by AJ MacKenzie
I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God, whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes behold, and not as a stranger.’
*
In her bright, pretty bedroom, Cecilia Munro lay propped against bolsters and pillows, gazing out at the garden. She wore a black bedjacket. Her brown hair had been brushed by her maid, but her face was still sunken and there were dark shadows under her eyes. The fingers of her right hand toyed with the gold wedding band on her left.
‘You must tell us if you wish us to go,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
‘No. No, it is comforting to have you here. It stops me from thinking.’
‘That is the hardest part,’ said Martha Redcliffe, sitting on the far side of the bed. Her face seemed stretched tight over the architecture of bone beneath; her skin had a sallow quality about it. It was hard to tell how old she was.
‘The mind goes over and over the past, wondering,’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘And, of course, we women have an inbred tendency to blame ourselves for our losses.’
‘Oh, and I do blame myself. I could have stopped Hector from going, or at least tried. But I believed his assurances. It will only be a for a little while, he said, and he would be quite safe. I asked if he would return before the baby was born. He said no power on earth could keep him away. I believed him, and so I did not hinder his going.’
There was a catch in her voice, a half-sob, but she was not weeping. She is cried out, thought Amelia. I recognise the signs all too well. The body can only hold so many tears.
‘He assured you he would be safe?’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘Did he think he was going into danger?’
‘I asked him that too. He said, absolutely not. Then he called me his bonnie wee lassie. He knew that always made me laugh. It was his way of getting me to change the subject, I think.’
‘Mrs Redcliffe is right,’ said Amelia gently. ‘You must not blame yourself for your loss. None of us should do that.’
The girl turned her head. ‘Did you blame yourself when your husband died?’
Amelia smiled a little. ‘Touché. Yes, I did, for a time. Then I blamed God, and the world, and everything under the sun. After some time I realised how futile this was.’
‘Dr Mackay told me that time is a healer. Is it, do you think?’
‘With time, the present becomes easier to bear,’ said Mrs Redcliffe in a soft voice. ‘I was widowed eleven years ago, and still each morning I feel the pain. But I give myself other things to do. For his sake, in his memory, I find reasons to live, to carry on, to work and build and dream. Life is supportable.’
‘You are ahead of me,’ said Mrs Chaytor quietly. ‘I am still searching for those reasons.’
‘I have had a long time to think about it, my dear. When did you lose your husband?’
‘Nearly four years ago.’
‘That is not long. Give it more time.’ The older woman looked back at Cecilia. ‘And you have something we do not have. You have a child to cherish. So long as you have your son, you have part of your husband as well.’
‘I know,’ said Cecilia. ‘I think that is what keeps me from breaking entirely into little pieces.’ She gave another half-sob, but soon mastered herself. ‘You are right, Mrs Redcliffe. Our son is the reason why I must carry on.’
‘You will find more reasons, as time goes by,’ said Mrs Redcliffe, and she smiled a little. ‘Are you to be one of your son’s guardians?’
‘Yes. According to Hector’s will, Father and I are joint guardians.’
Something rang a small bell in Mrs Chaytor’s mind. ‘Did Hector have family of his own?’
‘Three brothers, and a mother still living. They are all in Edinburgh.’
‘Were they close?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ A ghost of a smile crossed the young woman’s pale lips. ‘Although, I gather his family did not entirely approve of Hector moving south and marrying a Sassenach.’
‘More fools they,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Did he visit them often?’
‘No. He had not been north since we were married. He said we would go together once this business with the bank was settled, and have a proper honeymoon at last.’
Mrs Chaytor and Mrs Redcliffe looked at each other. ‘Business with the bank?’ the latter enquired. She saw Cecilia hesitating, and said, ‘My dear, you can surely tell me. I was your husband’s partner.’ She laid a gentle, slightly trembling hand on Cecilia’s arm. ‘I promise to keep any secret quite safe.’
‘I fear I know very little about it,’ said Cecilia. ‘There was some scheme that began not long after we were married, some big investment abroad, that Hector was much engaged in. He and Charles Faversham were both involved. Some complication had arisen, I think. Hector was going up to London to deal with it.’
‘Oh?’ said Mrs Redcliffe. ‘Did he tell you so, my dear?’
‘Yes. He told me last Tuesday, the day after my birthday.’
It felt heartless to ask these questions, but talking about Hector seemed oddly to give some comfort. A little colour had come back into Cecilia’s cheeks. They talked for a while about her birthday, and the trouble Hector had gone to in making the arrangments for the music and the party. After a few minutes Mrs Redcliffe rose, excused herself and left the room. Cecilia looked at Mrs Chaytor. ‘I am a terrible hostess. Are you certain you do not wish for any refreshment?’
‘Rest easy, my dear. There will be food and drink when the others return.’
There was a little pause while Cecilia stared out the window again. ‘I wish I knew more about the bank,’ she said a little fretfully. ‘Our son will inherit Hector’s share, and I will be his guardian. I must be able to look after his inheritance, but at the moment I feel woefully ignorant.’
Come, this is better, Amelia thought. She is taking an interest in the world already. ‘I am afraid I am a bit simple when it comes to such things,’ she said artlessly. ‘I don’t understand banking at all.’
‘Oh, it is quite simple,’ said Cecilia. ‘We take money on deposit at three per cent, and either loan it out or invest it in the City at five per cent; the difference is our profit. Martin, Stone and Foote are our City partners and invest in ventures for us, and we also acquire stocks through the good offices of Mr Ricardo. He was Hector’s discovery, you know. Our old stockbroker was not much good, so Hector dismissed him and recruited Mr Ricardo. He is reputed to be something of a wizard on the markets.’
‘I thought you said you were woefully ignorant? You sound very well informed to me.’
‘But I do not know any of the details. In what do we invest? What stocks do we buy, and how long do we hold them? To whom have we lent money, and on what terms? And these foreign ventures, like the one Hector and Mr Faversham were engaged in, I know nothing of these. I think it is important that I start learning about these things, don’t you?’
‘In your place, I should certainly do so,’ said Amelia. ‘Did you and Hector ever talk about the bank and its affairs?’
‘Sometimes. Not often enough . . . Oh, I must not give you the wrong impression. If I asked a question about the bank, he would answer it. But I always felt that he was just being patient with me, and he would really rather talk about other things. Me, the baby, the family, the estate. All the things he loved, and has left behind . . .’
Mrs Chaytor reached out and squeezed the young woman’s hand, hard. The door opened and Mrs Redcliffe slipped quietly back into the room and resumed her seat with a rustle of black silk. The tremor in her hand had disappeared, and she was calm and composed. Her dark eyes were now quiet, her pupils a little contracted.
Cecilia turned her head. ‘Do you know anything about this foreign venture, Mrs Redcliffe? The one Hector was working on with Mr Faversham?’
Martha Redcliffe shook her head. ‘I too am in the dark,’ she said. ‘As it happens, I do not follow the bank’s affairs in any great detail. I manage the commercial vent
ure my late husband established, and I find that takes all of my time. The dividends the bank pays are welcome, but I fear I do not enquire too closely where they come from.’
She glanced over at Mrs Chaytor, and then looked back at Cecilia. ‘Forgive me, but I overheard part of your conversation. If you are thinking of becoming more active in the bank’s affairs, I would encourage you to do so. Charles Faversham will not like it, but I’m sure you won’t let that stop you.’
‘No . . . Hector did not always speak highly of Mr Faversham,’ said Cecilia thoughtfully.
Martha Redcliffe’s lips pursed in a little smile. ‘Once you know Charles Faversham, you discover that he is like a fireworks display. He puts up a very good show and people admire him; there are lots of oohs and aahs. But when you look more deeply, you will find there is very little of substance behind the lights and smoke.’
A laugh escaped Cecilia’s lips, the first since her husband had died. ‘Thank you both,’ she said, reaching out and taking their hands lightly in her weak grasp. ‘You have made me feel better . . .’ Then to their ears came the clip-clop, clip-clop of hooves, the hearse returning, and the sorrow came flooding back into her eyes.
*
Later, when the funeral meats were finished and the other guests had gone, the rector and Maudsley sat alone in the library, each with a glass of brandy to hand. ‘Thank you, Hardcastle,’ Maudsley said. ‘It was a splendid service. We gave him a fitting send-off, don’t you think?’
‘He was a good man,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He deserved a memorable occasion.’
‘Indeed, he was a good man, wasn’t he?’ Maudsley raised his glass. ‘To Hector. God keep you close, my boy.’
They drank, and lapsed into silence. ‘I don’t suppose there is any news,’ said Maudsley after a while.
‘None yet. Maudsley, you do know that I will have to interview you.’
‘I assumed as much.’
‘When might be convenient?’
Maudsley roused a little. ‘Why not now? I’m not in my cups, not yet. And I have no overwhelming desire to be alone.’
Hardcastle paused for a moment. He had not yet received Clavertye’s authority to act outside Romney Marsh. On the other hand, Maudsley clearly wanted to talk. ‘Are you certain?’
Maudsley nodded.
‘The first thing I must establish is where Hector went after he left this house,’ Hardcastle said. ‘What time did he depart?’
‘After breakfast last Wednesday. My God, is it really only six days . . .’
‘What baggage did he take with him?’
Maudsley frowned, trying to remember. ‘He carried a valise, I recall. I don’t know if there were any other bags. I don’t think so.’
‘Was he accompanied? Did he take a servant with him?’
‘No. He said there was no need; he would be looked after where he was going.’
‘And how did he travel?’
‘Billings drove him to Ashford in the dog cart. Billings is one of the grooms,’ Maudsley explained.
‘And Munro intended to travel to London by the mail coach? Why not take your own coach? It would have been more comfortable.’
‘But not so quick. He was in a tearing hurry, you see. Wanted to make certain he was back before the baby arrived, in case Cecilia needed him.’
‘And you are certain he was going to London? Can you tell me more about what he intended to do there?’
‘There was some big thing in Baltic timber, I think. One of the Hamburg banks was promoting it, and Hector wanted a piece of it.’
‘And the Grasshopper? Were they involved?’
Maudsley looked up sharply at the name. ‘No, not at all. Hector was dealing directly with the Hamburg fellows.’
‘Presumably he was meeting the Hamburg bank’s agents in London. Do you know the name of this other bank?’
‘Lossberg. Gossberg. Something like that.’
‘Do you mean Berenberg & Gossler?’
Maudsley’s eyes opened. ‘Yes, I suppose I do. How do you know about them?’
‘Even we country clergymen read newspapers from time to time,’ said Hardcastle, smiling. ‘Berenberg & Gossler are very important in the Baltic trade. Very well, Maudsley, this gives us a start. We can arrange to trace Munro’s movements in London. What did he do in the days before his departure? Did he go anywhere, or meet anyone? Did he receive any callers?’
‘Sunday and Monday he was here all day,’ said Munro. ‘He spent much of his time with Parrish and cook and the musicians, organising everything for Sissy’s birthday. He was quite fussy, you know; liked to attend to details, and he wanted everything just right for the party. Then on Tuesday he went into Ashford.’
‘Do you know what took him there?’
‘Oh, bank affairs, I imagine. Tidying things up, you know, before going away.’
‘He said nothing specific to you about his plans?’
‘No. He knows I’m not much interested in the bank.’
‘Yes, you often say so,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Who looked after the Ashford branch while Munro was away?’
‘The chief clerk, Charles Batist, handles day-to-day business,’ said Maudsley. He rose and went to the cabinet, where he poured himself another glass of brandy. ‘You’ll have another with me? You’re sure? You’re being very abstemious these days, old fellow. Not like you at all.’
‘I am on a new regimen,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Oh? Doctor’s orders?’
‘No. Strictly self-imposed.’
Maudsley nodded and sat down heavily in his chair, raising his glass. ‘Your health. Yes, I was talking about Batist. He’s a splendid fellow. Been with us for nearly fifteen years, man and boy. Very hard-working, very enterprising fellow too. Before Hector came, he virtually ran the branch on his own. He referred to me occasionally if something came in that exceeded his authority, but in practice, he would tell me what he thought we should do and I agreed with him.’
What a lot of information, suddenly, Hardcastle thought. He really is going out of his way to distance himself from the bank.
Aloud, he said, ‘Why did you think Munro was going into danger?’
Maudsley sat up a little, opening his eyes again. ‘What?’
‘By accident, I overheard part of a conversation between you the night of Cecilia’s birthday. You were convinced he was going into danger, and tried to persuade him to send someone else.’
‘Did I? I suppose I would have done. I didn’t want him to go, certainly. I thought he should have sent Batist to handle the business. He’s quite capable.’
‘But Hector insisted he had to go himself.’
‘Yes, well. I loved the lad, but when he dug his heels in, nothing could shake him. Scotch, you know.’
‘I cannot imagine that buying and selling Baltic timber is particularly hazardous. I’ll ask it again; why did you think Munro was going into danger?’
Maudsley rubbed his forehead. ‘I wasn’t thinking of any specific danger, I suppose.’ He was silent for a moment. Hardcastle waited.
‘I was probably just being an old woman,’ Maudsley said finally. ‘The truth is, I wanted him to stay here, to be by Sissy’s side, and not go haring off on some business that Batist could have handled perfectly well. That’s about it.’
‘Do you think Batist knew where Munro was going? Or who he was meeting?’
‘He might, I suppose. But Hector could be quite secretive when he wanted to be. Especially when he was trying to broker a big deal. He liked to do these things himself.’
‘Is there anyone else in the bank who might know? Faversham?’
‘Possibly. Although they weren’t all that fond of each other.’
That confirmed what Faversham’s demeanour at the funeral had suggested. ‘But as senior partner in the bank, Faversham would need to be kept informed of any deals Hector was working on.’
‘Yes,’ said Maudsley vaguely. ‘I suppose he would.’
In the hall
the clock chimed seven. Quietly, the rector rose to his feet. Evening was coming on; he must go soon, if he were to reach St Mary in the Marsh by dark. He would have a word with Munro’s valet before he departed, but it was clear that Munro had travelled alone and in haste. It was unlikely in the extreme that the man would know anything useful.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I know that cannot have been easy for you.’
Maudsley looked exhausted. ‘No, no, Hardcastle. I’m glad to do what I can. Thank you again for today. It meant the world to me, to all of us, to hear the service so well conducted. Poor Hector. But we did give him a good send-off, didn’t we?’
*
The sun set. To the east, darkness spread out over the rolling sea. Wave crests glimmered a little in the bright starlight; the moon had not yet risen.
Two boats met in mid-Channel, a cutter from Ambleteuse and a fishing boat from St Mary’s Bay. Lantern signals were exchanged, sails came down and the boats drew alongside each other, rolling in the gentle swells.
‘All quiet, Finny?’
‘All is well. You have the order book?’
A canvas packet was passed over to the cutter. In it were lists of goods desired: so many tubs of gin, so many casks and bottles of brandy, so many yards of lace; orders from the English merchants and traders and negociants, the men who invested in the free trade. ‘We’ll meet as usual to hand over the downpayment,’ said Yorkshire Tom.
‘C’est bon.’
‘Any more word on my old friend Bertrand?’
‘I found out who he is working with. A clique from Hythe. Bad people to know, these ones, I think.’
‘You mean Noakes?’
‘Oui, I mean Noakes. It is a small operation, just a few men. They do not work with the other men from Wimereux, nor anyone else from Hythe. Just this one small gang, and the one ship.’
‘What else have you heard?’
‘I am not certain. I grow old; my memory plays me false.’
Coins clinked in the darkness, were examined briefly by lantern light and pocketed. ‘And now I am young again,’ said Finny Jack cheerfully. ‘If you want to know what Bertrand is doing, you may ask him yourself. He makes a run one week from tomorrow, and lands down near Dungeness.’