. And now, I think that I have told you all that it safe for you to know. Please understand, monsieur, that I am thinking primarily of your own safety.’
‘Your concern for my well-being does you great credit, sir. And in gratitude, I wish to tell you something in return.’
‘Go on.’
‘Curtius Miller was murdered on the Marsh on the night of Friday 6th May. His own superior officer, Henry Blunt, is responsible for his death. I intend to find the evidence which will convict Blunt of this murder, and I will not stop until I have done so. I shall leave the Twelve Apostles to you. But Blunt is mine. Do I make myself clear, sir?’
After a long moment, Foucarmont nodded slowly. ‘You want to see justice done. I understand. For the moment, I need Blunt. I need his men to help me stop the Twelve Apostles. But when task has been accomplished . . .’
‘I may proceed with my investigation of Mr Blunt?’
‘My friend, if what you say is true, I myself will help you gather the evidence.’
*
Old Mr Cadman died that night. W
ord reached the rectory on the morning of Monday 30th. The rector looked at the weather; it was pouring with rain, and the track to the Cadman farm would by now be just a muddy ooze across the Marsh, impassible for the dog cart. Putting on a waterproof cape and hat, he walked the mile and a half from the village to Cadman’s farm.
Dr Morley was there, just packing his bag; they exchanged a few remarks about the disposal of the body and then the doctor departed. The rector remained for another two hours, helping the family to make arrangements for the funeral next day and offering comfort, which was gratefully received. Curious, the rector thought, how quickly people return to their forgotten faith in times of sorrow. He had never seen the old man in church, yet the family accepted the rector’s assurance that their father and grandfather had gone to a better place, and seemed comforted by it.
By the time he took his leave the rain had eased off a little, but a steady drizzle was still falling. He walked through the rain towards the village misty in the distance, keeping up a steady pace. The flat wet fields of the Marsh were empty; wind rustled in the grass and hissed in the hedgerows; yet, as he walked, he felt that eyes were boring into his back. So strong was the feeling that twice he turned sharply and looked behind him, only to see nothing there. But the sense of threat remained, and grew.
He crossed a plank bridge over a sewer, one of the many drainage ditches that ran across the Marsh, next to a ford where cattle and wagons crossed. A low bank of earth ran along the far side of the sewer. As he reached the near end of the bridge he heard a sharp noise behind him, and whirled around. Once again there was nothing there.
He drew a sharp breath, steadied himself and turned around again, facing the village – and froze. A moment ago the bridge had been empty; now a man stood at its opposite end ten feet away, cloaked and masked with rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He held a pistol aimed steadily at the rector’s heart.
Hardcastle looked around for aid, but he looked in vain. The bleak fields were empty and there was not another soul in sight; the nearest house was half a mile away. Accepting the inevitable, he gazed calmly at the other man’s masked face.
The Body on the Doorstep Page 19