On the heels of the thought came a knock at the front door, and he heard Biddy hurrying to open it. She came into the study a moment later and curtseyed.
‘It’s Mr Stemp, reverend,’ she said, a little wide-eyed. ‘For sure he says it’s urgent.’
‘I will come at once.’
Stemp was in the hallway, blowing on his mittened hands. ‘Bad news, reverend,’ he said. ‘It’s Mr Parker from up at New Hall.’
‘What? What is wrong with him?’
‘He’s stiff as a board, that’s what’s wrong with him. He’s at Hope, lying in the old church where the altar would have been, and the back of his head’s been stove in. He’s stone dead. I reckon he’s been there for most of the day.’
Chapter 15
The Siege of Sandy House
Centuries before, Hope had been a thriving Marsh village and All Saint’s Church had been the bustling heart of a community. Plague and fever had killed its people or driven them away, and now all that remained was the ruin of the church, its roof long since fallen in, its floor a bed of grass and moss. Lantern-light flickered around the nave, casting wavering shadows on stone walls, windows like eyeless sockets giving onto the night beyond.
Joseph Parker lay sprawled on his side, one hand flung out where he had clutched at the turf in a final spasm before he died. He had been struck a massive blow to the back of the head, shattering his skull. The lanterns showed a dark shadowy stain where his blood had poured out and soaked into the grass. The light showed also the jewelled buttons on his waistcoat and the glittering gem on his watch fob. The cameo rings were still on his fingers.
The rector knelt over the body, studying it. Unless I stop you, there will be yet more killing, he had said to Parker. And more killing there had been. But Hardcastle had not expected him to be the next victim.
‘Has Dr Mackay been sent for?’
Stemp nodded. ‘I sent the lad to fetch him.’
The corpse had been found by a boy from Old Romney, coming back from an evening’s fishing. That was the story, at least; it might be true, but Hope Church was also a favourite rendezvous point for smugglers. Foucarmont knows this too, the rector thought. Parker was killed and his body left here to ensure he would be found.
‘One thing’s for certain, reverend,’ said Stemp. ‘This was no robbery.’
‘No,’ said the rector. ‘This was a calculated killing.’
Foucarmont was back on the Marsh. And Clavertye was still hunting him far away among the downs of Sussex, looking in the wrong place.
‘What do you reckon happened?’ Stemp asked.
‘I questioned Parker very closely yesterday. He did not admit anything, but he was a frightened man when he left me.’ The rector walked slowly around the ruined nave, looking for any clues as to what had happened. He did not expect to find any; Foucarmont and his men were professionals. ‘Parker must have met with Foucarmont after we talked. Foucarmont would have seen Parker was frightened, and might have thought he was wavering. Perhaps he feared Parker would offer a confession in exchange for lenient treatment? So, Foucarmont killed him before he could betray their secret.’
‘Whatever they are hiding up there at New Hall must be juicy,’ Stemp observed. ‘What do you think it is? Money?’
‘Perhaps . . . There is the doctor.’
Mackay, cloaked and booted and carrying his bag, walked into the nave followed by a groom carrying another lantern and a pistol. The rector nodded towards the weapon. ‘A wise precaution,’ he said. He had left his own pistol at home, and wished he hadn’t.
‘The entire Marsh seems full of maniacs bent on homicide,’ the doctor said sourly. ‘Very well, let’s get to work. Hold up that lantern, Stemp, if you don’t mind . . . Aye, well, this won’t take long. Cause of death is plain as daylight.’
‘Anything else? Any other marks on him?’
‘No . . . Ah, wait a moment. His wrists have been bound. There’s chafing all around them. Someone tied his hands with rope, I’d say. Before he was killed, too.’ Mackay looked up, face shadowy under the brim of his hat. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘A falling out among criminals,’ the rector said grimly. ‘Doctor, would you be so kind as to carry on here, and see the body transported to New Romney? I must go and break the news to Mr Parker’s wife. Joshua, when you have finished assisting Dr Mackay, find Captain Austen, give him my compliments and ask him to call on me as soon as he may.’
Parker had been dead for hours; Foucarmont and his men could be miles away by now. They would have to start a new search for them, and of course Lord Clavertye would have to be informed. That last thought cheered the rector a little, for he quite enjoyed the sight of Lord Clavertye in the wrong. But the cheerful thought did not last long, for another, deeply unhappy task lay ahead of him. He began to walk back to St Mary in the Marsh, leaving Hope Church with its flickering ghostly lanterns behind, rehearsing in his mind the words of consolation he would use and the questions he would have to ask.
Tendrils of fog snaked over the Marsh, blown on a faint fluttering breeze. Apart from this little wind, the night was utterly silent and still. He had just crossed the bridge over the New Sewer, St Mary in the Marsh about three-quarters of a mile away, when he stopped dead in his tracks. Booming in his ears, muffled and yet magnified by the fog, came the sound of a gunshot, followed swiftly by another.
*
At Sandy House, Mrs Chaytor and Miss Rossiter sat by the fire drinking tea. ‘The night is very quiet,’ observed the younger woman.
‘The nights are often quiet here on the Marsh. It is a lonely place, and still.’ Mrs Chaytor smiled. ‘I expect you are used to loneliness and stillness after your time living in the forest.’
It was Emma’s turn to smile. ‘The first city I ever saw was New York. It was terrifying. There was noise all the time: horses, carriage wheels, whipcracks, building work, pedlars crying their wares. It seemed never to end. While living with Father in Montréal, I grew used to the noise. But sometimes I still miss the silence.’ Her smile faded. ‘Sarah, of course, was used to the noise; she found the Marsh too quiet.’
She looked at Mrs Chaytor with her steady brown eyes. ‘Are you happy here?’ she asked. ‘Living in this place?’
Mrs Chaytor considered her answer. ‘You said that you were searching for a home,’ she said. ‘I came here for the same reason. I think I may have found one.’
That did not answer the question, and Emma knew it. ‘You are sad,’ she observed.
‘Yes.’
‘You are sad for the same reason as I, are you not? Those you love have gone, and you cannot go back to them.’
‘What you said about Ahneewakee moved me deeply,’ said Mrs Chaytor quietly. ‘I know the pain you spoke of.’
‘What do you do now?’
‘You mean, how do I fill my days? I play music. I walk on the Marsh. I wait.’
‘For what?’
‘Nothing. There is nothing to wait for. And yet, still I wait.’
‘You think of yourself as empty,’ said Emma.
Amelia forced a smile. ‘You are very perceptive,’ she said.
‘But it is not so. You do not only sit and wait. You care enough about me to help me, to open your house to me. You care about Samuel too, I know. You are not empty. You are full of spirit and strength.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘You said you came to the Marsh looking for a home. But I think you must have had a home before. Why really did you come?’
‘You are right, of course,’ said Amelia after a moment. ‘I had a home, but it came to an end when my husband died, just as yours did when Ahneewakee was gone. I came to the Marsh because I wanted to detach myself from the world, to isolate myself from all that had gone before. But of course that is impossible. We cannot leave the world behind, not so long as we live and breathe, and think. The outer world is always there, and sometimes its call cannot be resisted.’
Emma nodded at this. ‘I think my case is the opposi
te of yours,’ she said. ‘I am isolated from the world too, but I do not want to be. I wish to be part of the world, but I do not know how to do so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is hard to find a place. Many people do not accept me. Even as Father’s daughter in Montréal, doors were sometimes closed to me because of my colour. It is the same in London also. And should we go back to Montréal as Samuel wishes, without Father’s protection, it will be worse.’
‘My dear; the doors that are closed to you because of your colour are not ones you would care to walk through in any case. The people behind them are not worth knowing. But Samuel told the rector that you also had friends in London, who helped you. Mr Equiano and others like him.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Emma with gentle vigour. ‘That is quite so. They are good people, very good people, kind and noble of heart. They talk about things like liberty, which I do not fully understand. But they talk about ending the traffic in slaves, and that I do understand. Mother’s family told us how slaves are taken from Africa, and how much they suffer. Many people we met in London told us similar stories, and I realised then how thousands of people have been taken and made slaves. I realised also how fortunate my mother was to have been freed, and how lucky Samuel and I are too. I thought that I might be able to help them.’
‘The abolitionists?’ The slave trade was an issue on which Mrs Chaytor had strong views, and she was in any case grateful for the change of subject. ‘You are right, they are good people. Nor are they alone. Many oppose them, but they also have friends in very high places, including the prime minister himself. You could do good work, if you cared to join them, and you would make good friends too.’
‘You support the abolitionists?’
‘I give them money from time to time, yes.’
‘It is as you said,’ said Emma smiling. ‘The outer world is always there, and sometimes its call cannot be resisted.’
‘You are wicked to trap me with my own words,’ said Amelia firmly. They both smiled, and then came the knock at the front door.
The first to enter the room a moment later was Rodolpho, who bounded in cheerfully waving his tail. He was followed by Calpurnia, carrying a bundle of papers tied with a ribbon and scolding the dog. ‘My dear Mrs Chaytor, I am so sorry for Rodolpho’s bad manners. I do hope you don’t mind my bringing him. He cannot bear to be separated from me for long, you see, and he pines when I am not there.’
‘Rodolpho is entirely welcome,’ said Mrs Chaytor. Rodolpho swished his tail again, shaking his head and grinning at Emma, and then lay down before the hearth and fell fast asleep. ‘May I present to you Miss Latimer, a cousin of mine from the West Country. She has come to stay with me for a few days. Miss Latimer, Mrs Vane, Reverend Hardcastle’s sister.’
‘I am very pleased to meet you,’ said Calpurnia, eyes bright with curiosity. With some misgivings, Mrs Chaytor watched her study the other woman. Calpurnia might be flighty, but she was not unintelligent. Emma’s clothes, made in Canada, were clearly not of English cut, and there were certain features of her hair and face that made her heritage apparent, if one were observant enough.
‘And I am also pleased to meet you, Mrs Vane,’ said Emma in her soft voice. ‘Mrs Chaytor tells me that you write books.’
Bravo, thought Mrs Chaytor with approval, that will distract her. Calpurnia was off at once, describing her literary career while Mrs Chaytor sent Lucy for more tea and then directed her to check that all the shutters were closed; the night was cold and foggy, and she did not want the damp getting into the house. The three women settled by the fire, around Rodolpho, who had begun to snore.
‘You asked if I would read you the latest chapter from my book,’ Calpurnia said eagerly to Mrs Chaytor. ‘May I do so?’
That was not exactly how the original conversation had gone, but Mrs Chaytor smiled. ‘We should be delighted,’ she said, arranging her skirts. ‘Pray begin.’
Calpurnia untied the ribbon around her manuscript, cleared her throat, and began.
THE LIGHTHOUSE OF VAVASSAL
A ROMANCE BY MRS CORDELIA HARTBOURNE
(‘That is my nom de plume, you see. All the most fashionable writers use a nom de plume.’)
CHAPTER XVIII
High atop the lighthouse tower, Emily surveyed the wild scene before her. To every horizon there stretched a rolling chaos of waves, majestic, grey in the shadow of the clouds, green-blue where the sun touched upon them, crested with white where the force of the wind caught them. Golden was the sand that girdled the island, green was the moss that clung to its storm-scoured stones. White were the seabirds that wheeled and called and cried, incessantly, endlessly as they rode the wild flanks of the wind. Looking out, Emily saw the full force and majesty of this wild world, and it thrilled her to the very floor of her soul. Her body tingled with excitement, and the blood ran hot in her veins.
Deeply moved by this magnificent vista, she nonetheless recalled her purpose in coming to this remote place. ‘I must tell you now the reason why I undertook the perilous voyage to the Isle of Vavassal,’ she said, gesturing around her. ‘I am, as you may have begun to realise, no ordinary visitor.’
‘I assumed as much,’ said the count, turning his hawk-nosed face so that he stood profiled against the rolling sea. ‘I assume further that it is myself whom you have come to seek, and that you have some vital message for me.’
‘Indeed I do. The message, Señor de Lorca, comes from the Duchess of Barcalonga, your aunt.’
‘Ah!’ A change came over the man’s dark, sinister visage. ‘My aunt. How interesting. I have not had intercourse with my aunt for many long years. Why does she seek me out now, I wonder?’
‘That you will hear, when I retail her entire message to you,’ said Emily. ‘Pray, now, let me continue. The Duchess, knowing of your deep distaste for herself, advised me that you would be unwilling to hear any report of her. But this concerns you, Señor, most closely. It concerns your fortune, and perhaps even your life.’
‘I care nothing for my fortune,’ sneered the count, ‘and I care even less for my life—’
Emma held up a hand. ‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Chaytor.
‘I thought I heard something.’ The young woman was suddenly tense, but after a moment she relaxed. ‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘I am very sorry for interrupting you, Mrs Vane. Will you please continue?’
‘Certainly.’
‘—and I care even less for my life. You may inform the duchess as much.’
‘You declare that you care nothing for your own life. What then of the life of Sevilla de Lancefortet, the woman you profess to love? Do you care nothing for her life, Señor?’
The count turned sharply. Towering over Emily, he glared down at her, passion raging in his single dark eye, the other of course being covered as always by a black silk eyepatch.
‘Sevilla is dead!’ he hissed, his voice full of dark fury. ‘She died here, on the Isle of Vavassal, five years ago. Her spectre haunts this very lighthouse. Do you not know that is why I came here, to seek out her spirit and make contact with it if I can? To renew in the life of ghosts the love we once had in the real world? And now you taunt me with this fantasy she is alive! Curses be upon you—’
‘There!’ said Emma suddenly. ‘Did you hear it?’
All three women strained their ears. The fire popped; Rodolpho gave a gentle snore; the clock ticked.
‘There,’ said Emma again, in a whisper this time. ‘I heard it again. There is someone outside the house.’
‘Where?’
‘Moving outside the dining room. Wait. There is another near the front door.’
‘Be very quiet,’ commanded Mrs Chaytor. She rose and, gathering her skirts, ran through to the kitchen. ‘Lucy!’ she hissed. ‘There may be intruders outside. Check the back door again, and make certain it is barred. Then stay here out of the way.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the girl, startled.
Amelia herself could
still hear nothing, but Emma’s urgency had infected her. Hurrying back through the house, she glanced through the open door of the dining room. The room was dark, the candles snuffed after dinner, but there was enough light to see that the shutters of one window were open. Lucy must have forgotten to check them when she toured the house earlier. Clicking her tongue, she moved to the window: and then stopped, rigid with shock.
There was a face outside the window, the face of a man, glaring, broken-nosed and full of hate. For a split second the two faces looked into each other, separated only by the panes of glass.
Then the hammer in the man’s hand swept up and broke the glass in a shower of flying splinters. Dropping the hammer, he reached inside. He was a fraction of a second too late. With all her strength, Mrs Chaytor hurled the shutters closed and slammed down the bar that held them in place. She heard the man swearing and beating on the other side, but the shutters were strong oak and proof against any hammer – for a while, at least. She seized two chairs and jammed them hard against the shutters, and then with desperate strength, pushed the heavy table against the chairs, reinforcing the barrier.
Darting into the hallway, she turned to the console table that stood next to the hatstand, opened the drawer and pulled out her pistol. Normally this was kept safely upstairs, but since the news of Foucarmont’s return, she had left the weapon here in the hall, primed and loaded. Hearing another noise she turned to see Calpurnia and Emma coming out of the drawing room. Calpurnia gasped when she saw the pistol.
‘Whatever is happening?’
‘We are under attack,’ said Mrs Chaytor tersely. ‘Help me move this table.’
Emma hurried forward and together they pushed the console table against the front door, which was already barred. Rodolpho had woken and come out too; he stood now, his ears pricked in alarm. ‘Mrs Vane, Miss Latimer, perhaps you would join Lucy in the kitchen. I think it is the safest place. Put anything heavy that you can against the door.’
The Body in the Ice Page 23