by AJ MacKenzie
‘Dungeness? Why not Hythe?’
‘Perhaps they do not want the other men from Hythe to know what they are doing. Dungeness is a lonely place.’
Stemp remembered his last visit to Dungeness. He remembered too the ship he had seen, offloading a coffin into Noakes’s boat. ‘Finny, you ever seen a Dutch lugger in these waters? Bit broad in the beam? Rotterdam rig?’
‘A Dutchman? In our waters?’ The French smuggler was outraged. ‘No, I have not. If I do, I shall sink him. This is our place.’
‘Easy, Finny. He’s bigger than you, and I reckon he carries metal. Go wary of him. But if you see him, let me know, will you?’
‘With pleasure. Now, we must depart. The moon will rise in half an hour.’
Sails were hoisted. The cutter slipped away into the darkness towards France, and Stemp turned his own boat for home. Bertrand was landing in England in eight days’ time. Good, he thought. I’ll find out then what the bugger is up to; and with luck, what Noakes is up to as well. He remembered the coffin, and felt a little shiver of unease.
6
Theories and Rumours
Wednesday, bright and clear with a brisk east wind; in St Mary, they could smell the sea in the air. In the distance was a low, irregular murmur: incoming surf crashing against the Dymchurch Wall, the eastern sea defences of the Marsh. Amelia Chaytor sat in her drawing room playing the harpsichord, idly and without much concentration.
Yesterday she had been calm and collected while talking with Cecilia and Mrs Redcliffe. Outwardly, at least, she had still been tranquil when she set out from Magpie Court late in the afternoon. But once she was out of the Wealden hills and back on the low flats of Romney Marsh, she had raced for home, urging Asia to ever greater speed. She managed to hold herself together until she reached Sandy House, but as soon as she walked into the drawing room she broke down, collapsing onto the settee and sobbing helplessly.
She had been lucky. She had married for love, to a man who adored her and who was the light of her soul, and she had ten years of bliss with him; ten years which came crashing to an end in a few short weeks of illness and death. Even now she could not entirely believe that John was gone.
But he was gone, and his absence was a pain that never ceased. Mostly she could keep that pain at bay; but sometimes, like now, it washed over her in waves and dragged her under. She lay weeping for the love she had lost, and the unendurable prospect of years stretching into the distance, alone.
The storm of nerves lasted for several hours, and left her weak and shivering. Lucy, her maid and housekeeper – dear, understanding Lucy – helped her to bed, where she slept the clock round. Morning found her pale and drawn, refusing all nourishment save a little coffee. By afternoon she was mostly recovered, although her hands on the harpsichord keys still trembled a little. Perhaps I should take Martha Redcliffe’s remedy, she thought; but she banished the idea as quickly as it came. The poppy disguised grief; it did not cure it.
She was vaguely aware of a carriage outside, and a knock at the door. Lucy entered the room carrying a silver salver with a card on it. The card had an ornate crest above the caller’s name in flowing script: Grebell Faversham, Esq.
Her soul flinched. She did not want anyone’s company, and she particularly did not want the company of the bumptious Grebell Faversham. But already her rational mind was reasserting itself. Hardcastle, she knew, would speak to Faversham senior, but it was always possible that his son might know something useful as well. Anyone and anything connected to the bank must be of interest.
‘Shall I say you are not at home, ma’am?’ asked Lucy.
‘No, show him in. And bring us tea, please. The inferior tea, the stuff you offer tradesmen.’
Lucy giggled. It was good to see her mistress on the mend. Grebell Faversham was shown into the drawing room, where he halted and made a flamboyant bow. His coat, waistcoat and breeches were all of a deep wine red, with gold buttons; not the best colour to go with ginger hair.
‘Mrs Chaytor. How good it is to see you again.’
‘Mr Faversham. To what do I owe the honour?’
‘Why, my sister is visiting Mrs Vane over at the rectory, and I drove her up from Rye. It seemed an excellent moment to call on you, if you were at home.’
‘It was kind of you to think of me.’
Grebell bowed again. ‘I had been intending to call on you ever since we met at Magpie Court. We got along famously there, if you recall? I have been desirous of renewing your acquaintance ever since.’
‘Desirous of renewing my acquaintance?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘In that case, you had best sit down. Ah, here is Lucy with tea.’
They sat, he on the settee, she in a chair opposite, and they waited until Lucy had left the room. ‘Poor Mr Munro,’ she said before Grebell could speak. ‘Such a tragedy for his poor wife, and for all of you at the bank as well.’
‘Oh, indeed. He’ll be sadly missed. And poor Cecilia. How sad to be widowed so young. My sister has taken it badly too; she was fond of Munro. I say, this is excellent tea.’
Silence fell. Grebell slurped his tea appreciatively. Mrs Chaytor fought down the impulse to run screaming from the room.
‘Tell me a little about yourself, Mr Faversham,’ she said. ‘You are a partner in the bank, are you not? Along with your father?’
‘Me? No, no, I’m not yet a partner. One day, I hope, but that is Father’s decision to make.’
‘If the partnership is in your father’s gift, then surely that day cannot be too far off. I’m certain Mr Faversham must think very highly of your abilities.’
Grebell stared into his tea for a moment. ‘Oh, well, yes, of course. It’s not a question of ability, you see, more one of . . . making room. The bank has . . . Well, it had five partners: Father, Mr Maudsley, Mr Cotton, Mrs Redcliffe and poor Munro. Six would be, well, you know. Too many cooks spoiling the broth, and all that.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She watched him, growing interested. ‘Then what is your role at the bank, if I may be so bold as to ask?’
‘Why, I am manager of the Rye branch. That’s the oldest branch, and the largest in terms of deposits taken. It’s a very prestigious post,’ he assured her.
‘I am sure. How long have you held this post?’
‘Six years now. I was made manager when I was only twenty,’ he said proudly.
‘Six years! Then I am even more surprised to find you are not already a partner.’
Grebell flushed. ‘To tell the truth, when Father started to talk of expanding the partnership, I rather hoped he might include me. But then Mr Munro came along. The bank needed him, Father said, and so I made way.’
‘That was good of you. To step aside in the best interests of the bank, I mean.’
‘Well . . . One must think of others, not just oneself.’
‘But why did the bank need Mr Munro?’
‘We’ve been expanding, you see. We’re the biggest bank in Kent now, by some distance. But we needed more capital to invest. Banks always need more capital, especially big, well-founded ones like ours. That’s where Mr Munro came in.’
He has no idea what he’s talking about, thought Mrs Chaytor. Capital, investment, expanding; these are all just words to him. Cecilia knows more about banking than he does, and would almost certainly make a better partner. ‘But I’m sure you don’t want to talk about the bank, Mrs Chaytor,’ said Grebell. ‘A lady of refinement and sensibility like yourself cannot possibly be interested in the mundane world of finance.’
Mrs Chaytor, who wanted very much to talk about the bank, gave an inward sigh. ‘What other topics of conversation would you think suitable?’ she asked.
‘Well.’ Grebell looked around, at a loss. Inspiration came in the form of the harpsichord. ‘We could talk about music,’ he offered.
They talked about music. She resisted, firmly, his suggestion that she should play for him. To her mild surprise he turned out to be quite knowledgeable, though she suspe
cted this came from a hard-forced education rather than any genuine sympathy for the subject. The clock chimed the half hour. Grebell showed no sign of leaving.
‘Will you excuse me?’ she asked. ‘I am a little tired. The last few days have been something of a strain.’
‘My dear Mrs Chaytor, do forgive me. I have presumed far too much.’ That seemed genuine; indeed, there was real concern in his eyes. ‘I shall take my leave at once. It has been very kind of you to put yourself out, especially for Sissy; Cecilia, I mean. You have been a wonderfully good friend to her.’
‘I am glad I was able to help. You’ve known her for long?’
‘Oh, ten or twelve years, ever since our bank merged with Maudsley’s. She and my sister Charlotte went to the same ladies’ academy; they were inseparable when they were young. We’ve been friends for a long time.’
Mrs Chaytor smiled, a little mischief coming into her voice. ‘I’m surprised no one thought of matching the pair of you. It would keep the bank in the family.’
Grebell blushed again. ‘Well, you’ve hit the mark. Father and Mr Maudsley did talk of the idea, quite favourably too. We’d have made a good match, I reckon. But then along came Munro. Charlotte, my sister, quite fancied her chances with Munro at first, but he’d already met Sissy, and that was that.’
She smiled again. ‘And so you both made way gracefully.’
‘I don’t think Charlotte minded, really. She was happy for her friend.’ Grebell looked at her as they rose. ‘Sissy said that when she met Munro, it was love at first sight. What do you think, Mrs Chaytor? Does such a thing really exist?’
‘It exists,’ she said, keeping her voice neutral. ‘But like lightning, it never strikes twice.’
‘Ah. Interesting.’ He said no more as she walked him to the door, but on the step he turned. ‘This has been delightful. And my apologies again for tiring you. Would you . . . would you permit me to call on you again?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice still carefully calm. ‘Of course.’
*
After Grebell had gone, driving his smart gig with blue wheels away towards the rectory, Amelia sat for a while looking out at the garden. Lilies nodded in the breeze, and a few late-blooming roses glowed blood red. She was proud of those roses; she had worked hard to establish them and protect them from wind and salt. They reminded her of better days.
The last half hour had confirmed the impression she formed at Magpie Court: that Grebell Faversham was a shell covering a hollow centre. Beneath the bluster and fine clothing was a deep insecurity. His father, it was clear, doubted his abilities and had refused him promotion. She wondered if Grebell himself really believed he was fit material for a partnership.
Whatever the case, it was clear that he had not liked Hector Munro. He had pretended modest gallantry: one must think of others, not just oneself. But Munro had deprived him of the partnership which, as Faversham’s heir, was rightfully his. Munro had taken the woman intended for him. Munro was the favoured one; Grebell still languished in the same post he had held for years, all chance of advancement denied . . . so long as Munro was alive.
But the death of Munro changed everything. There was a vacant partnership at the bank. And Cecilia, Sissy, was available once again; and this time, with the additional advantage of her late husband’s fortune.
‘Does Grebell Faversham have a motive for murder?’ she asked herself aloud. ‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeed.’
MIDDLE TEMPLE, LONDON
14th of August, 1797
My dear Hardcastle
Thank you for your letter of the 12th inst. You have my full authority to investigate the death of the late Mr Munro wherever necessary within the county of Kent. A warrant to this effect is enclosed, along with a letter instructing the Kent magistrates to give you their fullest cooperation.
Of course this does not apply in Sussex, so if you want to talk to that fellow Faversham in Rye, you will need a separate authority. Inform me if you think this is likely to be the case, and I will approach the attorney-general.
Do please keep me informed of events as they arise.
Yr very obedient servant
CLAVERTYE
The rector did want to talk to Faversham, and he did not want to wait for the attorney-general. He could not conduct a formal investigation in Sussex, but there was nothing to stop him paying a quiet private visit to the East Weald and Ashford Bank.
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
16th of August, 1797
My dear Mr Faversham,
I shall be passing through Rye tomorrow, later in the morning. Would it be convenient for me to call upon you then? There are some private matters that I wish to discuss. If it would not be agreeable for you to receive me, then of course I understand entirely.
Yr very obedient servant
REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE, JP
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
16th of August, 1797
My dear Miss Godfrey, my dear Miss Roper,
You have very kindly invited me to take tea with you tomorrow afternoon. I write to you now begging your forgiveness; a legal matter calls me away tomorrow morning, and I fear I shall be away for several days. Will you accept my heartfelt apologies?
And it would be my pleasure and my privilege to join you on another occasion. Would Wednesday, the 23rd, be convenient for you?
Once again, I most earnestly beg your forgiveness,
Yr very obedient servant
REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
16th of August, 1797
My dear Freddie,
A legal matter brings me up to Ashford and Canterbury for a few days. Forgive me for the short notice, but might I beg a bed for a couple of nights, Thursday and Friday?
My warm regards to Martha.
Yr friend as always
M.A.H.
‘Come in, Joshua,’ said the rector. ‘Sit down. Would you care for refreshment?’
‘Thank you, reverend, but no. Have you instructions for me?’
‘Yes. We still need to learn for certain where Munro went after he left Shadoxhurst. I spoke to the valet, but he knew nothing. That leaves Billings, the groom who drove Munro to Ashford. I was unable to speak to him as he was away from the house. Talk to him and find out where Munro got down, then follow the trail. And keep an eye out too for the man who hired the boat.’
‘Will do, reverend.’
‘I’ll be away until Saturday, but you can reach me at the rectory in Ashford. And Joshua?’
‘Yes, reverend?’
‘Munro’s connections with the smugglers, if they exist. Do what you can.’
‘I’ll do my best, reverend.’
The door closed behind Stemp, and opened almost immediately to admit Calpurnia. The fact that she never knocked before entering a room was one of the many things about her that irritated Hardcastle. ‘Marcus, I shall require the dog cart tomorrow.’
‘What is wrong with your own carriage?’
‘One of the wheels has begun to wobble. Amos says it is not safe to drive.’
‘How long has it been like this?’
‘For a week or more now.’
‘Then send for the wheelwright and have it mended.’
‘But he’ll not come before tomorrow!’ Calpurnia complained. ‘It is much too short notice.’
‘He’ll never come at all if you don’t send for him,’ said Hardcastle, his temper rising. ‘I require the dog cart. I am going to Rye tomorrow, and then will be away until Saturday at least.’
‘This is very remiss of you, Marcus. What am I meant to do here for three days, without any form of transportation?’
‘I neither know nor care.’
Calpurnia stamped her foot. ‘You are utterly thoughtless! You never think of me and what I might need . . . Oh, who is that at the door? Why, it is Mrs Chaytor.’ Her mood changed in a moment. She bent towards the rector and hissed, ‘Hav
e you given any further thought to making her a proposal?’
‘No, I have not.’
‘You must do so, Marcus, and without delay. She is young still, and very marriageable. If you do not move soon, someone else will snap her up; and where will you be then?’
‘Alone, which is all I have ever desired to be. Now will you leave me in peace?’
‘What was that about?’ asked Mrs Chaytor, entering the study a moment later.
‘That was Calpurnia, talking nonsense as ever.’ The rector surveyed her with concern; she was very pale and looked utterly spent. ‘My dear, what is wrong? Are you ill?’
‘No; just the usual. Exposure to someone else’s grief reawakened my own.’
‘I should never have involved you. This was bound to be hard for you.’
‘Yes, you should. No matter how hard it has been for me, it is a hundred times worse for that poor girl. Marcus; this is not your fault.’
She knew he hated his given name, and she only used it when she wished to make a point. ‘Cecilia wanted to talk yesterday,’ she went on. ‘We spoke at some length about the bank. And she said one thing that puzzled me. According to Munro’s will, she and Maudsley are the only guardians of her son.’
The rector raised his eyebrows. ‘Only the two of them? No one from Munro’s family?’
‘No. In the normal way of things, one would expect one of Munro’s male relatives to be a guardian. Munro has several brothers, but none were named in the will.’
‘Was there a rift between Munro and his family?’
‘If there was, it would seem to have healed. But I don’t imagine the Munro family will be terribly pleased when they learn the terms of the will . . . Other than that, I discovered very little. Hector told her only that he was going to London. She thinks it was something to do with a venture that he and Charles Faversham had arranged.’