by AJ MacKenzie
13
Cotton
MIDDLE TEMPLE, LONDON
28th of August, 1797
My dear Hardcastle
Thank you for your most recent letter, and I apologise for my tardy reply. Matters are coming to a head here in London. If the peace talks in Lille succeed, as it now seems certain they will, then there may well be a reshuffle in the ranks of government. It is no secret between us that I have my eye on the post of attorney-general, and to that end I have been much involved in discussions with various interested parties.
As for the East Weald and Ashford Bank, I ought to say that your news astonishes me, but it does not. I have never held a high opinion of Charles Faversham; he reminds me of those men who sell broken-down horses of dubious provenance on the outskirts of country fairs.
I see no need to involve the Customs at this juncture. Continue to investigate the murder, and let the Customs get on with whatever it is they do.
Once again, continue to keep me informed of events.
Yr very obedient servant
CLAVERTYE
Lord Clavertye as attorney-general, Hardcastle thought. Well, the country could do worse. He had known Clavertye for many years, since they were at Cambridge together; for a time, the legal scholar and the divinity student had been good friends. Those days had passed, but there was still a lingering respect.
And perhaps once his lordship is in post, he will remember his promise that my appointment as JP is a temporary one, and find a permanent replacement. Then I can go back to being a simple country clergyman; hopefully, before I alienate any more of my friends. I don’t have so many that I can afford to lose them.
That reminded him, bleakly, of yesterday evening’s scene. Finishing his eggs and draining his coffee cup, the rector rose and went out into the yard where the dog cart waited, Amos the groom holding the horse. Hardcastle stepped into the driving seat and flicked the reins to stir the horse into motion. At the rectory gates he hesitated for a moment and then turned the horse left, down towards Sandy House.
Lucy showed him into the drawing room where Mrs Chaytor sat at her harpsichord, studying a sheet of music. She looked up as he entered, noting his clear eyes, and smiled.
‘Am I forgiven?’ she asked.
‘I was about to ask the same thing.’
‘Then I think we are both answered,’ she said. No more was said; no more was needed. ‘Are you on your way to Canterbury?’
He groaned. ‘I have travelled more in the past few weeks than I did in the previous year. My bones are rattling against each other. I have had another thought. Are you seeing Grebell again in the near future?’
‘He comes to visit me on the slightest pretext, at least once week. I imagine it will not be long before he calls again.’
‘When he next does so, can you endeavour to learn more about relations between his father and Munro? Did Faversham hold Munro in regard, or were there disagreements between them? Were they in any way rivals? And there is another thing. Munro went to see Faversham on the Saturday before Cecilia’s birthday. Find out if Grebell knows what they talked about.’
‘I will do what I can.’ Her eyes had gone a particularly vivid shade of blue, as they often did when she was curious. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Do you recall the non-existent investment in Baltic timber? Maudsley told me he was positive Hector was on his way to London to negotiate the deal; that turned out to be a lie. Batist, on the other hand, said that might have been where Munro was going but he wasn’t sure; while Faversham claimed that he himself had already concluded the deal and Munro’s journey must have been a private matter.’
‘That was shockingly incompetent of them,’ she said. ‘One of the first rules of spying, John used to say, is to make sure everyone agrees on the cover story, and then sticks to it.’
‘Your husband was a professional,’ said the rector. ‘These people are amateurs. Last night, in a period of sober reflection, I began to think again about Faversham. The timber deal, as you say, was their agreed cover story; but Faversham chose quite deliberately to depart from it. Instead he spun me a yarn about Munro, encouraging me to think of him as a devious, secretive character who went behind his partners’ backs. Why?’
‘He wanted to deflect your attention towards Munro, and away from the bank.’
‘Agreed, but I think there may be more to it. Maudsley says Munro was furious when he returned from meeting Faversham in Rye. I wonder if they quarrelled. I wonder, indeed, if Faversham gave orders for Munro to be intercepted on his journey to France, and killed.’
Mrs Chaytor frowned a little. ‘Why might he do so?’
‘Anger and humiliation at having his own incompetence discovered; jealousy of Munro’s superior ability; fear of being exposed as a smuggler, and a clumsy one at that; simple choler, the kind of rage which leads men to do unforgivable things. Any or all of these emotions could have been in Faversham’s heart.’
She nodded. ‘I shall learn what I can.’
‘Thank you, as ever. I shall take my leave, and go to see Cotton.’
‘Don’t let him spin you a yarn,’ she said, smiling. All was well once more.
*
It was the last day of August. Still the sun was warm but the days were growing shorter now, and autumn lurked in the dust haze on the horizon.
Arriving at the premises of the East Weald and Ashford Bank in Canterbury, the rector was told that Sylvester Cotton was not in. The rector said he would wait. Three-quarters of an hour passed before the chief clerk came downstairs once more.
‘Mr Cotton has now arrived, sir. If you would follow me?’
‘He has arrived?’ said the rector. ‘How interesting. I have had a clear view of the front door this entire time, and I did not see him enter.’
‘He used the tradesmen’s entrance, sir.’
‘Ah. Is there someone he is anxious to avoid meeting? Or has he, by any chance, been here all the time, hoping that I would go away?’
No answer came. In the office Cotton, sandy-haired, pink-faced, blue-eyed, greeted him coolly. There was no offer of refreshment.
‘I will come to the point,’ said the rector. ‘Are you missing any powder kegs from your stores?’
Cotton stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘A group of smugglers was seen last week on the beach near Dungeness, loading powder kegs onto a lugger destined for France. I wondered if they perhaps came from you.’
‘I really have no idea.’ Cotton had recovered his wits rapidly. ‘I keep only a small number of kegs to hand. They aren’t made on the premises, I buy them in from coopers; or the Admiralty sends back the empties and I refill them.’
‘And are you missing any gunpowder from your mills or warehouses?’
‘Absolutely not. If that were so, I would know of it at once. We keep all the powder under close guard, and make frequent inventories.’
‘Have any gunpowder consignments been stolen during shipment?’
‘To my certain knowledge, no. All our shipments are checked at the armouries and depots as soon as they arrive. Any discrepancy would be reported at once. None has been. May I ask the purpose of these questions?’
‘Does the name Midas mean anything to you?’
Cotton covered the involuntary start well, reaching up to scratch his ear in an apparently irritable fashion. ‘The ancient king of Crete? Like any educated man, I have heard of him. You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘The smugglers referred to “a consignment from Midas”. Might you be Midas? Might they have been loading gunpowder made in your mills?’
‘Do you dare to suggest that I am selling gunpowder to the enemy? That is treason!’
‘I am glad you realise it,’ said the rector.
‘I tell you, I know nothing about any smugglers. And I find your behaviour intolerable. I challenge your right to interrogate me in this fashion. You said before that you have a warrant. I want to see it.’<
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The rector handed over the warrant from Lord Clavertye. His bluff called, Cotton read it and handed it back. His pink skin had started to flush red.
‘When we spoke previously,’ said the rector, ‘I asked if you had any knowledge of Munro’s connections with smuggling. You denied it, declaring that as a God-fearing man you would have nothing to do with . . . how did you put it? “Anything so heinous.” But that was a lie, wasn’t it?’
Cotton stared at him, mouth open. ‘I know it was a lie,’ the rector said before the other man could recover, ‘because every other partner of the bank is also engaged in smuggling, in one way or another, and if you didn’t know about it, you would be the biggest born fool under the sun. And you’re not a fool, are you, Cotton? You know what is happening at the bank. You know it is heavily in debt. You know that Faversham turned to smuggling as a way of bringing in quick money, abetted by Munro.
‘There is a joint enterprise between the partners, and you are part of it. At the very least, you will be prosecuted for smuggling. And if it turns out that you are supplying the French with gunpowder, you will also be charged with treason.’ Hardcastle paused to let that sink in. ‘You can avoid this fate, but only if you tell me, right now, everything you know.’
‘I cannot do that,’ said Cotton. His voice had a strangled quality. His face was now bright red.
‘Why not, Midas?’
‘I cannot tell you that either. I—’ Cotton stopped, realising what he had done. ‘What we were doing was harmless,’ he said. ‘My God, yes, everyone on the coast is involved in smuggling, from lords and ladies to shepherds and fishermen. I suppose we are technically breaking the law, but—’
‘You are committing a crime punishable by transportation or death,’ said the rector, his eyes boring into Cotton’s face. ‘What will happen to your family when you are gone, and they are alone and impoverished, objects of scorn in their own community? Who will look after them when you are swinging from a gallows on Penenden Heath, or manacled in the hold of a convict ship on its way to Botany Bay?’
Cotton raised his damaged hand. ‘Stop. Stop.’
Hardcastle waited. ‘Faversham made the decision to invest in smuggling,’ Cotton said. ‘Munro and I were against it at first, but it promised high returns quickly, and we needed the money. We allowed Faversham to convince us. And to be fair, all went well at first. But then something happened. The returns on investment began to decline. The margins fell steadily. We realised that if things went on as they were, we should soon be in real trouble.’
‘When did you learn of this?’
‘Not until early August. Faversham kept the accounts for this investment himself, so that none of the clerks should learn of it. But Munro got suspicious. He went to Faversham and demanded to see the accounts. He saw at once that we were losing money. He wrote to me immediately afterwards, saying he intended to get to the bottom of this. Faversham, he declared, was a fool; he hadn’t a clue that anything was wrong.’
‘Do you still have the letter?’
‘Good God, no! I burned it immediately.’
‘How many other people knew about this?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone did. Munro wrote to me because he said I needed to know what was happening. Faversham had kept too many secrets, he said, for too long. It was time the truth came out.’
‘What commodities was the bank smuggling, and where? By what routes?’
‘Upon my soul, I do not know.’ Cotton’s face was redder than ever.
‘With whom were they dealing in the smuggling trade?’
‘I do not know that either.’
‘The more you lie to me, the more the blood rushes to your face,’ said the rector. ‘I should be careful if I were you, Mr Cotton. You might bring on an apoplexy.’
The other man said nothing. He was trapped, and he knew it. ‘I could send for the magistrate of Canterbury and have you arrested here and now, on capital charges,’ said Hardcastle. This was bluff; he did not yet have enough evidence, but Cotton would not know that. ‘But I shall give you one more chance. Think it over, Mr Cotton. Reflect on what I have said. If you assist me, I can ensure that you receive a light sentence, or even a pardon. There might still be a future for you and your family.’
The rector rose to his feet. ‘Think it over,’ he repeated. ‘But don’t take too long. I am not the most patient of men.’
*
On the afternoon of the 1st of September, as the rector drove wearily back from Canterbury, a little gig with blue wheels pulled into the drive at Sandy House in St Mary in the Marsh, and Grebell Faversham stepped down and knocked at the door. Lucy ushered him into the drawing room where Amelia Chaytor, clad in a simple white gown without adornment, received him. Tea was brought, and they talked briefly of the weather. The air was still warm but clouds were building up on the horizon, and they agreed it would rain soon. ‘The last few weeks have been quite fine, on the whole,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘It makes up somewhat for the rains in June and July. That will have helped the harvest upcountry.’
‘Yes,’ said Grebell. ‘We used to have a business in corn-broking, but we sold that some years ago. Pity; we’d be doing quite well about now.’
He broke off suddenly. ‘I am rambling,’ he said. ‘I am certain you do not want to hear me talk about the bank, or corn-broking.’
She stirred sugar into her tea, wondering what he did want to talk about. At Magpie Court he had been gallant in a clumsy way, but with each succeeding meeting he seemed to become more tongue-tied and awkward. To break the ice, she began to talk about music once more. He asked her again, rather timidly, to play. She refused graciously. ‘I play so badly, Mr Faversham. No one should be asked to endure listening to me. I feel sorry for my servants, who have no choice.’
There was a soft knock at the drawing room door and Lucy entered, curtsying. ‘Miss Roper to see you, ma’am. She says it is urgent.’ More quietly, Lucy said, ‘She seems unwell.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Chaytor to Grebell, and she rose and hurried out into the hall. Miss Roper stood in the middle of the parquet floor, her face pale except for two red spots on her cheeks. Mrs Chaytor seized her hands quickly. ‘My dear, what is it?’
‘Oh, Mrs Chaytor. I am so sorry to disturb you, but the rector said I should call on him if ever I had a concern, and I went to the rectory but he is not there, and I felt I simply had to talk to someone. I am so sorry,’ Miss Roper repeated. She gazed at Mrs Chaytor, and tried to collect herself. ‘Oh, but you have a guest, I am sure. I . . . I am interrupting you. Dear Mrs Chaytor, do please pardon me, and I shall take my leave now.’
‘No, you shall not,’ said Mrs Chaytor, raising her hands to the other woman’s shoulders. She steered Miss Roper gently but firmly into the morning room, feeling the other woman shivering. She pulled out two chairs, sat Miss Roper in one of them, took the other herself and resumed holding Miss Roper’s hands. ‘Now, my dear. Tell me.’
‘I do not know what to make of it. It is so confusing, and my mind is all in a muddle. I overheard Mr Luckhurst talking to the man driving the coal dray, and he was saying that the owner of the coal yard has told his clerks not to accept notes drawn on the East Weald and Ashford; it must be coin or Bank of England notes only. And Mr Luckhurst said he’d always been certain the bank was up to something, and I became so frightened I had to stop listening and come away. Oh, Mrs Chaytor, I so much fear there is something dreadfully wrong, and Rosannah and I will be reduced to poverty, and we’ll have to let Kate and Jed go, and we are too old to look after the house ourselves, and we’ll have no fuel to keep out the cold when winter comes—’
‘Hush,’ said Amelia softly. ‘My dear, you are distressing yourself without need. All will be well. Tomorrow I will drive you and Miss Godfrey to Rye, and we will withdraw all your money from the bank. Then you need no longer worry.’
‘Oh, but Mrs Chaytor, what would we do with the money then? We cannot keep it at home, we sh
ould at once be robbed and left destitute! Oh, I am at my wits’ end to know what to do.’
‘I can help you,’ said Amelia. She had been thinking about this ever since her talk with Mrs Redcliffe. ‘I shall ask my own banker to open an account for you, in London.’ Normally Thomas Coutts would not be interested in the affairs of two provincial spinsters, but as a favour to a friend of Lord Grenville, he would make an exception. ‘It will take a week or so to arrange, but once it is done, your money will be as safe as the Bank of England itself.’
‘Dear Mrs Chaytor. You are such a good friend to a foolish old woman. Thank you, thank you so very much.’
‘You must not mention it. It is what friends are for. Now, shall we go to Rye tomorrow? We can put the money into my strongbox while we wait for Mr Coutts to complete the arrangements.’
‘No, no, you are already too kind to us. We shall wait until your banker responds. I am sure that is best. It may all come to nothing anyway. I am probably just being foolish. I usually am.’
Already Miss Roper was calmer; assurance that some action was being taken had lifted her spirits. Amelia watched her face. ‘I don’t think we should take the risk,’ she said. ‘Let me convey you tomorrow to Rye.’
‘Oh, no, Mrs Chaytor, please, we must not impose on you. That would be quite wrong.’ She was as adamant now as she had been terrified earlier, and nothing Mrs Chaytor could say would move her.
‘Very well,’ said Amelia finally. ‘But if you hear any further news, or change your mind for any reason whatever, you must let me know at once.’
*
She watched Miss Roper depart, walking a little more steadily, before returning to the drawing room. ‘I am sorry,’ she said to Grebell Faversham. ‘One of my elderly neighbours has heard a rather unfortunate rumour.’ She related what had happened. ‘When I called on you in Rye, you assured me on your word of honour that all was well at the bank. Was that true?’