by AJ MacKenzie
‘Mrs Kemp!’ he shouted. ‘Mrs Kemp!’
The housekeeper waited a few minutes in order to punish him for shouting, then shuffled into the room. ‘Heavens above, what is the matter now?’
‘This room!’ said the rector staring about him. ‘My books! Have you dusted my books?’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ countered the housekeeper. ‘Of course I would never dust your books! What are you thinking of?’
‘And that picture is hanging askew.’
‘More likely it is you that is standing askew.’
The rector thought it about this, and it seemed to make sense. He tried leaning first left, then right, then standing what he imagined to be straight upright. It all amounted to the same thing.
‘The picture is crooked,’ he announced. ‘Mrs Kemp, have you been in this room at all this morning, since I left?’
‘No, Reverend, I have not,’ she said in injured voice.
‘And there has been no one else in the house today?’
‘Certainly not, or I would have told you when you returned. Will that be all?’
‘Yes,’ he said heavily, ‘that will be all.’
Mrs Kemp closed the door behind her with a discreet slam. The rector sat looking around him, then reached decisively for the second port bottle. He needed to not think about anything for a while.
The room had been searched, thoroughly. For the second time in a week, his home had been invaded by strangers.
*
The next morning was Friday 20th May, two weeks since the first murders. At mid-morning there came the crunch of wheels on the drive and Mrs Kemp came to announce Lord Clavertye. His Lordship was shown into the study a moment later, tall and elegant as ever, and they shook hands. The housekeeper was sent to the kitchen to fetch refreshments, and His Lordship stood for a moment by the fire to warm himself, for there was a raw cold wind coming down off the North Sea and, for the moment at least, it did not feel much like spring.
‘I had a word with the coroner as you suggested, Hardcastle. No luck. He won’t change his verdict.’
During his time at the bar, Clavertye had a reputation as a forensic barrister able to break down the hardest witness on the stand, and the rector wondered how he had failed to crack the coroner. His feelings must have shown in his face, for Clavertye rubbed his hands over the fire and said briefly, ‘He has an interest.’
Politics again, thought the rector. The coroner must have a powerful patron, whom Clavertye could not afford to cross. He wondered who it was, and essayed a shot in the dark. ‘Is the source of his interest by any chance the Dean of Canterbury?’
Clavertye did not respond, but his silence told the rector that his guess had been correct. ‘Mr Cornewall has written to me,’ said Hardcastle, ‘reminding me to keep out of this affair and threatening to eject me from this living if I do anything to bring scandal on the Church.’
‘Your living is quite secure,’ said Clavertye a little impatiently. ‘Cornewall’s threats are bombast. Ignore him. Ah, here is Mrs Kemp.’
They watched in silence as the housekeeper laid out cups and saucers, poured two cups of coffee and left the room.
‘It is not Cornewall’s threats that concern me,’ said the rector. ‘What bothers me is why he is making them at all. Why is he so concerned to keep me out of this affair? And now he is supporting the coroner. He is in short doing everything in his power to keep the entire affair quiet. Why?’
‘It is an excellent question,’ said Clavertye. ‘But so long as Cornewall’s highly placed friends in London and Canterbury continue to support him, it is unlikely that we shall ever know.’ He changed the subject briskly. ‘Now, have you any further news for me?’
It was going to be a day for dishonesty, the rector decided. He had already made up his mind as to what he would tell His Lordship, and what he would hold back. He now told Clavertye about Blunt’s behaviour the morning after the killings, as witnessed by the landlady at the Ship, and her confirmation that Blunt was receiving bribes from smugglers.
Clavertye listened in silence. ‘It adds very little to what we already know,’ he said dismissively. ‘Blunt is bent, but we have nothing that would stand up in court.’
‘Doesn’t the fact that Blunt is corrupt give you an excuse to re-open your inquiry into the death of Miller, my lord?’
‘That is a matter for the head of the Customs service, which employs – employed – them both. I cannot interfere.’
Or won’t, thought the rector. He suspected that ‘interests’ were once again at stake. The Customs service was jealous of its privileges and territory, and was touchy about interference from outsiders. Aloud he said, ‘I understand, my lord. Were you able to learn anything further about Miller?’
‘Yes. My friends at the Treasury were grudging, and not a little put out to find that I had guessed who Miller was, but they confirmed what you had suggested. Curtius Miller was a confidential Treasury agent who was used on a number of investigations into corrupt practice. He transferred to the Customs at his own request.’
‘And did he remain in contact with his old associates, my lord?’
‘That was all that they would tell me. They gave me to understand that they would not answer further questions, and would be displeased if I were to press them. In other words, I was told to mind my own business.’
‘And M. de Foucarmont, my lord?’
‘Information about Foucarmont was much easier to obtain. There is nothing secret about the man. He is an emigré, formerly an officer in the French army. He is of noble blood, even though he does not have a title, and he judged it prudent to leave France soon after the execution of the king.’ His Lordship paused. ‘His estates in France were sequestered by the government, but he still seems to have plenty of money. He cuts quite a dash about Town.’
‘Yes. He appears able to support a good tailor, at least,’ mused the rector.
‘What is your interest in him?’
‘He is Mrs Fanscombe’s brother. He stays at New Hall from time to time, and was there last week. I thought of Turner’s testimony, saying that he had seen our murder victim near the house. It struck me that Foucarmont might have known him, perhaps even been involved in the events that led to his death. But if you say he is sound, my lord, then there is an end to it.’
‘I had not appreciated the Fanscombe connection. But you are right, if this fellow is Fanscombe’s brother-in-law, then he must be sound. Fanscombe can be a bit of an ass at times, but his heart and head are in the right place. He would know if this fellow was up to any tricks.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
The fire popped again. Clavertye watched him intently. ‘What else have you to tell me?’
‘I have learned a little more about the Twelve Apostles.’
‘Ah, yes. The gang whose name no one at the inquest claimed to recognise. I suspected they were a gang of smugglers, but could see no connection between them and this affair. But you have found something?’
‘The Twelve Apostles are not just connected with this affair, my lord, they are at its very heart. And they are no ordinary gang of smugglers. They run very special cargoes across the Channel from France, small but highly valuable to the right people. Like the other smugglers along the coast, they paid bribes to Blunt until last autumn, when he broke their agreement. They tried to renew the arrangement recently, but Blunt betrayed them again and set up an ambush for them on the Marsh. It was during that ambush that Curtius Miller was killed.’
‘Just a moment,’ Clavertye interrupted. ‘How the devil do you know all of this?’
‘I think Your Lordship would find it more convenient not to know the sources of my information,’ Hardcastle said.
The fire crackled in the silence. He could almost see Clavertye’s brain at work, weighing up the options. ‘Continue,’ said His Lordship finally.
‘It is my belief, my lord, that the Twelve Apostles are agents working in government service. Cu
rtius Miller, whom his friends called Dusty and who was also a government agent, was working hand in glove with them before he died. The young man who was killed here at the rectory, a Frenchman who went by the name of Paul, was also working with them. It is my further belief that both were killed because of their association with the Twelve Apostles.’
‘And the third man? The one found in the churchyard? Is he connected too?’
‘I have no idea,’ said the rector, telling his first outright lie of the day. ‘Mr Fanscombe is of the opinion that the man died in a brawl, and I am in no position to contradict him. But, my lord, this brings us back to Mr Fanscombe. His heart and head may well, as you say, be in the right place, but if that is so then someone is pulling the wool over his eyes. Paul, the Frenchman, was a guest at New Hall for several days before his death. Several witnesses now recall seeing him. And yet, when I put this to both Fanscombe and his daughter, they denied it.’
Another man would have uttered an oath or an exclamation, and been flummoxed. Clavertye’s face remained expressionless while the smooth oiled wheels turned in his barrister’s brain. ‘Is there any proof that this man was at New Hall?’
‘None; yet. But I believe this to be true. And if I am right, it means that Fanscombe was playing host simultaneously to both a prominent French emigré and to an agent of the Twelve Apostles, who is now dead.’
‘It may be a coincidence.’
‘Neither you nor I, my lord, used to believe in coincidences.’
A brief smile flickered across Clavertye’s face. ‘True. Very well, but we must proceed with great caution. We cannot make any kind of accusation against Fanscombe or his household, not without direct evidence. As for the Twelve Apostles, I believe your hypothesis about them to be absolutely correct, but again, I do not see how we can prove it. I am certain that the Treasury, if asked about them, would deny all knowledge.’
‘My lord, I doubt very much that these men are working directly for the Treasury, or the Customs, or any of the services of which we know. These men are well armed, well organised and very dangerous. They do not hesitate to kill those who interfere with their tasks. This means that the work they do must be very secret indeed. I would venture to suggest, my lord, that the true nature of this work is known only to a few, and among them, the highest in the land.’
There was a long silence while Clavertye digested this.
‘This affair has become much more complex than we ever imagined at the outset,’ the rector said. ‘There are wheels within wheels. I have done as you asked and investigated to the best of my ability. But there is only so much that I can do. We must face the possibility that we are dealing with treason, as well as murder.’
‘What are you asking of me?’ Clavertye demanded.
‘I am asking you to open a formal investigation into this entire affair. Hang what the coroner says, the man was almost certainly bribed to deliver his verdict. Miller and the Frenchman Paul were murdered by enemies of the state. These people must be tracked down.’
He watched Clavertye’s face, waiting; and the moment he had been waiting for, arrived. ‘We have no real evidence,’ said Clavertye. ‘Nothing that will stand up in court.’
‘No,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Not yet. But you are the finest barrister to come out of the Inns of Court for twenty years. If there is evidence, you will find it.’
Clavertye smiled, a genuine smile this time, full of warmth, and suddenly Hardcastle was taken back to their youth, to Cambridge and the golden days . . . to a time that he found suddenly painful to think about. ‘I can, with your help,’ said the deputy lord-lieutenant. ‘I’ll need you to carry on your good work down here, old fellow. But, by God! If we work together, we can crack this affair wide open. You realise, Hardcastle, that this could bring us both a great deal of credit. People will sit up and take notice. There could be an official post in the offing. And you . . .’ He paused, suddenly doubtful.
‘Strange though it may seem,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I am only really interested in seeing justice done.’
‘Of course, of course. I shall go at once to London and see what can be done. You’ll remain here, of course, and continue to keep me informed.’
‘You may rely on me. And what should I do if the dean renews his threats?’
‘Send him my compliments, and tell him to go bugger himself.’
Hardcastle was still smiling as he watched Clavertye’s coach drive away. The past was past, and would never return; but it was good to have the old Clavertye back, however briefly.
*
That was Friday. The rector passed Saturday lost in thought, barely noticing the passage of time. But on Sunday he conducted his church service as usual, and afterwards contrived without much difficulty to receive another invitation to call on Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper on Tuesday.
Monday morning, the day of the second inquest, dawned. Hardcastle was just finishing breakfast when the letter arrived.
MIDDLE TEMPLE, LONDON.
21st May, 1796.
My dear Hardcastle
I have considered again our conversation when last we spoke. I would again like to express my thanks for your diligence and good work thus far. You have fulfilled all my expectations of you, in exemplary fashion. And I must say, it was a real pleasure to see that fine mind of yours in action once again!
However, reluctant though I am to admit it, the time has come to make an end. We have worked hard, but I think even you will admit that all we have to show for our efforts is a number of fanciful theories, all of them unproven and unprovable. Reviewing the matter in my capacity as an officer of the law, I find that we have almost nothing in the way of tangible evidence; nor do I see any realistic chance of such evidence emerging in the near future.
Thus, I see no merit in our proceeding further. We are both busy men, and have many other duties to fulfil.
I trust you will see the matter as clearly as I do, and will take no further action in this matter.
Yr very obedient servant
CLAVERTYE
Quietly, the rector laid the letter down on his desk and gazed into space. Fresh and clear in his mind was the voice of Peter who was also called George, speaking in the church at Ebony.
I’ll have one of my friends lean on Clavertye.
The ‘leaning’ had happened almost at once; probably, all had been arranged even before Clavertye reached London. Peter’s friends must be powerful indeed. Clavertye had been warned: stay away from this affair of the Twelve Apostles. If you dig any further, it will damage you. Mind your own business. And he had heard the warning, and heeded it. He would take no further part in this affair.
Dusty Miller and Paul and Mark would lie lonely in their graves, and the truth would never be known.
12
Storm Clouds
The inquest was convened on the morning of Monday 23rd May, at the Star. Lord Clavertye did not attend, it being announced that His Lordship had urgent business in London. Amelia Chaytor was present as an onlooker along with most of the rest of the parish. A few curious sightseers arrived from Dymchurch and New Romney, hoping for a repeat of the excitement of the previous inquest. They were disappointed. Only three witnesses were called, and there were no fireworks.
The sexton, who looked after the church fabric and grounds (though he seldom darkened its door during a regular service, being nearly as much of an atheist as the bell-ringers), gave evidence that he had cut the grass in the churchyard the previous evening. He had seen no signs of a body, nor of a struggle, nor of a trespass of any kind. The rector, impeccably sober, described his finding of the body along with its position and condition. Finally, Dr Morley summarised the medical verdict already given in his written report to the coroner. The man had been badly beaten and then died of a broken neck. There were no marks of identification on the body and he had never seen the man before. The rector, recalled briefly, confirmed that the man was a complete stranger. No one else in the room contradicted this.
A verdict of unlawful killing was rendered. In the absence of the deputy lord-lieutenant, Mr Fanscombe as justice of the peace gave assurances that the matter would be investigated fully. His own opinion was that the man had been killed in a fight, perhaps a falling out between thieves or a disagreement between rival gangs of smugglers. A murmur passed around the room at this last, and as it died away the coroner declared the inquest adjourned.
The rector stepped out of the Star, clapping his hat onto his head, and turned to find Blunt standing and watching him, his face red and his expression ugly. ‘Walk with me,’ said the Customs man. It was not a request.
They walked north towards the rectory and church until they were out of sight of the other villagers. Then Blunt stopped and turned and faced the rector, his meaty fists clenching and unclenching. ‘What the devil do you think you are playing at?’
The rector took his time about answering. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Snooping around. Prying into things. Asking questions, about Miller and . . . other things. You and that blasted woman.’
‘You will leave Mrs Chaytor out of this,’ said the rector, his own voice hardening.
‘Too late for that now. You dragged her into this business.’
‘Oh? And what business is that? Tell me, Blunt, I am keen to know.’
The eyes of a murderer looked out of Blunt’s face. ‘Don’t play games with me, Hardcastle. Stay out of my way. Stay in your rectory, and stick to your books and your booze.’
Books. ‘It was you who searched my study,’ said the rector suddenly.
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ He thought Blunt’s surprise seemed genuine, and he already knew that the man was not a good actor.
‘Never mind. You are mistaken, Blunt. I have express orders from both Dean Cornewall and Lord Clavertye. I am to stay clear of this affair, and not become involved in any way with the official investigation.’