The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Miss Rossiter looked helpless.

  ‘Perhaps the periodicals are not so widely available in Boston,’ suggested Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘Then I shall send a copy around to you,’ said Calpurnia. She held up a hand to halt a servant passing with a tray. ‘These profiteroles are simply heavenly. Oh, dear, I fear that was the last one. Did anyone else . . . Oh, good, I am glad. Now, as I was saying, I will send you a copy of The Silent Sorcerer this very day, and you simply must read it and tell me what you think of it. I should value your opinion very highly.’

  ‘What is the subject of the new book, ma’am?’ asked Laure a little desperately.

  Too late, she saw the trap beneath her feet. ‘Well,’ Calpurnia began, drawing a deep breath, ‘I am thinking of setting it in a lighthouse—’

  Ten years as a diplomat’s wife had taught Amelia Chaytor how to stage a tactful rescue. She took Mrs Vane’s arm gently. ‘My dear, I am so sorry to interrupt. But I promised Mrs Parker to bring you to her as soon as possible. She and her nephew are considering refreshing the decoration of the morning room and I thought, given your excellent taste, you would be an ideal person to advise her. Would you be so kind?’

  It worked like a charm; Calpurnia moved off happily with her. Amelia looked over her shoulder at Laure and saw gratitude in the green eyes. ‘Tomorrow,’ she mouthed.

  *

  The room was filling up. Hardcastle saw young William Rossiter talking with Mrs Merriwether, Amelia Chaytor’s pretty, chatty friend from Rye. Morris, the magistrate from Lydd, nodded to the rector as he passed, deep in conversation with Parker and a couple of up-country gentlemen, Cranford from Warehorne and Maudsley who had an estate near Shadoxhurst; Dering, the former M. P. who owned land to the south, was there too along with Coates, the mayor of New Romney. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper were also present, the latter already a little cheerful on the Rossiters’ excellent sherry.

  It was, Hardcastle thought, a very gracious, highly civilised gathering of a type that one saw very infrequently on the marsh. He wondered if the Rossiters were bringing change to St Mary, and if so, whether he would enjoy it. He doubted it. It was this manner of life, among other things, from which he had sought to escape.

  ‘So,’ said James Rossiter beside him. ‘A man of God and a man of the law, combined in the same person. Is this a common practice in England now?’

  ‘More so than you might think,’ said the rector. ‘There is a shortage in some parts of the country of educated men capable of acting as magistrates. Men like myself are drafted in to fill the lack.’

  ‘And of course, clergymen are perceived as reliable,’ said Rossiter, his eyes twinkling. He was a big man, fair and a little florid with the square jaw that seemed to run in the family and the same vivid green eyes as his daughter. He wore his white hair long but loose, brushed back from his forehead and falling down to his collar. His clothes were quietly expensive, and he leaned nonchalantly on a handsome ebony walking stick. A man who likes style, thought the rector; and also a man who has power, and knows it, and enjoys the use of it.

  ‘Rightly or wrongly, they are,’ the rector agreed. ‘Are you enjoying your return to England, sir?’

  ‘Indeed I am. We have been made most welcome wherever we go, in a truly warm and genuine way. Everyone has made it clear that bygones are bygones – or nearly everyone,’ and his eyes strayed towards Clavertye across the room.

  ‘You must forgive his lordship,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Did you know he lost his brother in the war?’

  ‘I did not. Thank you for telling me,’ said Rossiter and bowed a little, stiffly. He must be in his mid-sixties, the rector thought; he is hale and hearty, but there are marks of ill health in his face too. That leg must be paining him, but he refuses to show it.

  ‘In that case, I understand his lordship’s antipathy,’ Rossiter went on. ‘In his position, I should feel the same. Blood is usually thicker than water.’

  ‘Indeed. But I do believe also that we must put the past behind us. We face a far greater enemy now.’

  ‘Revolutionary France? I imagine you feel the threat quite deeply down here, so close to the enemy. And tell me, why is your government doing so little? Why are they not building forts and redoubts all along this coast? And where is your army? Why is it not down here defending the ports and beaches? Your Mr Pitt is a little complacent, would you not say?’

  The rector stirred a little. It was one thing for himself to write thunderous letters to the Morning Post denouncing government inaction; it was quite another for a stranger and former rebel to criticise His Majesty’s ministers. ‘If you read the newspapers, Mr Rossiter, which I am certain you do, you will already know the answer to your questions. Our army is stretched to the limit in the Mediterranean and the Indies. There are no forts or redoubts because there is no money to build them, and because the merchants of England have refused to sanction further tax increases, just as they did during the war with your people. Had they done so then,’ he added, ‘the British army would have been immeasurably stronger, and I doubt very much if you would be enjoying your present independence.’

  ‘On another occasion, I might give you an argument on that score,’ said Rossiter, his eyes twinkling again. ‘But please accept my apologies for my bad manners, reverend. I should not have spoken slightingly of your government. I’ve met many of your ministers, and they are good men, doing their best for their country in difficult times.’

  Artfully said, the rector thought. ‘Is it permitted to ask how the negotiations in London are progressing?’

  ‘Of course. Mr King and Lord Grenville have met several times, and have already agreed in principle to a defensive alliance aimed at stopping the ravages of French privateers on our shipping. The details remain to be worked out, but I expect a full agreement will be ready for signature by spring.’

  The rector nodded. ‘That is certainly good news. And I am certain that you yourself have played an important role in these negotiations.’

  Rossiter smiled. ‘My role is quite simple,’ he said. ‘I am attached to the embassy because I have connections in this country, connections which my government and Mr King hoped would prove useful.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the rector. ‘Connections such as the Duke of Portland?’

  ‘You are well-informed, reverend. Yes, our families are distantly related by marriage. And truly His Grace has been most affable and afforded us every assistance. Meanwhile, while the politicians talk, I have leisure to reacquaint myself with my former homeland,’ and he gestured around the room.

  ‘It must have been some time since you last saw New Hall.’

  ‘Longer than I care to think. Fifty years this year! It hardly seems credible to me. Mind you, I never saw much of New Hall and Romney Marsh. Father preferred our house in Buckinghamshire, that was always the family’s main place in the country. And of course we spent much of our time in London. Mother liked the peace and privacy of St Mary, though. Of course, she is buried in your churchyard.’

  The rector nodded in assent.

  ‘Well, for that reason if no other, I have an affection for the old place,’ James Rossiter continued. ‘I am not sure all my family feel the same, though. Here, Edward. What do you think of New Hall?’

  ‘Very pleasant, sir,’ said his son, turning from a conversation with his mother and two local ladies by the fire. ‘The countryside around is charming, and of course, the company is delightful. What more could one ask for?’

  Edward Rossiter had inherited his father’s strong jaw but the rest of his features came from his mother; he was small and neat like her. He too wore his hair, brown turning to red, long and brushed back from his face; his clothes were expensive but lacked his father’s good taste. He wore a somewhat vulgar ruby ring on his little finger.

  ‘And you, Mother, how do you like St Mary?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Everyone is most amiable,’ said Mrs Rossiter. She had a strong French accent.

  None of them has me
ntioned the murder, mused Hardcastle. Is this simply good manners, or are they pretending it has not happened?

  ‘Also, it is good that the family is back in this house,’ Mrs Rossiter added, looking over to the other hearth at the far end of the room where William, her nephew, stood talking earnestly to Mrs Chaytor and Mrs Merriwether.

  ‘I too am glad to see the house occupied once more,’ said the rector. ‘After recent events, we wondered whether anyone would want to live here.’

  They looked at him politely, smiling. ‘What do you mean, sir?’ asked James Rossiter.

  Something stirred on the back of the rector’s neck. ‘It pains me to say it,’ he said, ‘but New Hall had developed an unsavoury reputation. Few people might wish to dwell in a house where not only has a young woman been murdered, but also, where treason has been plotted.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rossiter, smiling still. ‘Are you speaking of that business last spring? The events involving our tenant, the unfortunate Mr Fanscombe?’

  ‘You know of that affair, sir?’

  ‘I was told of it in London. The plotters were all arrested and hanged, I understand.’

  ‘All save one, yes.’ It was said in such a way that they had to respond.

  ‘We heard something of this,’ said Rossiter, ‘but I confess I remember little of the detail of that affair.’

  ‘The detail is most interesting. The man who escaped justice was a Frenchman named Foucarmont. He had killed two men in this parish, including one before my eyes. But despite numerous witnesses and the statements of his co-conspirators implicating him in the crime, Foucarmont escaped justice. At his trial, the judge ordered the jury to find him not guilty, and so he was set at liberty.’

  Edward Rossiter made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Someone bribed the judge.’

  ‘Possibly. Or some other form of pressure was put upon him. Someone, somewhere, wanted Foucarmont freed, and had the power and influence to make it so.’

  And where is this Foucarmont now?’ asked Edward.

  ‘He has disappeared. Despite his acquittal, his identity as an agent of the French republic was now well known. There are men in government service who would have executed their own justice on him, regardless of the law.’ The rector could think of one in particular. ‘Knowing this, Foucarmont made haste to depart the country. I should imagine that he is now in France.’

  ‘Who is in France?’ demanded another voice. ‘Who are you discussing, if I may ask?’

  This was Parker, the lawyer and brother-in-law, the man who had abused poor little Jessington; a hearty, slightly fleshy red-faced man, balding with hair tied back in a queue. He too wore several rings, including a large – and certainly expensive – antique cameo. His normally cheerful face was now sharp with inquiry.

  ‘That business here last spring,’ said James Rossiter easily. ‘Do you recollect it, Joe? Some English Jacobins and French agents were rounded up and hanged. Reverend Hardcastle informs us that one of them got away.’

  ‘Sacré nom,’ said Mrs Rossiter. ‘Do you think we are in danger from this man, reverend?’

  The rector bowed. ‘I think it highly unlikely, ma’am. People here know who he is and what he is. I do not think he would dare to return to St Mary.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Edward Rossiter, and his eyes strayed to Parker.

  *

  The rector left soon after, finishing his madeira, making his excuses and collecting Calpurnia who was munching on one last canapé. Clavertye had already departed, Mrs Chaytor likewise. He walked his sister home through the falling winter dusk, ignoring her voice beside him as she chattered on about the clothes and the jewels and the fine house, thinking hard.

  His sister was right. They were a charming family. Their taste was impeccable, their manners beautiful. They would undoubtedly be an ornament to the parish so long as they remained in residence.

  And they stank like week-old fish.

  Chapter 7

  The Cardinal’s Jewels

  Sunday 22nd January dawned with a gale from the north-east and squalls of bitter rain sweeping over the Marsh. The sound of the sea pounding on the Dymchurch Wall could be heard even over the wind.

  Shivering a little in the draughty vestry, the rector robed and walked out into the body of the church. Here he stopped in sudden surprise. His usual congregation were already seated: Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper smiling at him from under their fading bonnets, the aged verger sitting and mumbling to himself, the church warden already half asleep. But behind them, the Rossiter family were filing through the door into the nave: James and his wife, their son and daughter, young William, the Parkers, all in their Sunday best under dripping cloaks and hats and bonnets, inclining their heads to him as he bowed, and taking their seats in the box pews. Several of their servants followed, sitting down quietly at the back of the church. To Hardcastle’s even greater surprise, Calpurnia slipped in quietly a moment later and took her seat beside the Rossiters.

  At first all was well. Then, after a few seconds, their noses began to wrinkle. An alarmed whispering broke out. It was William who first identified the source of the smell: the old man from Brenzett, sitting placidly two rows behind them. More whispering, and the family rose hastily and retired a safe distance towards the rear of the church, seating themselves once more and trying not to look discomfited. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper continued to smile.

  When all were settled, the rector raised his arms. ‘Oh, send out thy light and thy truth,’ he intoned in his rich voice, ‘that they may lead me, and bring me unto thy holy hill, and thy dwelling place.’

  After the service he stood at the church door, and his congregants thanked him as they departed.

  ‘That was a beautiful service, rector,’ said Laure.

  ‘You are most eloquent, monsieur,’ said her mother, and Hardcastle bowed to her.

  ‘Very fine,’ said James Rossiter, who came last of all. ‘It’s a shame there were so few people to hear it.’

  ‘My parishioners are good people,’ said the rector, ‘but public expression of religious feeling is not among their virtues. It does not matter. They know that when they need me, I am here.’

  ‘Then you are a good man,’ said Rossiter, and Hardcastle thought he detected a note of regret in the other man’s voice.

  Rossiter hesitated for a moment, leaning on his stick. The rest of the family had gone on ahead, hurrying home to get out of the cold.

  ‘Reverend, might I ask for a moment of your time?’ Rossiter glanced around the churchyard. ‘Seeing as we are here.’

  ‘You wish to see your mother’s grave?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘Of course. Give me a moment.’

  Changing out of his robes and pulling on his cloak and hat, he rejoined Rossiter and they walked together across the wet churchyard. The rain had stopped, but the dark bare trees dripped water on them as they passed. At the grave, Rossiter bowed his head and stood silent for a moment. If he noticed the two sprigs of holly, he did not show it.

  ‘Dear old maman,’ he said finally. ‘She took it hard when Nick and I went off to America. She must have known she would never see us again.’

  ‘You must have known it also.’

  ‘I don’t think I gave the matter much thought. I was young, only sixteen, and I was certain that I would make a fortune and come home rich as a nabob. It never occurred to me that I might end up staying in America.’ He looked at the headstone again. ‘Called unto God. Does God really call us? I wonder. Or do we find our own time to go?’

  ‘I think some people do choose their own time,’ said the rector. ‘Others are not so much called by God, as dispatched by the hand of man.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’ The older man’s face was sombre as he looked at Hardcastle, water dripping from the brim of his beaver hat. ‘There’s another matter I’d like to discuss with you, reverend, if this is a convenient moment?’

  Hardcastle nodded and they turned and walked back across the churchyard, past the ancien
t yew tree and through the lychgate and across the road to the rectory.

  *

  Settled by the fire in the study, Hardcastle rang the bell for Mrs Kemp, but it was Biddy the maid who appeared in the doorway, curtseying and smiling her bright smile.

  ‘Please make us a couple of toddies,’ the rector told her kindly.

  Biddy sped away to her task. ‘How may I be of service?’ the rector asked his guest.

  ‘May I talk to you in your capacity as justice of the peace, sir? It’s about this affair at the house. Not last spring, that doesn’t concern us at all. That matter is finished now, and in any case, we were all on the far side of the Atlantic when it happened. No, what gnaws at me is this business of the woman who was killed on Christmas Day. Have you had any fortune in identifying her?’

  ‘We have not yet managed to identify her formally,’ the rector said, and waited.

  ‘But you have some notion?’

  The rector nodded. ‘What could she have been doing there?’ Rossiter asked. ‘The newspaper said she must have been a vagabond.’

  ‘That is quite possible,’ said the rector, and he waited again.

  ‘I have spoken with the caretaker. He assured me there had never been a problem with vagrants before. Is that likely to be true?’

  ‘I think so. My constable is very diligent when it comes to vagrants,’ said Hardcastle drily. ‘I confess I am curious to know what you have done with Beazley. I have seen nothing of him for some time. I assume you haven’t kept him on at New Hall.’

  Rossiter smiled. ‘He’s a bit of a rough fellow, isn’t he? But don’t worry, we’ve looked after him. We have some houses up in Buckinghamshire, and we found a post for him there.’

  ‘That was very generous of you.’

  ‘Why not? I don’t blame him for this incident, and it has to be said that otherwise he did a good job of looking after the house . . . Reverend, I wouldn’t want you to break any confidences, or say anything that went against your duty. But within those limits, can you tell me whether you are making any progress in identifying the murderer?’