The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Often on Romney Marsh, and particularly in bad weather, one could feel cut off from the rest of the world. Sometimes that could be comforting; one could sink into life here on the Marsh and let the rest of the world go hang. This year, though, the rest of the world refused to be shut out. The papers from up-country brought them news which grew worse by the day. The war with France, now in its fourth year, was going badly. All across the continent, the armies of Revolutionary France had triumphed. The British army and navy were stretched to breaking point; and the enemy coast was just thirty-five miles from Romney Marsh. On clear days, standing on the dunes above St Mary’s Bay one could see the chalk cliffs of France shimmering in the distance. The cold north-easterly winds were redolent with menace.

  For all of these reasons, the rector passed the first week of 1797 fighting off a deep and all-encompassing sense of gloom.

  WADSCOMBE HALL, TENTERDEN.

  9th January, 1797.

  My dear Hardcastle,

  This is to inform you that I have done as you asked and referred to the chief magistrate of London, asking for the services of the Bow Street Runners to track down Samuel Rossiter.

  I can now report to you that the Runners found the lodgings of the Rossiters at a house in Marylebone. Their rooms were empty save for a few items of clothing and personal effects. The Runners questioned the landlord, who stated that the woman calling herself Emma Rossiter was last seen on 22nd December. He was vague about the details, but thinks he saw Samuel Rossiter a day later. Neither has definitely been seen since.

  The chief magistrate has confirmed he will continue with efforts to trace Samuel Rossiter, but he has given his opinion that the man has probably left London. I am inclined to agree. After so long a time, it will be difficult if not impossible to trace him. I have nonetheless circulated the description you sent me to all magistrates in Kent, and asked them to instruct their constables to keep an eye out for this man. Let us hope that these enquiries will shortly yield results.

  Your discretion concerning James Rossiter is appreciated. The man, who is known to me, has some very influential connections thanks to his closeness to the American ambassador. Tread warily in this matter.

  Yr very obedient servant,

  CLAVERTYE

  The rector read the letter through and laid it down on his desk, thoughtfully.

  Trust Clavertye, he thought; he wants me to steer clear of the Rossiters in case I start asking clumsy questions and offend an influential American diplomat. The trouble I create might rebound and land on his own head. Well, I have no intention of going anywhere near the Rossiters, although I am still puzzled by their attitude to New Hall.

  The thing that nagged him about the letter was the dates. They had assumed from the beginning that Samuel and Emma Rossiter had arrived together at New Hall, that they were the two cloaked figures who arrived after dark on the 23rd. That still fit for Emma, who was believed to have left London on the 22nd. But Samuel was still in London the following day.

  The rector considered the timings. It was about seventy miles from London to St Mary in the Marsh. Most travellers would take a couple of days to travel down from Town, posting or taking the mail coach to Canterbury or Ashford and staying overnight, then hiring a carriage or horses to bring them on the next day. Those who were in a hurry and who had means, like Jessington, could hire a carriage in London and drive straight through in a day, changing horses at posting stations. Or one could hire a post horse and ride, exchanging mounts along the way. The latter was a hard journey, but it was possible.

  Suppose Emma Rossiter had left London without telling Samuel, and he did not at first discover she was missing. He could, in theory, have hired a horse early the following morning and ridden post-haste after her, overtaking her before they arrived at New Hall. Thus they could still have arrived together that night. It was possible.

  But why, why? What was so important about New Hall that it led them to make such an arduous journey in the dead of winter? And why, why was Emma killed?

  Still he had no answers.

  Restless, he reached for the port bottle, then withdrew his hand. He put on his cloak and hat and boots and went out for a punishing three-hour walk, down to St Mary’s Bay and then along the sea towards Dymchurch and back in the bitter, salt-laced wind. He returned home tired and frozen in body but with his mind churning as hard as ever. Over and over the pieces of the puzzle turned, but still no pattern emerged.

  Turning back into the drive as dusk began to fall, he noticed a carriage in the yard. The rig was unfamiliar, a smart little gig whose cream and green paint was darkened with mud. His heart sank; he had no interest whatever in entertaining visitors, whoever they might be. In the hall he found Mrs Kemp waiting for him, her wrinkled face even more forbidding than usual.

  ‘What were you doing out in this weather?’ she scolded. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘Exercise is good for one, Mrs Kemp,’ he said, taking off his sodden coat and handing it over. ‘You should try getting some yourself.’

  She sniffed. ‘Exercise. Down at the Star again, more likely. Or was it the Ship in New Romney this time?’

  ‘Mind your own affairs, you infernal old busybody. Whose carriage is that in the yard?’

  ‘She is in the drawing room. She says she is your sister.’

  In the middle of pulling off his gloves, he stopped and stared at her. ‘My sister? Good God, which one?’

  ‘As she has no distinguishing marks,’ said Mrs Kemp in a voice oozing with satisfied sarcasm, ‘I am unable to tell. I have brought her tea. But if she wants a bath at this hour of the day, she can jolly well draw it herself.’

  Satisfied that she had emerged victorious from their latest skirmish, Mrs Kemp shuffled away. Cautiously, the rector opened the drawing room door and entered the room. A gush of sisterly affection washed over him.

  ‘Marcus! My dear brother! How wonderful to see you!’

  ‘Calpurnia,’ said the rector. ‘What a delightful surprise.’

  The woman rising from the settee before him, face shining with smiles, was ten years his junior. She had a pleasantly round face with a long nose and dark eyes; her light brown hair was fashionably curled. Fashionable too was her day dress, of sensible wool for warmth but cut, he assumed, according to the latest mode, its lines emphasising her figure.

  He thought of mentioning that she had put on weight. He restrained himself, and instead kissed her cheek and said, ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, dear sister?’

  ‘Marcus. Do I need a reason? It has been three years since we last saw each other. Surely a lady does not need a reason to visit her dearest brother, and renew their fond acquaintance?’

  ‘I am, of course, your only brother,’ he muttered under his breath. Aloud he said, ‘It is a vile time of the year for travelling. Should you not have waited until spring— What in the name of all that is holy is that?’

  He had not at first noticed the thing lying before the hearth. Now, hearing voices, the thing stirred, opened its eyes, and then with a motion like Leviathan rising from the deep, clambered to its feet. Most of its long body was hidden beneath a coat of matted, curling hair, grey mottled with brown and black; it looked like an old mattress with the ticking torn away. A long-nosed head, framed by shaggy ears, swivelled round and looked at the rector. Its tail wagged hopefully.

  ‘This is Rodolpho,’ said his sister proudly. ‘He is my constant companion. Aren’t you, Rodolpho? Oh, good boy, good boy! Mumsy-wumsy wuvs you, yes!’ She gave the dog a playful scratch behind the ears as he gently head-butted her. He was an Irish wolfhound, a big one at that, standing more than three feet at the shoulder.

  ‘I named him after my first book,’ Calpurnia said happily. When Hardcastle looked blank, she said, ‘Oh, you remember, silly! Rodolpho, A Tale of Love and Liberty. My great triumph! You surely cannot have forgotten.’

  The rector, who had read five pages of the book and been trying to forget ever si
nce, forced a smile. ‘Of course. You named your dog after your hero.’

  ‘Oh, but he is my hero now. Aren’t you, lovely poochy-woochy?’ She bent and gave the dog a kiss on his hairy head.

  Hardcastle thought the dog looked pained. He said, as he eased himself into a chair, ‘Now tell me, Calpurnia: delightful though it is to see you, why are you really here?’

  ‘Well,’ said Calpurnia. She seated herself, arranged her skirts fussily, and then, when they were folded to her satisfaction, looked at him with bright eyes.

  He knew that look of old, and distrusted it.

  ‘The truth is, brother dear, that I need somewhere congenial to write.’

  ‘You have a perfectly good house in Hampshire.’

  ‘Oh, Rose Cottage is delightful. But therein lies the problem. My little home is, I fear, just a touch too comfortable. I need a location that will inspire me. I need a harsh and forbidding landscape peopled by stern yet homely characters; genuine people, but with just enough peculiarities to make them interesting. These are the materials from which I shall fashion my next book.’

  At this the rector forgot himself. ‘You want to set one of your infernal novels in St Mary?’

  ‘Oh, no, certainly not. I always disguise any real people or places that appear in my books. Rest assured, I shall give them quite different names so that no one will recognise them. No, Marcus, it is the feeling that is important. I need to sniff the air, I need to feel the salt wind on my cheek, I need to hear the wild storms rage. I need to know that the people around me are enduring lives of great hardship, battling against the unfeeling elements and the cruelty of wind and wave, yet they are unbowed by the struggle, and their native nobility of character and beauty of spirit always shines through. I had thought of setting the story in a lighthouse. Is there a lighthouse nearby?’

  ‘And how long,’ said the rector heavily, ‘do you intend to stay?’

  ‘I don’t know. Until I finish my book, certainly, but if there is material for more, then I may stay indefinitely. Isn’t it wonderful?’ At this she burst into laughter. ‘Oh, Marcus, if only you could see the look on your face! You are afraid I will get underfoot, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you don’t want my company!’

  ‘I am rather set in my ways, Calpurnia, and I prefer my own—’

  ‘Oh, you dry old stick, you’ve been living on your own for far too long. Look at this house; it is far too severe and masculine. It needs a feminine touch.’ She looked around. ‘This room wants redecorating, for a start.’

  ‘Calpurnia!’ he thundered. ‘You will not interfere with my household! You will not change one single thing about this house! I forbid it!’

  ‘Oh, stuff. I never paid any attention to your forbiddings when I was a girl, so I am hardly going to start now. Now, my bags are coming along from Ashford, with my girl looking after them. They will be here tomorrow, and then I can settle in properly. We will have a marvellous time, you and I and, of course, dear Rodolpho,’ and she blew a kiss to the wolfhound.

  ‘From now on,’ said Calpurnia in a tone which accepted no argument, ‘everything is going to be lovely.’

  WADSCOMBE HALL, TENTERDEN.

  10th January, 1797

  My dear Hardcastle,

  We have had a stroke of luck. I was in Appledore yesterday on business, and happened to speak to the ostler at the Black Lion. He remembers a man fitting the description of Samuel Rossiter, coming in on a tired horse late in the day on the 28th December. The ostler recalled that the man was muddy and wet from long riding. He dismounted, handed over his horse and went into the inn.

  I then spoke to the taproom staff and they too remembered the man, partly because of his colour, and partly because he was very much interested in something he read in the Kentish Gazette, a copy of which had been left lying on a table. We can surmise, I think, that what he read was the story of the murder, which appeared in the paper about then. The staff recalled that the man became visibly agitated for a moment, then recollected himself, paid for his drink and walked out of the room.

  That was the last anyone saw of him. The ostler waited two days then took the horse back to Ashford, where it had been hired. I will make inquiries in Ashford, and will urge the other magistrates and constables in this part of Kent to be vigilant. We may yet find our man.

  Yr very obedient servant,

  CLAVERTYE

  Calpurnia’s baggage arrived late the next morning. There was a great deal of it. Accompanying the bags was the maid, a bright-eyed, red-haired Irish girl named Biddy, who marched beaming into the hall and dropped a curtsey to the rector before turning to the housekeeper. ‘You must tell me how I can be useful, Mrs Kemp, and give me whatever tasks you like; I’ll not shirk at anything. Only, let me watch you as you work sometimes. I’m still learning, you see, and I’m sure a wise lady like yourself has so much to teach me.’

  She clearly meant every word of it. The rector’s only pleasure that day was to watch Mrs Kemp struggle between her instinctive desire to be rude to the interloper, and the realisation that hurting this sweet creature would be like kicking a kitten. She hesitated, then temporised. ‘Come along,’ she said gruffly. ‘I’ll show you where to put your traps.’

  The rector went back to his study, shutting the door firmly behind him. Sighing, he opened his desk, pulled out the bottle of port that he kept there, and poured himself a brimming glass. Then he sat down to read Lord Clavertye’s letter again. If Samuel Rossiter had been spotted in Appledore three days after the murder, then it was quite possible he had remained in the district; indeed, he might still be somewhere close at hand.

  Someone knocked at the front door; the housekeeper answered it, and a moment later Joshua Stemp was shown into the study. From overhead came a deep rumbling sound as heavy trunks were dragged across the floor. Stemp raised his eyebrows towards the ceiling. ‘Problems, reverend?’

  ‘Family,’ said the rector without further explanation. ‘What is it, Joshua?’

  ‘Maybe nothing,’ said Stemp frowning. ‘Or maybe something. Bill Hayton says someone has been snooping around one of the lookers’ huts.’

  The rector looked up sharply at this. ‘Has he seen anyone?’

  ‘No, but he’s seen footprints, several times over the past few days. He first thought it might be the Gentlemen, but there’s no reason for them to be up there. It’s a long time since the last run.’

  ‘Have the smugglers ever used that particular hut?’

  ‘Couldn’t say for certain,’ said Stemp solemnly, ‘but I’d wager not. It’s not on any of their usual routes. I suppose it might have been Preventive Men making a search,’ he added doubtfully.

  ‘Searching for what? Any cargoes from the last run will have been cleared out and taken up-country long since.’

  ‘I thought the same,’ Stemp said. ‘And things being what they are, it seemed best if I came and told you.’

  ‘Things being what they are,’ the rector said grimly, ‘you did right. Let us go and see for ourselves.’

  *

  The weather was a little brighter than in previous days, the clouds higher and less dark, but the air was still biting and raw. Hardcastle and Stemp turned up their collars and wrapped their scarves more tightly around their necks as they walked up the muddy track across the fields to the northwest. The Marsh around them lay flat and hissing in the wind and the steep hills to the northwest were dark against the dirty grey of the clouds. They crossed a sewer by means of a plank bridge and skirted a marsh fringed with dry bulrushes that rattled in the wind like a skeleton’s bones.

  Hayton was a grizzled man in his fifties who lived alone in a dilapidated cottage about a mile from St Mary. He suffered badly from marsh fever, the rector knew; he was shivering now, from fever or cold or both. He pointed with a crooked finger. ‘That’s the hut, reverend. There was more footprints there this morning. Three days running they been there now.’

  ‘Thank you, Bill. We’ll look into it.’

&nbs
p; ‘If it ain’t the free-traders, it must be Frenchies. Goddamned Frenchie spies snooping around. That’s what it is.’

  ‘If it is, Bill, we’ll deal with them. Now, you go inside and get warm.’

  *

  ‘Think it’s Frenchies, reverend?’ asked Stemp as they walked across the squelching fields towards the hut.

  In these times of alarm, people saw French spies behind every bush. ‘Possibly. It is much more likely, however, that it is Samuel Rossiter.’ The rector told Stemp Lord Clavertye’s news.

  Stemp rubbed his nose as he listened. ‘But why is he still hanging around St Mary? If I’d dunted someone over the head and pushed ’em into a pond, I’d be hotfoot away and never come back. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘That,’ said the rector, ‘is a very excellent question.’

  The lookers’ hut was a small brick structure with a tile roof, a door and a single window. There were hundreds of these little buildings across the Marsh, all very much alike. Shepherds used them in summer for watching over their flocks; in winter, most were deserted. The rector and Stemp saw at once the marks of booted feet around the door of the hut. Most were older, partly washed away by yesterday’s rain, but there was one set of new prints, which must have been made since the rain stopped, showing clear marks of someone going into the hut and then coming out again.

  Hardcastle pushed on the wooden door, which yielded. Cautiously, they passed inside. The little room was plain and bare. There was a table, roughly made but solid, and a crude bench, a wooden bed frame with no mattress in one corner, and a brick hearth. The rector touched the chimney and found it cold; dust, rather than ash, lay on the hearth.

  ‘No fires,’ said Stemp. ‘No bedding. No signs of food. Bit of mud on the floor; he’ll have tracked that in on his boots. If he’s holed up here, he must be mighty uncomfortable. It’s colder in here than it is outside.’