The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Badly injured as she was, she regained consciousness and got to her feet,’ said Mrs Chaytor, and she shivered again. ‘She must have been very strong; strong of mind, as well as body.’

  ‘So, she stumbled outside and across the yard,’ said Stemp. ‘And fell into the pond.’

  ‘Or was pushed,’ said Mrs Chaytor. She had a vision in her head of the dazed, bleeding woman staggering in the cold wind, pursued by her tormentor like a cat playing with a mouse.

  ‘She might not have been pushed, ma’am. If she was dazed, she wouldn’t have been able to see proper. She could have stumbled into the pond without realising, or slipped on the ice and fallen into the water. If there was no one there to help her . . .’ Stemp spread his hands.

  ‘But there was someone else,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Remember the boot.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the boot,’ said the rector, holding up the lantern once more. ‘Every theory we devise eventually shipwrecks itself on that blasted boot. Very well, let us carry on searching. We are looking for anything that might help us to establish the identity of either the woman or the killer. And also, keep an eye out for anything that might have been used as a weapon.’

  They searched the house room by room, beginning with the drawing room to the left of the front door. The left-hand passage beside the stairs led to the dining room and then beyond to the kitchen, where they found the first signs of occupation: the remains of food; not much, a few crusts of bread and the rind of a cheese, both already worried by mice. The hearth in the kitchen had been used recently; there were fresh ashes on the grate, stirring a little in the draught from the chimney.

  A connecting passage behind the stairs led to the breakfast room and then the morning room, all silent with the furniture covered by dustsheets. As they had in other rooms, they lifted the sheets to make certain there were no further grisly surprises. Across the passage, on the front corner of the house opposite the drawing room, was the library. A little surprisingly, there were no books. A few of Fanscombe’s hunting prints still hung on the wall, frosted with dust. There was nothing else to be seen.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Hardcastle said quietly.

  Warily, their footfalls ringing on the fatal stairs, they went up to the landing. Two more passageways led to the bedrooms. One bed had been used, though not made up; a rough woollen blanket had been flung over the mattress. Using the tip of his walking stick, the rector lifted the blanket gingerly, but to their relief there was nothing unpleasant under it, only the mattress itself, spotted with mildew.

  They retreated to the landing and found the servants’ stairs, narrow and plain. This led them to the attic, lit dimly by windows in the gables. Here they found boxrooms, full of dust that made Hardcastle sneeze, and quarters for the domestic staff. The caretaker’s lodging was here, easy to identify; the room smelled of stale bedding and was littered with empty rum bottles. The rest of the rooms were undisturbed, save for one of the maid’s; here, too, the bed had been slept in, but there were no other signs of occupation.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Whatever they were here for, it wasn’t sex.’ Stemp gave her an appalled look.

  ‘You were right,’ the rector said. ‘We have found nothing.’

  ‘We now know where the young woman was clubbed, reverend,’ Stemp pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ said the rector gloomily, ‘but we are not a jot closer to knowing why. Nor has there been any sign of a weapon.’

  ‘He might have used a poker from the fire,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘and then cleaned it and replaced it.’

  ‘There was no evidence of that in the wound. And if he is the kind of cold-hearted brute we think he is, he might have carried a handy little truncheon in his pocket, and taken it away with him . . . Whoever he was, he has left very little evidence of his time here. The blanket upstairs and those scraps of food and the ashes in the grate; apart from those, you would never know that anyone had been.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘What about the caretaker? He too is missing. Might he have returned, for whatever reason, found our woman in the house, and lashed out at her? I believe he carries a rather stout walking stick.’

  Stemp frowned. ‘Beazley is a cantankerous old cuss, but I don’t think he’d do harm to anyone. Unless he was in his cups, of course.’

  ‘Which he is most of the time,’ said the rector, thinking of the man’s fondness for brandy. Beazley might only have one fist, but he was very handy with it, and he had twice been hauled up before the rector during his brief term in office as justice of the peace. ‘I agree, Joshua, I don’t see Beazley as a killer, but we had better talk to him. Go down to Lydd and find him.’

  Stemp nodded. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We’ll interview Beazley, as I say, but I doubt he knows very much. Otherwise, we wait, and hope that Mr Jessington is able to offer us some useful information.’

  ‘And meanwhile we do nothing?’

  ‘My dear Mrs Chaytor, if you have any suggestions, please do feel free to offer them. I am stymied.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said angrily. ‘And I hate the fact that this man is still free and at large among us, probably sizing up his next victim.’

  She bit her lip and fell silent, and the rector watched her, wondering. She was, he knew, as tenacious as she was elegant; she tended to sink her teeth bulldog-fashion into a problem, and not let go until it was resolved.

  WADSCOMBE HALL, TENTERDEN.

  28th December, 1796.

  My dear Hardcastle,

  Thank you for your letter of yesterday’s date.

  I understand from the coroner that you have referred this matter to him and asked for an inquest. That is of course right and proper. Beyond that, however, I am afraid there is very little to be done. Searching for this man now would be rather like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Given the present state of crisis in the country, I certainly cannot countenance diverting resources from the volunteers or the militia to undertake a search.

  It is very likely that the woman was a vagrant, or a runaway servant, perhaps. In which case, she is of little account. Put the matter by, and try to enjoy what remains of the festive season.

  Yr very obedient servant,

  CLAVERTYE

  Stemp went down to Lydd, returning late in the day with the news they had all expected. ‘I found old Beazley, tight as a tick as you might expect. I got him sobered up after a while, enough to talk to. He left on the twenty-third to see his auntie in Lydd, and has been there ever since. His auntie vouched for him, and said he hadn’t left her company since he arrived.’

  ‘Was the lady really his aunt, do you think?’

  Stemp made a derisive noise. ‘Not unless aunts can be hired by the hour.’ Hardcastle nodded, mentally writing off another lead. It had never been a strong possibility, but now they had virtually nothing to go on.

  *

  On 30th December, the coroner journeyed down from Maidstone through lashing rain and sleet to convene an inquest in the common room of the Star. Dr Stackpole had been appointed just a few months ago after his predecessor had been dismissed for corruption. He was tall and thin with a dark, gloomy voice and sunken cheeks below a frayed white wig. ‘Looks like he should be carrying out an inquest on himself,’ young Bessie Luckhurst murmured to the rector.

  The common room was crowded; the entire parish had turned out in hopes that they might learn something new about the mysterious woman and her death. Hardcastle saw Mrs Chaytor enter and take a seat along with Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper and some of the other women. He knew most of them, but several were unfamiliar; he realised that the death of the young woman had touched a nerve with many women in the area. ‘Bad news travels quickly,’ he observed to his parish constable, ‘and news of an unnatural death most quickly of all.’

  Stemp rubbed his nose. ‘It’s mid-winter, reverend. Folk haven’t much to do, especially with this cold. They’re hoping for a bit of scandal. And, of course, some of ’em
are worried.’

  ‘Worried? About what?’

  ‘Last time, this fellow killed a stranger. Next time it might be one of them. That’s what some folk are thinking.’

  Stemp was right, Hardcastle thought. Fear came easily in winter when the days were cold and the nights were long; the notion that the shadows might be harbouring a killer come to prey on them was a natural one.

  To the disappointment of the common room, the proceedings were brief. The sole purpose of the inquest was to identify the cause of death; any question of responsibility or guilt was a matter for the magistrate. And the cause of death had already been made very clear in Dr Mackay’s report. Mackay himself was the first witness, enlarging on aspects of the report while the coroner’s clerk took notes with a spluttering quill. There followed a long technical discussion of the symptoms of drowning, during which the audience begin to shift restlessly. They perked up when the coroner asked whether there were any other injuries to the body.

  ‘None, sir. Apart from the blow to the head and the visible marks of drowning, the body was untouched.’

  A sigh, composed of mingled relief and disappointment, ruffled across the room. Mackay stepped down, and the coroner asked who had discovered the body. The lad Jed was urged forward and took the stand. The coroner directed a series of questions to him, and Jed replied in mumbled monosyllables, which everyone strained to hear. Mrs Chaytor lost patience.

  ‘Jed and the maidservant returned at once to the house and reported finding the body. I was one of the next people on the scene. Would it help, doctor, if I took the stand?’

  The coroner’s voice became more sepulchral than ever. ‘It is not usual for a woman to give witness, ma’am.’

  The rector raised his own voice. ‘In this case, Dr Stackpole, I think you may permit it.’

  Mrs Chaytor described, neatly and accurately, the position of the body as it had been found.

  The coroner thanked her and then, astonishingly, made an attempt at gallantry. ‘If all ladies were as observant and concise as yourself, ma’am, I am sure we should welcome hearing their evidence more often.’

  The rector winced. ‘And if all coroners were as free-thinking and liberal in their views as you, doctor,’ said Mrs Chaytor, rising, ‘I am sure we ladies would make it our business to discover corpses more frequently.’ She resumed her seat beside Miss Roper, who was giggling behind her hand.

  The coroner sat quietly for a moment, aware that he had been insulted but not quite certain how, and then asked the jury to come to a verdict. They looked at their foreman and nodded as one: unlawful killing.

  As the crowd dispersed, the rector made his way across the room to the women. ‘Miss Godfrey, Miss Roper,’ he said, bowing. ‘I trust you are well?’

  ‘As well as we can be,’ said Miss Godfrey acidly, ‘given that there is a madman on the loose.’

  ‘I am certain you have nothing to fear, Miss Godfrey.’

  ‘Are you, reverend? Well, I am not. Who is to say that this fiend will not return one night, and murder us all in our beds?’

  She had not troubled to lower her voice, and some of the other women looked at her nervously. ‘Lord Clavertye must send the militia to protect us,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘At once.’

  The rector bowed again. ‘You may rest assured, ladies, that Lord Clavertye is doing everything in his power. Mrs Chaytor, may I trouble you for a moment?’

  He gave her his arm, and they walked out into the street. The rain had eased to an icy drizzle; the wind made ripples in the cold pools that lay among the mud. Before he could speak, she looked up at him from under the rim of her bonnet and said, ‘Lord Clavertye will do nothing?’

  She had read the irony in his voice, though thankfully the other women had not. ‘He thinks our dead woman may have been a vagabond, or a runaway servant. Therefore, in his words, she is of little account; even less so in his eyes, given her colour. I am to forget her.’

  There was a little pause. ‘You won’t, of course.’

  ‘No, I won’t. But I am still stymied.’

  ‘Something will turn up,’ she said confidently.

  ‘I wish I shared your certainty . . . the truth is that Clavertye is quite right about one thing. Searching now for the man would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. He could have gone anywhere; to London, even beyond.’ He looked at her. ‘We shall bury her tomorrow. Will you come?’

  ‘Of course.’

  *

  Though the weather was still bitter the following day, the ice had melted and the ground thawed enough so that the sexton could dig a grave. The rector stood robed at the lychgate of the church, waiting for the body to arrive. He remembered the burial of another unnamed victim of violence seven months earlier. On that occasion, he and Mrs Chaytor had persevered; they had learned the dead man’s name and why he had been killed, even if the man who murdered him had in the end escaped justice. The young man had a headstone now, with his name, Jacques Morel, boldly inscribed on it. The gift of the headstone had been anonymous, although the rector knew very well who had paid for it.

  The squat tower of St Mary the Virgin reared above the dark barren trees. Across the road stood the rectory, foursquare and brick, its garden dripping and colourless. To the south, stretched out along the New Romney road, lay the village, chimneys smoking; further on, the trees in the garden at New Hall stood black and skeletal against the clouds. He looked at those more distant trees and wondered again, why? Why there, why that house?

  Beyond the churchyard wall Romney Marsh stretched empty and flat, the wind hissing over marsh and meadow, rustling the dry reeds in the sewers. East lay the dunes that marked the edge of the sea; west and northwest rose the hills of Kent, running from Appledore up to Hythe. In spring those meadows would be full of lambs and their dams, grazing peacefully and filling the air with their calls. But in winter, this was an empty, bleak and soulless land, cut off by sea and hills from the rest of the world. People came down here to hide from that world. And, sometimes, Hardcastle thought, they also came to die.

  People arrived at the church in twos and threes, huddled against the wind, their faces full of sympathy. Death was familiar; people died every year, of drowning or marsh fever or some other nameless illness. A man could be crushed when a wagon’s load slipped and fell on him, or have his neck broken in a brawl, or join the navy and die of yellow fever far away in the Indies. Women could, and too often did, die in childbirth, or in accidents in the house or fields. This woman was a stranger; yet still they came. Part of it was curiosity; part of it was genuine pity, for they knew she had been young and many of the women of the parish shared Mrs Chaytor’s horror at the brutal manner of her death. Her very strangeness, too, was an attraction. And, as Stemp and Miss Godfrey had said, there was also fear. Those who were frightened by what had happened wanted to be close to their neighbours, and take comfort from their presence.

  Hardcastle read the service well, his deep rich voice full of compassion. As ever, he was aware that his role now was to give comfort and strength to the living, not merely to commemorate the dead.

  ‘Remember thy servant, O Lord, according to the favour which thou bearest unto thy people, and grant that, increasing in knowledge and love of thee, she may go from strength to strength, in the life of perfect service, in thy heavenly kingdom . . . The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you.’

  He was speaking to them, not just for the dead woman but for their own sakes in this troubled hour, and he saw in their faces that they knew it.

  Later, as the congregation dispersed and the sexton and his assistant began to shovel muddy earth over the coffin, the rector shed his clerical robes in the vestry and put on his long cloak once more, before walking out to find Mrs Chaytor waiting for him.

  ‘You did that very well, as always,’ she said. ‘Your eloquence was quite moving. Who knows? One day you may convert me.’

  He smiled; both
of them knew how unlikely that was. ‘It is New Year’s Eve,’ she said. ‘Have you plans?’

  ‘I intend to sit by the fire with a glass of port and a volume of Decline and Fall, and then go to bed early.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Only one glass? You really are being abstemious these days. Takings at the Star must be down considerably.’

  He chuckled. ‘I fear they may.’

  ‘What has brought this about? Your new-found eminence as a magistrate?’

  ‘I suspect that is partly the case, yes.’

  ‘Laudable. But I had never heard that sobriety was expected of a magistrate. Quite the opposite, in my experience.’

  He chuckled again. ‘Mine also. But, in light of the responsibility I have accepted, I intend to try to keep a clear head.’ Most of the time, he thought.

  They walked on down the village street, passing the Star, where most of the congregation were now gathered, and on towards Sandy House. ‘You have changed, since the events of last spring,’ she observed.

  ‘I know. Perhaps, after forty years on this earth, I am finally growing up.’

  She laughed aloud at that. ‘What can you mean?’

  ‘My dear, I have spent most of my time playing at life. I have played at being a theologian, a scholar, a playwright, a duellist, a clergyman and a rake; often all at the same time. I have lived most of my life on a whim. The only serious decision I ever made, to come here to St Mary, was in fact thrust upon me: the choice given to me by the archbishop was this, or exile to the colonies. I have been self-indulgent, vain and foolish; even, at times, quite wicked. It is high time I began to live my life so that I may be of benefit to other people, not just myself.’

  She listened to this speech with a smile still on her lips, rain dripping from the brim of her bonnet. ‘You never cease to surprise me,’ she said. ‘You have written plays?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘May I read them?’

  ‘Absolutely you may not. I intend that every word I have ever written will go with me to my grave.’