by AJ MacKenzie
‘Very well. But Joshua, this man Noakes has threatened your life. Be wary of him, and take no unnecessary risks.’
‘I’m not frightened of Noakes, reverend.’ That bloody dog is a different matter, he thought. ‘But I’ll go careful.’
*
The next day was Sunday. The rector conducted the morning service as usual, and then went out to visit some of his more needy parishioners. The weather had turned, with a brisk south-westerly blowing ragged clouds up the Channel, and he dodged between rain showers as he went from house to house. At dinner, he was so quiet that his sister finally give up attempting to hold a conversation and lapsed into an uncharacteristic silence herself. After the meal Hardcastle retired to his study, still tired from travelling, drank a glass of port and fell asleep in his chair before the fire.
At midday on Monday he called on Mrs Chaytor. In the drawing room, over her excellent coffee, he told her about Stemp’s journey, the revenue captain and his own travels and interviews. ‘I feel we have spent the last few days chasing shadows,’ he said. ‘Maudsley and Cecilia were convinced that Munro went to London on business for the bank; Faversham was equally adamant that he did not. Batist could not be sure. Faversham and Cotton both denied knowing anything about smuggling, but I am certain Cotton was lying.’
‘Then let me offer you a thought,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Two of the partners of the East Weald and Ashford Bank are engaged in free trading; Maudsley by common report, Mrs Redcliffe by her own admission. Cotton knew about it, even though he denied it. Munro’s journey to New Romney is highly suggestive. Munro; I said I couldn’t imagine him as a smuggler, but perhaps I was wrong. That leaves only Faversham.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Just like Cotton, Faversham may have been lying. What if both of them were involved, along with Munro? All three active partners in a scheme together? We must face the possibility, my dear, that the entire East Weald and Ashford bank could be implicated in smuggling.’
Hardcastle considered this. ‘Why would the largest bank in Kent choose to risk its reputation in this way? What could be so important as to make that risk worthwhile?’
‘Perhaps Mrs Redcliffe is right, and the bank is overstretched,’ she said. ‘The partners may have turned to smuggling as a way of earning money to repair the bank’s fortunes. It is a course of desperation, to be sure; but perhaps things are indeed so bad that they felt they had no choice.’
‘How would they do it?’ the rector asked. ‘There are London banks that invest in smuggling, or so it is said. But they use intermediaries, negociants and local merchants, so that payments cannot be traced to them.’
‘East Weald and Ashford probably does the same, wouldn’t you say? They have a partnership with a smuggling gang. The bank provides the money to an intermediary. He in turn contacts professionals such as . . . our neighbours, who do the actual smuggling. The goods are sold on the London markets and the bank receives its percentage, all under the table. That explains why Joshua couldn’t find anyone who had heard of Munro. The bank is using go-betweens, so no one can connect the partners to the smugglers.’
The rector thought about this for a long time. ‘Who might the go-between be?’ he asked. ‘It would need to be someone who is not part of the bank, so the Preventives could not trace them and make a link. There are plenty of possible candidates in these parts; merchants and traders who already deal with the smugglers, lawyers . . .’ He paused. ‘Lawyers,’ he repeated. ‘The day before he departed, Munro spent an hour with his solicitor, Cranthorpe. And Cranthorpe is also Maudsley’s solicitor. He’s well established in these parts, been here for many years, knows everyone. I wonder.’
‘But if Cranthorpe is the go-between,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘then why, after meeting Cranthorpe, did Mr Munro come to Romney Marsh?’
‘Something had gone wrong,’ the rector said. ‘Perhaps he thought Cranthorpe – or whoever the go-between may be – had let him down, and decided to talk directly to the smugglers. Quite a brave thing to do, in the circumstances.’
‘Foolhardy, as it turned out,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I have to say I find your theory quite compelling. Finding evidence to prove it will be another matter.’
‘I agree,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Cranthorpe is a figure of some importance, and I can hardly go accusing him without something firm to go on. We must wait and see. Stemp has a theory as to who the smugglers are, and has gone off to investigate. If he can find out for certain which gang the bank is using, he may be able to follow them back to the go-between.’
‘I am still pursuing my own theory about Grebell Faversham; I shall endeavour to find out what, if anything, he might know. And I might take up the invitation of the fascinating Mrs Redcliffe too. She likes me, and if I talk to her she might open up a little more.’
‘And I shall write some letters, beginning with one to Lord Clavertye,’ said the rector. ‘Whether they are smuggling or not, something is wrong at the East Weald and Ashford Bank. I intend to find out what.’
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
22nd of August, 1797
My lord,
My constable has traced the final movements of the late Mr Hector Munro up to the time of his death. It seems highly likely that Mr Munro came to Romney Marsh to meet a gang of smugglers with whom he was working. Although all have denied it, it seems likely also that at least some of the other partners in the bank were aware of his journey and its purpose.
The prosecution of the crime of smuggling is of course a matter for the Customs Service, and I should by rights pass my suspicions on to the local supervisor of Customs. My concern, however, is that Customs will investigate the matter in their usual heavy-handed way, and the bank’s involvement in smuggling will become public knowledge. This could not only damage the bank’s reputation, but also seriously hamper my own investigation. I trust your lordship will agree, and will approve my keeping this matter quiet for the moment.
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
22nd of August, 1797
My dear Mr Ricardo,
You may recall that we met earlier this month at the home of Mr Maudsley. I trust you enjoyed the occasion as much as I, and that you and Mrs Ricardo had a safe return to London.
I wish to avail myself of your advice on a particular detail. I have been informed by several partners of the East Weald and Ashford Bank that the late Mr Munro was engaged along with Mr Faversham in a deal to buy timber from the Baltic, and that this deal was facilitated by the Hamburg bank, Berenberg & Gossler. I would appreciate it if you could confirm that this deal took place, and if so, furnish me with further details.
Yr very obedient servant
REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE, JP
A moonless night in high summer, the sea calm and the sky clear, the Milky Way an arch of white fire leaping across the heavens. High overhead the white streak of a comet hung suspended among the fainter stars. Half a mile to the south, Dungeness lighthouse glowed, a pale spark in the darkness. Nearer at hand the waves rolled up on the shingle beach, hissing with foam, rattling as the receding water dragged the stones back into the sea.
Ta-whoom . . . sheeeee . . . ratta-ratta-ratta-ratta-ratta
Ta-whoom . . . sheeeee . . . ratta-ratta-ratta-ratta-ratta
Down at the water’s edge a lantern was unveiled, and again, two quick flashes of light before it was covered. In response, a ship came nosing out of the eastern blackness, a dark lugger coasting along under a single sail. A quiet word of command from her deck and the sail came down; the anchor was lowered with a soft splash. A boat dropped into the water, with two men at the oars and a third at the tiller. There was a curious lumpen shape in the bow of the boat, covered by canvas. A few swift strokes brought her ashore, her keel grinding on the shingle. The man at the tiller stepped out into the shallow water and walked up onto the beach.
‘That him
?’ whispered the Clubber to Yorkshire Tom. Both were lying on their bellies on the rear side of a ridge of shingle at the head of the beach, only their heads protruding over the top.
‘Yes. That’s Bertrand, all right.’
Along the beach came five more men, boots crunching on the shingle. One, a powerfully built man with a huge mastiff in attendance, dragged a wooden sledge behind him; two of the others pushed the sledge from behind. It was just possible to see that the sledge was loaded with small wooden kegs, ten of them piled together and securely lashed down. On the side of the nearest kegs was branded a broad arrowhead, the mark of the Board of Ordinance.
The two parties met. They spoke in low voices, but the eavesdroppers at the head of the beach were only a few yards away, and even over the sound of the sea they could hear every word in the calm night.
‘Captain Bertrand,’ said one of the men on the beach below them. He was more slightly built than the others, and had a young man’s voice, a pleasant tenor. ‘Bienvenue, monsieur.’
‘Merci,’ said the French smuggler who called himself Bertrand. ‘This is the latest consignment from Midas?’
‘Just so,’ said the young man. ‘Have you the letter from Jean?’
‘Here it is.’
‘Bring that lantern, Fisky.’ The lantern was uncovered and the watching men saw the group clearly now: Bertrand in cocked hat and sailor’s jersey facing a young man with a broad-brimmed hat and a mask hiding most of his face, and behind him the other four big, burly men with powerful shoulders. Noakes was clearly visible among them, recognisable despite the kerchief tied over the lower part of his face, the mastiff straining on a short leash beside him. All had knives at their belts, and Bertrand had a pistol thrust through the sash around his waist.
‘It is good,’ said the young man. ‘Jean arrived last night, and waits for us in Boulogne. When he certifies that the cargo has not been tampered with, you will receive your payment. All right; start getting the stuff aboard.’
The man called Fisky held the lantern while Noakes and the others carried the kegs one after another down to the boat. ‘I cannot help observing that these casks look a little like powder kegs,’ said Bertrand.
The young man smiled. ‘Don’t observe too much, monsieur. Curiosity killed the cat, remember?’
‘Another of your strange English proverbs,’ said Bertrand. ‘I will never understand you people.’
Up at the head of the beach, Joshua Stemp pulled his own mask over his face and turned his head. ‘Right. Let’s find out what the hell is going on.’
The men by the water turned sharply as Stemp, the Clubber and four more men came down the steep face of the shingle bank. Bertrand’s pistol was in his hand in a moment, and the blades of knives flashed in the lantern light. The same light also shone on the weapons of Stemp’s party. They too had knives, and two had fowling pieces; Stemp had a pistol of his own.
‘Bon jewer, Bertie,’ said Stemp to Bertrand. ‘Don’t go pointing that popgun at anyone, will you? You wouldn’t want it to go off by accident.’
Reluctantly, Bertrand lowered his weapon. ‘Yorkshire Tom,’ he said sullenly. ‘You have come for your money.’
‘I don’t want the money. I want to know what you’re doing.’ He rounded on the young man. ‘Smuggling gunpowder to the French? That’s treason. They won’t just hang you, they’ll rip your guts out first and burn them in front of you.’
‘Gunpowder?’ said the young man, masked face still in shadow under the brim of his hat. ‘Whatever do you mean?’
Stemp gestured. ‘Drop your weapons and move back. We’re going to have a look at those kegs.’
Noakes snarled and took a step forward. Quick as thought, Stemp covered him with his pistol. The mastiff growled, straining at the leash wrapped in his master’s hairy fist, its eyes fixed on Stemp. Beyond Noakes, the young man leaped lightly into the boat, pulled the canvas away from the shape in the bow and crouched down swiftly behind it. Everyone else stopped still.
Long and gleaming in the lantern’s light, the steel barrel of a gun snarled at them. The black muzzle gaped, hungry. At the breech they saw a round cylinder with a crank, the handle gripped firmly in the young man’s hand.
‘This is a Puckle gun,’ said the man. ‘When I turn this crank, it’ll fire eleven shots in a row so fast you can’t think, and each slug big enough to blow your head off. Now, back away and get out of here.’
Noakes rounded on the young man, glaring, the pupils of his eyes dark pinpoints in the torchlight. ‘Don’t let ’em go, you fool!’ he roared. ‘Kill ’em!’
‘Yeh,’ said the man called Fisky, still holding the lantern in one hand and a long knife in the other. He had a deep, booming voice. ‘Slit their throats.’
In response, the Clubber and his men raised their weapons. There was a click of hammers drawn back, firing pan covers sliding way. Guns shone dull in the wavering light; knife blades flickered and gleamed. The mastiff growled, hackles up, quivering. They were seconds away from carnage.
Stemp held up a hand. ‘I know you,’ he said to the young man behind the gun.
‘You’ve never seen me before in your life,’ came the response. Eyes gleamed through holes in his mask. ‘You’ve ten seconds, Yorkshire Tom, to back away. Then I start shooting.’
Stemp said nothing. In a voice soft and hissing with menace, the other man said, ‘You might get one or two of us. But I’ll gun down the lot of you. And Noakes will cut the balls off any of you still living and feed them to his dog.’
The mastiff growled again. ‘I’ll see you again,’ Stemp said to Noakes.
‘Fuck you, pig,’ said Noakes.
Stemp looked at Bertrand. ‘I can’t congratulate you on the company you keep, Bertie. A bien-toe.’
He turned and strode back up the beach, the Clubber and the others covering him until they were out of the lantern’s light. Impotent, they watched the smugglers load the last of the gunpowder aboard, taking the sledge with them too; presumably they would use it again on the other side. The dark sails of the lugger were hoisted, and she turned to catch the wind and was soon lost in the night.
‘God damn,’ said Stemp.
‘Did they know we were coming?’ asked the Clubber.
‘They were prepared for a fight, that’s for certain. But was it us they were expecting? Or the Preventives? Or someone else altogether?’
There were no answers. Dawn came pale in the east, silhouetting the cliffs of France against the light. Boots rasping on the shingle, they turned in the cold glow of the comet and began to walk home.
10
The Angry Man from Scotland
Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper lived in a crumbling cottage near the south end of the village. Ivy crawled up the walls and hung in thick green clumps around the door, and the thatched roof was pocked with holes where birds had bored into it. The rector frowned, wondering whether the thatch would still be thick enough to shed the rains this autumn.
The ladies welcomed him in, Miss Godfrey directing him to a chair that wobbled when he sat, Miss Roper twittering a little. Hardcastle watched them carefully as tea was brought and served. Both, he thought, were thin as scarecrows. Well, they were in their sixties, and sometimes older people did shed weight. Miss Godfrey still seemed fit enough, but he noticed for the first time a tremor in Miss Roper’s fingers as she picked up the sugar tongs. There will come a time, he thought, when we shall have to care for them both.
They poured him tea, laced heavily with brandy, and he bid a silent farewell to his regimen. Miss Godrey announced with pride that they had tried today for the first time a new receipt for cinnamon cake, and begged him to have a piece. The rector braced himself. The cake was burnt on one side and a half-cooked mess on the other, and they had forgotten to include the cinnamon. Courtesy forced him to consume a second portion while Miss Godfrey added more brandy to the teapot.
‘This poor man who was found in the boat,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘Have you found out
who killed him yet, reverend?’
‘Not yet, I fear,’ said the rector, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat. ‘That is, as you may have surmised, the business which took me away from the village last week.’
‘And was your journey fruitful?’ asked Miss Godfrey.
‘Yes and no,’ said the rector. ‘I have learned a number of interesting details, even if the full truth has yet to emerge. You will pardon me, ladies, if I do not discuss those details with you. The entire matter is of course sub judice.’
He could trust the two ladies, but the same could not be said of their maidservant, Kate. Gossip flowed from Kate like water from a drain. ‘I do hope this has nothing to do with our village,’ said Miss Godfrey firmly. Passing strangers were welcome to murder each other, was the inference, so long as they left St Mary alone. Miss Roper looked up wide-eyed at this.
‘Do you think there is any danger, reverend? Are we safe?’
‘I think, ladies, that we are all quite safe,’ said the rector. ‘There is nothing whatever to connect St Mary in the Marsh to Mr Munro’s death. You may enjoy your tranquillity undisturbed.’
‘Tranquillity,’ snorted Miss Godfrey. ‘With the French across the water waiting to invade us, and the millworkers in the Midlands all rioting, and this ghastly paper money Mr Pitt says we must now use? There’s precious little tranquillity, I should say.’
That was the opening the rector was looking for. ‘Speaking of money, Miss Roper; Mrs Chaytor tells me you have had a letter from your niece in London.’
Miss Roper opened her eyes wide. ‘Why, yes! Oh, and such news too! I’ve never heard the like! The East Weald and Ashford Bank is in the most dreadful trouble, reverend, and is likely to fail at any moment! And it will take all of our money with it!’