by AJ MacKenzie
She reached into her reticule and held up a gold watch on a chain and fob. A buzz of fascinated voices rose, and the coroner banged his gavel on the table for silence. ‘I opened the case, and found it to be of French make,’ said Amelia Chaytor, looking across at Turner. ‘I also found signs of damage, such as might have been caused by recent submersion in water.’
‘Are you a watchmaker, madam?’ asked the coroner crossly.
‘No, sir. It is merely that I too have an eye for detail.’
*
The court was still laughing when she was dismissed. Clavertye had a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, and the rector realised that he had known in advance about the watch; Mrs Chaytor must have shown it to him yesterday afternoon. He began to appreciate just how much work Clavertye had already put into this case, confident of the verdicts of the inquest.
‘The court calls Joshua Stemp.’
The fisherman, a short dark man with cheeks badly pitted by smallpox, took the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and then sat back, casually ready to perjure himself whenever required.
‘You were at sea on the night of sixth May.’
‘Yes, sir. Fishing, I was.’
‘Did you see anything of the events that took place on shore?’
‘No sir, on account of it being the darks, you see. I saw flashes and heard shouts and shooting up towards Dymchurch way, that’s all.’
‘You saw nothing at sea? No boats? No men on the beach?’
‘Swear on my honour, sir, not a blessed thing. It was too dark, you see.’
The rector surveyed his mug, drained it and handed it across the counter to be refilled; he was by no means drunk enough yet.
‘Mr Stemp,’ said Lord Clavertye, ‘does the name the Twelve Apostles mean anything to you?’
Absolute silence fell in the room. The coroner looked perplexed. Blunt sat up straight, his beefy face turning deep red.
‘’Fraid not, sir. Never heard of them.’
‘Not even the ones in the New Testament, Mr Stemp?’ asked Clavertye ironically.
‘Oh . . . them Apostles, my lord. I recollect them just fine.’
Tension began to ebb out of the room, and there was even a murmur of laughter. ‘Mr Stemp,’ said Clavertye, ‘I put it to you that there were two gangs of smugglers at large on the night of sixth May. You say you saw one group, further north along the beach. You saw no sign of any group landing at St Mary’s Bay?’
‘Upon my honour, sir, no sign at all.’ Well, thought the rector, that was probably true. Stemp himself had almost certainly been on the beach further north, exchanging pot-shots with Juddery’s Excise men. He would have been in no position to see anything in St Mary’s Bay.
*
Juddery of the Excise was called, taking the oath without looking at his rival Blunt. He confirmed that his men had engaged a gang of smugglers about two miles from St Mary in the Marsh and been driven off by superior numbers. None of his men had come near the village, said the Excise man, so there was no question of them being involved in either incident. He doubted whether the smugglers would have done so either, as after the skirmish the gang had made off west across country. Yes, he had attempted to track them, but in the dark and without bloodhounds he had soon lost the trail; this was the cue for more sniggering. Stemp sat listening to this account with his face a picture of innocence.
Captain Shaw of the militia was next. He had been out on patrol on the night of the two killings, and knew nothing about either incident until informed by Mr Fanscombe around midday the next day. During the afternoon of the 7th, Saturday, he had sent two files of men to sweep the fields around St Mary in the Marsh, but they had found no trace of any fighting. No, they had not seen any sign of the skirmish described by Mr Turner and Mrs Chaytor. No, they had not investigated the looker’s hut. Behind the bar, Mr Luckhurst snorted.
‘You could run a herd of elephants under the nose of that ragamuffin, and he wouldn’t see or hear a blessed thing. You sure you want another, Reverend? They’ll be calling you in a moment. Well, on your head be it.’
*
‘State your name.’
‘Henry Blunt, supervisor of His Majesty’s Customs.’
‘According to your deposition, Mr Blunt, you were the first man to find the body of Curtius Miller.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Describe the events of the night of sixth May, if you please.’
‘We were on a routine patrol near St Mary’s Bay when we came under fire from a gang of smugglers. We returned fire at once, but my men were armed only with pistols while the smugglers had muskets. As it was clear that we were outgunned and outnumbered, I told my men to withdraw to the south. We withdrew in good order,’ this with a look at Turner, who looked impassively back, ‘and it was only when we had withdrawn about half a mile that I found Mr Miller was missing. I was concerned at this, for he had only lately joined us from the patrol at Deal and does not know the Marsh. I decided to return to the scene of the fighting to look for him.’
‘That was very brave of you, Mr Blunt. The smugglers might still have been there, waiting.’
‘It was a chance I had to take, sir. The interests of my men come before my personal safety, always have done and always will.’ Was it the rector’s imagination, or was there a faint hiss somewhere in the room? ‘As I say, I returned and began casting about in the darkness, calling his name. Then, very sadly, I found him lying by the edge of a sewer. I felt for his heartbeat but it was too late. He was already dead.’
‘And what time was this, Mr Blunt?’
‘About half past midnight.’
‘Wait a moment,’ interposed Lord Clavertye. ‘How could you know what time it was? According to other witnesses, the night was very dark. You could see the face of your watch?’
‘No, my lord, not just then. I dragged Mr Miller’s body towards the rest of my men, and when I reached them I lit a lantern so that we could check for certain that he was dead. It was then that we saw the full nature of his wound. Then I checked my watch by lantern light and found that it was about one in the morning.’
‘Half an hour to drag a heavy body that distance seems reasonable,’ said Clavertye, nodding. ‘Go on.’
‘There’s little else to tell, sir. We made a litter and carried poor Mr Miller down to New Romney, and there once it was light I sent word for Dr Morley.’
Why Dr Morley, the rector wondered again, and not Dr Mackay in New Romney? However, the coroner did not ask the question. ‘Mr Blunt, you said in your written statement that you do not believe the wound received by Mr Miller was caused by fire from the smugglers. Can you explain why?’
The rector watched Blunt from under lowered eyelids. ‘I’m not saying it is impossible, sir,’ said Blunt. ‘But ’tis unlikely. For one thing, the fire aimed at us by the smugglers was wild, and most of it went high. A man would have been unlucky indeed to have taken a hit. For another, as Dr Morley said, the shot was fired at very close range, and I would swear none of the free-traders came within fifty yards of us. I know it was dark, but by the gun flashes I reckon they were at least that far away. And finally, poor Mr Miller was in the habit of carrying a cocked and loaded pistol in the waistband of his trousers. I warned him of the dangers of doing so, more than once, but he insisted this was his habit. He could draw his pistol and return fire more quickly, he said, if we were attacked.’
‘You think that this wound might have been caused by an accidental discharge?’
‘It’s the thing I warned him against, sir. A trip over a tree root, a slip in the mud, and bang.’
‘Mr Blunt, when you found Mr Miller’s body, was the pistol still in his waistband?’
‘It was, sir.’
‘And had the pistol been discharged?’
‘I very much fear that it had, sir.’
Lord Clavertye interposed again. ‘Mr Blunt, how did you come to be near St Mary’s Bay, and not further north wor
king with Mr Juddery to intercept the other run, which we now know to have been much larger? Did you have some specific intelligence to indicate that a second run was being made?’
An expression of disgust at the idea of working with Juddery crossed Blunt’s beetroot face. ‘Absolutely not, my lord. This was merely a routine patrol. I was as surprised as anyone when the smugglers opened fire on us.’
‘And prior to their commencing firing, you had no idea they were there?’
‘None at all, my lord. I’m afraid they had the drop on us.’
‘And have you any idea of the destination of this run?’
‘Again, none at all, my lord. To be honest, I am not convinced it was a real run. I think it more likely to have been a flanking party covering the main run to the north, keeping a lookout for more Preventive men and ready to drive us off if we tried to intervene.’
‘In that case, they did a good job,’ said Clavertye drily. ‘One more question, Mr Blunt, before you stand down. What do you know about the Twelve Apostles?’
It was well done, but Blunt was ready for the question. ‘Like Stemp, my lord, I’ve heard of the Apostles in the Bible but no more.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps you should ask the reverend.’
*
‘State your name.’
‘I am the Reverend Marcus Aurelius Hardcastle, rector of St Mary in the Marsh.’
‘Do you swear to the tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’
‘I do, so help me –’ Another thunderous belch escaped into the room. An expression of pain crossed Folliott Cornewall’s face. Amelia Chaytor had bowed her head. ‘So help me God. I do apologise most profushly,’ said the rector gravely.
The coroner peered at him, clearly wondering whether he was sober enough to continue. ‘You may sit,’ he said. ‘I have here your statement as given to the justice of the peace.
‘Fanscombe,’ nodded the rector. ‘Capital fellow. Is he here? Ah, there he is. How are you, Fanscombe?’ and he beamed and gave a cheerful wave.
‘There are a few points on which I do need to press you, Reverend Hardcastle. Firstly, you said in your statement that the man was entirely dead when you found him. You are certain of this?’
‘Curious how everyone keeps asking that,’ said the rector. He swayed a little in his chair and then sat up. ‘Quite certain, sir, quite certain. I checked for a pulse as soon as I brought him into the house, and found none. Not surprisin’. I’ve seen a fair few gunshot wounds, and as soon as I saw this one I knew it was all up. Poor fellow.’
‘You have seen gunshot wounds?’ said the coroner in surprise.
‘A long time ago,’ said the rector, not looking at either Clavertye or Cornewall.
The coroner reverted to the matter at hand. ‘So there was no question of his being able to speak or pass on a message to you, or anyone else?’
‘Well, he might have,’ conceded the rector, ‘but I think if a dead man had sat up and given me a message, I would have remembered it. I might even have thought it important enough to mention to Mr Fanscombe.’ There was laughter in the room, and a man’s voice called, ‘Good old reverend!’ The rector watched his audience hazily, the voice whispering in his mind. Tell Peter . . . mark . . . trace.
‘Be pleased to bear with me,’ the coroner said testily. ‘We are hoping obviously to establish this man’s identity.’
‘Are you? I thought the purposh— the purpose of this inquest was to establish how he came by his death.’
More laughter, and the coroner resorted to his gavel again. ‘You stated also that you searched the body and found nothing.’
‘He bought his clothes in London. That is all that I can tell you. At least, if there was anything else, I don’t remember it.’
‘Mr Turner has stated that he believes he saw the man several days earlier. Are you certain that you did not see him also?’
The rector paused for a long time. ‘I cannot remember, really I cannot. I don’t think I have seen him. I might have, and not remembered it. You’ll have to forgive me, you see. My powers of observation are occasionally . . . what shall we say . . . impaired.’
Another burst of laughter and the coroner, losing his temper, banged his wooden gavel so hard that the head snapped off and flew onto the floor. The more juvenile members of the audience, including Eliza Fanscombe, crowed with delight. Mrs Fanscombe, her face sharper than ever, turned and shot her stepdaughter a stern look, which was ignored. The rector sat beaming benevolently at them, his eyes watchful. Cornewall’s face was full of disgust; Blunt was sneering openly, Morley the same but a little more discreetly. Clavertye watched him with expressionless face; the rector thought that His Lordship, at least, understood the game he was playing.
‘Reverend Hardcastle,’ said the coroner crossly, ‘given your . . . impairment, I am not certain it is worth proceeding with your testimony. You are excused.’
‘Thank you, sir. Thank you. May I just add one further thing?’
‘If you must.’
‘This has been a terrible business.’ The rector shook his head. ‘Terrible business,’ he repeated. ‘It has been a great shock to me, to us all. Violence has come amongst us, the peace of our little community has been broken, and now we are frightened and full of sorrow. In this hour we must turn to God, who sees all things and who will comfort and protect us.’ He struggled to his feet, ‘I should like to lead a prayer now,’ he said, ‘and ask the Lord to aid us in our time of need. Will you join me, so that He may hear our voices?’
He raised his hands. ‘This really is not appropriate,’ said the coroner, but the rector ignored him. ‘Heavenly Father,’ he intoned in his bass voice, ‘we beseech you to watch over us. We are poor and humble people, Lord, deserving of your mercy. Shend us your blesshings and help ush to find the path of . . . of . . .’
The rector wavered. He took a step forward to regain his balance, but stumbled in doing so. Arms flailing, he took several more steps and crashed into the table where Stemp and several of his friends were sitting, oversetting several pots of beer and cups of gin. He heard the men’s cries of distress as he sank slowly to his knees.
‘Amen,’ said the rector solemnly, and he slumped under the table.
6
Peering Through the Haze
‘I thought I would find you here,’ said Amelia Chaytor.
The sound of her light voice roused him from his black stupor. He raised his aching head and looked at her. She seemed to shimmer. Was that blurred vision, or just the effect of the light coming through the stained glass windows on the south side of the nave?
They were in the church, he slumped in a wooden pew, she standing beside it looking down at him. He had made his way here after being carried out of the Star; in the street he had shrugged off his helpers and staggered artistically up the street. Once out of sight of the inn he had carried on with somewhat more composure, though he still weaved from time to time. He had come into the church rather than going home because the church was cool and quiet and peaceful, a place where he could collect his thoughts.
‘Why did you think I would be here?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘Because it is the one place in St Mary where no one is likely to disturb you.’
That was true enough. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked.
‘I know St Mary folk. They go to church three times, twice in life and once after it. I am not criticising them, you understand. I myself have not darkened the door of a church for many years.’
He gazed at her. ‘You’re not an atheist.’
‘Goodness, no. My late husband was. I used to twit him about it, telling him that atheism was a belief and he was just as deluded as you lot. No, I’m a non-practising agnostic.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means that I don’t know if there is a God, but I really don’t feel like making the effort to find out.’ She glanced at the altar. ‘And if a thunderbolt strikes me down now,
so be it. Do you really desire solitude? Or may I sit down?’
He opened the door of the pew while seated, not yet trusting himself to rise, and she sat down, folding her skirts neatly as she did so. There were no thunderbolts. ‘Do you want to know the verdict of the inquest?’ Mrs Chaytor asked.
‘In the case of the anonymous man found dead at the rectory,’ he intoned, ‘the court returns a verdict of unlawful killing. In the case of Mr Curtius Miller, the court returns a verdict of death by misadventure.’
She opened her fine eyes wide. ‘Well, well. How did you guess?’
‘It was all in Blunt’s testimony. The man was already at serious risk of accident. The shot was fired at close quarters, but the free-traders fired from a distance. Miller’s pistol was in his waistband, and had been fired. The poor man clearly tripped or stumbled and the pistol went off.’
‘Do you believe this?’
‘No. Anyone could have fired that pistol and then replaced it his waistband. Miller himself might have fired it at the smugglers, before being killed by another weapon. Whatever happened, he was shot at close range by one of his own people.’
There was a little pause and she said reflectively, ‘So you were paying attention. That was quite a performance, Reverend. You would be a credit to any stage. Do you mind telling me what it was about?’
He knew he should go no further with this conversation; it was unpardonable to involve a woman in an affair where two men had died. He thought of asking her to leave. Instead he said, ‘Mrs Chaytor, I am a man playing two different hands in two different games at the same time. My patron, the deputy lord-lieutenant, suspects that all is not as it seems in this matter.’
‘As do you. As do I.’
‘Indeed. And he has asked me to investigate further. At the same time, the Dean of Canterbury has told me to have nothing further to do with this matter. If I carry on, he has threatened to take action against me. He himself has no official power over me, but he has much influence with the archdeacon and archbishop, who do.’