The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘You said you had begun to suspect his motives,’ said the rector. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Jessington took out his handkerchief to wipe his nose again, and then looked directly at Hardcastle. ‘Samuel Rossiter and his story may be entirely genuine,’ he said, ‘or they may not. It is not for me to judge. But until I can assure myself of their validity, the possibility exists that none of his documents is genuine, and Samuel Rossiter is attempting to defraud the Rossiter estate. My actions have been undertaken with that possibility in mind.’ He paused. ‘It is even possible that this man is not who he claims to be.’

  ‘Please explain yourself, Mr Jessington.’

  ‘It is not impossible that someone is passing himself off as the heir of Nicholas Rossiter in the hope of fraudulent gain. In which case the woman who accompanied him is also an impostor. Indeed, sir, it occurs to me that the murder is a case of falling out among thieves.’

  ‘Why do you say so?’

  ‘This man, Rossiter or whatever his name is, struck me as being a man of his hands. And when he left my office, he was angry and ready to lash out. I suspect that after our interview he came down here, to New Hall, perhaps in some misguided hope of seizing the house by force majeure and defying the law to remove him. He brought the woman with him. And then perhaps they had a quarrel; a falling-out among thieves, as I have said. I think it very likely, sir, that the body you found was that of the woman he called his sister, Emma Rossiter.’

  *

  They were summoned to dinner not long after. It was not a satisfactory meal. Mr Jessington ate sparingly of the sole and would not touch the beef or anything with pastry: ‘They arouse my dyspepsia, you see.’ He refused claret, asking instead for a little boiled water. The look on Mrs Kemp’s face was more eloquent than words.

  Equally disappointingly, the solicitor could not or would not shed any further light on what had happened at New Hall. Pressed for a more definite opinion as to whether Samuel and Emma Rossiter were genuine, he refused to give one. ‘They might be brother and sister, or they might be criminals engaged in fraud. It makes no difference either way. The court has already proven the will of Nicholas Rossiter, and even if this new will is genuine, it will take a great deal to persuade the court to set the earlier will aside. There is still the question of validity of the marriage lines. If no marriage can be proven, then both children are illegitimate and cannot inherit.’

  The solicitor retired early to bed. Hardcastle sat before the fire in his study, staring into the flames.

  Jessington’s account had been nothing if not comprehensive. But several things struck the rector as odd. First, if the second will really was genuine, this meant that Nicholas Rossiter had disinherited his own son. Relations between William Rossiter and his father had been ruptured; but why?

  Second, why were Parker and the rest of the family apparently so uninterested in New Hall? It was the most important asset in the estate, and of course the childhood home of James and Jane. Surely they would want to see it restored, cleaned and leased out once more, so that at least it would return an income? Why were they content to let it stand empty?

  Third, if Samuel and Emma Rossiter were not who they claimed to be – were, as Jessington suggested, criminals attempting to perpetuate a fraud – why would they not have been more thorough? Why had they not prepared proof that their documents were genuine? They could have hired a bent solicitor, and the Lord knew there were enough of those, to attest to the veracity of the documents. If this was a fraud, it looked a very amateur one.

  Whether they were genuine or not, how did Samuel and Emma Rossiter – for on this matter the rector believed Jessington was right, that they were the people who had arrived at New Hall on the twenty-third; the timing fit, if nothing else – gain access to the house without keys? Why had Emma Rossiter chosen to disguise herself as a man? Why, if they were brother and sister, did one sleep in one of the main bedrooms and one in the servants’ quarters in the attic? And finally, if Samuel Rossiter had indeed attacked his sister in a fit of anger and pushed her into the horse pond, why did he later try to pull her out, only to abandon the attempt once he had wrenched off her boot?

  ‘That blasted boot,’ said the rector quietly to himself. He sat thinking about all of these things for a long time, looking for answers to the questions and finding none, until the clock chimed over his head and the new year of 1797 ushered itself quietly in.

  *

  The next day, New Year’s Day, was also a Sunday. Mr Jessington arose late and came downstairs neatly dressed and wearing his wig. The rector, who had been out for a walk despite the freezing rain, was tucking into a dish of eggs before crossing the road to the church and conducting matins. ‘I fear I rise very early,’ said the rector, ‘and therefore have the habit of taking breakfast. Do you care to join me?’

  Mr Jessington shuddered, dyspepsia no doubt rising. ‘I should like to see the house, if I may, and assure myself that all is well. Will you be so kind as to guide me there?’

  ‘We will go there directly after church,’ said the rector, swallowing his coffee. ‘Did you bring the keys?’

  Nothing had changed at New Hall; it remained as bleak and damp and sad as always. The cold air and mildew made Mr Jessington sneeze. The rector showed him the patch of blood; the solicitor was surprisingly unmoved, and quite uninterested. He moved around the house, looking at the rooms with a professional’s eye, much more interested in the peeling wallpaper in the drawing room and the loose tiles in the larder than he had been in the scene of a violent assault. He looked into the caretaker’s stinking nest and drew back in horror.

  ‘Where is Mr Beazley? Does anyone know?’

  ‘He was last seen in the arms of an elderly prostitute in Lydd, where he has been since before Christmas.’

  Jessington drew his nose down in disgust. They went outside, where the solicitor stood with his back to the horse pond and examined the roof for a long time. ‘At least,’ he said, ‘the intruders did no damage. I was prepared for far worse.’

  Light dawned on Hardcastle. ‘Is that the reason you came down here in such haste? To inspect the house?’

  ‘As I told you last night, I take my custodianship of my clients’ interests very seriously. Had anything happened to the house, it would have been my responsibility.’

  ‘So what will you tell the Rossiters?’

  ‘Oh, I have not met the Rossiters. My only contact has been with Mr Parker, their legal representative.’ He paused. ‘Given that no real damage has been done, I think I shall bide my time about telling Mr Parker, at least until such time as the identity of the dead woman has been confirmed. And, I should like to complete my own investigations into the authenticity or otherwise of this second will. This, of course, will take some months.’

  Hmm, thought the rector. Jessington suspects that Samuel Rossiter is a criminal and a murderer, but on the other hand he is hedging his bets. I wonder why? Probing, he said, ‘What sort of man is Mr Parker?’

  The solicitor wiped his nose, handkerchief in gloved hand, and then made a curious little moue. ‘Mr Parker’s father,’ he said, still studying the roof, ‘was a man of grace, courtesy and wit. Those qualities are signally absent in the son. I also formed the impression that he may not be entirely trustworthy.’

  Interesting, thought the rector. This was the first indiscretion he had heard from the lawyer’s lips. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It is a feeling, nothing more. But understand me, sir. My duty is to see the estate well administered and passed in due course into the proper hands. That duty will always be my first care, and will always triumph over personal feelings.’

  It was plain that he would say no more on the subject. Even though it was Sunday, having seen the house the lawyer could not wait to depart. He was off soon after, back to London in his leaking carriage with its wobbling wheel, leaving behind Mrs Kemp fulminating about baths and the size of the tip she had received, and the rector in some resp
ects more perplexed than ever. Judging the hour to be sufficiently advanced, he walked through the village to Sandy House and knocked at the door. Lucy admitted him, and a moment later showed him into the morning room where Mrs Chaytor sat, quiet and pale, looking into the fire. He knelt down beside her chair, his eyes full of concern.

  ‘My dear Amelia. What has happened?’

  ‘Why, nothing, of course,’ she said quietly without turning her head. ‘Nothing has happened. Nothing has changed. Everything is the same.’

  He rose and took a seat opposite her, watching her intently. ‘I was so full of hope yesterday,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps a new dawn, a new day, a new year . . . I went to my bed feeling so optimistic . . . I was almost happy. And then I woke this morning, alone. He is gone. He is gone, and he will never return.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ Hardcastle asked, his voice gentle.

  ‘No. There is nothing anyone can do.’ She turned her head and looked at him. ‘You promised to pray for my happiness. It does not seem to have worked.’

  He had indeed prayed for her that morning, silently while standing in the pulpit and reciting the creed to his usual congregation of six, augmented by Mr Jessington, who had sat with his hands clasped and looking nervously about him like a man just landed on an island of cannibals. ‘Not all prayers are answered,’ he said.

  ‘Why not? God is said to be omnipotent. Surely He could answer our prayers if He wanted to.’

  ‘Sometimes, He chooses not to do so.’

  ‘Then He has a great deal to be responsible for, don’t you think? If He continues to allow so much suffering and misery in the world, then He cannot be very compassionate. Why do you put up with it? You are an intelligent man. Why do you worship a God who robs women of their husbands and condemns them to an aching eternity of loneliness?’

  The rector spread his hands on his knees. ‘I do not know why God allows suffering,’ he said. ‘Do you not think that I wrestle with this problem every day? Do you not think that very thought was uppermost in my mind as I gazed on the body of that poor dead woman? I don’t know why God allowed her to die, Amelia, just as I don’t know why He allowed your husband to die. But I have to believe in God. For without God, there is nothing in which to believe. And a world where there is nothing in which to believe, would be a bitter and evil place indeed.’

  She looked at him, blue eyes full of pain. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It is shockingly rude of me to berate you like this. You are a good man.’

  ‘I am not. But it is kind of you to lie to me.’

  The pain was still there, but the corners of her mouth twitched. ‘Ring the bell, and I will ask Lucy to make some chocolate. Did you enjoy your port and Gibbon?’

  ‘I never got to them. I had a visitor instead. That is my reason for calling on you today. You’ll never guess who the visitor was: Mr Jessington.’

  Her fine-lashed eyes opened wide. ‘Anthony Jessington “Esk”? Goodness, whatever did he want?’

  ‘To talk,’ said the rector, ‘which he did at great length.’ He told her, as succinctly as he could, what Jessington had said, and Mrs Chaytor’s blue eyes grew a little warmer and some colour came to her cheeks.

  The chocolate came, and she took a sip. ‘So, we have a name for our dead girl,’ she said. ‘Emma Rossiter.’

  ‘And a possible killer,’ said the rector, ‘in the shape of her own brother.’

  ‘I know. That is hideous, in quite a different way from what I had imagined. Poor Emma.’

  ‘We don’t know her name for certain yet,’ he cautioned. ‘Jessington thinks it possible that they were fraudulent. In which case they might have been using assumed names.’

  ‘Oh, come. You don’t believe that, do you? Petty criminals would hardly dare to take over a house like New Hall; what would they do with it? And more sophisticated villains would have come up with a better and more believable scheme. No, I think they were who they said they were. What their motives were, of course, is another matter.’

  ‘Well, we may be able to find that out. On the basis of this new information, I intend to ask Lord Clavertye to undertake a search for Samuel Rossiter.’

  ‘It is still a matter of a needle in a haystack,’ said Mrs Chaytor dubiously. ‘There are thousands of black people in London, and more in the ports around the coast. Samuel Rossiter could have gone to ground in any of those places.’

  ‘But we have at least a rough description now. And if he did use his own name to book lodgings in London, the Bow Street Runners will find out where he stayed. They may turn up further clues as to where he has gone.’ He hesitated, and then said gently, ‘You see, there is hope.’

  She disregarded this. ‘Do you believe that Samuel Rossiter is the murderer?’

  ‘It is a plausible theory. Certainly he is mixed up somehow in this affair. But we will know nothing for certain until we find him and talk to him.’ The rector paused. ‘I keep coming back to this,’ he said. ‘Why New Hall, and why now?’

  Chapter 5

  Things Fail to Add Up

  THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.

  2nd January, 1797.

  By express.

  My lord,

  Further information has come to light concerning the murder at New Hall on 25th December. It appears probable that the victim was one Emma Rossiter, and that she came from the Americas accompanied by her brother, Samuel. It is also quite likely that Samuel Rossiter is implicated in her death.

  I believe that Samuel and Emma Rossiter came to New Hall on 23rd December. The livery stable in Ashford has confirmed that two horses were hired by travellers from London on that date, though no description of either has been forthcoming, and Roberts, the Ashford feed merchant, confirms the sale of a sack of oats on the same day. Both horses were subsequently returned, though the stable was unable to confirm the date; the season was, apparently, an unusually busy one despite the weather.

  It now seems certain that, prior to the 23rd, both Rossiters were in London. May I ask your lordship to appeal to the chief magistrate of London and ask him to search for Samuel Rossiter and, if he is found, apprehend and hold him until I may come to London and interrogate him?

  Rossiter, which may not be his real name, is a black man of about twenty-five years, of medium height with dark skin and dark curling hair, and with some non-African facial features. When last seen he was dressed as a gentleman, though not a fashionable one.

  I should add that there may be a connection between this man and Mr James Rossiter, a member of the suite of the American ambassador. If possible, I wish to ensure that Mr James Rossiter does not come to know of this affair until such time as I have completed my inquiries.

  Yr very obedient servant,

  HARDCASTLE

  Hardcastle looked at the last paragraph for a long time before he finally signed and sealed the letter. He was not entirely certain why he had added it. Clavertye, who had political ambitions, moved in fashionable circles in London and it was likely that at some point he would run across the Rossiters, if he had not done so already. But Clavertye, who had been one of the finest forensic barristers ever seen in the Middle Temple before his elevation to the peerage, would know better than to say anything indiscreet, to James Rossiter or anyone else.

  No; what Hardcastle had written reflected as much as anything his own unease about some aspects of Jessington’s story, and also his growing conviction that New Hall itself was important, that it had somehow played a role in Emma Rossiter’s murder. In his mind he had begun to see New Hall as more than just a house. If I were still a playwright, he said to himself, I should cast New Hall as a character in its own right, with its own purpose and role to play . . .

  He shook off the whimsy and concentrated on what he now knew. That the dead woman was Emma Rossiter seemed beyond doubt. Everything fit: the timing, the motivation for coming to Romney Marsh, her colour. Once Samuel Rossiter was found, they would know for certain. Either he or Clave
rtye would question the man until he told them everything he knew.

  At this thought, the rector sighed. He hoped, very much, that Samuel Rossiter would prove to be innocent of his sister’s killing. He had enough self-knowledge to understand why he felt this way; sororicide was a revolting crime. And, too, there was the problem of evil. Mrs Chaytor’s grief-born jibe had unsettled him more than he let show.

  But experience of the world told him that Rossiter’s innocence was unlikely, and meanwhile he must do his duty, no matter how distasteful it was.

  Days passed. Hardcastle presided over the magistrate’s court at New Romney, sentencing the usual offenders; in the summer, cases mostly concerned trespass and sheep-stealing, but in winter when the nights were long, the days cold and gin in plentiful supply, the balance tipped towards wife-beating and violent affray. One of those appearing before him was Beazley, the caretaker at New Hall, who had finally straggled back from Lydd; a day later he had got roaring drunk at the Star and started to break up the furniture in the common room, until Bessie Luckhurst neatly cracked a bottle over his head. Beazley could not pay the fine imposed as he had spent all his money entertaining his ‘auntie,’ so Hardcastle sentenced him instead to a week in cells. He then wrote another letter to Mr Jessington informing him of the caretaker’s latest delinquencies, and the fact that New Hall was uninhabited once more. There was no reply.

  Spiritual as well as temporal matters claimed his time. It was a busy season in the parish, for as well as the usual round of church services, January was when the cold and wind thinned out the ranks of the elderly and more vulnerable. There were three funerals to arrange in the first week after New Year; two of elderly men dead of pneumonia, the third of a girl of twelve who had fallen through the ice on a frozen sewer and drowned. The latter was particularly harrowing, and of course there was another inquest to be convened also.