The Body on the Doorstep: A dark and compelling historical murder mystery (A Hardcastle and Chaytor Mystery)

by AJ MacKenzie

  ‘You say there’s no troops,’ he said, ‘but what about young Shaw and his militia?’

  ‘A few hundred farm boys and shopkeepers in red coats are hardly going to stop the French Army of the North.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Well,’ said the justice of the peace, briskly dismissing the prospect of imminent French invasion, ‘let’s get started, shall we?’

  The rector gave his statement, watching Fanscombe’s pen scratch unevenly across the paper. His penmanship was terrible, and Hardcastle felt a flash of pity for the coroner who would have to read the statement. ‘You say the second shot came from the same rifle as the one that killed the victim?’

  ‘I am certain of it. I dug the second bullet out of the wall at the back of the hall with my penknife. It is identical in every respect, including the rifling marks.’

  ‘Phew, you had a lucky escape there, old fellow. There were no further shots?’

  ‘None nearby. A few moments later I heard more shooting in the distance. I believe that the noise of this frightened off the killer. The following day, I found the spot from where he had fired.’ Hardcastle described the evidence, watching the other man write hurriedly. He asked a question of his own. ‘Does anyone have any idea as to who the dead man might have been?’

  ‘No, no. No. Complete mystery.’ Fanscombe said this with some relief; the fact that the body could not be identified meant that the dead man could be shovelled into the ground and forgotten, with no need for any tiresome investigation. On the heels of the thought the justice of the peace asked, ‘Has he been buried?’

  The rector’s desire for drink was now overwhelming. ‘Yes. We buried him yesterday, and I read the service over his grave. He is gone. It is as if he had never existed.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay.’ Fanscombe scattered sand on the final page of the deposition and looked up. ‘I’ll need Mrs Kemp’s statement too; just a formality, you know, for the record. Oh, just show me where you found that second bullet, will you? Might be important. Never know.’

  *

  Hardcastle stood by while the justice of the peace took down Mrs Kemp’s brief statement. She stated without blinking that, so far as she knew, the young man had been dead when the rector brought his body into the house. Following this, after assisting in the – completely pointless – inspection of the damaged wall the rector showed Fanscombe out. He then returned to his study, took out his keys, unlocked the wooden cabinet and took out a bottle of cognac and a glass. He filled one glass and drank it very quickly, then filled another and drained it a little more slowly, feeling the fire burn in his belly and his mind and spirit begin to relax.

  He was just about to return the bottle to its place when there came a knock at the door. Mrs Kemp entered the study a moment later, bearing a silver salver with a card.

  ‘Lord Clavertye to see you, Reverend,’ she said, looking reproachfully at the brandy.

  ‘Oh, God’s truth. Show him in, Mrs Kemp, then bring us some Madeira, if you please.’ As soon as the housekeeper was out of sight, the rector poured another glass of brandy, sank it down, then replaced the bottle and glass, locked the cabinet and moved quickly to his desk. He rose again when the deputy lord-lieutenant was shown in.

  Clavertye was a man of his own age, tall and immaculately groomed in well-fitted riding coat and boots as shiny as mirrors, dark-haired with an authoritative trace of silver at the temples. His handshake was firm without being overpowering. ‘Hardcastle, my dear fellow. How good it is to see you. Do forgive me for calling upon you without notice.’

  ‘You are always welcome here, my lord. Please, do sit. My housekeeper will bring us refreshments in a moment. Will you stay to supper?’

  ‘It is kind of you to offer, but I must be away to Ashford this evening.’ They talked about the semaphore system for a few minutes until Mrs Kemp brought the Madeira and withdrew, closing the door behind her. ‘Now, to business,’ said Clavertye briskly. ‘Tell me everything you know about this affair last Friday.’

  Sitting up straight behind his desk with his hands clasped before him, Hardcastle told him. He concluded by describing the tracks he had seen in the churchyard the following morning, and his conclusions about the clashes between smugglers and Preventive men. Unlike Fanscombe, whom he dismissed as a fool and a bore, he respected Clavertye’s mind. They had known each other for twenty years; they had been at Cambridge together, the one studying divinity and the other reading law. Clavertye had gone on to a highly successful practice as a barrister, until the death of his older brother at Yorktown had unexpectedly handed him a barony and an estate. Now he was a man of substance, a rising star in the Whig faction with high political ambitions of his own.

  And it was Clavertye, of course, who had procured for him this living at a time when doors throughout the Church of England were closing against him and he had been contemplating the living death of an army chaplaincy or migration to the colonies. The rector knew that he owed His Lordship a great deal.

  So he told the truth; but not quite the whole truth. He did not repeat the dead man’s four last words. It was not that he did not trust Clavertye; but if he repeated those words to the deputy lord-lieutenant, the latter would be duty bound to ensure that they were entered into evidence tomorrow. And the rector was not sure that he wanted those words to become public knowledge just yet. They had been uttered to himself alone. That rendered them sacrosanct. When the time came, he would divulge them; but he would decide when that time was.

  Clavertye listened intently, making no notes, everything filed invisibly in his barrister’s brain. When the rector had finished, the other man rose to his feet and walked to his window, looking out over the sunlit garden. His Lordship studied the scene for a moment, then turned back to look at the rows of leather-bound books that lined the study walls, some old and battered, others in expensive red morocco with gold lettering. There were more books than shelves, and many of the volumes were wedged in wherever space could be found. Most were covered in a fine layer of dust.

  ‘Very well,’ he said finally, ‘thank you. You have given me a wealth of detail that no one else has yet provided.’

  The rector blinked; he did not realise that Clavertye was investigating these events personally, rather than delegating everything to Fanscombe. He wondered why the deputy lord-lieutenant was taking such trouble, and who else he had interviewed. Mrs Chaytor for one, he thought, remembering their conversation this morning. Did she approach Clavertye, or was it the other way around?

  ‘Your Lordship is taking a keen personal interest in this matter,’ he said.

  ‘An officer of the law has died in the performance of his duty, Hardcastle. I take that very seriously, and I am not alone. Did you know that the death of the Customs officer was reported in some of the London papers?’

  Well, that explains it, thought the rector. Clavertye wants to get his own name in those papers, by solving the murder.

  ‘I have a question for you,’ His Lordship continued. ‘In your opinion, is there any connection between the two events? The shooting out on the Marsh, and the murder here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the rector, coming to a decision. ‘I am convinced of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are several reasons. First, the smugglers who landed at St Mary’s Bay were making their way west from the beach when they encountered Blunt and the Preventives, while the young man and the other man, his pursuer, were moving east towards the beach.’

  He recalled his conversation with Mrs Chaytor. ‘Of course, this may be coincidence, but I doubt it. I think the man who was killed knew the smugglers were coming, and was moving east deliberately to intercept their path; for what motive, I do not yet know.

  ‘Also, he had been imprisoned somewhere rough and all his belongings taken. His pockets were entirely empty and his clothes were somewhat the worse for wear. I observed that his boots were badly scuffed as if he had been kicking at something; trying to break down a locked door, perhaps. He was a
lso bruised as if from a recent fight. I believed that he escaped from his prison, wherever it was, and was on his way towards the smugglers when he was tracked down and killed.’

  ‘That is conjecture, of course,’ said the deputy lord-lieutenant absently.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what of the other smuggling gang? The one that attacked Juddery’s men? Do you think that was connected too?’

  ‘I can think of no reason to believe so. But I wondered if our second party, the men that landed at St Mary’s Bay, knew the first gang were making a run that night. They may have hoped that the first gang would draw away the Preventives from this part of the coast and allow them a clear run. Which raises the question of how Blunt knew that the second group had landed, and where to find them.’

  He looked inquiringly at Clavertye, who looked blandly back. It was clear from His Lordship’s expression that he had already spoken to Blunt and heard his version of events, but it was equally clear that he was not going to let anything out before the proper time – in other words, before tomorrow’s inquest.

  ‘Very well,’ said Clavertye, walking back to the desk and sitting down. ‘I will instruct the coroner to consider these two deaths as possibly linked. Given the circumstances, I am quite certain that a verdict of unlawful killing will be returned in both cases. That will allow me to investigate both as a single case. What is it?’

  He looked sharply at the rector, who had made a small motion with his hand. ‘My lord,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I will make you a wager. A pound to a shilling says that the verdict on the Customs officer comes back as death by misadventure.’

  ‘What? Of course not. The man was shot!’ said Clavertye sharply.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said the rector stonily.

  There was a long silence, during which Clavertye’s eyes bored into the rector’s face. A ghost of their old friendship still existed, but only a ghost; Hardcastle was aware that he had stretched Clavertye’s patience in the past, and was in the process of doing so again.

  ‘You know something,’ said Clavertye.

  ‘I do not know anything for certain, my lord. But I think I know something.’

  ‘Then spit it out, man!’

  ‘I think that Blunt is in league with the free-traders. He stopped on Saturday to have a drink at an inn which is known to be a rendezvous for smugglers, and he did not pay for that drink.’

  ‘That’s not enough to damn a man.’

  ‘No. But Blunt also called on me earlier this afternoon. He demanded, in quite a menacing way, that I tell him all that I have told you about the events of last Friday. When I asked why he wanted to know, he refused to answer. I don’t believe that he is actively investigating the death of his own officer. Instead, for some reason, he is taking a very close interest in the killing here at the rectory. And there is one other thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Blunt is afraid of something, my lord. And I would say that in particular, he is afraid of a group of men known as the Twelve Apostles.’

  *

  At the door, hat and coat in hand and his chaise waiting outside, Clavertye turned to Hardcastle. ‘I will return tomorrow, but after the inquest I must go at once to London. Important business at the House, I fear; can’t wait. While I am away . . .’ He paused. ‘Should you learn anything further about this affair, I would esteem it a great favour if you would kindly report it to me at once.’ He raised a finger. ‘But be discreet. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’

  It had been couched as a request, but the rector knew an order when he heard one. ‘I will do my best, my lord. Kindly remember me to Lady Clavertye.’

  After the coach had rolled away Hardcastle returned to the study, where he slumped down behind his desk. ‘Kindly report it to me at once, kindly report it to me at once,’ he muttered. ‘Damn the man! I’m a clergyman, not a blasted Bow Street Runner.’ He was still grumbling when the housekeeper knocked and entered the room, setting down an open bottle of port and a glass at his elbow. ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Reverend Hardcastle?’ the latter asked, setting her hands on her hips.

  ‘This whole business, Mrs Kemp. I’ve had enough of it. Lord Clavertye wants me to report to him if I learn anything further. Well, blast him, I won’t do it. I’ve had enough of the entire affair! I shall give my evidence at the inquest tomorrow, and then it is over. Finished. Done.’

  ‘You are the most perverse man ever born,’ the housekeeper commented. ‘You’ve spent most of your waking hours these past days investigating that boy’s death, and now, when His Lordship asks you to do what you are already doing, you refuse.’

  ‘What I do is none of his business,’ said the rector, pouring a brimming glass, ‘and none of yours either, you nosy old baggage.’ The atmosphere in the rectory had returned to normal, to the relief of the housekeeper; she could cope with the rector’s temper, but she had found his solicitude unnerving. The rector raised the glass to his lips, and stopped. ‘Oh for the love of God, who is it now?’

  The sound of swift clopping hooves and carriage wheels could be heard again in the driveway. ‘If it is Fanscombe again, or that fool Shaw,’ he said, ‘tell them I am not at home.’ The housekeeper gave him a look of contempt and departed to answer the door. In a moment she was back in the study doorway, a look of utter horror on her wrinkled face.

  ‘It is the dean,’ she whispered, in a tone that suggested that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had tethered their horses on the lawn and were now standing in the hall examining the pictures. ‘It is the dean, just driven down from Canterbury and asking to see you at once. Shall I send him in?’

  *

  The Very Reverend Folliott Cornewall, Dean of Canterbury Cathedral, was a tall man with a long equine face and fleshy lips. His black eyebrows were perpetually arched, making him look as if he doubted everything that he heard or saw around him. Despite being only forty-two, the same age as Hardcastle, he wore an iron-grey wig that made him look older, perhaps in an attempt to give his face more gravitas.

  ‘Hardcastle. Good evening. Forgive my calling unannounced.’

  ‘Good evening to you, sir,’ said Hardcastle standing stolidly in his hall. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Cornewall looked down the very considerable length of his nose at Mrs Kemp. ‘Not in front of the servants, if you please.’

  ‘That will be all for the moment, Mrs Kemp,’ said the rector to the silently furious housekeeper. He led the way into the study and sat down behind his desk, offering the dean a glass of port. The dean, still carrying his hat and coat, refused in a manner which suggested that an assault had been made upon his chastity. The rector drained his own glass and poured another, then sat staring in silence at his visitor.

  Cornewall drew a deep breath. ‘I come,’ he said, ‘with a direct message from the archbishop.’

  ‘Indeed? And how is the butcher’s boy?’

  Cornewall drew another breath. His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury had indeed been born plain Master John Moore, the son of a butcher, but only a bounder would mention this. ‘He sends you no good wishes,’ said Cornewall huffily. ‘You are aware of his opinion of you.’

  ‘As indeed I hope he is aware of my opinion of him,’ said the rector nodding. ‘Given the air of cordial dislike that exists between my spiritual master and I, what message can he possibly wish to send me?’

  ‘His Grace has heard of the unfortunate events that took place here last Friday evening.’ Cornewall shuddered, and looked around the room as if he expected the walls to still be dripping blood. ‘His Grace is most desirous that no scandal attach itself to the Church, either to the See of Canterbury within which this parish lies, or to the chapter. He would like to see this matter kept as quiet as possible, within the law, of course.’

  To the chapter. Oh, thought the rector, there it is; I should have seen that coming. Owing to one of the all-too-frequent quirks of the English landholding system, while the living of St Mary’s w
as in the gift of Lord Clavertye, the freehold of most of the parish belonged to the Dean and Chapter of Canterbury and many of his parishioners were the cathedral’s tenants. It was not the spiritual implications of the murder that worried the dean, but the commercial ones. Murder was bad for business.

  But what business would be affected? The sheep, who were the core of legitimate economic activity in Romney Marsh, would hardly be perturbed. Markets would go on and tolls be levied as before. Tolls . . . He snapped his fingers, and Cornewall looked at him in wide-eyed surprise.

  ‘Let us speak plainly,’ said the rector. ‘The free-traders are bringing goods ashore and transporting them across lands owned by Canterbury. Along the way, they pay off a good many people to ensure their silence. Some of that money finds itself, by indirect and devious and slippery routes, into Church coffers. Yes?’ Cornewall sat motionless, staring at the rector with bulging eyes. ‘Am I correct?’ snapped the latter. ‘Or is His Grace simply concerned that there might be an interruption to his supply of run brandy? If so, permit me to offer him some of my own! I’ll have a dozen bottles loaded into your carriage before you depart!’

  Cornewall was on his feet, horse’s face white with indignation. ‘How dare you, sir! How dare you speak of His Grace thus!’

  ‘Damn the butcher’s boy, and damn you too, Cornewall, for a blithering idiot!’ His rage boiled over; twenty years of resentment and dislike vented themselves in a flood of anger. Cornewall too had been at Cambridge, his bitter rival, resenting the praise that had been heaped on Hardcastle, who had been seen as the golden boy. Now, all the successes that had passed Hardcastle by were within the other man’s reach: he would be a bishop soon, perhaps one day an archbishop while Hardcastle remained here, mouldering on the Marsh.

  ‘You dare to walk into my house, insult my housekeeper, then order me about like a servant! A man died, Dean! Does that mean nothing to you? He died, and I said his burial service as we laid him in a nameless grave in the churchyard. He—’