The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Niece!’ said Parker. ‘I’ll thank you not to describe her as such in my presence, sir! Those Negro bastards are no kin of ours!’

  ‘Joe!’ said Rossiter sharply. ‘Lower your voice, for God’s sake. And do not speak in such fashion to Reverend Hardcastle. He is only doing his duty.’

  Muttering more abuse, Parker turned away and walked towards the window. ‘I see I have intruded upon your sensibilities,’ said the rector, rising. ‘Permit me to take my leave.’

  ‘A moment, reverend,’ said the older man, picking up his stick and pulling himself to his feet. ‘Let me walk you to the door.’ In the hall, Rossiter waited while a white-wigged footman brought the rector’s hat and cloak, and then said quietly, ‘Joseph and I are old friends. But on the issue of race, we differ. I happen to believe that all men were created equal in the eyes of God, regardless of race. And you are right, those young people are our kith and kin, whether we like it or no.’

  ‘If those are your true feelings,’ said the rector directly, ‘then why, when they approached your family, did you suggest paying them to go away?’

  ‘Need you ask? I wanted William to come into his inheritance without trouble. But I am also a humane man, or so I like to think. We could have taken the matter to court, but the court would have found in our favour and young Samuel and Emma would then have lost everything. I felt it best to offer them a pension, something that would see them decently settled and comfortably off for the rest of their lives. For the sake of my brother, it was the least I could do.’

  ‘But Mr Parker disagreed.’

  ‘Yes. And to my lasting regret, I listened to him. Here’s what bothers me, reverend. If I had pressed my case, and made young Samuel an offer he could accept, they would both now still be alive. Now the girl is dead, and the boy is likely to swing for her murder. That’s not an easy thing to have on your conscience, reverend, not at all. I’ll be haunted by that, to the end of my days.’

  WADSCOMBE HALL, TENTERDEN.

  26th January, 1797.

  My dear Hardcastle,

  I am in receipt of your letter of the 24th inst. Congratulations on apprehending Samuel Rossiter. I have no doubt that you are right and that he is your murderer. My clerk will inform you of the date of the next assize at Maidstone. It would be best if you can continue to hold the prisoner in New Romney if possible, for the gaol at Maidstone remains as overcrowded as ever.

  As for your request that I conduct some sort of investigation into the activities and financial affairs of James Rossiter and his lawyer, I can only conclude that you have taken temporary leave of your senses. It is quite out of the question for me to do any such thing. In case I have not made this sufficiently clear already, Rossiter has interests greater than my own; he is untouchable. If you offend him, he will bring us both down.

  You have your murderer. Follow the correct procedures according to law, and leave the Rossiters strictly alone.

  Yr very obedient servant,

  CLAVERTYE

  It was one of those cold, hard days when it seemed winter would never end. The rector had been out since dawn. Old Mrs Pickney from Teal Farm had died; the event was not unexpected, but there were family to console and yet more funeral arrangements to be made. And Bill Hayton, the shepherd who had found the footprints at the lookers’ hut, was ill; not mortally so, but unable to look after himself. He needed food and blankets and someone to sit with him until the fever passed. Arranging this had taken most of the afternoon, and Hardcastle was only able to spend a few minutes with Letty Murton, the blacksmith’s wife, who had given birth to a daughter two days before.

  ‘It’s good of you to call round, reverend,’ she said, propped up in a chair amid a nest of blankets before the fire, infant in her arms. ‘I wanted to arrange the baptism with you, as soon as may be. It’s our first, you see,’ she said shyly. ‘I’d like to see things done properly.’

  The Murtons, like virtually all the parish, came to church on just three occasions: weddings, baptisms and funerals. Hardscastle’s parishioners took it for granted that they would be available to perform these services for them, and otherwise went their own way. It was the same, he knew, in parishes up and down the land.

  ‘I’d be honoured to baptise your daughter, Letty. Have you chosen a name?’

  ‘We thought Mary, after my mother.’

  ‘A good choice, for a little one to be baptised in Mary’s church. Shall we say the fourth of next month?’

  He struggled home through twilight and the endless biting wind, pleased that a new life had been called into the world but exhausted in body and spirit. On Monday there would be a magistrate’s court, and he had to think further about Samuel Rossiter. Right at the moment, he did not want to think about anything. In his study, he opened the bottle of port that lay in his desk and poured a healthy measure, downed it and poured again. The knocker of the front door sounded, and he groaned and drained the second glass too.

  He heard the cheery voice of Biddy answering the door. A moment later she came into the study, Biddy curtseying as she always did. ‘Good evening, reverend, sir. Are you at home to Mr Stemp?’

  ‘Certainly. Show him in.’

  Stemp entered, pocked cheeks blue with cold. ‘Evening, reverend. Sorry to intrude, but I’ve something to tell you from Jack Hoad. I reckoned you’d want to know right away.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Jack was at the Ship in New Romney today, making arrangements for . . . Well, it doesn’t matter. But there was a fellow there in the taproom, a stranger asking round for men who’d like to earn good money. Cash in hand, no questions asked. Won’t be no trouble, he said, just quick in and out.’

  The rector sat up sharply. ‘What precisely did he want these men to do?’

  Stemp cleared his throat. ‘Break into New Romney gaol,’ he said, ‘and spring Samuel Rossiter.’

  Chapter 9

  The Frenchman Returns

  THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.

  27th January, 1797.

  By express.

  My lord,

  I write to you with urgent news. Information has been laid before me which suggests that a person or persons unknown, may shortly attempt to liberate Samuel Rossiter from New Romney gaol.

  The constable of New Romney has been warned, and I have sworn in several men of that parish to act as temporary constables. I must, however, emphasise that this is a temporary expedient only. These men cannot be expected to serve for more than a few days; nor am I entirely satisfied that they are reliable.

  I have applied to Mr Cole of the Customs service and Mr Juddery of the Excise, asking if they will let me have a few of their men. Given that their services are already overstretched, I doubt they will be able to do so. Anticipating their refusal, I write now to ask you to send me a detachment of East Kent Volunteers. A sergeant and a file of men should suffice.

  My warmest thanks for your consideration in this matter,

  Yr very obedient servant,

  HARDCASTLE

  ‘I realise this is short notice,’ said the rector to Mrs Chaytor, ‘but I want to speak to him again and find out what lies behind this rescue attempt. Will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course. Wait while I change into something warmer. Lucy! Ask Joseph to bring the gig around, as quickly as he can.’

  A few minutes later they were driving down the muddy track to New Romney, the horse’s reins resting lightly in Mrs Chaytor’s gloved fingers. ‘Did Jack Hoad give a description of the man?’ she asked.

  ‘“A rough bit of work”, according to Stemp. Middle height, broken nose, wearing a fisherman’s smock under an overcoat, duck trousers, boots. It could be anyone.’ The rector changed the subject. ‘We were right about Parker. His dislike of Samuel is based at least in part on the young man’s race. He confirmed it himself, in no uncertain terms. Rossiter also told me that he wanted to reach a settlement with Samuel, but Parker opposed him because he objected to Samuel’s colo
ur.’

  ‘And Rossiter let him have his way? I wonder why?’

  ‘You are assuming that Rossiter was telling me the truth, which I doubt. “I’ll be haunted by that, to the end of my days.” Damn him for a hypocrite! He is not in the slightest bit sorry to see Samuel out of the way.’ He brooded as the gig rolled along. ‘I really do wonder how Rossiter made his money. There will be something wrong there, I’ll wager my cellar on it.’

  *

  Across the street from the gaol, a man in a shabby overcoat leaned his shoulder on a brick wall, counting coins in his hand. He glanced incuriously at them as Hardcastle tethered the horse.

  The gaoler admitted them, bobbing his head to Mrs Chaytor. ‘There’s a couple more in cells, reverend. There was a bit of an affray in the town last night. But I’ve kept your fellow on his own.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Hardcastle walked through to the cells, leaving Amelia in the anteroom.

  Samuel Rossiter was lying on his bunk, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. In the cell opposite, two men sat slumped, staring at the rector with bloodshot eyes.

  I’ll have those two up before me on Monday, Hardcastle thought.

  ‘I want to speak to the prisoner in private,’ he said to the gaoler. ‘Bring him out front, if you please.’

  ‘As you wish, reverend. You want me to manacle him first?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Bring him out to join the lady and me, and then make yourself scarce.’

  Blinking, the gaoler complied. A few minutes later, Samuel Rossiter was ushered into the anteroom where Mrs Chaytor sat, gloved hands in her lap. The prisoner looked at her in surprise. Hardcastle pulled up a bench beside the stove.

  ‘Be seated, if you please, Mr Rossiter. This is Mrs Chaytor.’

  He made no further introduction. Rossiter sat slowly, dark eyes wary. He was uncertain as to what was going on, which was precisely what Hardcastle wanted.

  ‘Your friends in this country must think quite highly of you, Mr Rossiter.’

  ‘I have no friends in this country. Only Emma. Have you found her yet?’

  ‘So highly,’ said the rector, continuing as if the other man had not spoken, ‘that they are offering money to people to break you out of this gaol. They will not succeed, of course, for the militia are coming to mount a strong guard. But it is surprising that anyone should be prepared to go to such lengths, is it not?’

  Silence. Mrs Chaytor sat quietly, watching.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ the rector asked. ‘What makes you so special that it is worth mounting a gaolbreak? That is a serious matter, for even if you were to escape, there would be a hue and cry for you throughout Kent, indeed throughout the country. Every road, every port would be watched. And anyone caught helping you would be liable to serious punishment, perhaps even transportation. Your friends must know that. Yet still they are prepared to take the risk. Why?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mr Rossiter,’ said Mrs Chaytor softly, ‘we can only help you if you tell us the truth.’

  Slowly he turned his head towards her. ‘I have told the truth,’ he said.

  ‘So far, you have told us nothing,’ the rector said quietly. ‘Mrs Chaytor is right, we must know what really happened. If you do not tell us, then you will hang.’

  ‘I will hang anyway,’ said Rossiter. ‘A woman was killed, so someone must die. I am a convenient murderer. I am a stranger, and a black man. No one will miss me. Only Emma.’ He stared at the rector. ‘Where is Emma?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Hardcastle.

  ‘Are you looking for her? No, you are not, are you? You don’t believe me,’ Samuel said desperately. ‘But why should you? I am a stranger and a black man. No one cares. Only Emma cares . . .’

  For a moment he looked as if he was about to break down, but he mastered himself. ‘I shall die here,’ he said, half to himself, ‘far from home, among strangers, a convicted criminal. And no one will care.’

  ‘Mr Rossiter,’ said Mrs Chaytor, her voice still soft, ‘it is because we do care that we are here. An uncaring judge would leave you to your fate. Reverend Hardcastle is looking for the truth, because he knows that the truth about what occurred will save your life.’

  He looked at her again, his dark eyes reading her face. ‘The truth about what occurred,’ he said after a while. ‘How can I tell you, when I myself do not know?’

  ‘Start by telling us what you do know,’ said the rector. ‘When did you leave London?’

  ‘On the twenty-seventh of December. I would have gone sooner, but the mail coaches did not run on the twenty-fifth or sixth. The weather was bad, with snow on the hills. The coach travelled very slowly. I stayed overnight at an inn. The next morning I left the coach and hired a horse. I still travelled very slowly. I am not a very skilful rider.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I went to a place called App-el-dore. There I stopped for food. I saw the newspaper . . . I knew at once it was not Emma. But I did not know where Emma was.’

  ‘But you knew she might be in danger,’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  Silence.

  ‘You went to Rye,’ she said, ‘in hopes of hearing more news, and you took a job at an inn. That was clever of you. Inns are excellent places for hearing news from passers-by.’

  ‘I was not very good at my job,’ he said ruefully. ‘That is why they caught me.’

  ‘Why did you try to run when the magistrate’s men came for you?’ asked the rector.

  ‘I was frightened. I did not know who they were. I thought they wanted to kill me, like they had killed that woman at New Hall.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill you, Mr Rossiter?’

  Silence.

  ‘If the woman who was killed was not Emma, who might she have been?’

  Silence.

  ‘Where do you think Emma is now?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mr Rossiter, I will ask again. Who would want to rescue you from this gaol? And why? Why are you so important?’

  Rossiter stirred slowly. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘You said, the militia are coming?’

  ‘They should be here very soon.’

  Rossiter nodded once. ‘May I warm my hands at the stove?’ he asked politely. ‘It is quite cold in the cell.’

  *

  ‘That was a damned waste of time,’ said the rector as they drove back to St Mary in the Marsh.

  ‘Language,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I wouldn’t say so. It ought to be possible to verify when he left London. The coach drivers and ostlers at Ashford would surely remember him.’

  ‘He may have been trying to establish an alibi. There is nothing to prevent him from having left St Mary on Christmas Day after the murder, returning secretly to London late on the twenty-sixth, and then journeying openly back down to Appledore as he described, taking care to make sure that people noticed him along the way.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘My dear Mrs Chaytor, that is what a jury will think. And that is all that matters.’

  They crossed a muddy bridge over a sewer, water bubbling under the arch. All the drains on the Marsh were full to the brim from the recent rains. ‘If we are to save this boy’s life,’ Mrs Chaytor said, ‘we must find some means of compelling him to tell us all that he knows.’

  ‘You now believe him to be innocent?’

  ‘Whoever killed Emma Rossiter, it was not him. Think about it. He wouldn’t have killed her, because she was all he had in the world. Even now, he desperately wants her to be alive. And that was fear we saw in his face, not guilt. He is terribly afraid.’

  ‘Yes. I saw the fear, and also the relief in his face when he knew the militia were coming.’

  ‘Exactly. He doesn’t think the people planning the gaolbreak want to release him. He thinks they are coming to kill him.’

  *

  The East Kent Volunteers came the following afternoon, ten of them and a sergeant in sodden blanket coats over their red jackets
and blue breeches. The rector breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down to write his sermon for the next day. Tonight, he remembered, was the new moon, and the wind had abated; tonight or tomorrow night, the boats would go over the Channel to France. That meant he would be without Stemp’s services for a few days. His temporary constables in New Romney were likely to disappear too.

  On Monday, at the New Romney magistrate’s court, Samuel Rossiter would be arraigned for the murder of Emma Rossiter. The process would be a short one. He would read out the formal charge, and then ask Rossiter for his plea. The young man would of course plead not guilty, and Hardcastle would commit him for trial at the Maidstone Assizes on 15th March. There, unless he could mount a strong defence, he would be found guilty on the basis of circumstantial evidence, and soon after he would be taken out to Penenden Heath and hanged.

  ‘Damn,’ said the rector slowly. ‘Damn, damn.’

  Everything Samuel Rossiter had done – his journey to Romney Marsh, his behaviour at Appledore, his hiding at Rye and, especially, his attempt to flee from the Rye magistrate’s men – could be construed as suspicious; and, thought Hardcastle, that is exactly how a prosecuting barrister will construe it. Samuel’s only defence was his own testimony. But the jury would view him as a murderer and a sororicide, and race would doubtless enter the picture too; nothing he said in his own defence would be believed. Samuel was indeed a convenient murderer, as he himself had acknowledged. The only thing that might save him would be verifiable proof that Emma Rossiter was not dead; but even then, there was still a dead young woman buried in his churchyard, and someone must have killed her.

  But the rector believed beyond doubt that the woman in the ground in St Mary’s churchyard was Emma Rossiter. He put no faith in Samuel’s statement that Emma was so fair she could pass for white; she was lighter skinned than Samuel himself, that was all. Everything else they knew, including the timing of her departure from London, pointed to her being the woman who was killed at New Hall.