by AJ MacKenzie
‘I am away until tomorrow afternoon. Dr Mackay may call tomorrow morning with a report for me.’
Her eyes widened a little. ‘But wherever are you going in this terrible weather?’
‘Canterbury.’ He gave her the details; he might as well do so now, for Mackay would doubtless do so when he called in the morning. ‘I am going to break the news to the poor woman and her children.’
‘Oh, Marcus. It is such a long way.’ Her brown eyes showed an unusual sympathy. She understands, he thought with surprise. She knows why I feel responsible, and why I must go myself. ‘Go carefully, my dear,’ she said.
‘I shall.’ Heavily, his shoulders bowed a little, he turned towards the door.
*
The weather was wet and the roads were bad, and it was late on Tuesday before the rector returned to St Mary. Daylight was already ebbing away under the clouds. The autopsy report was on his desk; it did not tell him anything new. Mackay’s search of the banker’s clothing had revealed nothing. There was no word from Stemp, who would still be out making enquiries with Honeychild. He greeted his sister absent-mindedly, changed into dry clothes and went to see Mrs Chaytor.
‘It was every bit as dreadful as I expected it would be,’ he said, sitting in her drawing room. ‘Thanks to Cotton’s gunpowder works, the family have been shunned by the Quaker community in Canterbury. One woman went out of her way to tell me that Cotton had got what was coming to him.’
‘That wasn’t very Christian of her,’ Mrs Chaytor observed.
‘Precisely my words to her. The widow is rather younger than Cotton; the two sons are still mere children. All are utterly bereft and do not know what to do. To them, Cotton was a kind husband and adored father. They can make no sense of what has happened.’
‘Will they be looked after? I would go up myself, only I am loath to travel too far from Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, in case there is another crisis.’
‘I learned of kinfolk in Rochester and wrote to them, telling them Mrs Cotton needed their help. I also spoke to that insufferable Oxonian prig, the archdeacon, and asked if the Church might lend assistance. His response was that as Cotton had made a fortune in powder and another in banking, the family should not lack for much. I then pointed out that as the family of a patriotic Christian who supplied munitions for the defence of our country, the widow and her children deserved our support. He promised to see what he could do.’ The rector sighed. ‘At moments like this, I question my faith.’
‘Why? Because of the archdeacon?’
‘Ten minutes in the company of the archdeacon would cause St Peter himself to rip off his halo and reach for the gin bottle. No, because of the sheer ghastliness of it all. A man pecked to pieces by birds; another shot in the face; the ugliness of death, the pain and grief of the living. Seeing all this, it is hard to believe in a kind and benevolent God.’
‘And yet you do believe,’ she said gently.
‘Yes, I do; but at the moment, only just. How did you once describe yourself? A self-doubting agnostic? I think I must be a self-doubting Christian.’
‘What I actually said was that I am a non-practising agnostic. I don’t know if there is a God, and I don’t care enough to find out.’
He managed a smile. ‘And, of course, you will tell me there is nothing wrong with doubt.’
‘Everyone doubts,’ she said. ‘Only fools and fanatics have certainty, and we should admit neither group to our company.’
‘No. We choose them as members of parliament instead. I have a puzzle for you to solve.’
He handed over the sheet of paper he had found in Cotton’s gig. She read it for a long while, her eyebrows coming together in a frown. ‘The first and third columns are dates,’ she said. ‘The dates in the third column are all about three weeks later, more or less, than the dates in the first. So this could be a sort of ledger. On the left side of the page, something is going out; on the right side, something is coming in. Or the other way around.’
It was his turn to frown. ‘Why are two dates missing from the right-hand column?’
‘If this is a ledger, the transactions are not yet completed. The 23rd of the 8th is the 23rd of August. Today is the 5th of September, so that is only thirteen days ago. The other half of the transaction might not take place for another week, or more.’
‘And that would mean the 18th of September is a proposed transaction, yet to take place,’ said the rector. ‘Good. All we need now is to know what the second column represents.’
‘There, I fear I am as much in the dark as you. As for Rmt fm Gh, it might mean remittance from someone whose name begins with Gh; or perhaps from Ghent. But that does not get us very far.’ She looked up. ‘Do you think Cotton was killed by the same person who killed Hector Munro?’
‘Whether it was the same man who pulled the trigger, I do not know,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But I am certain the same person ordered both murders. And what is more, I think now that I know who it is.’
She watched his face, her eyes blue and intense again. ‘Who?’ she asked softly.
‘Think about it, my dear. Who has most to lose in this game? Who is desperate to keep the bank afloat, so desperate that he will turn to crime? Who convinced Munro and Cotton that smuggling was the bank’s only hope of salvation? Who already risks the gallows, and might be prepared to kill in order to protect himself? You will find, I think, that only one name comes to mind.’
‘Charles Faversham,’ she said.
*
‘The bank is everything to Faversham,’ the rector said. ‘He built it up, and his pride and reputation depend on its success. But the bank is failing. Realising this, Faversham turned to smuggling to bring in money. But when this venture – like so many others he has planned – began to fail as well, Faversham concealed the news from his active partners, Munro and Cotton. Or perhaps Maudsley was right, and Faversham did not even notice the problem until Munro pointed it out.
‘The argument between them in Rye may have persuaded Faversham that he could no longer trust Munro. At all events, he gave orders for Munro’s death. And Cotton must have known this. Cotton was terrified; so terrified that at first he would not speak to me. I believe Faversham has threatened him; if you breathe a word, what happened to Munro will happen to you. When I arrived in Canterbury, Cotton realised he was caught between the devil and the deep sea. He decided in the end to defy Faversham rather than me, and that cost him his life.’
‘But defying you would have also cost him his life,’ she said quietly. ‘He chose the possibility of Faversham’s vengeance against the certainty of the gallows or transportation.’
‘Like a good banker, he weighed the risks and chose what he believed to be the safest option. Only this time, he was wrong.’ The rector picked up the paper again. ‘I want to know what the figures in that second column mean. The moment I do, I shall confront Charles Faversham and demand the truth.’
‘But will Faversham give you a hearing?’ asked Mrs Chaytor. ‘He is in Sussex, and your authority is valid only for Kent. He agreed to talk to you last time because he believed he could gull you. He will not be so cooperative again. He will tell you instead that you have no jurisdiction in Rye, and throw you out.’
‘You are likely to be right, of course. I shall have to ask Lord Clavertye to intervene again. Assuming he can be distracted from his pursuit of high office long enough to pay attention.’
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
6th of September, 1797
By express
My lord,
I write to you once more in connection with the Munro case. A second partner in the East Weald and Ashford Bank, Mr Sylvester Cotton of Canterbury, has been shot dead, this time near Ivychurch. He was driving to see me when he was waylaid and killed.
I am convinced that Charles Faversham has a connection with both this murder and that of Hector Munro. However, I have no jurisdiction in Sussex, and therefore cannot formally arrest or interrogate him. I
write therefore to ask you to intervene with the attorney-general, request him to grant me access to Mr Faversham.
I await your response,
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
THE EAST WEALD AND ASHFORD BANK, HIGH STREET, RYE
6th of September, 1797
Reverend Hardcastle, sir,
I have just heard the tragic news about my poor colleague, Mr Cotton. Coming so soon after the death of Mr Munro, this is a terrible blow to us all.
Word has it that you are investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Mr Cotton. I hope that you will be able to bring the affair to a speedy conclusion, and please do inform me of any result.
Yrs faithfully
CHARLES FAVERSHAM, ESQ
Please do inform me of any result, thought the rector. A decent man would have offered help; provided information about Cotton to assist the investigation; put himself forward to be interviewed again. Faversham merely asked to be kept informed, with all the emotion of someone enquiring after a lost handkerchief.
The two constables, Stemp and Honeychild, traced Cotton’s last movements without difficulty. The tollbooth keeper remembered Cotton driving down the Ashford turnpike in the evening. A quick visit to the Ship in New Romney confirmed that Cotton had written ahead to request a room there.
No one had seen two men riding a horse, but Honeychild had followed the tracks as far as Ham Street. The animal itself was found there next morning, abandoned in a field. The murderers had disappeared without a trace.
The inquest into the death of Sylvester Cotton was held on Wednesday morning in the common room of the Bell in Ivychurch, with Dr Stackpole the coroner presiding. The evidence was simple; the inquest lasted for less than an hour and the verdict of unlawful killing was delivered within minutes. The rector refused the landlord’s offer of a drink, and drove back to St Mary in bitter silence.
He waited, with little patience, for Clavertye’s response. For distraction as much as anything, he turned to his parochial work. He called on the more elderly of his parishioners to see if they were well; some were short of money, one had a leaky roof that needed mending, many were simply glad of the company. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper were among those he visited, and he saw to his quiet distress that the palsy in Miss Roper’s hands had increased.
‘Ladies, Mrs Chaytor has offered to help you withdraw your money. If you need a safe place, you may avail yourself of my strongbox until arrangements are completed in London.’
‘No, no, no, that would not be right. We cannot impose upon you any further, reverend. You do so much for us already.’ Nothing he could say would sway them; they would wait until they could transfer their money directly to London.
*
‘Mr Ricardo, reverend,’ said Biddy, curtseying in the doorway to the study.
The rector rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Mr Ricardo. It was good of you to come all this way, sir. Did you have a fair journey?’
‘Well enough, thank you.’ Ricardo refused the offer of madeira, and the rector dispatched Biddy for coffee. The stockbroker took his seat, his normally cheerful face quite serious. ‘I heard the news in Ashford. Is it known what happened to Mr Cotton?’
‘He was ambushed on the road. I am very glad to see you have arrived unmolested, and I hope you will take precautions on the drive home. I can lend you a pistol, if you wish.’
Ricardo smiled then, and shook his head. ‘My wife is a Quaker, sir. If she knew I had handled a firearm, I should never hear the end of it. My coachman, on the other hand, has a blunderbuss; and being Church of England, he has no compunction about using it.’
The rector nodded. ‘From your letter, I inferred that you have some worries of your own about the East Weald and Ashford Bank. Am I correct?’
‘You are, sir. I took on the bank as a client at the behest of Mr Munro, with whom I was formerly acquainted. I trusted him and knew I could work with him. But after Mr Munro’s death, Mr Faversham the senior partner took over the correspondence. I have since begun to grow uneasy. Mr Faversham’s instructions are often vague and impractical. His judgement when it comes to picking investments is highly suspect.’
The coffee arrived. Ricardo waited until Biddy had departed the room and then leaned forward a little. ‘Reverend Hardcastle, I must ask you a question. Was Mr Munro’s death connected in any way with the affairs of the bank?’
‘I am quite certain of it,’ said the rector. ‘I am equally certain that Mr Cotton was shot and killed for the same reason.’
‘Ah.’ Ricardo sat back in his chair again. ‘That explains why you urged me to take precautions. Mr Cotton was not killed by highwaymen.’
‘No. He was coming to call on me, and to tell me about the bank’s involvement in smuggling. It now seems quite clear that several of the partners, including Faversham, Munro and Cotton, had turned to the free trade as a way of improving the fortunes of the bank. Cotton was coming to me in order to make a confession.’
Ricardo’s pleasant face was full of distaste. ‘Now that I know him a little better, I can believe that Faversham might choose such a dubious course. But I would have thought Munro had more sense.’
‘I suspect Munro may have begun to regret his decision, though of course sadly we shall never know. If I may ask, sir, what first aroused your own concern about the bank?’
‘Shortly before your letter arrived, I met George Stone from the Grasshopper. He was in a worried state. Faversham was very angry, George said, about some bills of exchange from Germany. He as good as accused George and the Grasshopper of fraud; which of course is unthinkable.’
In a business where shady activity was commonplace, the bank of Martin, Stone and Foote had always prided itself on its reputation for honesty and probity. James Martin, the senior partner, did not tolerate dishonest dealing. ‘George wouldn’t give me the details, of course,’ said Ricardo, ‘but it seemed clear that Faversham had blundered somehow, and was trying to slough off the blame onto George. It’s not a very professional thing to do. Now, of course, there is this business of smuggling. I am beginning to regret my association with the East Weald and Ashford.’
The rector gazed thoughtfully at Ricardo, wondering how far he could trust him. So far, at least, the stockbroker had given him no reason not to do so.
‘May I show you something?’ Hardcastle asked finally. He handed the paper he had taken from Cotton’s gig across the desk to Ricardo. The stockbroker studied it.
Rmt fm Gh
1st of 11th
120
23rd of 11th
672.5.0
30th of 11th
258
27th of 12th
1,431.11.6
29th of 12th
310
25th of 1st
1,705.10.11
30th of 1st
355
24th of 2nd
1,917.8.2
26th of 2nd
620
20th of 3rd
3,162.17.4¼
29th of 3rd
4,327
20th of 4th
20,769.12.1
28th of 4th
1,290
23rd of 5th
6,063.5.10
27th of 5th
2,566
16th of 6th
11,547.12.7½
25th of 6th
4,014
15th of 7th
17,661.13.8
22nd of 7th
4,418
16th of 8th
19,218.7.6
23rd of 8th
3,100
18th of 9th
5,720
‘It’s a ledger,’ Ricardo confirmed after a moment.
‘I thought as much. And the heading at the top; it occurred to me just now as you were speaking of Mr Stone. Could that possibly be shorthand for Remittance from the Grasshopper?’
‘It easily could,’ said Ricardo. ‘So, the figures in the right-hand column represent sums
of money – in some cases, quite considerable sums of money – paid to East Weald and Ashford by Martin, Stone and Foote. I wonder if these are the bills of exchange George mentioned.’
‘Why was the Grasshopper making these payments?’ the rector wondered.
‘At a guess, they were dividends from some continental investment made by the East Weald and Ashford, which the Grasshopper has been handling for them.’
‘And what might that investment be?’
Ricardo frowned. ‘The answer presumably lies in the numbers in the second column,’ he said. ‘These are quantities of . . . something, but quite what, I cannot think; 120 yields a return of £672 5s; 258 yields a return of £1,431 11s 6d, and so on . . .’
The stockbroker fell silent for a moment. ‘That correspondence of numbers,’ he said. ‘I am reminded of something, but I cannot put my finger on it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The numbers in columns two and four. Divide £672 by 120 and you get about £5 12s. Divide £1,431 by 258 and you get about £5 11s; nearly the same. The next row down, £5 11s again.’ Ricardo tapped his forehead. ‘What does that remind me of?’
‘Is the ratio the same in every row?’
‘No. Look at March, the first big investment, 4,327. The remittance is nearly £21,000, which looks good, but divide that by the amount invested and you can see the rate of return has plummeted, to about £4 16s per item invested. And by July, it has dropped to about £4 7s. That’s down nearly a quarter on the original rate.’
‘Yet it still seems to be a good return,’ said the rector. ‘If I could invest a pound and receive four pounds and seven shillings back, I would be a happy man.’
‘But they’re not investing money, or not in the conventional sense. Otherwise the second column would also be written in pounds, shillings and pence; money out, then money in. No, they’re trading something . . .’