‘Came along meek as a lamb,’ said Stemp. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and drew out a sheaf of papers. ‘These are from Mr Dobbs in Rye, reverend. He asks if you could be so good as to sign them and send them back with the prison van.’
Although only twelve miles away, Rye was in a different county; the lord lieutenant of Sussex as well as the local magistrates had to be notified of the transfer of any prisoner from one jurisdiction to another. Hardcastle read the papers through swiftly, took up the pen and ink the gaoler offered, and signed. ‘Where is he?’
‘This way, reverend.’
The cell was about ten feet square, with a cot, a small wooden table and a stool. The only light came from a single high barred window. The prisoner sat on the cot, rubbing his wrists, and Hardcastle saw they had been chafed raw by manacles.
‘Stemp!’ he called, raising his voice. ‘Why was this man in irons?’
‘He tried to run when they came to pick him up in Rye, reverend,’ came the response. ‘Mr Dobbs advised there was a chance he might try to escape during the journey here.’
The rector looked back at the prisoner. ‘Is this true?’
The man looked up, face dark in shadow. ‘When the men came for me in Rye, yes. I tried to get away.’
The prisoner spoke carefully, like a man who has good English but is perhaps unused to speaking it. ‘Bring a light,’ Hardcastle said to the gaoler.
Two tallow dips were brought and lit. In the smoky light the rector looked at the man on the cot. About middling height, he thought, though difficult to tell when he is sitting down. Dark skin; but not that much darker than that of a sailor or a Jamaica planter. Dark eyes, with surprisingly long lashes; densely curling dark hair, straight nose, firm mouth and just a hint of the strong Rossiter jaw. There was enough facial resemblance between this man and young William Rossiter to make the family connection beyond doubt.
He pulled out the stool and sat down, still in his cloak. ‘What is your name?’
‘Samuel Rossiter,’ said the other man, his voice dull.
‘I am the Reverend Hardcastle, justice of the peace. Do you know why you have been brought here?’
‘No.’
‘Have you a sister named Emma?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will make this simple,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Emma Rossiter was murdered on the twenty-fifth of December last, at New Hall in St Mary in the Marsh. I am charging you with her murder. What have you to say?’
‘I have killed no one,’ said the other man, a note of passion coming into his voice.
Hardcastle nodded. ‘Where were you on the twenty-fifth of December?’
‘I was in London.’
‘Your landlord says he last saw you on the twenty-fourth, the day before. He did not see you again after that.’
‘I cannot help that. I was in London. I was waiting for Emma.’
‘Oh? Where was she?’
‘I did not know. She had gone, and I was waiting for her to return.’
‘You knew where she had gone, Samuel. You knew she had gone to New Hall. You went after her, didn’t you? And you caught up with her somewhere along the way.’
‘No.’
‘You joined her, and the two of you travelled on together to New Hall. And there on Christmas Day, you quarrelled with her, and you killed her.’
‘No.’
‘You hit her over the head with a blunt object. She was stunned, but she was still alive. She staggered outside, and you took her to the horse pond, and there you pushed her into the water and let her drown. Or did you hold her head under, to make certain?’
‘No! I have never been to New Hall! And that was not my sister!’
The prisoner sat, body tense as a coiled spring; he had clenched his fists, but had not otherwise moved. His eyes, burning, stared into the rector’s face. Hardcastle stared back, waiting for the other man’s gaze to drop. Eventually, he said, ‘If you have never been to New Hall, how would you know whose the body was?’
‘I read in the newspaper. It said the dead woman was of dark colour, like me.’
‘So?’
‘Emma is not dark. Her skin is pale. She can pass easily for a white person.’
The rector paused. It was possible. He knew little about race, apart from the detestable theories of Dr Blumenbach, the publication of which had nearly made him resign his membership of the Royal Society; but he knew of cases of siblings of mixed race where one inherited the skin colour of the mother and the other that of the father.
‘If you did not kill Emma,’ he said, ‘then where is she now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why were you in Rye?’
Silence.
‘Was it you who went to the lookers’ hut? Were you meeting someone there?’
Silence.
‘Did you put the holly on the graves at St Mary?’
Silence.
‘Mr Rossiter,’ said the rector, ‘I have circumstantial evidence suggesting that, as I said, you went to New Hall with your sister, where you killed her in the manner I have described. You deny this. But if you are innocent, you will have to prove it. You must start by telling me: first, if your sister is still alive as you claim, where we might find her; second, what is your interest in New Hall; and third, why you have continued to loiter around the Marsh after the murder.’
Silence.
‘If we can find Emma,’ said the rector, ‘then she can help you to prove your innocence. And if that happens, you will go free. Tell us where to find her.’
His voice had hardened a little; he had lost patience and that, he realised, was a mistake. Samuel Rossiter looked up, and the fire kindled in his eyes again. ‘I would not tell you where to find her,’ he said, ‘even if I could.’
‘Why not, man? Tell us where she is, and you will go free! But if you persist in silence, then there is an excellent chance that you will hang for murder.’
He had lost. Samuel lowered his eyes, and sank into silence once more. Leaving the lights burning, the rector rose and wrapped his coat around him and went out, pulling the cell door firmly shut behind him. In the anteroom he spoke to the gaoler.
‘See that he has everything he needs, including lights. Give him some more blankets too, that cell is cold as a tomb, and make sure he has decent meals. Send the bills to me.’ He laid a gold guinea on the table. ‘And no one is to see him apart from myself. Understood?’
Gaolers were notorious for supplementing their income by allowing the curious to come and view their prisoners, sometimes to mock them or taunt them, especially if they were in any way remarkable. But Hardcastle knew that such behaviour would simply drive Samuel Rossiter further inside himself. The only way I will ever get at the truth, the rector thought, is to convince him that he can trust me and that he will receive fair justice at my hands.
He walked outside with Stemp and the New Romney constable. ‘What was Rossiter doing in Rye?’ he asked.
‘Working as an ostler at the George,’ said Stemp. ‘That’s what first roused suspicion; he’d claimed to have experience, but the other grooms realised he hardly knew one end of a horse from another. Then one of them remembered the description that had come around, and sent word to the magistrate.’
The rector nodded. ‘Well done, both of you. Have a drink on me at the Ship.’
‘That’s kind of you, reverend. Sure you won’t join us?’
Hardcastle thought about the cold drive to St Mary. He thought about his sister’s prattling conversation at dinner, and Rodolpho knocking over the furniture. He thought too about the atmosphere of festering secrecy at New Hall.
He thought about the man in the cell; a fit, healthy young man who should have years of life left to him, and about the fact that it was his duty to gather evidence that would see that young man’s life torn away by the hangman’s noose. That the prisoner had probably deprived someone else of their life did not signify; the concept of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth did not feat
ure large in the rector’s ideal of justice.
‘Perhaps a small one,’ he said.
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.
24th January, 1797.
My lord,
It is my pleasure to inform you that thanks to the good offices of Mr Dobbs, magistrate in Rye, Samuel Rossiter has been apprehended. Mr Dobbs was quite willing to hand him over to my custody, and Rossiter is now lodged in the gaol at New Romney.
I have interviewed him and, as one might expect, he denies committing murder and states his innocence. He also insists that the victim was not, as I believe, his sister Emma. More than this, he was not willing to say. I have left him to cool his heels for a time, and will interview him again at a later date.
His claim that the dead woman is not his sister may be fanciful, or a ruse to throw us off the scent. The fact remains, however, that someone was killed, and circumstances continue to suggest that Samuel Rossiter is the likely murderer.
That said, certain recent events raised some questions in my mind about the Rossiter family, and about New Hall. The possibility exists that a member of the Rossiter family might be involved in this affair, even if indirectly. I wonder if I might therefore ask your lordship to undertake some inquiries about them. Specifically, I should like to know the whereabouts of Mr James Rossiter and Mr Joseph Parker on the 24th and 25th of December last. Also, I should be grateful for any information you could garner about the business interests of either man in America. I assume they must have commercial relationships with the merchants of either London or Bristol.
I would be grateful for any information received.
Yr very obedient servant,
HARDCASTLE
‘You were very late last night, Marcus,’ observed Calpurnia.
‘I had business to attend to in New Romney,’ said Hardcastle shortly, carving a slice of ham. He had a headache, the product of last night’s over-indulgence, and even a punishing morning walk along the dunes had failed to dispel it. He remembered once again why he disliked gin.
‘If it was only New Romney, you might have sent word. I was worried when you did not return for dinner.’
‘I apologise,’ said the rector with his mouth full. ‘I forget, often, that you are here. Are you joining me, Calpurnia, or did you come in here just to annoy me?’
The door slammed behind her. The rector continued with his cold collation in silence, eating and thinking about Samuel Rossiter. Five minutes later the door opened again.
‘What is it now?’
‘I forgot to tell you. Mrs Chaytor called around midday, while you were out for your walk. She said there was no message, and she would call again later.’
‘Then why are you telling me now?’
‘Mrs Chaytor visits you often, doesn’t she? Is the church roof in such bad repair as all that?’
‘Will you mind your own blasted business? For God’s sake! It’s like living with a nagging wife!’
‘Perhaps a wife is just what you need,’ she said, and slammed the door again. The rector swore, got to his feet, stamped into the hall to fetch his hat and coat, and went off to see Mrs Chaytor.
*
She received him in the drawing room at Sandy House, as ever, cool and composed. She noticed at once that he had been drinking again, and was sorry.
‘What happened?’
He told her about his visit to the gaol. ‘Apart from this claim that the dead girl is not Emma, there is nothing new. He asserts he was still in London on Christmas Day, but cannot prove it.’
‘Nor can he prove his claim about Emma, of course. What did you make of him?’
He is concealing secrets, certainly. Why he is doing so is a matter for conjecture. It might be guilt. Or,’ he continued, ‘it might be fear.’
‘Or it might be both,’ she pointed out. ‘When you go to see him again, might I accompany you? A woman’s presence might encourage him to speak more freely.’
‘It might,’ he said, regarding her, ‘or it might not.’
‘If I find my presence inhibits him, then I will withdraw.’
‘Very well. I suppose there is nothing to lose by the attempt.’
‘You are welcome,’ she said, smiling. ‘Meanwhile, I have had a thought. It struck me that we have been concentrating on James Rossiter and Joseph Parker, and have been ignoring the rest of the family. So I invited Miss Rossiter, her mother and Mrs Parker to join me for coffee this morning.’
‘What did you make of them?’
‘Laure confirmed my earlier impressions of her. Sweet-natured, naïve about some things, intellectually curious, a bluestocking whose passions are music and literature and art. As you know, I had some doubts about her, but after further acquaintance I think she is genuine. Her questions about the murder had no ill intent. She has a natural sympathy for other human beings that will always make her curious about them.’
‘I would imagine she quite admires you,’ the rector observed.
‘I—’ Amelia checked. ‘It is possible. Antoinette, Mrs Rossiter, is French from Québec, which explains that peculiar accent. She met James in 1760, the year we took Canada from the French. He was an officer in the American militia, quartered in Montréal. The hostility between their nations did not prevent friendship from blossoming between them, and they were married five years later. I don’t think she has ever forgiven the English for taking over her country. At all events, she does not like London, or England in general, and wants to go home.’
‘Did she say so directly?’
‘Frequently, and with emphasis.’
‘Does she like New Hall?’
‘Her disinterest in New Hall is quite profound. She leaves all decisions about the running of the household to her husband’s sister, Mrs Parker.’
‘And Mrs Parker?’
‘Mrs Parker is trouble,’ said Amelia dispassionately. ‘She is quite a sweet little woman to look at, with those round apple cheeks and that pepper-and-salt hair, but she has the temperament of a firecracker with a lit fuse. She has an opinion on everything, and that opinion is seldom good. She makes poor Laure wince. However, she also gives away little of substance. About the only thing interesting I learned about her is that she and her husband are collectors.’
‘Collectors? Of what?’
‘Rare and valuable things. Cameos, ancient coins, Roman vases, Cellini bronzes, pictures by Tintoretto and Claude, terracottas by Della Robbia. She wore a set of cabochon rubies that she claimed had once belonged to Elizabeth the Winter Queen. For morning coffee!’
‘All of which confirms my opinion that the family are well off.’
‘They are, in the vulgar phrase, stinking rich. Edward and Laure both stand to inherit sizeable fortunes. I had a thought about young William. I wondered if being disinherited by his father might have made him resentful; perhaps he might be a suspect?’
The rector frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But I struggle to see William Rossiter as a murderer, don’t you?’
‘William Rossiter is like Rodolpho: sweet and gangly and eager to please. When he introduced me to his family last week, he became quite tongue-tied and began to blush.’
‘You often have that effect on men,’ the rector observed.
‘Hush. He is no more a murderer than you or I. Either that, or he is the greatest actor since Gentleman Smith. In any case, he broke with his father – or rather, his father broke with him – and James Rossiter has now adopted him as his son. He too will receive a share of the family fortune, far greater than this piffling inheritance from his own father. Mrs Rossiter was very keen to point this out to me.’
‘Do we know what the break was about?’
‘Politics. James and Parker supported the rebels, Nicholas the royalists. That is why Nicholas moved to Canada at the end of the war. William chose to side with his uncles against his father.’
‘And I will set brother against brother,’ the rector said quietly. ‘Speaking of which, were you able to learn any
thing about Edward?’
‘He is the apple of his parents’ eyes. William idolises him. Aunt Jane dotes on him. He plans to join his Uncle Joseph in the practice of law in Boston.’ She paused. ‘His sister was not quite so quick to praise him as the others.’
‘Sisters don’t praise their brothers,’ the rector grumbled. ‘They knock lumps off them instead. Well done, my dear, for getting so much information out of them.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘Inform the Rossiters that we have arrested Samuel. They will hear eventually in any case; it is better if they hear first from me.’
*
The interview with James Rossiter and Joseph Parker took place in the library of New Hall. Its shelves had not yet been stocked with books, but at least the mildew-spotted hunting prints had gone. A huge fire roared in the grate, wood spent prodigiously. Outside the wind blew, moaning through the cold winter afternoon.
‘Thank you for telling us this news, reverend,’ said James Rossiter. He sat in a high-backed chair with his ebony stick leaning against one arm, flowing white hair reflecting the firelight. ‘One of the kitchen girls reported a rumour to that effect this morning, but we were not sure whether to believe it. There is no doubt that this is the boy Samuel?’
‘I am certain of it.’
‘I’ve met him,’ said Parker, standing by the hearth. The rings on his fingers flickered and sparkled in the light. The buttons on the waistcoat straining over his round belly were jewelled too. ‘I can identify him, if need be.’
‘Thank you, Mr Parker. If the question of his identity comes into doubt, I will be sure to call on you. For the moment, I am satisfied.’
‘What happens next?’ asked Rossiter.
‘As yet, he has made only a partial statement. I shall continue to interrogate him over the next few days. Hopefully he will make a full confession. He will then be arraigned before a magistrate’s court and held in custody until the next assize, where he will be tried.’
‘And the victim? Did you discover her identity?’
There was no point in prevaricating any longer. ‘It is probable that the victim was Emma Rossiter, his sister. I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. The young woman was your niece, even if she was born out of wedlock. This must be a time of grief for you.’
The Body in the Ice Page 12