‘I am a clergyman,’ he said. ‘There is very little money in my purse, but you are welcome to what is there. My watch is of some value. You may take them freely; I ask only that you offer me no violence.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ the other man said irritably. ‘I’m not a bloody footpad. If I were, I would ply my trade somewhere more profitable. I only want a word with you, somewhere out of sight of witnesses. I pulled the pistol in case you did anything stupid, like shouting for help.’
Then Hardcastle recognised the voice, and saw the jut of the chin below the mask. He allowed himself to relax, just a little. ‘Peter,’ he said quietly. ‘How very good it is to see you again.’
‘How do you know that name?’ demanded the other, staring through the eyeholes of his mask.
‘I heard one of your associates mention it,’ the rector said, staring back. ‘You said you wanted a word with me. What is it?’
‘Foucarmont came to see you yesterday. What did he want?’
‘Are yours the people watching my house?’
‘Some of them. What did Foucarmont want?’
‘He wanted to tell me the truth about himself, and you.’ The rector summarised in a few sentences what Foucarmont had said. The other man nodded slowly. ‘So. We are a gang of traitors smuggling secrets from England to France, and he is a government agent out to stop us. When he mentioned Mark’s death, did you tell him that we had also invaded your house and threatened to harm you?’
‘No.’
‘How curious. Why not?’
The rector drew breath. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘I do not believe a single word of Monsieur de Foucarmont’s story.’
Silence fell. In it the wind hissed, spitting a fresh gust of rain at them. Hardcastle mopped his face.
‘Why not? The story seems sound enough.’
‘Indeed. And I might have believed him,’ said the rector, ‘had I not been at Ebony the day you met Matthew, and overheard your entire conversation. I think you might lower that pistol now.’
After a moment the other man gave a brief laugh. He did lower the pistol, though he still held it firm in his hand. ‘What in hell’s name were you doing at Ebony?’
The rector told him. When he described his hiding place, Peter snorted and cursed himself for an incompetent fool. ‘That will teach me to make a complete search next time. All right. You think we are on the side of the angels. In fact we are working for His Majesty’s government, which is not quite the same thing, but close enough given the circumstances.’
‘And Foucarmont?’
‘From what you say, it seems fairly clear that he is working for the French. He is a clever bastard, I’ll give him that. We knew someone was running an operation against us, but we thought Blunt was the ringleader. We only started having our suspicions of Foucarmont last month. Well, Reverend. It looks like I owe you one.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘Carry on. Foucarmont is right about one thing. You need to stay out of this business. If you do not, you might get hurt.’
‘And what about Blunt?’
‘Never mind Blunt. We will deal with him in our own way. Foucarmont too, if need be.’
‘No,’ said the rector strongly. ‘There will be no more murders. If these men have committed crimes, let them be brought to justice.’
The masked man laughed. ‘Justice? How the hell would you get them before a court? There is no evidence against either of them.’
‘Not yet. I intend to find it.’
‘Then you’re a damned fool. This affair is bigger than you can imagine.’ The big man touched the brim of his dripping hat. ‘Keep your head down, Reverend. Stay out of trouble.’ And with that he turned and climbed up over the bank and down into the field beyond, and walked away through the gathering mist.
*
Tuesday, the last day of May, dawned grey and cloudy once more, the air full of mist. The rector ate his usual hearty breakfast and then crossed the road to the church as the bells begin to toll for the funeral. In the church he nodded to the bell-ringers as usual and then went into the vestry to robe. By the time he walked back out to the churchyard a crowd had gathered, all sombrely dressed and talking in quiet tones, occasionally looking skyward and hoping it would not rain. The rector smiled softly. Old Cadman had been popular; it was good to see his neighbours turning out to send him on his way. He realised that Amelia Chaytor was among them, a black bonnet half hiding her face.
A cart drew up slowly behind the lychgate, followed by a little knot of mourners. The coffin was unloaded and carried solemnly to the gate. The rector raised his hand.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,’ he intoned slowly in his deep voice as he entered the church, the coffin and its bearers following. ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.’
The casket was laid before the altar, and he stepped up to the pulpit. Looking out over the congregation, who sat and watched him with pale earnest faces, he read the service; and when he came to the magnificent end of St Paul’s epistle, his voice rang in the rafters.
‘Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which gives us the victory through Our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.’
Midway through the service Mrs Cadman, who had been weeping copiously when she arrived at the church, dried her eyes and sat up straight. The coffin was borne out again to the grave in the churchyard, where the sexton waited, leaning on his shovel, and the body was committed. The mourners departed, talking in low voices, most of them on their way to the public house to drink to their neighbour’s passing. Some stopped to thank the rector and shake his hand. Amelia Chaytor stood silently and watched them.
‘Very impressive,’ she said in her light voice, once they were alone. ‘This is the first time I have seen you perform your duties.’
‘Thank you.’ Standing before her in his robes, he felt strangely self-conscious. ‘This is of course only a small part of what I do.’
‘Yes, I am sure. It is odd. I watched them, rather than you, when you spoke. “The sting of death is sin.” It is nonsense, of course, the sting of death is death, itself. Yet, they were comforted. I wonder why.’
‘My dear self-doubting agnostic, you must not take every word in the Bible literally, or the Book of Common Prayer either. Think what is meant by that passage, not the few words you quoted, but the whole of it.’
She thought. ‘That if we do things that are right and good, we will not have lived our lives in vain.’
‘That is good enough for me,’ he said smiling.
‘Yes,’ she said, reluctance in her voice. ‘Actually, it was another passage that keeps running in my mind.
“I held my tongue and spake nothing; I kept silence, yea, even from good words, but it was pain and grief to me.
My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled; and at the last I spake with my tongue.” ’
The words were from Psalm 39. He waited and she said, ‘I felt as if someone else had put into words what I feel about this case. I could have held my tongue and said nothing. But something kindled a fire in me, a fire in ashes that I thought had gone cold. I had to do something. So maybe that is what it comes down to. Doing good things gives our life purpose; or restores purpose, when it has been lost.’
‘He was quite a good student of character, old St Paul,’ he said. He offered his arm and they turned away from the grave, where the sexton continued to shovel stolidly, and walked back to the church. ‘Why did you come?’ he asked.
‘In hopes of having a quiet word with you. I fear our shaking of the tree has not produced much fruit.’
They were out of earshot of the sext
on. ‘That is not entirely true,’ he said gently, and he told her in quick succession of his meeting with Foucarmont and his encounter with Peter. ‘We have smoked Foucarmont out into the open. He made a mistake there, for I was in two minds as to whether to suspect his involvement in this plot. Now I know for certain.’
‘That is curious. For my part, I thought he was a wrong ’un from the start.’
‘Women’s intitution?’ he asked, tongue in cheek, and she looked up and smiled for a moment, then grew serious again. ‘There is someone else whom we have overlooked,’ she said. ‘Someone who certainly knows the truth about Fanscombe and Foucarmont, but is concealing it. I mean, of course, Eugénie Fanscombe.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you wish to approach her?’
‘She is already suffering, I think. I do not wish to add to her pain. If possible, we should find another way to do this.’
‘But time is running out,’ she said quietly, and she looked around to see that there was no one else within earshot. ‘Today is Wednesday. The next run is on Monday night. We must do something.’
‘We could pursue our case against Blunt. This man Five-Guineas may know something.’
‘I know, and I have always said that my main ambition is to see Blunt hang. But things have changed. This has gone beyond simple murder now. And if we don’t stop these people, who will?’
He was silent at this. ‘Leave Eugénie Fanscombe to me,’ she said, and smiled quickly and turned and walked away through the mist.
*
Later he went to the Star to drink a few mugs of beer with the mourners, and Cadman came and thanked him again for the service. Bessie Luckhurst, who had been there too, smiled at him as she poured his beer. ‘Funny old life for you, Reverend. You only get busy when there is a funeral.’
He waved around the crowded common room, where her father was serving out jugs of ale. ‘Much the same for you, my dear.’
Back at home he ate some bread and cold chicken to soak up the beer, and then drank a bottle of port and fell asleep in his study. He woke hazy-headed to find the evening grey and damp. He wondered how many people were outside watching the rectory. He was getting used to the feeling of being watched, now, and no longer felt so menaced. Mrs Kemp, so far as he could tell, had not noticed the watchers at all, and would probably not care so long as they did not enter the house again.
As the light began to fail, Turner called. The housekeeper, her face more sour than ever, showed him into the study. ‘I will not stay long,’ said the painter. ‘But I said I would tell you if I had news. An hour ago a horseman arrived, coming up the New Romney road and galloping like the devil himself was after him. Judging by his stiffness, and the amount of mud on his cloak and boots, I would say he had ridden post for a long way. Perhaps even from London.’
The rector pressed his hand to his forehead. ‘Where did this horseman go?’
‘New Hall, of course,’ said Turner impatiently. ‘He is a courier on urgent business, or I have never seen one. You promised me an explanation.’
Hardcastle nodded and pointed Turner to a seat, and rose and unlocked the cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy. He drank one down, feeling his head spin and then clear, filled it again and passed the second glass to the painter.
‘You will have gathered,’ he said, resuming his seat carefully, ‘that we believe Curtius Miller was murdered. It seems entirely likely that he was killed by Blunt, or by someone acting for Blunt, but we cannot prove this. If we could . . .’
‘But why, in God’s name?’
The rector paused, thinking carefully about how much to say. ‘There is a conspiracy,’ he said, ‘in which at least one member of the Fanscombe household is involved. At the moment, I do not know which one. This conspiracy goes beyond mere murder. The safety of the realm is involved.’ He looked up at the painter and said, ‘Once again, I can prove none of this.’
‘What about Lord Clavertye?’
‘His hands are tied. Without proof, he can do nothing.’
‘Then tell me how I can help,’ said Turner simply.
‘Do what you are doing. Continue to watch, but do it carefully. Do nothing to alert them or make them suspicious.’
‘You can count on me,’ said Turner. He drained his glass and took his leave, and the rector sat staring out into the dark evening until Mrs Kemp came in and drew the drapes. Well, they had an ally after all; though how much real good the young painter could do remained to be seen.
Another knock at the door; but it was only the evening post from New Romney. There were two letters.
OFFICE OF THE DEAN, CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL, CANTERBURY.
30th May, 1796.
Reverend Hardcastle
This is to inform you that I shall arrive in St Mary in the Marsh on Thursday 2nd June. I shall stay as usual at the Star, but I expect to call on you upon my arrival, about midday. There is an urgent matter that I wish to discuss with you. I will say no more at this point, but will explain more fully when I arrive.
Yours in Christ
CORNEWALL
Ah, thought the rector, his lips curling in a sneer. Another run is planned, and the dean is coming down to protect his investment. This reminded him that the run was due to take place in just six days. And still there was nothing he could do to stop Blunt and his men from ambushing the Twelve Apostles. He opened the second letter.
Meet F-G at the bay, tomorrow early. Bring money.
The latter was undated and unsigned. But he guessed that the spidery, laboured handwriting was that of Joshua Stemp.
In the morning the rain had cleared, and a fresh west wind was slowly blowing the clouds away. Booted and cloaked, the rector walked to St Mary’s Bay. He was not followed; in fact it would have been difficult on a clear day to follow a man unnoticed over those flat treeless fields and marshes. Never mind; the watchers would be waiting when he returned.
On the beach he found an upturned boat, fishing nets strewn on the sand beside it. A man in smock and rough breeches and hose with a battered hat sat on the boat, smoking a pipe. He watched the rector approach without moving. The coast of France lay low in the distance, dark with menace.
‘John Snathurst?’ said the rector, halting a few feet away.
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re with the Dymchurch Customs. One of Blunt’s men.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you have something to tell me.’
‘That’s right,’ the man said again. ‘If you’ve the money.’
‘I was told five guineas was the going rate.’
‘Let’s see it first.’
The rector drew a small weighted bag from the pocket of his cloak and tossed it across. He waited while the man opened the bag and counted out the five guineas, testing one on his teeth. The man nodded, put the purse away, then finished his pipe and tapped it on the side of his boot to empty it.
‘Let’s get one thing squared away from the start,’ he said. ‘I’m talking to you here privately. I’ll not repeat this in public. If you try to put me on a witness stand, I’ll deny everything.’
‘You and all the Dymchurch Customs men are being paid by the smugglers to look the other way,’ said the rector. ‘Blunt organises it, and you all get a percentage. And you would rather the world did not know about this.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mr Snathurst, I have no interest whatever in your financial arrangements with the free-traders. I am interested only in the murder of Curtius Miller. What can you tell me about that?’
‘Murder’s a strong word.’ The other man stood up abruptly. The rector tensed, half expecting an assault, but the other man stood still, hands hanging down at his sides. Slowly the rector relaxed again.
‘I’ll tell you what I saw,’ said Snathurst, ‘and that’s all. On the evening of the sixth of May, the fellows from Deal came down and joined us. Almost at once, Mr Blunt was there ordering us to arm and get ready to march.’
‘Just a moment. Was there any friction between Miller and Blunt? Did they quarrel?’
‘Not that I know of. I never heard of nothing between them. In any case, there was no time for a quarrel, for we were on the move almost at once. We came down the beach as far as St Mary’s Bay and saw all was clear there. Mr Blunt ordered us to fall back from the beach, about half a mile or so. Then he halted us and said we was to wait, watch for any sign of movement, but if we saw anyone we was to keep quiet, let them go past and then follow them.’
‘Did you know this gang you were facing was the Twelve Apostles?’
‘We knew. We weren’t much happy about it. Last autumn, Mr Blunt told them he wasn’t taking money from them any more. They got mad as hell, and threatened all of us. They’re a hard crew, much harder than the ordinary free-trader.’
The rector nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Just about midnight, near enough, we heard a few gunshots from up north. I thought, hell, that’s the ones we’re looking for. But Mr Blunt told us to hold our ground and wait. Then a few minutes later we saw the shadows moving. There were men coming towards our position, through the dark. Mr Blunt whispered and we fell back a little to the south, keeping low and moving quiet. I was on the left of the line, last man to the west. Then Miller came up past me, almost on my shoulder, and then bore away beyond me, further away to the west; I could see him about twenty yards away, just at the edge of the sewer. I’d lost sight of Mr Blunt and most of the others.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Well, next thing is, Miller shouts at the top of his lungs, “Turn back! Turn back!” Then he turns and runs away from us. But he only gets a few steps when there is someone in front of him. “Damn you!” cries Miller, and then the other man shoots him, full in the guts. Miller goes down kicking and thrashing like a wounded horse, and the other man makes off, splashing in the sewer.
‘Next thing, shit is falling on us from a great height. The other lot were shooting at us from every direction, musket balls going every which way. We got the hell out as fast as we could, not stopping ’til we was halfway to New Romney. Then Mr Blunt came up, swearing like anything and demanding to know what had happened to Miller. And that’s it.’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 20