by AJ MacKenzie
‘Thank you, reverend.’ Stemp hesitated. ‘There’s another thing, if I may.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s about the bank,’ said Stemp. ‘There’s a story doing the rounds that they might be in trouble. I wondered if you had heard anything.’
It was Hardcastle’s turn to hesitate. Stemp had given him his full loyalty; he deserved the truth in return. ‘I’ve heard the rumours too,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if they are true or not. Do you by chance have money deposited with the East Weald and Ashford?’
‘I’ve a good bit put by there, yes. Me and Maisie, we don’t need much; we’re content as we are. But I’m thinking of my girls, see. When they grow up, they won’t be fishermen’s daughters. I intend for them to be proper young ladies, respected, with dowries so they can marry well. I don’t want to see my grandchildren still fishing for a living.’
‘If you are concerned, you could withdraw your money.’
‘I’ve thought of that. But Tim Luckhurst says the bank has stopped paying out gold and silver. Because of the Restriction, see. You can withdraw money, he says, but they’ll only give you paper. I’m uneasy about that, reverend, truly I am. I’m not fond of paper money, it don’t seem real to me. You know where you are with gold and silver.’
‘I understand,’ said the rector. ‘I am sorry, Joshua. I do not know what else to suggest.’
Stemp shrugged. ‘I’ll just have to hope for the best,’ he said. ‘Even if the bank is having difficulties, that doesn’t mean it’s about to fail. Perhaps things’ll turn out right in the end.’
‘I hope so,’ said the rector. But he remembered Martha Redcliffe’s opinion of Faversham’s competence, and was uneasy.
*
THE SHIP INN, NEW ROMNEY
29th of August, 1797
Reverend Hardcastle,
Since your last visit to me on Saturday eve, I have given considerable thought to the events surrounding my brother’s murder. I have seen both Maudsley and the solicitor Cranthorpe, and my brother’s affairs have now been arranged in a matter that I would consider to be satisfactory. I have also seen my brother’s widow, and I am forced to conclude that she is a sensible woman, with only the best of intentions towards her son. I find I can bear her no ill will.
Accordingly, there would seem no purpose in my remaining here any longer, and my own affairs now call me home to Edinburgh. I write to you therefore to take my leave. I shall continue to follow the progress of the investigation, and ask that you provide me with news as often as possible.
May I also take this opportunity to thank you for your patience and understanding during this time of great trial.
Yr very obedient servant
ALEXANDER MUNRO
Laying down the letter, the rector closed his eyes and uttered a short prayer. Some wounds, at least, were on their way to healing.
*
That same morning, Amelia Chaytor drove her gig through one of the ancient gates of Rye. A little heat haze hung over the wastelands of the southern Marsh, stretching east from beneath the town’s ramparts. She turned in at the George, where she left her groom to look after the horse and rig, then walked down the street towards the imposing frontage of the East Weald and Ashford Bank.
The bank servants received her with deference and she was shown into the office of Mr Grebell Faversham, the manager, and brought coffee. The office was small but comfortably furnished; the furniture was fine and the writing set on the desk was of black Chinese lacquerware with silver mountings. Hmm, she thought, he appears to have better taste in furniture than in clothing . . .
The door opened and her host hurried in, stopping and making a sweeping bow. He was dressed slightly more soberly today, in grey breeches and a plum coat; he had not known she was coming.
‘Mrs Chaytor! What a pleasure it is to welcome you.’ He was a little flushed, his red hair slightly tousled. She thought he looked rather innocent.
‘The pleasure is mine entirely,’ she said in her light drawl. ‘I was passing the bank, and it occurred to me that this was an excellent opportunity to return your calls. I trust I am not disturbing your work?’
‘No, no, not at all.’ He fussed, asking if her coffee was hot enough, if she had enough sugar, if there was any other comfort she desired. She shook her head. ‘Your staff have looked after me admirably. Mr Faversham, I confess this is not entirely a social call. I am contemplating opening an account with your bank. Do you think that would be possible?’
Mr Faversham gaped at her. The thought of this fashionable lady, who doubtless banked at one of the great houses of London, offering to transfer her business here was too much to comprehend. ‘Ma’am . . . are you certain?’
‘A small account only. It would be useful to me during my visits to Rye.’
‘It would be an honour to serve you, ma’am.’
‘I do have a question for you, though.’ She dropped her voice a little. ‘Are we quite alone, Mr Faversham? There is no one who can overhear us?’
Grebell blushed again, to his own evident annoyance and confusion. ‘We are quite secure, ma’am, I assure you. You may speak freely to me.’
‘Well. I have heard a whisper, nothing more, that your bank may be in difficulties. There is some talk of debts. So I hope you can reassure me that all is well, before we proceed.’
‘Debts?’ His face still red, Grebell looked perplexed at the very notion. ‘Ma’am, nothing could be further from the truth. The bank has never been in better health. Why, we are even thinking of expanding again. I have heard Father talk of opening branches in Maidstone, even Tunbridge Wells.’ The young man smiled what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. ‘You may take it for granted that this bank is absolutely solid and well found. I assure you of that, on my word of honour.’
‘Thank you. I knew I could rely on you for an honest and informed account.’ She smiled back at him. ‘So this rumour about your Canterbury branch is just that? A rumour?’
‘Oh, nothing is wrong with the Canterbury branch. Why, it is one of the most profitable branches in the bank. Cotton is a very good banker, very capable. I’ve overheard Father refer to him as Midas. You know; whatever he touches turns to gold.’
Mrs Chaytor smiled again. ‘And this peculiar tale that the bank may be involved with the free trade; that too is only a rumour?’
Grebell stared at her in consternation. ‘Ma’am, where on earth did you hear that? Begging your pardon, but that really is fustian. Why would a large and respected bank like ours risk its reputation by stooping to smuggling? The idea is preposterous. I say, whoever is spreading this story really should know better.’
She paused for a moment, considering. Either he knows nothing whatever, or he is an actor of astonishing ability, and the London stage is lost without him.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I am wholly reassured. Shall we proceed?’
She waited, answering his questions as he took down her details. Part way through, she said artlessly, ‘Have you seen your friend Mrs Munro recently?’
Grebell looked up. ‘No, I’m afraid I have not. Charlotte, my sister, has gone to stay with her. I should call, I know, but . . . To be honest, ma’am, I am not certain what I would say to her.’
‘It’s quite easy, Mr Faversham. Just talk to her as you would a friend.’ Mrs Chaytor paused. ‘I am sure she would appreciate a call from you. She is less grief-stricken, but I think she is lonely.’ When he failed to take the hint, she said, ‘A visit from you might help to console her.’
Grebell nodded. ‘You’re right, of course, ma’am. I’ll call on her as soon as I can.’
Mrs Chaytor lost patience. ‘Come, Mr Faversham. You are fond of Cecilia, you said so yourself, and I am sure she is equally fond of you. She is alone in the world, bereft. And the partnership in the bank held by her husband is now vacant. There is a door open for you, should you choose to walk through it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Grebell. He gazed out the window for a mo
ment, and then back at her with his slightly bulging eyes. ‘But I have been thinking about life, and death, and all manner of things since Munro died.’ He dropped his eyes then, staring down at the writing set. ‘I have come to the conclusion that there is more to life than banking,’ he said.
Then he collected himself. ‘Please forgive me, Mrs Chaytor,’ he said a little anxiously. ‘You did not come here to listen to me wittering on about myself. To come back to the matter of your account. How much do you wish to deposit?’
Mrs Chaytor reached into her reticule and pulled out a banknote, which she began to unfold. ‘Shall we say, twenty pounds?’ she asked.
*
Stemp and his three newly minted special constables walked to Dymchurch, where they cadged a ride on a brickmaker’s dray up to Hythe. ‘What do you reckon?’ asked Luckhurst as they rode along, the green hills and white cliffs to the north drawing slowly closer. ‘Have we any chance of finding this fellow?’
‘Needle in a haystack,’ said Jack Hoad.
‘That’s pretty much it,’ agreed Stemp. ‘The only person who’s seen him is Jem Clay, and he didn’t get a good look at him, or says he didn’t.’
‘We should have brought Jem along,’ said Murton, who was also the blacksmith in St Mary. ‘He might recognise this fellow if he saw him again.’
‘I thought of that. I went back to Jem yesterday evening and begged him for help. When that didn’t work, I tried threats. Nothing doing either way. He says his leg is still sore, and in any case, the fellow had his hat pulled down over his face and Jem couldn’t see much. I wish we’d got a better look at him the other night on the beach.’
Hythe lay sleeping beside its muddy harbour under the shoulder of the hills. The streets were dirty and the gutters stank. They came to the Swan on the high street, seeing a post-coach waiting for its team in the yard. The common room was dark except where sunlight poured in through the windows and pooled on the floor.
Manningham the landlord looked up as the four of them entered the room. A balding man of indeterminate middle age, he wore a white shirt, none too clean, with an even dirtier apron over top. Beside him, a tall man in the blue coat and white breeches of a Royal Navy officer stood leaning against the counter drinking gin and water, his cocked hat on the bar beside him.
‘Stempy,’ said Manningham. ‘A second visit in such a short time. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Same business as last time, Manny. We’re trying to find out what happened to the man killed down by St Mary.’
‘That business still?’ asked the navy man with interest. ‘You don’t yet know who shot him?’
‘Not yet, Mr Stark. We’re making progress, though.’
Manningham made a Gallic noise of disapproval. He spoke slightly French-accented English; when on the other side of the Channel, he spoke slightly English-accented French. His real name was Meninghem, and he came from a hamlet of that name not far from Boulogne, but he had family on both coasts of the narrow sea. There were many others like him, part-French and part-English in blood and language, at home on both sides but owing allegiance to neither. To them, the war between France and England was an occasional inconvenience, but also a useful source of profit. Needless to say, they were embedded deep in the smuggling trade.
‘Why do you bother?’ Manningham asked, pouring mugs of small beer from the tap. ‘He was a stranger. What difference does it make who killed him?’
‘He left a wife,’ said Stemp, ‘and a nipper born just after he died. It’ll be a comfort for them, to know what happened.’
Manningham snorted again. ‘The world is full of misery. Comfort is an illusion behind which we hide, hoping that life will somehow become bearable. It never does.’
‘Manny, you are a gloomy old bastard,’ said Stark, the navy officer. ‘So what brings you up here, Stemp?’
‘We’re looking for a man who might be able to help us. Manny, you told me Mr Munro met someone here.’
‘I did. And now, you will ask me again to describe him. But, as I told you before, I did not see his face clearly. Also, it was quite dark.’ Manningham gestured around the common room.
‘If you ever paid for some lamp oil, Manny, you could light this place up,’ said Luckhurst. ‘Then you might be able to see what was going on in your own house.’
‘Believe me,’ said Manningham, ‘in Hythe there are many advantages in not knowing.’
‘Come along, Manny,’ said Stemp. ‘You must remember something.’
Manningham sighed. ‘He was as tall as you, Stempy, or perhaps a little more, but not so run to fat as you. His hair was covered by a hat. He wore breeches and half-boots, which were dusty as if from walking. More, I cannot say.’
‘You ever hear of anyone from Hythe going down to New Romney to hire a boat?’
Manningham looked at him incredulously. The navy officer watched the byplay with interest. ‘This is a genuine question?’ asked the landlord. ‘You wish to know about men renting boats in New Romney? Why not ask in New Romney?’
‘I have. No one knows anything.’
‘No one in New Romney knows anything? That comes as no surprise.’
Stemp ignored this. ‘We’re also looking for a man who calls himself Jean, who goes back and forth as a courier to France. He might work with Noakes’s crew. You ever hear of him?’
‘Jean? Such an unusual name. I feel sure I would remember if I had heard it before. Is that all? Or do you wish to interrogate me further?’
‘Sarcastic bastard. No, not for the moment. We’re going to ask around town.’ Stemp looked thoughtfully at the navy officer. ‘I’ve just had an idea, Mr Stark. When you’ve been out on patrol these past few weeks, have you by chance caught sight of a Dutch ship? Two-masted lugger, but broad in the beam and rigged Rotterdam fashion.’
‘Can’t say I have,’ said Stark. ‘Who is she?’
‘We don’t know. But we wouldn’t mind finding out. She’s been spotted on two different occasions in these waters. Look out for her, Mr Stark, if you will.’
Stark raised his glass. ‘I’ll do more than that. My Black Joke can outrun any ship on the sea. If I spot her, I’ll take her.’ His face became glum. ‘Assuming peace doesn’t break out before I get the chance.’
Manningham raised his hands again. ‘Ah, these accursed peace negotiations. Let them fail, let them fail!’
‘Peace,’ said Stark. ‘Half the Royal Navy decommissioned, most of its officers on the beach on half pay and no chance of promotion or prize money for those that are left.’
‘And the government’ll crack down on the free trade again,’ said Luckhurst, ‘just like they did after the last war.’
‘To the devil with peace,’ said Stark, raising his tankard. ‘By the way, Manny, you still owe me for that brandy I ran for you last month. A Royal Navy lieutenant’s pay doesn’t last forever, you know.’
The door of the common room opened with a crash. Stemp swung round, reaching at once for the hilt of his knife. Through the door came Noakes and his mastiff, followed by Fisk and two more big men armed with knives and wooden clubs; and as they did so, in one swift, smooth reflex action Manningham reached under the counter and pulled out a bell-mouthed blunderbuss, cocking the hammer and aiming it at the newcomers. They halted.
Stemp and his companions had knives in their hands too. ‘Now, you fellows,’ said Lieutenant Stark in a quarterdeck voice. ‘There’ll be no trouble here, do you hear me?’
‘Yes, your lordship,’ sneered Noakes, tugging at his greasy forelock. His eyes were narrow, his pupils dark, dangerous points within them. ‘Thank you, Your Worship. We won’t give no trouble, Your Honour.’
He turned to Stemp. ‘Now who have we here? Is it Yorkshire Tom, the brave smuggler? No, boys, this ain’t him at all. This here is Joshua Stemp, the pig.’
‘And look,’ said Fisk in his deep voice. ‘He’s got three more little piglets with him. Oink! Oink!’
‘What do you want?’ Stemp asked.
‘What I want is to find out what you’re doing in my town,’ Noakes said.
‘Your town?’ asked Manningham, the blunderbuss rock steady in his pudgy hands. ‘Have you been elected mayor, Noakes? Perhaps I missed the town council meeting where this was decided, no?’
‘I want to talk to that fellow who was with you on the beach the other night,’ said Stemp to Noakes. ‘The one with that god-damned Puckle gun.’
‘Why do you want to talk to him?’ said Fisk in his booming voice.
‘It’s about a murder,’ said Stemp.
Noakes laughed. The mastiff, perhaps not recognising the sound, began to bark noisily. ‘Murder,’ he said. ‘Forget it, Stemp. You’ll never find him.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he don’t exist,’ said Noakes.
*
In her house on the hill above Hythe, Martha Redcliffe gestured to the big footman with the tattooed hands to pour the tea. ‘Yes, I call on Mrs Munro as often as I am able,’ she said. ‘She seems to appreciate the company. She is recovering from her grief remarkably quickly.’
‘More so than you or I,’ said Amelia Chaytor wryly.
‘Perhaps she is stronger than either of us. Or perhaps it is the child that helps. Certainly she is younger; she was not married for so long, and therefore has lost less.’ Mrs Redcliffe’s skin, dry and sallow against her dark gown, seemed to have no life in it. Beyond the windows the air was full of the heat of late summer, the sea rippling blue to the horizon. This room is like a shadow of the world outside, Amelia thought.
‘Isn’t that a little heartless?’ she asked. ‘Grief is grief, surely.’
‘Mrs Munro was married for little more than a year. One has fewer memories from a year than one does from ten, or fifteen. There are not so many sources of pain.’
‘Yes. I see what you mean.’
Mrs Redcliffe watched her closely. ‘Of course you do. You have many memories, I think. Which ones pain you most?’
Amelia paused, considering. ‘The things we did together, I think. He taught me how to drive, and shoot, and fish. I taught him to play music. Those were precious times. And then, our years with the embassies in Paris, and Rome. They were full of wonder and excitement, and I shall never forget them.’