The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘Thank you for listening to me, sir. My tale was a long one; I hope it did not weary you.’

  *

  ‘Dear God in Heaven,’ said the rector. ‘He thanked me and apologised for taking up my time. He’ll probably apologise to the blasted jury when they convict him, and thank the hangman for putting the noose around his neck.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ asked Mrs Chaytor. They were sitting in her drawing room before the fire, glasses of madeira untouched before them.

  ‘His is an astonishing and compelling story, like nothing I have ever heard. A good barrister could make something of it, I am certain. There is an honesty and intensity about him that will make any jury, no matter how biased, sit up and listen.’

  ‘Marcus.’ She knew he hated his name, and only used it in times of stress. ‘Did you believe him?’

  He thought about it for a long time, and then looked her in the eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believed him. Lord Clavertye’s accusation shook me, I admit. But I believed him.’

  ‘Lord Clavertye’s story is poppycock,’ she said astringently. ‘People like him see French spies under every bed. He’s worse than Miss Roper.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I had them around today, after Stemp called. They were adamant that the invasion would begin tomorrow, and they would then be ravished by hordes of hairy Frenchmen.’

  ‘I am sorry they were so alarmed. I will call on them tomorrow, if I can.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say they were alarmed, exactly. More indignant, and in the case of Miss Roper, there was the faintest hint of excitement, too, if I’m not mistaken.’ Then, looking at Hardcastle more closely, ‘My dear man, you are exhausted.’

  ‘It has been a trying day, one way and another. And I must of course attend on Lord Clavertye tomorrow.’ He brooded. ‘But this business will not let go of me.’

  ‘Nor me. I suspect neither of us will get much sleep tonight. There is another thing we can do to help Samuel.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Find out who really killed Emma,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘If we can do that, we can then prove his innocence. Forget what Clavertye said. If Samuel is proved innocent of Emma’s murder, then this notion that he is a French spy will collapse like a house of cards.’

  ‘And Samuel’s assertion that he does not want to live without Emma? Do we respect that?’

  ‘There is not much I do not know about grief. He may well feel that he wants to die; I did. But he will wake up one morning and find that the urge to live is stronger than he had thought. Our task,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘is to ensure that he survives long enough to reach that day.’

  Chapter 11

  Yorkshire Tom’s Coup

  Dragged from its winter solitude, Romney Marsh rumbled with activity. Patrols of East Kent Volunteers and Preventive Men tramped the high roads and byroads, backs bent against the north wind. More manned the watch points in the villages and along the roads, stopping and searching carts and wagons and scanning the faces of passers-by. Quiet parties of men swept over the Marsh, searching barns and huts and derelict buildings, looking for places where men on the run might hide.

  Trouble began almost at once. The locals did not like strangers and they liked Preventive Men still less. Reactions to the patrols and searches ranged from sullen co-operation to more blatant hostility. By the morning of the first of February, a steady flow of angry people was making its way down New Romney’s high street and into the Ship to confront Lord Clavertye. The deputy lord lieutenant had gone to Rye, to meet the authorities in East Sussex and enlist their support for his search; the task of dealing with the complaints and the outrage fell to Hardcastle.

  All that morning he sat at a desk in the common room, listening patiently while Clavertye’s clerk took notes. Someone complained that searchers had left a gate open so that sheep had escaped; an angry woman accused Preventive Men of stealing a mutton ham she had left hanging in the woodshed. Two men complained of being manhandled at watch points when they refused to be searched; another maintained that the sight of the red coats had frightened his donkey so badly that she had gone off her feed; a very angry man who claimed to have studied law at Oxford insisted that the use of volunteers to search civilian property was illegal under the terms of the Volunteer Act (1794). And so it went.

  The most serious incident occurred just outside Dymchurch, when a volunteer pinched the bottom of a fishwife on her way to market and she laid him out cold with a straight right; a punch, reported Captain Austen admiringly, that would have done credit to Daniel Mendoza. The rector sighed.

  ‘Does your man wish to press charges?’ he asked.

  The captain shook his head. He was a tall, likeable man in his late twenties with pink cheeks and dark cheerful eyes. ‘He’s too embarrassed. But I fear people are growing resentful of us.’

  Hardcastle gestured to the queue of scowling and muttering people waiting to make their complaints. ‘So I can see. Can you not compel your men to be more polite in their behaviour? People here are sensitive to grievance already. There is no need to give them provocation.’

  ‘I’ve done my best, but my men aren’t regular soldiers; they don’t take kindly to discipline. To be honest, the ones the people really hate are the Preventives. Having them on the watch points is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Can we at least find something for them to do that will keep them out of the public gaze?’

  ‘I’ll tell his lordship when he returns. But I doubt he’ll listen.’

  ‘He’s more of a talker than a listener, isn’t he? Tell me, why is he convinced the French are still here on the Marsh? After three weeks, they could be anywhere in the kingdom.’

  ‘They could,’ acknowledged Hardcastle. ‘But Foucarmont knows the Marsh country well. His lordship is convinced he will make his base here, even if he sallies out to stir up mischief elsewhere. It is a sound theory.’

  *

  It was late before Clavertye returned. Dusk was already darkening the windows of the common room when he strode in, tossing his gloves onto a table and taking off his coat. ‘Anything to report, Hardcastle?’

  ‘Apart from a number of annoyed and offended citizens, my lord, no. I am afraid some of the searchers are trampling on people’s sensibilities.’

  Clavertye snapped his fingers at Mrs Spicer, the landlady, who hurried to pour rum into a glass and make a toddy, then nodded to Hardcastle to follow him into the private parlour that served as his office. Here he turned to the rector. ‘To hell with their sensibilities,’ he said. ‘Do they think the French will respect their rights, or their property, if they come?’ He sighed, for he was not at heart an unreasonable man. ‘Ask the people to be patient. The sooner we find our quarry, the sooner it will be over and they can get on with their lives.’

  ‘And Samuel Rossiter, my lord? You still intend to move him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clavertye sharply. ‘It is too great a risk to keep him here. The prison van will arrive tomorrow. I take it nothing came of your interrogation of him?’

  ‘He told me a great deal,’ said the rector. ‘Unfortunately, none of it would seem to confirm your theory about him. His connections in London appear to me to be entirely innocent.’

  Clavertye regarded him with disfavour. ‘I sometimes wonder if you are too soft for this job, Hardcastle,’ he said. ‘Ah, Mrs Spicer, thank you. This is capital. You will add it to my reckoning?’ He sipped the steaming toddy as the landlady departed, and said to the rector, ‘You want to believe there is good in everyone. That’s your church training, I suppose.’

  ‘And you want to believe that anyone is capable of being a criminal,’ said Hardcastle. ‘That’s your legal training, I suppose.’

  They stared at each other, and then Clavertye’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘And the truth, of course, is that we are both right,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, Hardcastle. He will have his day in court, his chance to tell his story, and he’ll receive his fair portion of justice. You have my w
ord on that.’

  Hardcastle inclined his head. ‘As for the searches, they must be kept up,’ Clavertye went on. ‘We’re putting pressure on Foucarmont. We’ll flush him out soon. I can feel it.’

  *

  He was right. The following day, 2nd February, opened with the news that fresh footprints had been found around the lookers’ hut near Bill Hayton’s cottage. Two more sets of footprints were spotted by a sharp-eyed watcher in the shingle near Dengemarsh, on the other side of Lydd. A farmwife reported seeing men lurking in the fields west of Brookland; there was another sighting at Fairfield. Excise men searching an old stone barn at Cuckold’s Corner found the remains of a small fire, though it was clearly several days old; the fire might have been lit by vagabonds, or it might not. Clavertye marked each sighting on his map, nodding confidently.

  ‘See the pattern of the sightings,’ he said to his team. ‘Notice how they’re staying away from the main roads and larger villages. We need to step up our searches in the wilder areas.’

  Cole of the Customs protested. ‘We’re short of men as it is, my lord. There’s hundreds of lookers’ huts and barns and sheds. It will take weeks to search them all.’

  Clavertye turned on him. ‘I’m not interested in excuses, Cole. Find Foucarmont. Those are my orders.’

  They went, Cole still protesting. Outside, a thin drizzle had begun to fall, mixed with occasional bursts of sleet. Silence fell in the common room, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth. The weather had clearly deterred even the angriest citizens from airing their grievances in person today. The rector sat quietly by the fire, thinking of Samuel Rossiter. Dogs were barking in the distance. After a while he heard the squealing of an ungreased axle, and looked out of the window to see the prison van, a square box with a single barred window on its side, making its way slowly up the street.

  *

  The door of the common room slammed open. A messenger, a volunteer in mud-splattered overcoat and breeches, dripping water, stood breathless in the doorway.

  ‘We’ve spotted two of them, sir! Along the drain between Brenzett and Snargate.’

  Clavertye came out of his office at once, followed by his secretary. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They were working their way along the sewer, using the bank as cover. When they saw us, they dived into the water.’

  ‘Comb the banks, both sides. They’ll have to come out of the water somewhere; find out where.’ He turned to the secretary. ‘Have the bloodhounds arrived?’

  ‘That’s them you can hear, my lord. Also, the prison van has just arrived.’

  ‘Damn! I had forgotten. That complicates matters.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Hardcastle.

  ‘This latest sighting is damned close to the Appledore road. It runs through Brenzett and Snargate, doesn’t it? And that’s the very route by which I had intended to send the prison van and escort. I’ll lay money those fellows Austen’s men spotted were waiting to ambush the van and spring Rossiter free. Well, by God, we’ll turn the tables on them.’

  Orders came quickly to Clavertye’s lips, as they always did. He turned to his secretary. ‘Tell the commander of the prison van escort to use the coast road. He can then take the turnpike from Dover to Maidstone. And tell him he is not to stop for anyone or anything. Those are my express orders, clear? Then, tell the keeper to take the dogs out to Brenzett.’ He turned to the messenger. ‘You’ll go with the dogs, and relay my orders to Captain Austen. Search both banks of the sewer and find where the French came out of the water. Then get the dogs onto the scent. Off you go.’

  Tension and excitement thrummed in the air. Hardcastle listened to the yelping of the dogs and watched Clavertye, his face hard and set, the lamplight glinting off the distinguished silver hair at his temples. He scents a triumph, the rector thought. He anticipates the successful capture of the spies, the stories in the newspapers lauding his skill and determination, the acclamation of society. All will be grist to his political mill.

  But the dogs went out and hunted, and the searchers searched until a pink rain-washed sunset faded and twilight drew down. They found nothing.

  *

  The rector knocked at the door of New Hall. A footman, immaculate in blue livery and white wig, bowed and took his card, leaving Hardcastle standing in the hall. He waited, noting how completely the staff had managed to erase every trace of Emma Rossiter’s blood from the stair. He thought of her brother, manacled and buffeted in the lurching prison van on his way to Maidstone gaol.

  The footman returned, bowing. ‘If you will follow me, sir?’

  Parker, balding and round-bellied, was in the library, standing by the fire. He looked tense. There was no offer of refreshment. ‘My apologies for calling unannounced,’ said the rector. ‘Is Mr Rossiter available?’

  ‘He is resting, sir. May I be of assistance?’

  ‘I have further information about the situation with regard to Foucarmont. Several of his men have been spotted in remote parts of the Marsh. A manhunt is underway, but so far we have failed to catch them. The hunt will be resumed at first light, of course, but in the meantime I advise you to take extra precautions. Do not go outside after dark, and ensure your servants remain indoors as well.’

  Parker’s eyes were sharp. ‘Do you believe we are in danger, reverend?’

  ‘Not directly. But these men are dangerous, and will surely kill anyone whom they perceive as a threat, or who gets in their way. I urge you to be cautious.’

  ‘You may trust us to look after ourselves,’ said Parker. He was standing close to the fire, and his bald head was faintly sheened with sweat. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘For the moment. I hope to return tomorrow with news that these men have been caught, after which we can all breathe more easily.’

  ‘To be sure.’ Parker looked at the door. ‘You’re certain you are close to catching them?’

  ‘They cannot hide forever,’ said the rector. ‘If not tomorrow, then the next day. You may be assured of that.’

  ‘That is good news indeed,’ said Parker. He smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes. He rang the bell on the table by the fire, and very quickly the door opened and a servant entered, bowing. This was a different man, liveried and wigged like the footman but older, with a weather-beaten face and broken nose.

  ‘Then I wish you a good evening, sir,’ said Parker. ‘Steele, you may show Reverend Hardcastle out.’

  *

  ‘Welcome to Fort Sandy House,’ said Mrs Chaytor smiling. The sound of hammering came from the drawing room. ‘We are wedging the shutters, and Jack Hoad very kindly came around today and fitted a new bar to the front door. We are completely secure.’

  Hardcastle was not in a mood for levity. ‘Several of Foucarmont’s men have been spotted between here and Appledore, but they evaded our searchers and escaped under cover of darkness. Tell your servants not to go out until daylight, and don’t answer the door to anyone who cannot identify themselves. What are you doing here?’

  This last was directed at his sister, who came out of the library carrying a small hammer. ‘Helping Mrs Chaytor,’ was the cheerful response. ‘Mrs Kemp and Biddy and I have already made the rectory tight as a drum, and besides, Rodolpho is there; no one would dare break into the rectory and face Rodolpho. So I went out this afternoon to lend Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper a hand, and then called in to see if Amelia needed assistance.’ She beamed. ‘Isn’t it exciting? We are having such fun, aren’t we, my dear?’

  The shutters had not been closed at New Hall, nor had the doors been barred. ‘Is there any news about Samuel?’ asked Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘They’ve taken him away to Maidstone,’ the rector said heavily.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Calpurnia, before Mrs Chaytor could reply. ‘That is bad news. Those gaols are horrid places, anything could happen to him there. Marcus, you must find out who really killed Emma. That’s the only thing that can save him, isn’t it?’

  The
rector stared at her. ‘How in blazes do you know about this?’

  ‘Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper told me. We had a long talk this afternoon. They don’t think Samuel killed Emma either, and they think James Rossiter and Parker have swindled him out of his inheritance. It’s such a sad and terrible story, isn’t it? I was reminded at once of my novel, The Lonely—’

  ‘Then how did Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper learn?’

  ‘I told them some of it,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Miss Godfrey was with me the night we found Emma, and I thought she had a right to know. The rest, I should imagine, is down to their fertile imaginations. What is wrong?’

  She had noticed something deeper than Hardcastle’s usual cross-grainedness. ‘I went to New Hall just now to inform them of developments. I saw Parker on his own, and got the strong impression he is keeping me away from the rest of the family. What is more, he could not get rid of me fast enough. He practically threw me out of the house. And there’s another thing. One of the house servants is a rather hard-looking man with a broken nose.’

  Calpurnia looked from one to the other, uncomprehending.

  ‘Parker wanted to break Samuel out of gaol,’ said Mrs Chaytor slowly. ‘And when Samuel learned about this, he was afraid. He thinks Parker wants him dead.’

  She looked up sharply. ‘He thinks Parker killed Emma.’

  ‘We entertained that theory before,’ said the rector. ‘And we came unstuck over the problem of the cardinal’s jewels. What would Parker have stood to gain by killing Emma?’

  His sister could contain herself no longer. ‘The cardinal’s jewels?’ she squeaked.

  Mrs Chaytor explained. Halfway through the narrative Calpurnia begged her to wait, rushed from the room and came back with paper, ink and quill, with which she proceeded to take down the story. Then she sat nibbling on one end of the quill and staring into space. ‘There is no motive we can ascribe to Parker,’ the rector said. ‘Greed makes no sense; the family already have money.’

  ‘There is the question of racial hatred. That could lead a man to kill,’ said Mrs Chaytor.