The Body on the Doorstep

by MacKenzie, AJ

  ‘Then the local smugglers moved their run from the sixth of June to the fourth, and the Twelve Apostles followed suit. When Foucarmont learned of this, he sent a messenger to warn Blunt.’

  ‘Damn you, he never did!’ said Blunt sharply.

  ‘Oh, yes, he did. Eliza Fanscombe was the messenger. Dean Cornewall was present at the meeting too, and I am sure he will swear to the matter. Dean Cornewall is rather anxious for some credit with the authorities, just at the moment.’

  Ignoring Clavertye’s stare, the rector went on. ‘So we come to the night of the fourth of June. Juddery attacked you, Blunt, because I told him to.’

  Blunt stared at him. ‘Have you taken leave of your fucking senses?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. You see, Blunt, by then I knew the truth. I knew you were more than just Foucarmont’s unwitting tool; you were in on the entire plot. That is why you, Blunt, slaughtered Curtius Miller in cold blood; not just to stop him from warning the Twelve Apostles, but because he knew or had guessed that you were a traitor. And so, on Saturday night I saw you were about to ambush the Twelve Apostles, and I told Juddery to stop you. He believed that he was acting in the name of the king. Lord Clavertye will judge whether I acted correctly.’

  Clavertye looked at the Customs man, his barrister’s face firmly in place. ‘Well, Blunt? What have you to say? Why did you turn traitor?’

  ‘This is shit,’ said Blunt contemptuously. ‘This old fool doesn’t know what the hell he is talking about. He’s so drunk that half the time he doesn’t know what day it is. Has anyone smelled his breath now?’

  ‘If Mr Blunt won’t answer, then I will,’ said the rector. ‘For years now, Blunt has been taking bribes from the smuggling gangs all along the coast to allow them free passage. Foucarmont learned of this, and blackmailed him into assisting the plot. The Twelve Apostles used to pay him too, but Foucarmont forced him to betray them. That is one of the reasons why Blunt is so frightened of the Apostles; they have threatened several times to kill him.’

  Blunt heard him out, suddenly and surprisingly calm. In fact he even grinned, disquietingly, pulling back his fleshy lips over yellow teeth. ‘You’ll never prove a single damned word of this,’ he said, glancing around the group. ‘Never.’

  ‘We will,’ said the rector calmly. ‘We have evidence, Blunt, witnesses who will testify that you took bribes, and as I said, we also have a witness to the killing of Miller. Most damning of all, though, will be the evidence given against you by your confederates in this plot.’

  ‘And who might those be?’ asked Clavertye.

  ‘The Dean of Canterbury, who though not a traitor himself, knows enough to implicate you. And then of course there is Foucarmont, when he is caught.’

  ‘That assumes Foucarmont will be caught,’ Morley observed.

  ‘He will, said Clavertye stonily, and then added, ‘but it may take some time. Who else do you have, Hardcastle?’

  ‘Who else? Well, I am sure you must have known we would come to you eventually, Mr Fanscombe.’

  *

  She was tired when she returned to St Mary in the Marsh, but she drove past her own house and went directly to the rectory. As she turned into the drive, she noticed the lychgate of the church standing open.

  Stepping down from the seat of the gig, she knocked at the rectory door. Mrs Kemp opened it a few moments later, gazing in surprise at a tall woman with flushed face and hair coming down from under her bonnet. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Chaytor,’ she said curtseying. ‘I fear Reverend Hardcastle is not at home. Was he expecting you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘Do you know when he will return?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He went over to the church, and gave orders that he and the others were not to be disturbed.’

  Alarm bells began to tingle at the back of her mind. What had the daft man done now? ‘What others, Mrs Kemp?’

  ‘Why, His Lordship and Dr Morley, and Mr Blunt and Mr Fanscombe, and that Turner fellow. And Captain Shaw.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ said Amelia Chaytor, and she felt herself turning white. ‘Oh, dear God, dear God.’

  ‘Mrs Chaytor! Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘Go inside, Mrs Kemp, and lock the doors and windows. Do not let anyone in, except for the rector or myself.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Chaytor! Where are you going?’

  ‘To prevent another murder,’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  *

  Fanscombe was flushed with fear and anger. ‘I swear to you, Foucarmont deceived me. I knew nothing of his true purpose.’

  ‘That is a lie, Fanscombe. Yes, he used you; yes, he blackmailed you; but you acted in full knowledge of who he was and what he did. You are in this up to your neck. It was you who bribed the coroner. It was you who passed on messages to Blunt; using your own daughter as messenger, for heaven’s sake! It was you who gave orders to Captain Shaw. Most of all, you provided Foucarmont with cover. Your house was the base for Foucarmont’s operations against the Twelve Apostles over the past year. You harboured an enemy spy under your roof, and you knew full well that you were doing so. As a result, you have ruined not only yourself but very probably your wife and daughter as well.’

  ‘Leave my family out of this!’

  ‘Leave them out? Why not? It is a simple enough matter. Make a full confession and sign it, and they will not be troubled again. Miss Fanscombe’s role need never be made public. Otherwise, I very much fear that Lord Clavertye’s officers will drag her reputation through the mud. A pity about Eliza. A young girl, with so much promise. So much life ahead of her, and now all wasted.’

  ‘My God,’ said Morley, disgusted. ‘Now who is the blackmailer?’

  ‘Young, with so much promise,’ repeated the rector, iron in his voice. ‘Just like Jacques Morel. He was about the same age as your daughter, wouldn’t you say, Fanscombe? The man to whom you gave hospitality, and then helped to murder? When Foucarmont captured Morel and locked him up, he was not acting alone.’

  ‘Damn you!’ said Fanscombe venomously.

  Strangely enough, it was Blunt who intervened. ‘Oh, let him talk. Once again, he can prove nothing. This is all just hot air.’

  ‘It is true that the principal witnesses against you are your wife and daughter,’ said the rector, ‘and of course, neither can be compelled to testify against you in court. But they can help to convict others, and those others, in order to save their own necks, will be only too happy to implicate you, Fanscombe.’

  Fanscombe made to speak, but Blunt stopped him with a gesture. ‘Others?’ said Dr Morley. ‘How many others? How widespread is this conspiracy?’

  ‘As of yet, we do not know. Investigating the full extent of it is likely to keep Lord Clavertye and his officers busy for months. But we do know the name of one other man who was part of the conspiracy. Indeed, he was the man at its very heart.’

  ‘Foucarmont,’ said Turner, puzzled.

  ‘No, not Foucarmont. He was the man of action, the killer brought in to ensure the swift dispatch of the Twelve Apostles and any others who stood in his way. But Foucarmont had a master, the man who first summoned him down to the Marsh and then gave him direction. It was this man who identified early on that Blunt and Fanscombe were corrupt and could be bought or blackmailed. It was this man who collected information and learned where the Apostles would make their next run, and told Foucarmont when and where they would come. It is this man who is most dangerous of all.’

  ‘And do you know who he is?’ asked Clavertye.

  ‘I know. I have had my suspicions for some time, but now I know. You played the game well, sir, but you have reached the end of the road. Surely now, Dr Morley, the gallows awaits you.’

  *

  Late afternoon in St Mary in the Marsh. The sun was warm, despite the keen edge to the breeze. Sheep bleated in the nearby fields. Nearer at hand, bees hummed around banks of flowers outside the neat cottages.

  In the common room of the Star, men sat drinking quietly. They knew som
ething was in the wind; the arrival in the village of Blunt and Lord Clavertye had not passed unnoticed. They sat over their tankards and discussed recent events in low and ominous tones.

  The door of the common room opened hard, bouncing off the wall with a bang. Startled, the men looked up to see a tall, white-faced woman in dusty clothes, a cloak slung off one shoulder, gloves on her hands and boots on her feet. In one hand she held a long-barrelled pistol, pointed at the floor.

  ‘Answer me this,’ said Amelia Chaytor, her voice rasping with strain and anger. ‘Which one of you is Yorkshire Tom?’

  *

  Morley uncrossed his legs and stood up a little straighter. ‘I am inclined to think Blunt may be right,’ he said drily. ‘Hardcastle, the drink has affected your wits. I have warned you to cut down.’

  ‘You have played your part well,’ said the rector steadily. ‘Very, very well. You are an astonishing actor. You deceived me completely for a long time. The evidence of your involvement was there all along, and yet I was so taken in by your performance that I overlooked it.’

  ‘What evidence?’ asked Turner, puzzled. Morley turned and gave him a look of disgust.

  ‘You were called down to New Romney to examine Miller’s body,’ the rector continued. ‘I did wonder why, but never really pursued the matter. But of course, Blunt called you because he needed someone to corroborate the story that Miller had died by accident.’

  ‘You are forgetting,’ said Morley, ‘that when you and Mrs Chaytor advanced the theory that Miller had in fact been murdered, I supported you.’

  ‘I am not forgetting, doctor. You saw that we had worked out the truth, and realised that it would be foolish to pretend. And of course, your evidence did not incriminate anyone. Your confederates remained in the clear.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘And, of course,’ said the rector, ‘I should also have worked out the truth once I learned the details of your affair with Mrs Fanscombe. You should have been more careful there. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper have eyes like hawks, and memories of infinite capacity. They thought it perfectly ordinary that you should visit New Hall for your assignations when Fanscombe was absent, but more than a little odd that you should do while he was at home; which you did, frequently. They assumed that Fanscombe was complaisant. Of course, he was not.’

  ‘I damned well was not,’ said Fanscombe bitterly.

  ‘Your frequent visits, therefore, had nothing to do with your affair. You went there to meet with Foucarmont, and also to ensure that Fanscombe and Blunt carried out their orders.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. I am a doctor. The Fanscombes are patients of mine. Of course I call at their house, as any doctor would.’

  ‘Eugénie Fanscombe will also testify against you. Yes, I know; a woman wronged. Who will believe her? But if the servants at New Hall corroborate her story, well then; it would be a different matter. But let us move on. You fancy yourself as a ladies’ man, don’t you, doctor?’

  ‘I will not even dignify that with a response.’

  ‘You like to make yourself attractive to women. Among other things, you use pastilles to sweeten your breath. Liquorice-flavoured pastilles, yes?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ demanded Clavertye.

  ‘Last week, someone tried to kill me outside the Star. A man seized me from behind and began to throttle me. The assailant’s face was close beside my head, and I could smell his breath. The killer used breath pastilles, the same ones that Dr Morley uses.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said the doctor. ‘Many people use breath pastilles. This is nonsense!’

  ‘You were interrupted – obviously – before you could complete the task. But you were also in New Romney the night of the run. You mingled with the crowd at the Ship, and you spiked my beer with neat spirit to render me incapable so that you could finish me off later. Then, when I went outside, you tried to kill me once again. I don’t know that it was you that clubbed me over the head, but I do have a witness who will put you at the Ship that night, and saw you go outside after I departed.’

  This last was a bluff. If Morley called it, demanded to know who the witness was, then he doubted he could sustain the lie. He held Morley’s gaze steadily; and it was the doctor who cracked.

  ‘My dear reverend,’ he murmured. ‘You seem to have an answer for everything, don’t you?’ And from his pocket he produced a pistol, which he cocked and aimed directly at Hardcastle’s heart.

  No one moved or spoke for a moment. Then Clavertye said sharply, ‘Morley! Drop that pistol!’

  ‘No,’ said Morley. ‘I don’t think I shall.’

  Clavertye took a fast step forward, hand reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his own pistol to cover Morley, but he halted as he saw the doctor’s finger tighten on the trigger. Now Blunt had a pistol in his hand too. ‘If any of you make a move towards me, I shall shoot the rector,’ said Morley.

  Everyone else stood still. ‘Blunt, Fanscombe, you can do whatever you want,’ said the doctor, ‘but I am not staying here to face the music. I’ve a boat ready and waiting at St Mary’s Bay. On this wind, I shall be in France in a few hours. Do you care to join me?’

  Blunt nodded at once; Fanscombe looked irresolute, but then nodded too.

  ‘One question before you go,’ said the rector. ‘Why, Morley?’

  The doctor paused, pistol still levelled at Hardcastle. ‘Conviction,’ he said finally. ‘Fanscombe and Blunt were lured into this business by money, but I have always believed. I am what they call an English Jacobin. I am one of many hundreds of such; I have correspondents and sympathisers all over the country. I believe in liberty, equality and the brotherhood of man. I want to see a Tree of Liberty in Parliament Square. I want to see the guillotine lop off the heads of King George and his ghastly brood. I want to see England become a republic. And I will see it,’ he added. ‘It will just take a little longer, now.’

  ‘No,’ said the rector. ‘Even if, God forbid, that day does come, you will not live to see it. My lord?’

  Clavertye nodded, his pistol still pointed at Morley. ‘Captain Shaw, if you please. Arrest these men.’

  Silence fell for half a dozen heartbeats, and then Shaw smiled. ‘Sorry, my lord,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I cannot comply.’ And he raised his pistol too, and while Morley continued to cover the rector, the captain aimed the weapon at Lord Clavertye, still standing with his own pistol in hand pointed at the doctor.

  *

  How long they stood in that little tableau the rector never knew; afterward he realised it was probably no more than two or three seconds, but at the time it seemed like eternity.

  ‘Shaw,’ he said quietly. ‘Why did I not guess?’

  The young captain laughed. ‘I reckon I gulled you pretty thoroughly, Reverend Hardcastle. The only time I slipped up was when you came to Appledore. When I found out you had talked to my sergeant, I thought I was undone. But once I came down and saw you, and you accepted my explanation so easy, well; then I knew I was home.’

  ‘Then why betray yourself now?’ asked Turner, puzzled.

  ‘Well, I’m backed into a corner, aren’t I? If I arrest my friends, they will of course implicate me. If I let them go, people will ask why, and then start looking hard at me, and there’ll be some things they might find that wouldn’t do me any good. Nothing serious, a few bits of money and army supplies that have gone missing here and there, but enough to get me into pretty hot water. So, doctor, I’m all finished. I hope there is room for one more in that boat of yours.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Shaw. Now, gentlemen. What do we do with these three? If we are to make the boat safely, we need a head start. We cannot risk them getting loose and raising the alarm. So what do you reckon we should do?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Blunt. ‘We shoot them.’

  ‘I say,’ said Fanscombe, alarmed. ‘Do we need to do that? Can’t we just lock them in the vestry?’

  All of the others stood with their b
acks to the church door. Only the rector could see that the door was opening, very, very slowly.

  ‘Too risky,’ said Morley. ‘If they manage to get free and sound the alarm before we get to the coast, we could still be caught. I think you’re right, Blunt.’

  The church door was open about a foot now, still swinging slowly. ‘Are you mad?’ demanded Clavertye. ‘Do you know who I am? You cannot kill a peer of the realm and expect to get away with it!’

  ‘Oh, we can,’ said Morley, ‘given that we will be in France by the time your bodies are discovered. All right, Shaw, Blunt. Ready?’

  ‘Ready. Let’s kill them,’ said Blunt, and he grinned again and raised his pistol and pointed it at Clavertye.

  ‘No one is killing anyone,’ said a light steely voice from the door.

  *

  Slowly they turned, and saw the cloaked and booted woman standing just inside the church door with a pistol level and rock steady in her hands, pointed at Shaw. The heavy oak door hid her from the rest of the church, but the men around the font could all see her clearly. Involuntarily, the rector found himself glancing at the altar. St Mary, Star of the Sea; Stella Maris, who comes to the rescue of those without hope. Oh, God, we give thanks.

  It was not yet over.

  Shaw shifted, and then froze as the woman’s pistol levelled at his head. ‘Do not move,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I may be a weak and feeble woman, but I can shoot the eye out of an ace of spaces at twenty yards. Lay your weapons on the floor and step back from them.’

  ‘No,’ said Morley, and he smiled and spun lightly to cover the woman with his own weapon. ‘You cannot stop us, Mrs Chaytor. I am sorry about this. I don’t like the idea of killing a woman, but needs must.’

  ‘You would not dare.’

  ‘I would dare a great many things in the name of liberty, Mrs Chaytor. And now—’

  He never finished the sentence. In the confusion, everyone had forgotten about Turner, and now he sprang, leaping like a tiger onto Morley’s back and dragging down his gun arm. The pistol fired with a crash that reverberated in the rafters, the ball smashing into the floor and ricocheting harmlessly into the plaster wall. A haze of smoke filled the lower end of the nave; through it, Turner and Morley could be seen wrestling on the floor.