by AJ MacKenzie
‘Manningham,’ said Batist. ‘He’ll vouch for me. We’re kinfolk, blood relations. He’ll know you can trust me.’
Stemp hauled Batist to his feet, opened the door and marched the clerk into the common room, the pistol jammed in the small of his back. ‘Manningham? You said you didn’t recognise him, you lying bastard. Now tell the truth. Is he a relation of yours?’
Manningham shrugged. ‘He might be. Anything is possible. Who knows what Mother gets up to, when Father is at sea?’
‘Will you vouch for him?’ Stemp persisted.
‘Of course not. How long have you known me, Stempy, to ask such a question? I will not vouch for the truthfulness of anyone, not even myself . . . Especially not myself,’ Manningham amended.
Stemp pulled Batist back into the parlour, pushed him into his chair and slammed the door shut. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Why should we believe you?’
‘Because you have no choice,’ said Batist. ‘If you are to take your murderers and smugglers, you need proof. And there is no one but me who can give you that proof. I am your best chance, whether you like it or not.’
The rector made up his mind. ‘Very well,’ he said to Batist. ‘We have a bargain. You have three days to return to Ashford, find these papers and bring them to me. After that, I shall inform Matthew. I believe he will have little trouble in tracking you down, no matter where you choose to hide.’
Batist nodded dumbly. Hardcastle turned and walked out into the common room. ‘Mr Manningham,’ he said to the landlord, ‘you will not breathe a word of this evening’s events to a living soul. If I find you have done so, I will have you arrested and charged with smuggling and murder under the law of joint enterprise. Am I clear?’
‘Your Worship is the embodiment of clarity,’ said Manningham. ‘Have no fear. I have forgotten every conversation that has ever taken place in my inn. Experience teaches that a short memory is the key to a long life.’
*
Back in St Mary on Sunday, Hardcastle conducted the church service as usual. To his surprise and pleasure, the little congregation was inflated by the arrival of some of the refugees. He was less pleased to see the state of Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, the latter in particular looking very pale and thinner than ever. She trembled when the rector took her hand after the service. ‘You must not worry,’ he said gently. ‘All will be well. We shall look after you.’
‘Oh, reverend. I do not want so much, truly I do not. All I ever wanted was to live in my own little cottage with my dear Rosie until it was time to go to my rest.’
‘We shall look after you,’ he repeated. ‘We in this parish, we are your family, my dear.’ He watched her walk away, shuffling, stoop-shouldered, and thought Mrs Chaytor was right; she had aged five years in just a few days.
That afternoon he and Calpurnia dined with the priest and some of the older refugees, the younger ones preferring the kitchen where they could enjoy the company of Biddy. His mind was largely absent, and he escaped into his study as soon as he decently could.
Calpurnia followed him in, looking worried. ‘Marcus? You barely touched your dinner. Are you unwell?’
‘I am deeply worried about our poor friends.’
His sister, who was as fond of the two ladies as he, looked mournful. ‘Is there no one to whom an appeal can be made? No way of obtaining redress for them?’
‘I have written to someone who may be able to help. There is no certainty that he will respond.’ If not, the rector thought, then by God, my next letter on this subject will be to the Morning Post. He looked at Calpurnia. ‘If he does not, then I think we should set up a charitable fund to help the people whose lives will be ruined by the crash.’
‘Marcus, that is a most excellent idea. I have some experience in these matters; will you allow me to do this? I shall donate a portion of my royalties from my last novel, The Lighthouse of Vavassal, as an example to others.’
‘Thank you. I am very grateful to you.’ Voices sounded in the drawing room, talking in French; she had given up her own sanctum to the refugees, and he thought she looked a little lost. ‘Come,’ he said on impulse. ‘Sit down.’
She stared at him in sudden delight; never before had he suggested she join him. ‘Would you care for a glass of brandy?’ he asked. ‘Very fine Hennessy cognac, on which not a penny of duty has ever been paid.’
‘Oh, Marcus! Run brandy! How exciting!’ That evening they sat together for a long while and talked of small things, and for once he was happy not to be alone with his thoughts.
*
On Monday morning, two letters were delivered from the post office in New Romney.
MIDDLE TEMPLE, LONDON
22nd of September, 1797
My dear Hardcastle
Thank you for your most recent letter. Cole’s failure is to be deeply regretted. The man is a buffoon and an ass. You have my permission to approach the colonel of the Volunteers if you feel you must. Try to sort out this mess as soon as you can, will you?
Yr very obedient servant
CLAVERTYE
That is Lord Clavertye all over, the rector thought angrily. There has been a failure, and he is washing his hands of it. Had Cole taken the gold, Clavertye would have been on the scene in a flash, ready to claim the credit. He broke the seal on the second letter.
MARTIN, STONE AND FOOTE, LOMBARD STREET, LONDON
23rd of September, 1797
By express
Reverend Hardcastle,
I am this moment in receipt of your letter of yesterday’s date, and am responding by return. I tell you plainly, sir, that I consider your letter to be damned high-handed and offensive, and if you ever repeat in public the accusation that my bank was complicit in this affair, I will break you. I will brook no insolence from you, sir, and I will not allow you to slander myself or my bank. I trust I have made myself perfectly clear on this matter.
Attend on me at the offices of the East Weald and Ashford Bank in Rye at twelve of the clock on Tuesday, the 26th of September.
JAMES MARTIN, SENIOR PARTNER
Someone knocked at the study door. ‘Enter,’ Hardcastle called.
It was the priest, Abbé de Bernay, bowing. ‘I have come to say farewell.’
‘Oh,’ said Hardcastle in surprise. ‘So soon, sir?’
‘Letters have come from the French community in Canterbury, inviting some of us to join them. Wagons and carriages are arriving shortly to collect us. Your hospitality has been magnificent, but we cannot impose on you forever. And we feel a need to be with our own people.’
‘I understand,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In your position, I expect I should feel the same. Exiles need the company of others like themselves.’
‘Indeed. My people are beginning now to realise that we have lost everything. We may none of us ever see our homes or our families again. So, we must find a new community, a new home; a new place in the world.’
‘The French of Canterbury; are they not mostly Huguenots? Protestants?’
‘No one is perfect,’ said the priest, smiling. ‘And these past few days have reinforced a lesson I already knew: that Protestants and Catholics can be friends. Our common humanity is far stronger than any difference of faith.’
‘That is a noble sentiment,’ said Hardcastle. ‘God go with you, my friend.’
‘And may He watch over you also. I hope He helps you to catch your murderer.’
*
It was not the hand of God that would bring the killers of Munro and Cotton to justice, but the remorseless efforts of man. Hardcastle wrote to the colonel of the East Kent Volunteers asking for men, and if possible for the services of one of his best officers, Captain Edward Austen of Godmersham. Then, on Tuesday morning, he set out for Rye.
The atmosphere in the town was tense. Two constables guarded the East Weald and Ashford Bank. A big black carriage stood outside the door, its team still in harness, watched by silent onlookers. They stared at Hardcastle, too, as he walked towards the do
or, and he heard dark whispers running through the crowd. How many people in Rye had Charles Faversham ruined? he wondered.
A nervous servant ushered him into Faversham’s office. Faversham himself stood to one side; his place behind the desk was occupied by a big man in a black coat and breeches, square-faced and strong-jawed with bristling eyebrows and iron-grey hair pulled straight back from his face. George Stone was there, too, looking solemn and worried. Also present were Maudsley, who avoided the rector’s eye, and Mrs Redcliffe, who looked up and smiled briefly. Dressed all in black today, she sat poised with gloved hands folded in her lap, her skin looking like old paper in the lamplight. A secretary sat at a side table, pen poised over his inkwell.
‘Are we all here?’ asked the big man. As if on cue, there came another knock at the door, and Mrs Chaytor walked briskly into the room.
‘Who the devil are you?’ asked the big man irritably.
‘Mrs Amelia Chaytor,’ came the reply. ‘I represent some of the depositors of this bank, and I have come to see justice done.’
‘Bravo,’ said Mrs Redcliffe, before anyone else could speak. ‘Well done, my dear. Come, take a seat beside me.’
The big man glared at them both, eyebrows bristling. ‘Very well,’ he said testily. ‘Are we likely to suffer any further interruptions? Good. Then we shall begin.’
He nodded to the secretary, who began writing. ‘My name is James Martin, and I am the senior partner at Martin, Stone and Foote. Certain rumours concerning the East Weald and Ashford Bank have come to my attention, rumours which Mr Faversham has now confirmed to me are true.’
Faversham nodded. He looked white and miserable. For him, this was the end.
‘This is what now will happen,’ said Martin. ‘The Grasshopper will acquire the partnerships in the East Weald and Ashford bank held by Mr Faversham, Mr Maudsley and Mrs Redcliffe, all of whom were involved in or had knowledge of this disgraceful affair. The heirs of Mr Munro and Mr Cotton, who are innocent of any malfeasance, will continue to enjoy their shares, unless they wish to sell them to me.
‘As the bank is now insolvent, each of you will be paid a notional sum of £1 in total for your partnership share. You will relinquish all rights and all control of the bank to me. Is that understood?’
Heads nodded.
‘As the new proprietor of the bank, I personally will guarantee all deposits. No one who has money in this bank will lose a penny. I will temporarily retain the restriction on withdrawals to stop the run, but once the bank is restored to health that restriction will be lifted. I shall inject capital from my own bank and bring in new partners. I expect the restoration of the bank’s fortunes will take no more than three or four weeks. If you know of any hardship cases who urgently require funds, inform them that they should make a request to my staff. Is that understood?’
Faversham and Maudsley nodded. ‘That is very generous of you,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘You are assuming all the liabilities of the bank? Do you know how large they may be?’
‘Having examined the books this morning, I have a fair idea. In any case, it does not matter. No one – no one – drags the good name of the Grasshopper through the mud.’
George Stone flinched. Martin glared at Hardcastle. ‘Well, reverend? And you, Mrs . . . Chaytor, was it? Are you satisfied?’
‘Quite satisfied,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I echo Mrs Chaytor’s sentiments. You are very generous. What do you ask in return?’
‘Your complete silence,’ said Martin. ‘Not a word of this arrangement leaves this room. If any of you spreads gossip or rumour about this affair, I will revoke the arrangements, let the bank crash and ruin you all. Faversham at the very least will go to prison. Once again, is that understood?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Mrs Chaytor calmly. Faversham looked sick.
‘Then this meeting is at an end. Hardcastle: a word, if you please.’
When the room was empty but for themselves, the big banker looked at the rector. ‘Why did you feel it necessary to blackmail me? Have you yourself invested in this bank?’
‘Not a penny,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But many of my parishioners have. I wanted to protect them.’
‘I see. It never occurred to you to simply write and ask for my help, freely given?’
‘Had I done so, would you have complied?’
‘I am quite capable of understanding what the fall of the bank might mean to your people. Not all of us in the banking profession are charlatans and thieves, reverend. A few of us, just a few, are honest.’
‘If I have misestimated you, sir, then I apologise.’
‘Thank you. One more thing.’
Hardcastle waited. ‘I know you want to prosecute Faversham and see him put in prison,’ said Martin. ‘In your place, so would I. But you can’t. If he goes on trial, the whole thing becomes public and our reputation is ruined. You’ll have to let him go.’
‘I understand,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The ultimate decision on whether to prosecute rests with the Lord-Lieutenant of Sussex and the Deputy Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, Lord Clavertye. But I will recommend that they do not proceed. Rightly or wrongly, the well-being of my parishioners means more to me than my desire to see Faversham face trial.’
He thought Martin looked surprised at his quick compliance; the banker had been expecting an argument. But Hardcastle had already decided not to pursue Faversham. He was guilty of smuggling, certainly. If he knew the destination of the gold then he might be guilty of treason, but it would be very hard to prove. He was not the embezzler, nor was he the killer of Munro and Cotton.
Martin was speaking. ‘You’re a good man, reverend. Your people are very lucky to have you looking after their interests. I hope they realise it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re welcome. Now, get out of my office.’
*
The rector’s dog cart could never match Mrs Chaytor’s gig for speed, and she reached St Mary in the Marsh long before he did. When he finally arrived at the rectory she was waiting for him, her face taut and set, white lines at the corners of her mouth.
‘What is it?’ he asked at once. ‘Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, are they well?’
‘I told them the news and they collapsed in tears, but they are well enough. News has arrived from Ashford. I saw the messenger as I drove into the village, and he told me the tidings. Charles Batist has been shot dead.’
21
A Face from the Past
Noyes, the Ashford magistrate, was as shocked as anyone. ‘We’ve never had anything like this, not in my time as justice of the peace. Granted, the town can get a bit rough at times, but this was a cold-blooded assassination. And Batist, of all people! Everyone liked him. No one blamed him personally for the problems at the bank.’
Batist had been working late, the other clerks having gone home. At some point during the course of the evening he had opened the rear door of the bank; the door was found unlocked the next morning. Outside, his nemesis was waiting. Batist was forced to open the vault, presumably because it was a place where sound would not carry outside the building, and pushed inside. Like Cotton, he was then shot in the face at point-blank range.
Noyes took him to the scene. The vault door was still open, and the banknotes and papers stored inside were splattered with blood and brains. The lid of the cast-iron stove in the clerks’ room was open, too, and its belly was full of ash; charred bits of paper lay on the floor around it. ‘He was burning papers,’ said Noyes. ‘We don’t know what. There’s nothing in his desk but ordinary ledgers.’
Batist had known who killed Munro and Cotton, but was too frightened to say so until proof could be found and the killers arrested. I sent him back to the bank to find that proof, the rector thought. He went like a lamb to the slaughter . . . But why was he burning papers, when he promised he would bring the evidence to me?
The answer was clear. When Batist promised cooperation, he was telling another lie; his last one. He was planning to de
fy them all, the smugglers, the law and the Twelve Apostles, and go on the run.
Hardcastle asked the usual questions of Noyes. Did anyone see or hear anything at the time of the murder? Were any suspicious persons seen around the town earlier in the day? Were any tracks found around the bank? The answers were, as he expected, in the negative. He gave Noyes descriptions of Noakes and Fisk and asked him to circulate these, but he had little hope that anything would come of this. The murderers, like the planners of the gold runs, were skilful and covered their tracks well.
Stemp and his men, still on watch in Hythe, could be called home now. There was no longer any need for their presence. Noakes and Fisk must know, now, that they were hunted. They would be unlikely to return to Hythe.
Hardcastle called on Batist’s father, and found the apothecary a broken man. He had been proud of his only son, and loved him. Batist’s death seemed to him a senseless and cruel waste. The rector told him that time would help to heal the wounds, but in this case he doubted it. Some griefs last a lifetime.
It was the 27th of September, the time of year when the days shorten and the air cools and the sun grows dim; when colours fade and hope dies. Romney Marsh, when he reached it, was cold and grey. It was nearly dark when he returned to St Mary. Wearily, he stepped down from the driving seat and went inside, calling for coffee. A letter stood propped on his desk.
SIXPENNY COURT, CHANGE ALLEY, LONDON
26th of September, 1797
My dear Reverend Hardcastle,
My apologies for the long delay in replying to your letter. Upon receipt, I wrote at once to Amsterdam, but getting letters into and out of that city has become rather difficult. The Dutch fleet is preparing to put to sea, and accordingly our own navy has tightened its blockade of the coast. This makes life rather difficult for the blockade runners who carry my correspondence.
My cousin at the Stock Exchange has, I hope, procured the information you asked for. He pretended to be investigating a fraud on the exchange, and Staphorst, concerned for their own good reputation, were happy to answer his questions. It was quickly established that the Staphorst bank has connections with Vandamme in Boulogne, and the traffic between them has included some high-value bills of exchange. My cousin checked the dates when these large bills arrived from Vandamme, and found that at about the same time, within a day or two, another bill was sent off to Berenberg & Gossler in Hamburg, just as I suspected.