The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘But you came to this country as a member of an embassy, whose aim was to establish peace between our two nations,’ said Grenville, his face hard. ‘And while a member of this embassy, you connived at murder and espionage and engaged in a plot that could have endangered the security of this realm. Those acts, Mr Rossiter, were not legitimate.’

  ‘Fine words, my lord. But you cannot prove them.’

  ‘Speaking as an officer of the law,’ said Lord Clavertye, ‘I think we can. Your son boasted about the entire affair before a number of witnesses, including your daughter, your nephews, your niece and Mrs Chaytor. There is more than enough evidence to commit him to trial for capital crimes. And I believe we should have no trouble proving a case against you as an accomplice to intended murder, at the very least.’

  Clavertye looked at King. ‘Unless, of course, the American minister wishes to extend his protection to Mr Rossiter and his son?’

  ‘I have no particular desire to do so,’ said King shortly. ‘I accepted Mr Rossiter as a member of my embassy unwillingly, but in good faith. I assumed that even though our political views are very different, he would join me in working for the greater good of the United States of America. What he has done instead is to jeopardise the future of everything our government has worked for over the past ten years. I will remind you all that Congress has yet to ratify the treaty negotiated by my predecessor Mr Jay and your government.’

  In plain words, the rector thought, King is throwing Rossiter to the wolves. Rossiter looked at Portland, who waved a hand.

  ‘We have already discussed this,’ the duke said to Grenville.

  There it was: five words that would save Rossiter and his son. Behind the scenes, the bargain had already been made. Portland had exercised his interest; some day, in return, he would do an equal favour for Lord Grenville.

  ‘We have discussed it,’ said Lord Grenville shortly. ‘Though to tell the truth, your grace, I am more minded to heed the words of Mr King. We need the American treaty. If we are to carry on waging war against the French Republic, as it looks as though we now must, then we need American trade and commerce. I am hopeful also that the day will come when American warships fight alongside ours on the high seas against the French navy.

  ‘I accept your words, Lord Clavertye. But his grace has recommended that Rossiter not be prosecuted, and I support him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rossiter, and he looked at the rector, his hazel eyes full of amusement.

  ‘However,’ said Grenville firmly, ‘you will not be permitted to remain in this kingdom. When the ships begin to sail again in spring, you will depart on the first available vessel, along with your wife and son. Until that time, you will not leave London. Your every move will be watched and your correspondence will be intercepted and read, the contents shared with the American ambassador. The same restrictions will apply to your son, Mr Edward Rossiter. Mrs Parker will be allowed to remain in England until such time as her condition allows her to travel, upon which event she too will be deported.’

  He looked hard at Rossiter. ‘Is that quite clear?’

  ‘Perfectly clear, my lord.’

  ‘Have you anything to say in response?’

  ‘Only this. What happened on Romney Marsh is only the beginning,’ said Rossiter. ‘More will come after me; my son, many others. We will not rest until our cause is won. You fine gentlemen speak about peace between Britain and the United States; agreements, treaties, alliances. But there will never be peace between your kingdom and our republic. How can there be? We are opposed to each other in every respect. Our nation is built on the principles of freedom and equality, yours on the basis of oppression and the slavery of the poor. Your king and his minions hate us and wish to witness our destruction. We feel the same about them.

  ‘So, it is war to the death between our nations. We will not rest until we triumph. This war began with a British army marching into Lexington. It will end when a republican army marches down Whitehall. Then, Britain will be free. And only then, gentlemen, may we begin to talk about a true and lasting peace.’

  In the silence that followed, it was the rector who spoke first. ‘You are wrong,’ he said. ‘I can quite understand why people once felt as you did, in the heat of battle. But those days are past. You think the war is still being fought, but you are quite wrong. Down in the street there are young Americans who have begun to recognise what all of us ought to have known all along: that we are one people. Britons and Americans, we are kin. We share many things: our language, our faith, our love of liberty; for you are wrong, Rossiter, liberty is one of the cornerstones of this country. We have fought before to preserve it, and we are fighting again to preserve it now, from the blood-stained tyranny of the French Directory. And the things we share are far greater, far more powerful than the things that divide us.

  ‘I think you know this. I think you know you are trying to hold back the tide, and that is why you are willing to go to the extremes you do; insane, evil extremes, to breathe life and fire back into a conflict that has already died.

  ‘There is no life left there, Rossiter. The ashes are cold. Go back to America, and make your own peace, with God, and with your conscience, if you have one. You are done.’

  *

  Outside, the four of them were waiting, the little quartet that had become inseparable in the days following the burning of New Hall: Laure, William her cousin, and the twins, Samuel and Emma. Looking into their young faces, fresh with cold, bright with promise, the rector felt suddenly very old; but he felt also the stirrings of hope.

  ‘It is done. They will be sent home in the spring. No action will be taken against them.’

  ‘I am glad,’ said Laure. Of the four, it was she who still bore the marks of sadness in her face. ‘I have broken with them, but I could not bear to see them punished. I want to make an end to it all, and start anew.’

  ‘What will you do?’ the rector asked her.

  ‘Remain in London for a time,’ said Laure. ‘Mrs Chaytor’s friend Lady Grenville has kindly invited me to stay with them. I have friends here, and I think I shall be happy.’ Her eyes strayed for a moment to Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘And the rest of you?’ the rector asked. ‘I am sorry, William, that there is nothing left of New Hall.’

  ‘I think I am quite glad there is nothing left of New Hall,’ said the young man. ‘I’ve seen about as much of the place as I ever want to.’ He smiled. ‘We’ve reached a settlement,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘Father had land in Canada as well as England,’ said Samuel. ‘William has renounced his interest in the English estates, and Emma and myself will transfer our interest in the Canadian estates to William.’

  ‘They’re worth about the same,’ said William. ‘Better still, I’ll have an income of my own, and don’t have to take a penny from my uncle. It works out all around.’

  ‘And you two?’ the rector asked the twins.

  ‘I think we shall stay in England,’ said Emma. ‘I have taken Mrs Chaytor’s advice. There are people doing good work here. I shall join them.’

  ‘And I too,’ said Samuel, and he smiled. ‘I will call from time to time, to visit Rodolpho.’

  Rodolpho was at home at the rectory, recuperating under the devoted care of his mistress. Come spring he would be up again, bounding over the Marsh with ears and tail flapping, being frightened of rabbits. ‘You know you are both welcome, at any time you care to visit,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘The door will always be open.’

  She and Hardcastle left the four young people, busy planning and rebuilding their lives. ‘I think we did something rather good by bringing them together,’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘I agree. The four of them are living testimony to the notion that good will always win out over evil.’

  ‘I would not go quite that far. But I agree they give one hope.’

  ‘Hope?’ he said, looking at her as they walked down the street. ‘It is good to hea
r you talk about hope.’

  ‘And it is good to hear you talk about good triumphing over evil. I always assumed you were as cynical as me. How fascinating to think that we can still learn new things about each other.’

  ‘Indeed, I learn new things about you all the time,’ he said, smiling. ‘For example, I did not know until recently that you fished.’

  ‘And I did not know that you were a playwright. I have been meaning to ask you; were any of your plays ever staged?’

  ‘Yes; one.’

  ‘Oh? Tell all, I beg you. What was it about?’

  ‘It was a satire, entitled Of Men and Manners. It was intended as a biting yet witty critique of modern times. I fancied myself as a kind of theatrical Hogarth, ridiculing the pretensions of our leaders in Parliament and the Church and exposing the vice that lies beneath the surface of genteel society.’

  ‘Goodness, all that in one play! How long did it run?’

  ‘One night. To be strictly accurate, not even that.’

  ‘Oh, dear. Did the audience boo and hiss?’

  ‘At first. Then, midway through the second act, they set fire to the theatre. My career as a playwright ended at that moment. You are coughing. Are you all right?’

  ‘It is nothing, I assure you. A little touch of catarrh, that is all.’

  ‘Mrs Chaytor,’ he said severely, ‘I know you well enough by now to know when you are lying.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘And that, my dear, is precisely why I would never marry you.’

  Afterword

  As in The Body on the Doorstep, we have rearranged the details of St Mary in the Marsh to a considerable degree. The rectory is located east of the church, in the field to the north of the present-day Star. The Star itself has been moved a little further south. Sandy House and New Hall are both entirely invented. We have been a little more faithful to detail about New Romney, though we have made allowances for the fact that the village was then much nearer the sea. The ruins of the church of All Saints Hope can still be seen, though they have decayed considerably since the events portrayed here.

  The winter of 1796–7 was an exceptionally harsh and bitter one. At one point, the cold was so intense that three of the standing stones at Stonehenge were toppled by frost. Easterly winds drove the British blockading squadrons off their station and allowed the French navy to escape from Brest, its ships loaded with soldiers for an intended invasion of Ireland. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view, bad weather prevented the French army from getting ashore, and the entire force returned to Brest.

  The threat of invasion remained, however, and even as the rector and Mrs Chaytor were meeting the foreign secretary, French troops were landing at Fishguard in South Wales. They surrendered a few days later.

  A week after the Fishguard incident, Lord Clavertye had a very public falling out with the Duke of Portland. His lordship then departed the Whig bloc and was accepted into the ranks of the moderate Tories under the patronage of Lord Grenville, with the promise of the post of attorney-general when next it should fall vacant. Lord Clavertye devoted a great deal of time and effort to trying to find out why the Duke of Portland was willing to go to such lengths to protect James Rossiter. He never succeeded.

  Edward Austen, later Edward Knight, continued his career as a gentleman landowner in Kent, eventually becoming high sheriff of that county. No one dreamed he would one day be overshadowed by both his brother, an Admiral of the Fleet, and his little sister, who went on to become one of the best-known novelists of all time, eclipsing even her early mentor, Calpurnia Vane.

  William Rossiter returned to America, where he embarked upon a career in politics. He was later elected a United States Senator for the state of Maine, making a name for himself as a passionate opponent of slavery and a strong advocate of close relations between Britain and America.

  Laure Rossiter remained in London, indulging in her passions for music, books and ideas, going on to marry an impecunious composer and musician somewhat younger than herself.

  Samuel and Emma Rossiter also remained in London, where they lived in a modest house in Marylebone and worked for the abolitionist cause. Together, they paid for a handsome headstone to mark Sarah Freebody’s grave in St Mary in the Marsh, and later named a mission house for impoverished former slaves in her honour.

  Mrs Cordelia Hartbourne’s novel The Lighthouse of Vavassal was an immense success. Serialised in The Lady Magazine, it was then issued in book form and reprinted twenty-one times.

  Rodolpho made a full recovery and continued to live happily at the rectory. And yes; he remains frightened of rabbits.

  The rector and Mrs Chaytor will return.

  Acknowledgements

  The first book was a step into the unknown; now comes the ‘difficult second album’. We are deeply grateful to all those who have supported us through both books, and given thoughts, feedback and advice.

  Pride of place must go to Dr Annie Gray, who generously shared her vast stock of knowledge about eighteenth-century food, especially Christmas dinners, and reviewed the first chapter for us. Many thanks are also due to Tricia Stock, Sam de Reya and Ivor Lloyd for helping with information about the appearance of corpses. (If you have not yet read the book, don’t worry; dead bodies do not feature on the Christmas menu. Not quite.) Of course, any errors about either food or bodies are ours and not theirs!

  Crucially important in our research was the work of historians of people of African origin in Britain in the periods before the twentieth century. The work of Malisha Dewalt, who maintains the wonderful Twitter and Tumblr feed entitled Medieval People of Colour www.medievalpoc.tumblr.com/ (tag line: “Because you wouldn’t want to be historically inaccurate”) has provided numerous images and ideas that informed our writing. Historians such as Miranda Kaufman, David Olusoga and many others – whom we found by using a variety of resources including the excellent www.blackbritishhistory.co.uk/ – also provided very useful books, articles and websites. The Black Georgians: the Shock of the Familiar exhibition at Brixton’s Black Cultural Archives was a particularly enjoyable way to increase our knowledge on the subject.

  On Romney Marsh, Liz Grant at the Kent Wildlife Trust Visitors Centre near New Romney has been great source of knowledge and support; thanks in particular for pointing out the scarlet pimpernels. Sadly, we couldn’t use them in this book, but they will feature another time. The staff at The Rye Bookshop have also been keen supporters (if you’re ever in Rye, go in and buy something). Mary’s Tea Room in Dungeness continues be our cake provider of choice when working on the Marsh. Don’t laugh. For writers, cake is important.

  Thanks to members of the two book groups from Ashwater in Devon, who listened to us reading parts of an early draft of the book, gave us a reception and good feedback. And some wine. Oh, and more cake, too.

  To all at Bonnier Zaffre, thanks again for your support and hard work in taking our book and making it into something special. Particular thanks go to Kate Ballard for her detailed and painstaking edits – thank you again, Kate, don’t know how long it took you, but the wealth of detailed ideas you provided was very much appreciated – and Jon Appleton for his careful copy-editing. Thanks to Emily Burns for all her work on publicity, to Georgia Mannering for her marketing skills, and special thanks to Kate Parkin for her support and for being there.

  Our friends who do artwork for books often complain, with entire justification, that people don’t give enough credit to artists or designers. Let us help put this right, and thank Nick Stearn and Head Design for a superb cover. People are still telling us how much they like it. Hopefully, the book lives up to its cover.

  One a similar note, thanks to Gary Beaumont for the updated map, floor plan and family tree, and apologies for having to decipher our handwriting. Rachel Richards at Chameleon Studios has continued her great work on the A.J. MacKenzie website. We are fortunate to have such talent at our fingertips in a small Devon village.

  Special th
anks also to our wonderful agents, Heather Adams and Mike Bryan from HMA Literary Agency; probably, the best literary agency in the world. Your comments, advice and support for the book – and above all, your never-failing patience – have been, as ever, invaluable.

  And thanks once again to our family and friends, whose enthusiasm and support has meant the world to us. You were kind enough to say nice things to us after reading the first book in the series. Hopefully, you’ll still be speaking to us after you read this one.

  West Devon, 2016

  Turn the page for a sneak preview of the next mystery for Reverend Hardcastle and Amelia Chaytor, The Body in the Boat . . .

  1

  Ships in the Night

  On a moonless night in high summer, a small boat lay drifting in the English Channel, rising and falling slowly on the long low swells. A single man sat on the rowing bench, hands resting on the oars. Every so often he dug the oars into the water and rowed a few strokes, keeping the boat on station against the current. The oarlocks were stuffed with rags to stifle their sound, and the boat was almost silent as it glided over the black water. Mostly, though, the man simply sat, and waited.

  The night sky was clear and beautiful. Stars flamed in their thousands, flickering against the deep blue of midnight. In their midst, the Milky Way glowed like the vault of heaven, arching from horizon to horizon. There was no other light save for the faint spark of Dungeness lighthouse, shining four miles to the south. A light wind blew gently from the north, rippling the water a little.

  The man in the boat paid no attention to the stars. He sat staring east, listening and watching, his attention focused on the dark sea. They must come soon, he thought. In a few hours, dawn would arrive, and the cloak of night that hid he and his boat would be dispelled.

  On the heels of the thought, there came a ripple in the shadows to the east. The man stirred. He pulled a small spyglass from his coat pocket, raised it to his eye and focused. There, black against blackness, was a small ship, a cutter creeping along under a single jib. The man in the boat puffed his cheeks and exhaled with relief. About bloody time, he thought.