by AJ MacKenzie
‘We know all about Miller. We’re not interested in him. The man who was killed here. What do you know about him?’
‘Not a damned thing!’ said the rector angrily. ‘I have no idea who he is or why he came to my door. Nothing!’
‘No,’ said the big man, and he moved closer still, the gaping black hole of the pistol’s muzzle growing larger and larger, a huge black eye staring at the rector. ‘That won’t do. Tell me. What do you know?’
In the silence he felt his heart beating, very fast and hard. ‘I will tell you,’ said the rector suddenly, ‘on one condition. That you tell me who he was.’
‘Go on!’ said the man with the red hair. ‘Hurt the old bastard!’
The big man bent over Hardcastle, every line of his body full of menace. Hardcastle could see beads of sweat on his neck below his mask. ‘I will hurt you,’ he said, his voice venomous. ‘Unless you tell me. Now.’
The rector did not flinch. ‘Anything,’ he said. ‘Tell me anything at all. His name, for God’s sake! He must have had a name!’
There was a pause of about five seconds. ‘His name was Paul,’ said the big man. ‘That is all you will get,’ and the shadows flickered and then poised, ready.
‘He spoke just before he died,’ said the rector. ‘That is what I did not tell the inquest. I heard his last words. He said, Tell Peter . . . Mark. And then in French he said, trahison. Treason.’
The six men in the room stood still, watching him intently. Then the big man turned his head and looked at the red-haired man. He made a small gesture with his hand, and two of the others came and stood behind the latter, one reaching out to relieve him of his sword and pistol.
‘For God’s sake!’ said the red-haired man contemptuously. ‘Do you believe any of this crap?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll find out the truth very soon.’ The big man turned back to the rector. ‘You’re a damned plucky one,’ he repeated. ‘But go carefully in future. There is a time to be plucky, and a time to yield to main force. You may cross the line between them one day, and regret it.’
‘Thank you for the advice,’ said the rector stonily. ‘Now, get out of my house.’
The other man bowed. ‘We’ll be on our way. Your housekeeper has been gagged to avoid her giving the alarm, but you’ll find her quite unharmed. No,’ he said mockingly. ‘Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out. Goodnight, Reverend.’
*
He found the housekeeper in the kitchen, tied to a chair and gagged but, as promised, otherwise unharmed. She sobbed as the rector removed the gag. ‘Oh, Reverend! What is the world coming to, when decent folk are assaulted in their own homes by highwaymen!’
‘Be easy, Mrs Kemp.’ The rector brought her glass of brandy, which she normally never touched but now took gratefully, and almost as an afterthought poured a glass for himself. ‘We must be thankful that we are unharmed.’
‘But the silver! Your strongbox!’
‘I think we will find that they are untouched. These were no ordinary robbers, Mrs Kemp.’
‘Oh?’ Her tears stopped and she looked at him, her small eyes bright with suspicion. ‘Was this to do with the boy who was killed?’
‘Yes.’ He took a handkerchief out of the pocket of his dressing gown and handed it to her. She blew her nose with a honking sound.
‘Then I will say this to you, Reverend,’ she said wiping her eyes. ‘Get on and find out quickly who killed him, so that we can go back to living in peace and quiet!’
He convinced the housekeeper to retire, and then went to his own bed but did not sleep. At first light he dressed and went outside, brandishing his heavy walking stick for reassurance as much as protection. He searched the rectory grounds from side to side, but found nothing, not even a footprint. It was uncanny; they had entered the house and left again without so much as a mark to show their passage, and a part of his mind began to wonder if he had dreamed the entire affair, Mrs Kemp’s distress included. Then he crossed the road to the churchyard.
The red-haired man lay sprawled on his side, draped across the newly dug earth of the grave of the Frenchman, Paul. His clothes were dirty and torn. His hands were tied behind his back. His hood and mask had been removed and he had been beaten very savagely about the head and face.
Bending over the body, the rector saw at once that his neck was broken. He was quite dead.
8
The Widow’s Tale
Amelia Chaytor pulled her gig to a halt outside the front door of the rectory, so swiftly that her groom, travelling with her, had to cling to her seat to avoid falling off. She engaged the brake, jumped down and knocked rapidly at the door. The housekeeper answered, drying her hands on her apron, her lined face betraying not a trace of the ordeal last night.
‘Mrs Kemp,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘forgive me for calling unannounced, but I was just about to depart for Deal when I heard the news. It is true? Another body has been found?’
‘In the churchyard, heaven help us,’ said the housekeeper. ‘The rector is there now. I ask you, Mrs Chaytor, what is the world coming to?’
‘A bad end, I expect,’ said Mrs Chaytor without thinking. ‘Please, forgive me for disturbing you.’
She crossed the road to the churchyard, the tower of St Mary the Virgin standing dark against the clouds. Letting herself in through the lychgate, she saw the rector and Dr Morley bending over something on the ground. The doctor looked up and saw her and then stood up, calling out in alarm that she should come no closer. The rector rose too, laid a hand on the doctor’s arm and crossed the grass towards her.
‘It is good of you to wish to spare my feelings,’ she said astringently. Then she saw the lines of exhaustion in the rector’s face and said, ‘Are you unwell?’
‘A little tired. Genuinely, this time.’ He drew her back towards the lychgate, out of earshot of Morley, who had resumed examining the body. ‘But at least this time we know who the dead man is. It is one of the Apostles. That, my dear, is Mark.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because the Apostles came calling last night,’ he said. He told her the story quickly, without detail, and her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear Lord!’ said Mrs Chaytor softly. ‘Did they harm you? Or Mrs Kemp?’
‘They tied poor Mrs Kemp to a chair, but did her no harm. They did not lay a finger on me. But,’ he said heavily, ‘I told them our secret. It seems that Mark was the traitor. They left the house, and brought him here to receive his punishment. So, you see, it is thanks to me that he was killed. I should have kept my peace.’
‘In which case you would have been killed,’ she said strongly, ‘and probably Mrs Kemp as well.’ She took his limp hand in her gloved one. ‘Reverend Hardcastle, go home. Go and rest. Let Dr Morley and Mr Fanscombe do what needs to be done.’
‘Lord Clavertye must be informed.’
‘They will inform him. Go home, my dear.’
‘I cannot leave yet. I must wait until the doctor has finished.’
She nodded reluctantly, and turned and recrossed the road to the rectory. Stepping up into the seat of her gig, she shook the reins and drove away to the north, her mind a whirl.
The rector was right about one thing, she thought. Their investigations into this affair had suddenly taken a deadly turn. It was difficult to know whether one should mourn the man, Mark; he was a member of a particularly ruthless gang of smugglers who had betrayed his comrades. The Frenchman, Paul – at least they had a name for him now! – must be a smuggler too. But then, of course, so were many of the people she knew, and as she herself was perfectly happy to buy smuggled lace and run scent, she supposed she was also complicit in the free trade. It was difficult in these times to know where one’s loyalties really lay.
Loyalties! Heavens, it seemed that everyone involved in this affair was loyal only to themselves. The smugglers, bent on enriching themselves. Blunt, taking bribes from the smugglers and casually betraying his men. The coroner, lining
his own pockets. The Twelve Apostles, terrorising people in their homes in order to further their own purposes; whatever those were. Cornewall, the dean, ready to do anything to avoid scandal. Even Lord Clavertye, she suspected, took an interest in this business mainly in order to further his own reputation.
Only the rector, bless his heart, was acting entirely without self-interest. That poor man, she thought. He has little self-interest left to preserve . . .
And herself? What or whom was she loyal to? There was one bond of loyalty that she would never break; beyond that, she really did not know. She knew that something unpleasant awaited her in Deal, but she could face that. At least she had an excuse to do something, to breathe fresh air, to use the brains she had been given to some purpose, rather than simply sitting at home alone, waiting for nothing.
From Dymchurch to Hythe the road was straight and smooth; she shook the reins and the little horse responded willingly. The gig flew down the road, the wind whipping at her bonnet and her hair. She laughed with exhilaration, ignoring the petrified look on the groom’s face. Her late husband had loved to race, and he had taught her to drive so that she could share that love with him. Both were known to their friends as demon drivers, and it was widely prophesied that both would die of broken necks. But in the end it was a simple, mundane illness that had taken him from her.
She sighed and reined in a little. Thinking about John would not get her any closer to solving the mystery, or mysteries, that swirled around St Mary in the Marsh.
*
It was late afternoon when she reached Deal. She pulled the gig to a halt outside the King’s Head and went inside to ask for a room, adding casually that she had come to call on the widow of Mr Miller and offer her condolences. The landlady of the King’s Head, who had strong views about single women travelling and been about to show her the door, relented at this and gave her a room. Mrs Chaytor thanked her kindly, and asked if it would be possible to send a message to Mrs Miller, announcing her arrival.
‘Certainly,’ said the landlady, still not quite beyond suspicion. ‘Mind you, don’t go mentioning Mr Miller’s name too loudly around these parts.’
‘Why not?’
‘He was a Customs man, wasn’t he? They’re not well liked round here. Me, I’ve nothing against them, they’re just trying to do a job. But there was folk dancing for joy in my common room, the night the news came through that he was dead.’
‘How horrible,’ said Mrs Chaytor directly. Inwardly she felt a great sense of relief; Miller must have been an honest man, for the smugglers to have hated him so much. ‘Thank you, I will write that letter now.’
She called at the Millers’ little cottage the following morning, pulling the gig up outside the door. Leaving the groom to look after the rig, she knocked at the door. A dark-haired woman opened it and looked at her with suspicious eyes. ‘Mrs Miller is not at home.’
‘I am the lady who wrote yesterday,’ said Mrs Chaytor quietly. ‘I have driven up from the Marsh to see Mrs Miller. This concerns her husband.’
There was a long pause. ‘Then you had better come in,’ said the woman.
She was shown into a tiny parlour, where a small, slightly plump woman with red eyes rose to greet her, determinedly polite. Three children peeped around the door for a sight of the stranger, and were quickly shooed away by the dark woman. ‘My sister,’ explained Mrs Miller. ‘She has come to stay with me until . . . until . . .’
She broke down, sobbing helplessly into her hands. Amelia Chaytor, heart wrung, watched her for a moment, then crossed the room to the other woman and put an arm around her shoulders. She soothed her as one might soothe a child, and slowly the woman’s sobbing ceased.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Miller whispered. ‘You are ever so kind.’
‘My dear, I know – I know – what a terrible time this is for you. You see, I lost my own husband three years ago.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Miller looked up in surprise and then her eyes filled again. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered, and for a few more minutes the two women clung to each other in silence. Then Mrs Miller remembered herself and urged her guest to sit, taking a seat herself; Amelia perched on the edge of a chair, hands folded in her lap, a tight pain beating in the middle of her chest.
‘I am glad you came,’ said the other woman. ‘You understand.’
I understand what it is like to lose a husband, Amelia thought. But I did not have three children, nor did I live in a town where people were willing to dance on my husband’s grave.
‘Does it grow easier?’ Mrs Miller asked. ‘The pain?’
‘Yes, and no,’ said Amelia. ‘Someone once observed that time is a great healer, and in my experience that is true. The pain fades. The emptiness that replaces it, however, is equally horrid.’
‘How did you . . .What did you do?’
‘I gave up the house where we lived, and moved away to make a fresh start. That has helped, a little.’
‘It is something I should consider,’ said the other woman slowly. She roused a little. ‘Mrs Chaytor, I am so sorry. May I offer you some refreshment, some coffee perhaps?’
‘Thank you, no. I will not intrude on you for long.’
The other woman’s dark eyes searched her face. ‘Your letter said that you had something to tell me about my husband.’
Amelia had spent much of the drive to Deal yesterday thinking about the words she would use.
‘Yes. You will know of course that the inquest returned a verdict of death by misadventure. It was said that your husband was injured fatally by an accidental discharge of his pistol. What I have come to tell you, in confidence between ourselves, is that there is doubt over this.’
Mrs Miller’s mouth opened and she stared for a moment. Then she closed her mouth and lowered her eyes, looking down at her hands.
‘You did not believe the verdict either,’ said Amelia quietly.
‘No,’ said the woman flatly. She was calm now, her grief under control, and Amelia knew that she was watching and listening very closely. ‘Curtius was very careful, very precise about everything he did. He did not have accidents. Mrs Chaytor, you said also in your letter that you had some questions for me. Ask, and I will answer if I can.’
‘Thank you . . . Mr Steadman of the Customs here in Deal says that your husband had formerly worked for another government service. Which one, pray?’
‘The Treasury. No, not the Excise; he was employed direct by the Treasury in London, though he was always posted down here. I’m sorry; he never told me about his work. He said it was safer for me not to know.’
‘Did he travel? Was he away often?’
‘Oh, yes, sometimes for weeks. When he joined the Customs I thought, now I’ll have him at home for a bit. But he kept right on travelling. He was away most of last month. He had only been home for a week before he went down to Dymchurch . . . He had been in France.’
‘France!’ Amelia’s blue eyes opened wide. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I fear I do not know. There was something important, though, some game afoot, for he went off with hardly a moment’s notice and little but the clothes on his back, and I did not hear from him the whole time he was away. He only told me it was France when he got back, and then gave me a bottle of scent, and laughed and said not to worry, for it wasn’t run.’
Something told Amelia Chaytor that this was not true, that Mrs Miller knew precisely why Miller had been in France, and that no power on Earth would make her divulge her dead husband’s last secret. She sympathised, and did not press the issue. ‘Why did he join the Customs? Was he not well suited at the Treasury?’
‘Oh, no. He had a good job there. People thought the world of him.’ Now Amelia saw plain the calculation in the other woman’s face; she knew Amelia knew something, and was prepared to barter a little of what she herself knew in exchange. ‘He was a fine man, and I know they were sorry to let him go . . . He did once say that there was something he wanted to do
in the Customs, but he didn’t plan to stay there for ever. And, I’m pretty much certain that he kept in touch with his old friends at the Treasury.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Amelia. ‘Those old friends, Mrs Miller, will they look after you?’
The red-rimmed eyes filled again. ‘Everyone has been most kind.’
‘I am glad . . . Did your husband have any particular friends, in the Treasury or in the Customs?’
‘It is hard to pick out anyone in particular. There was one man, called George. I never knew his surname. He called yesterday, though, to see that I had all I needed.’
‘Could you describe George for me?’
‘He’s a gentleman,’ said the widow, somewhat unhelpfully. ‘Always very well dressed. What can I say? He was younger than Curtius, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, though I’m not good at guessing these things. A little . . . portly, but he holds himself well. I think he is perhaps a little too fond of high living.’
That doesn’t narrow it down a great deal, thought Amelia. But perhaps that was the intention . . .
There was a little silence, and then the other woman said directly, ‘Mrs Chaytor, may I ask a question of my own? Why do you want to know these things?’
‘Because something happened that night,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘something that is very wrong. You are right not to believe the verdict of the coroner’s inquest. Your husband was with the Dymchurch Customs officers when they came under fire from a gang of smugglers, and he was killed some time during that exchange of fire. But it was not his own pistol that caused his fatal wound. Someone else killed him.’
‘The smugglers,’ said the woman slowly.
‘That is one explanation,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
There was a long pause, during which they understood each other perfectly. ‘That makes it better,’ said the other woman. ‘It gives me hope. There might be justice for him, now.’
‘There will be justice,’ said Mrs Chaytor gently. She rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Miller, you have been most kind.’