‘Then you will have very erudite worms,’ she said. ‘They will digest your plays, and then hold learned symposia over your bones, discussing your contribution to literature.’
They had reached the gates of Sandy House. ‘Mrs Chaytor,’ he said as they stopped. ‘You are being positively whimsical. May I ask why?’
‘I feel oddly light-hearted,’ she said. ‘I know one shouldn’t, after a funeral. But I found your service quite uplifting. It offered hope, and I have had so little of it . . . And there is the new year. Perhaps, perhaps, this year things will be different. Perhaps I will learn to feel once more.’
It had been three years since her husband had died, and Hardcastle knew the rage and pain were still very close to the surface within her. ‘I hope so, for your sake,’ he said softly. ‘If you will permit me, I shall pray for your happiness.’
‘I cannot see that it will do any harm.’ She smiled at him again. ‘Happy New Year.’
He bowed and kissed her gloved fingers, gently, and then stood and watched her walk into the house, waiting until the door had closed behind her before turning to walk back up the muddy road towards the rectory.
*
That afternoon, as the rector sat in his study, a book face down on his lap as he dozed by the embers of the fire, there came to his ears the sound of horses and carriage wheels. The sound grew nearer, and he heard the carriage slow and turn into the rectory drive. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering who the visitor could be. His first thought was that it might be Lord Clavertye; there came the sudden unreasonable hope that his lordship had changed his mind, and come down to see what assistance he could offer the investigation.
He heard the knock at the door, and Mrs Kemp the housekeeper moving to answer it, and then heard a man’s rather querulous voice outside, asking if this was the rectory. He sighed; it was not Clavertye. Then who the devil was it, come to disturb his tranquillity at this hour on New Year’s Eve?
The housekeeper opened the study door and marched up to his chair, her face set and grim. Mrs Kemp did not approve of strangers in general; it was clear from the compression of her lips that she disapproved of this one more than most. He took the plain, undecorated card from the silver salver she held out and read, to his considerable surprise:
ANTHONY JESSINGTON, ESQ
LINCOLN’S INN
Something will turn up, Mrs Chaytor had predicted the previous day. And now it had. ‘Show him in, Mrs Kemp,’ said the rector, ‘and lay another place for dinner. And, given the hour, I think you had better make up a bed.’
Chapter 4
The Lawyer’s Tale
Mr Jessington was miserable as only a Londoner could be when forced out of the city and into the wild, forbidding hinterlands, far from urban comforts. The roof of his hired carriage had leaked, dripping water down his back; at Ashford he had been forced to get out and stand in the rain while a wheel was mended; the cold wind was utterly enervating, and he had hardly the strength to stand. He could do nothing, he declared, until he first had a hot bath and a change of clothes.
Mrs Kemp was summoned and ordered to prepare a bath. She stared at the rector, her lined face incredulous. ‘A bath? At this hour?’
‘If you please, Mrs Kemp.’
The housekeeper stamped away to the kitchen. Soon after, they heard a violent clashing of pots. Moved by Mr Jessington’s dejection, the rector unlocked the mahogany cabinet where he kept his cognac and poured out a small measure for his guest, adding after a moment a slightly larger measure for himself. Mr Jessington took a sip and choked, setting down his glass and wiping his eyes.
‘What is this stuff?’
‘French brandy, sir.’
‘French,’ said Mr Jessington. His tone suggested that everything bad in the world came from France.
Sometime later, warmed by a bath and dressed in dry clothes, the solicitor returned to the study and apologised for his earlier conduct. ‘I fear I was not myself when I arrived. I have a weak constitution, you see. The motion of the coach has brought on my dyspepsia, and this vile weather has been quite dreadful for my liver.’
‘It is quite all right,’ said the rector, who had spent the last hour wondering what had possessed Mr Jessington to travel from London to Romney Marsh in mid-winter, rather than staying snugly at home in comfort and writing a letter. He gazed expectantly at his guest.
Stripped of his bulky overcoat and scarves, Mr Jessington was revealed as a small man, very neat and precise in manner; he reminded the rector of a mouse. On first glance the rector had thought him about fifty, but seen now in the firelight he proved to be rather younger than the rector himself, probably not more than thirty. His manner and the old-fashioned severity of his clothes, black apart from his white lace stock and his wig, made him appear older. He fidgeted constantly, plucking at his cuffs, fiddling with his stock, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his streaming nose.
‘Before we begin, will you permit me – ah-choo! – to ask a question? What is the current condition of New Hall? Has this unfortunate incident resulted in any damage to the house?’
‘None whatsoever.’ The rector explained that, in the absence of the caretaker, he had let himself into the house to conduct an investigation. ‘Apart from mildew and damp, and some staining to the front hall and the stairs, the house is in the same condition as when Mrs Fanscombe took her leave.’
‘Mildew,’ said Jessington gloomily. ‘Ah-choo! Damp. One shudders to think what damage has been done to the fabric . . . And, you have not been able to identify the . . . the murdered woman?’
‘No.’
‘Permit me to ask you a question. Was she a black woman?’
The rector stared at him. ‘How on earth did you know that?’
‘It was reported in the Kentish Gazette – ah-choo! – but the details of press reports cannot always be relied upon. Did you not see the report?’ Mr Jessington blew his nose with a delicate honk. The rector, who read no newspaper other than the Morning Post, shook his head.
‘I had best come to the point,’ said Mr Jessington. ‘You will recall that I wrote to you in September asking if you possessed any information about the Rossiter family, the owners of New Hall.’
‘Of course.’
‘I should begin by explaining that I have only been responsible for the affairs of the Rossiter family for the past two years. Before that, their affairs were handled by the late Mr Joseph Parker, the well-known and much esteemed solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn. You will have heard of him, I am sure.’
‘I recollect the name. Pray continue.’
‘I articled under Mr Parker, and he continued to show me many kindnesses after I left his service. His own son had migrated to the American colonies before the . . . recent unfortunate events, and joined the rebel cause. As a result of his doing so, Mr Parker broke off all contact with his son.’
The rector nodded; the rebellion in America had sundered many families. ‘When Mr Parker died suddenly the winter before last,’ said the solicitor, ‘his chambers closed. His clerk asked me if, in light of my friendship with Mr Parker, I would take over the legal affairs of his clients. I said yes, of course.
‘Needless to say, the Rossiters were among those clients. Upon examining their affairs, I discovered they had only a modest portfolio of property: New Hall, some houses in Maidstone and Canterbury and also some small properties in New Romney and elsewhere in this district, of little account. Then there is some land in Suffolk, and a few farms in Buckinghamshire. If I am honest, the entire estate does not amount to a great deal. The entire rent for all the properties, excluding New Hall, amounts to little more than eight hundred pounds per annum.’
It was a sum that might enable a man to live in reasonable comfort, but was far from vast wealth. And New Hall was doubtless expensive to maintain. Without enough land to support it, the house would be a drain on the pocket of its owner unless it could be rented or leased.
‘New Hall is a rather l
arge house for such a small estate,’ said the rector, speculatively.
‘From the papers connected with the estate, I deduce that there was once a great deal more land,’ said Jessington. ‘And I also recall Mr Parker saying once that the Rossiters had made a fortune in Ireland through estates there, but those had all gone. He did not explain why; he was a very discreet man, Mr Parker.’
The rector nodded again, thinking hard. ‘So, the family fell on hard times,’ he said, ‘and went to America to recover their fortune.’
‘That would be the logical conclusion,’ said Mr Jessington, testily. This was his story, and he wanted to tell it his way. ‘You will recall from the list of family members I sent you in September that Mr William Rossiter, deceased 1747, and his wife Amélie, deceased 1770 – the lady you identified as being buried in your churchyard – had issue, two sons and two daughters. Both sons, Nicholas and James, emigrated to the American colonies. The older daughter Jane,’ said Mr Jessington, pausing significantly, ‘married Mr Joseph Parker the younger, son of my old friend Mr Parker of Lincoln’s Inn. Mr and Mrs Parker then migrated to Boston, in what was then the Massachusetts colony. Mary, the second sister, has dropped out of sight entirely; she may be in America, or she may still be in this country, I do not know which.’
‘Mr Jessington,’ said the rector, ‘you promised you would get to the point.’
‘I am coming to the point, sir, if you will allow me to do so in my way. The rebellion of the American colonists and their subsequent declaration of independence caused a good deal of disruption. My old friend Mr Parker, as I have said, broke off relations with his son when he joined the rebels. He had no further contact with Mr Parker junior or any of the Rossiter family. Although I have found no evidence of communication with any of the family for more than fifteen years, he continued to administer the estate in a conscientious manner. I myself have endeavoured to do the same, holding the estate in good trust until such time as they or their heirs should return. And now,’ said Mr Jessington simply, ‘they have returned.’
‘They have?’ The rector stared at him. ‘When?’
‘October last, not so very long after our correspondence. They came in the entourage of Mr Rufus King, the newly appointed American ambassador to the court of St James. Mr James Rossiter and his wife and two children, and Mr and Mrs Parker are all now in London. Mr Nicholas Rossiter, the elder brother, has sadly deceased, but his son Mr William is in London with the rest of the family. They have taken a house in a very fashionable district, and are much seen around town, if the newspapers are to be believed. They frequent the company of other Americans, of course, but they are popular in wider society too.’
Hardcastle had forgotten his earlier impatience. All of this was somehow significant, though he could not quite yet see why. ‘What was their purpose in coming to England?’
‘They did not fully divulge their reasons to me, I fear. I imagine there may be an element of nostalgia, wanting to see their homeland once again after so long a separation. But among other things, they wish young Mr William to inspect his inheritance in this country, or what remains of it. Now that we are fully at peace with the United States of America, there is no impediment to his doing so.’
‘No, I should suppose not.’ Only fourteen years had elapsed since the end of the war that brought the American colonies their independence. Bitterness still hung heavy in the air; but relations were improving. From the Morning Post, the rector knew about Rufus King’s embassy, and knew too that one of Mr King’s purposes was to conclude an alliance with America against Britain’s common enemy, France. ‘How old is young Mr William?’ he asked.
‘Nineteen. His uncle James is his guardian and acts for him, and Mr Parker the younger has charge of his legal interests. Shortly after their arrival, Mr Parker sought me out in my chambers and introduced himself. I was, as you can imagine, a little wary at this point, for I thought perhaps Mr Parker had come to challenge my right to have taken over his father’s practice and demand I surrender it to him, even though everything had been done entirely according to the letter of the law—’
‘Mr Jessington,’ said the rector, gently.
‘Yes, yes, of course. It transpired that Mr Parker had come merely to introduce himself and request that I hand over custody of young Mr William’s estates to his uncle and guardian, James Rossiter. He had all the necessary papers, including, of course, the last will and testament of Nicholas Rossiter, signed and witnessed in New York in 1777. The will made the usual provisions for family members, including a handsome sum to his wife Hannah van Cortlandt, whom he had married two years earlier, but is now deceased. Beyond these bequests, the bulk of his possessions and estates were to go to his son William, who was at that time an infant. Those estates included all his lands and holdings in England and, of course, New Hall.’
‘How did you respond to Mr Parker?’
‘I did the proper thing, of course. The will had to go through probate, a process which took some weeks as there was a backlog in the courts, but the will was proved early in December. Mr William Rossiter now owns New Hall, though of course his guardian will continue to control the estate until he reaches his majority in two years’ time.’
The rector’s ears were tingling. ‘And did you hand over the keys to New Hall to the Rossiters?’
‘No.’
‘No? Forgive me for asking, but why not?’
‘The family did not want them. As Mr Parker himself told me, the house was large and in a remote and backward part of the country; his words, sir, not mine, I do assure you. They expressed more interest in the land and the town houses, which I was asked to inspect and value with a view to possible sale. They showed no interest whatever in New Hall or in finding a new tenant for it. I was merely asked to retain the keys for safe-keeping.’
The rector nodded. ‘Have you ever given, or lent, the keys of New Hall to anyone else?’
Mr Jessington flushed pale pink with anger. ‘Reverend Hardcastle, I am astonished. Yes, sir, astonished, and gravely offended! The affairs of my clients are a sacred trust to me. I would never dream of doing anything so reprehensible! What sort of custodian of my clients’ interests do you think I am?’
Hardcastle held up his hand. ‘I apologise for any offence given, sir. But I must ask these questions. You, as a man of law, must understand that.’
Jessington subsided at once, looking more mouse-like than ever. ‘Yes, yes, of course, of course. But rest assured, sir. Those keys have never left my strongbox since I took over from old Mr Parker two years ago. Indeed, they have been joined there by the keys passed to me by the wife of the late tenant. Now, if you will forgive me, I should like to continue my narrative. You see, the oddest thing of all then happened.’
‘Go on,’ said the rector, sinking back in his chair.
‘Ten days ago, the twenty-first of December, I received a most unusual caller. He was a young black man, and I noted at once that he was dressed as a gentleman, though I would say that so far as fashion goes, he was sadly behind the times. To my astonishment, he gave his name as Samuel Rossiter, and claimed that he was the eldest son of the late Nicholas Rossiter.’
Hardcastle sat up straight.
‘I assumed he was merely a by-blow,’ said Jessington. ‘But, to my further amazement, he produced several documents. The first certified the marriage of Nicholas Rossiter to one Martha Washford in New York in 1770, five years before his marriage to Hannah van Cortlandt. The second was a document registering the birth of twin children, named Samuel and Emma, in New York two years later, 1772. The third was another last will and testament by Nicholas Rossiter, made in March of this year, in Montréal in Canada. This will recognised Samuel and Emma Rossiter as his legitimate children. It also disinherits William Rossiter, and states that all Mr Nicholas Rossiter’s possessions including his lands and holdings here in England are instead to be divided between Samuel and Emma Rossiter. The fourth document was a notice of the death of Nicholas Ros
siter a month later, also in Montréal.’
Hardcastle rose to his feet, moved to his desk and sat down. Pulling out a sheet of paper, he dipped his quill in the inkwell and began writing rapidly, making notes. ‘What had happened to his mother?’
‘She died a year after he and his sister were born. That is all he would say.’
‘And Nicholas Rossiter remarried four years later. But if that first marriage was legal, then these two young people, not William Rossiter, are the rightful owners of New Hall. What did you say to him?’
‘I explained about probate. This is of course a very complicated affair. Messages will have to be sent to Montréal to the solicitor there who drew up the will, asking him to verify its authenticity, and that will necessitate a long delay, as no ships will now sail for Canada until the spring. The certificate of marriage and those of their birth will have to be carefully examined and verified also.’
‘Did you tell him this?’ asked the rector.
‘I did. He did not understand, or professed not to understand, about probate and hoped I would simply hand over the keys there and then. When I refused to do so, he became quite angry. I had to ask my clerk to escort him from the premises.’
‘Did you explain about the other Rossiters, and the will favouring William?’
‘Yes, but only in the most vague terms. It would have been most improper of me to discuss the affairs of a client with a complete stranger, let alone one whose motives I had begun to suspect.’
‘Could you describe this man?’
Like most people when asked to describe someone, Mr Jessington became flustered. He waved his hands. ‘About five-and-twenty. Of medium height. Dark-skinned, of course, but with features I would have said were more European than African. Black hair, quite tightly curled. He wore no wig.’
‘And his sister? Was she there?’
‘She did not enter the office, but he said that she was in London with him. After his departure, I looked from my window and saw him with a woman in the street. He was talking to her in an agitated fashion, and I saw her put her hand on his arm to restrain him. They moved off together around the square. Regrettably, she had her back to me all the time, and I did not see her face.’
The Body in the Ice Page 5