by AJ MacKenzie
‘I don’t need the money,’ said the older man, smiling.
‘You obviously don’t live on a Royal Navy lieutenant’s salary, then. Come, sir, have we a deal?’
Martha Redcliffe, her hands bound behind her, was being escorted at swordpoint onto the deck of the Stag. She did not look at either Hardcastle or Mrs Chaytor. Several other prisoners followed her, under close guard. Mrs Chaytor did not know what Noakes and Fisk looked like, but she assumed they were among them. The rain had stopped; the clouds were clearing fast now, and once again there were patches of blue sky overhead.
Stark turned away from the other captains and saw her, and his jaw dropped. He hurried forward. ‘Mrs Chaytor! My word, ma’am! Whatever are you doing here?’
‘It is a long story,’ she said, smiling. She could smile now, though her body was shivering as if with fever. ‘Thank you, Mr Stark. A most timely intervention. I shall have to think of another name for you now.’
He grinned at her. The action they had just been through was all in a day’s work for him. ‘Hero?’ he offered. ‘Paladin? Paragon?’
Poor Grebell, she thought. You so wanted to be a man like him. She smiled and closed her eyes for a moment, leaning against the stump of the broken mast.
‘Ship ahoy!’ a voice shouted. ‘By God! It’s the fleet!’
She opened her eyes, and saw an astonishing sight. Ships were coming out of the rain: two, five, ten, a dozen big ships; magnificent line-of-battle ships, gleaming black-and-yellow-striped hulls topped with towering pyramids of canvas. Over the rolling waves they came, the very picture of power and might, the sun striking glints off the gilt of their figureheads and the black iron guns on their upper decks.
‘Look!’ said Stark. He was almost dancing with excitement. ‘Look at ’em come!’
‘What is it?’ Mrs Chaytor asked.
‘It’s Admiral Duncan’s fleet, ma’am! Two days ago they took on the Dutch navy at Camperdown, and smashed ’em! They’re on their way back now, back to England, home and glory. Look at them! Oh, just look! There’s the Monmouth, and that’s Bedford, and Agincourt, and Triumph, and that’s Venerable, the flagship. Oh, cheer them on, boys! Huzza! Huzza!’
The crews of Stag and Black Joke took up the cheer, roaring as the great ships drew closer. She could see now how battered they were, their hulls horribly scarred and splintered, their sails riddled with holes; but they rode the waves magnificently, and it seemed to her tired mind that she could hear, above all the tumult of wind and water, the sound of invisible drums and trumpets playing the fleet home.
The last of the ships passed by and began to dwindle into distance, the line of the horizon beckoning them. ‘By God,’ said Stark as the cheering finally subsided. ‘Seeing them brings it all home, doesn’t it? We may be outnumbered on land and sea, facing an implacable foe; but we’ll fight right to the end. We’ll never give up, not ever. Mrs Chaytor? Mrs Chaytor, are you all right? Why, ma’am, I do believe you are crying.’
25
The Return of the Rider
They sat opposite each other in the pretty drawing room of Sandy House, cups of tea before them. Five days had passed since the Stag brought them home. Rain misted the windows. Autumn was well advanced now, the trees on the distant hills turning brown.
‘I must thank you once again for saving my life,’ said Eliza Fanscombe. ‘You and Reverend Hardcastle.’
‘Don’t forget Joshua,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Another man might have died from that beating, and then lying outside all night. I am convinced he willed himself to stay alive, so he could tell us what had happened to you. Without him, we would never have found you.’
‘Yorkshire Tom. I must look in on him before I go, and see how he is faring. Yes, I owe all of you a debt. The code of the Marsh says as much.’
‘Is there really such a thing as the code of the Marsh? I thought they just made that up for the tourists.’
Eliza laughed. ‘I think it’s more honoured in the breach than in the observance, to be honest. But we do remember those who helped us. Is there any favour I can do for you in exchange? I can offer you a lifetime’s supply of untaxed gin.’
‘Interesting. I might try bathing in it, to see if it assists my complexion.’
Amelia looked at the fair face opposite hers, rested and already restored. How quickly the young bounce back, she thought. ‘You are still resolved to go?’
‘I am.’
‘And to return to smuggling?’
‘Yes. I know what all of you think; I am the same little idiot who used to ride out after the smugglers and dream about one day joining them. Well, that has changed. I don’t dream any more. I am a smuggler now, Mrs Chaytor. This is the life I have chosen; this is the life I love.’
‘I don’t even pretend to understand you.’
‘Don’t you? I’m nineteen, Mrs Chaytor. What happens to most girls my age? They are married off. They pass from being controlled by their parents to being owned by their husbands. They live out their lives as chattels. Oh, there are compensations for the rich, to be sure, but even wealthy women pass their days in gilded confinement.
‘But circumstances have set me free. I have no family, and I will never have a husband; who would marry the penniless daughter of a convicted felon? No one; and I say, hurrah to that. I am at liberty to live my life exactly as I wish, and I am going to seize my opportunity with both hands.’
She sipped her tea. ‘And if you thought that nearly being killed would change me, you are much mistaken. I am made of harder metal than that.’
‘Is that what you want to be? Made of metal? Hard, without feelings?’
‘Touché. No, I shall always be a woman, and I expect – I hope – I will always be a creature of senses and emotions. But you see, that is why I am attracted to this life. It makes my blood flow faster and my skin tingle. The life I live on the Marsh is exciting. The thrill of hunting and being hunted, of laying lives on the line; the fun of matching your wits against that of another man – even if he is only a Customs officer – the wildness of the sea, the flicker of torchlight, the smell of the gunsmoke. I’m addicted to it, just as Martha was addicted to opium.’
‘And like opium, it will kill you.’
‘I expect so. I’m that much of a realist; I know the chances are strong that I will die a violent death by the time I am thirty. I’ll take that. I will die; but before I do, I will have lived, and lived on my own terms. I reject the drawing room and the salon, the polite manners and conventions, the ridiculous arrangements of marriage for convenience. I want none of that. Give me my torchlight and gunsmoke.’
Eliza smiled at Mrs Chaytor. ‘I’ve not convinced you, have I?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘We listen to different music, you and I.’
‘And the world is a better place for it. Not all women should be like me; nor should all be like you.’
‘I don’t think any woman should aspire to be like either of us,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Will you promise me one thing? Send word to me, from time to time, and let me know how you fare. And also, I offered you sanctuary the night we met at Blackmanstone. That offer stands. If ever you need a place of safety, come to me.’
‘Bless you. But why should you make this offer?’
‘Everyone needs someone, somewhere who cares about them.’ It was not exactly what Grebell Faversham had said, but it was in the same spirit.
They rose. Eliza was dressed for travelling in a man’s garb: coat and waistcoat, breeches and boots. She clasped Mrs Chaytor’s hand for a moment. ‘Of course I will call on you,’ she said. ‘And when you hear rumours of the Rider – as you will from time to time – think of me.’
When Eliza had gone, Mrs Chaytor went out into the cool afternoon and walked to the rectory. She found Hardcastle dozing in his study. ‘Poor you,’ she said, surveying him. ‘Are you still not recovered?’
His seasickness on the return voyage had been even worse than on the way out. ‘Oh, I am fully myse
lf again,’ he said. ‘ “A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far, enjoys even his sufferings after a time”. From the Odyssey, I think. No, I am merely resting from my labours before Lord Clavertye arrives next week. I am to assist him in preparing the case against the “Redcliffe Gang”, as the newspapers have begun to call them.’
‘It makes them sound much more romantic than they really are. Speaking of romantic; she has gone.’
‘Did you try to persuade her to remain?’
‘Not very hard. Irritatingly, it turns out you were right. I do respect her.’
‘And Grebell? Do you wish to talk about him?’
She thought about this for a while. ‘One day, yes,’ she said finally. ‘At the moment, everything is still too raw. I need time to make sense of what happened.’
‘And yourself? You are recovered from your ordeal?’ She inclined her head. ‘What did you think of your first sea battle?’ he asked.
She shuddered artistically. ‘My dear. Far too noisy. And those ships are frightfully overcrowded. No, no more adventures for me. I intend to stay here and rusticate in the peace and quiet of Romney Marsh.’
‘Yes. Peace and quiet,’ said the rector thoughtfully. ‘When you find some, will you be so good as to let me know?’
Afterword
We have as usual rearranged the landscape of Romney Marsh a little to suit ourselves. It is not clear how much of a harbour actually remained in Hythe by the 1790s, and the construction of the Royal Military Canal a few years later probably obliterated the last traces of it; the harbour as described in this book is our invention. Buildings like the warehouses and the Customs house are also fictitious, although the Swan did exist. Our depiction of Hythe as a dark, sinister place full of thieves and murderers and dominated by criminal gangs should in no way be taken as a reflection of Hythe and its inhabitants today.
The remains of the churches of Blackmanstone and Midley can still be seen, though they are considerably more dilapidated than they were two centuries ago; only part of one wall of Midley is still standing. These ruined churches are a feature of Romney Marsh, reminding us of a time when the Marsh was much more populous than it is today.
The so-called Redcliffe Gang received harsh justice. Henry Noakes, John Fisk and four other men were convicted of murder and smuggling at the Maidstone Assizes and were hanged at Penenden Heath near Maidstone in April 1798. Others of the gang were sentenced to long terms of transportation.
Martha Redcliffe was tried separately on a wide range of charges. She refused to testify in her own defence, and observers later recounted that she appeared entirely indifferent to the case against her, sitting for much of the time in court with her arms folded and her eyes closed. Found guilty of murder under the law of joint enterprise, she was hanged two days after her confederates.
The Hoorn was sold at a prize court, the proceeds divided between the officers and crew of the Black Joke and the Stag. The Dutch captain Sloterdyke and his crew were interned in the new prisoner-of-war camp at Norman Cross, near Peterborough, from which they later made a sensational escape.
Lieutenant Newton Stark went on to have a fine career as a commander of light ships in the Royal Navy, serving later in the Mediterranean and the Baltic. He so impressed the Tsar of Russia that the latter gave him a silver-plate breakfast service and a purse of 100 guineas. Captain John Haddock continued to command the Stag and, despite being a Customs officer, became one of the most respected elder citizens of Rye. His gravestone can still be seen in St Mary’s church in the town.
James Martin of the Grasshopper was as good as his word. The fortunes of the East Weald and Ashford Bank were restored, though the Canterbury branch was later sold to a relative of the Cotton family. After consultation, the Lord-Lieutenant of Sussex and Lord Clavertye, the Deputy Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, agreed that although Charles Faversham was certainly guilty, the evidence against him was too weak to stand up in court. No charges were brought against him. Faversham retired from public life and never again showed his face in Rye.
Charlotte Faversham, her spirit unbroken by her ordeal, left what she described – a little harshly – as the ‘atmosphere of perpetual misery’ of the family household, and went back to Shadoxhurst to live with her friend Sissy Munro. Quite what they will do with their futures is anyone’s guess, but as young women of resolution and spirit, they will doubtless find some way to make their mark on the world.
Captain Edward Austen returned to his wife and young family at Godmersham, their house near Canterbury. He writes to the rector from time to time, complaining that life upcountry is nowhere near as interesting as it is down on the Marsh.
After making a killing on the stock market, David Ricardo retired from business to take up a career as a writer. He became of one Britain’s best-known political economists.
The smugglers continue their runs across the Marsh, feeding England’s appetite for gin and vanities. Among those prominent in the gangs around Hythe and Dymchurch is a young man called the Rider, about whom some interesting rumours have begun to circulate. One of these rumours – widely derided as improbable – is that the Rider is actually a woman in disguise.
Eliza Fanscombe (for it is she) is living her dream among the smugglers. Readers of early drafts of this book commented on the moral ambiguity of her character, but she is in fact the stuff of Romantic legend. Goethe and Schiller and in particular Lord Byron would all understand her; she is Byron’s Corsair, in female form. Her prediction about her own fate, if it comes true, will seal her Romantic legend.
Joshua Stemp made a full recovery and soon returned to his old roles of parish constable and smuggler. Ebenezer and Florian Tydde continue to smuggle a little, fish unsuccessfully and be the despair of their mother.
Calpurnia Vane’s novel The Cardinal’s Jewels (written like all her books under the nom de plume Cordelia Hartbourne) was published in early 1798. Sharp-eyed readers wondered about the book’s dedication, ‘To an Anonymous Caledonian Friend’. Not among these was Dr Mackay, who failed to realise that the dedication referred to himself. His courtship of Mrs Vane continues at the same glacial pace.
The rector and Mrs Chaytor will return.
Acknowledgements
Writing is a solitary business, or can be, but at the same time, no writer is ever truly alone. As with our previous novels, a host of people have input into this book in one way or another, and we shall try to mention a few of them here.
On Romney Marsh, Liz Grant at the Romney Marsh Visitor Centre near New Romney has once again been a wonderful adviser and friend, a dispenser of cups of tea and invaluable knowledge about the Marsh. Special thanks also to the Romney Marsh Brewery for their support. We hope you enjoyed the books as much as we did the beer. And thanks too to the Romney, Hythe & Dymchurch Railway for giving us a unique look at the landscape around Dungeness.
Cherie Chapman and Head Design have given the book a splendid cover, one which really captures the atmosphere of Romney Marsh. At Bonnier Zaffre, our thanks go to Kate Parkin for editing the book and giving us so many useful ideas to think about; to Claire Johnson-Creek for seeing the book through production and putting up with our lateness and our foibles; to Jenny Page for a meticulous job of copy-editing; and to Sean Costello for his proofreading skills which enabled him to spot several egregious errors which somehow slipped past us.
Our thanks especially to Gary Beaumont, who accommodated our last-minute request for changes to the map, and to Rachel Richards at Chameleon Studios for all her work on the website.
As always, our warmest thanks go to Heather Adams and Mike Bryan at HMA Literary Agency for all your hard work, advice, support and friendship. And finally, thank you from the bottoms of our hearts to our family and friends and all those who read the first two novels and took the time and trouble to write or call and tell us what they thought about Reverend Hardcastle, Mrs Chaytor and their adventures. Without your enthusiasm and support, these books would not exist.
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Read on for an extract from the first Hardcastle and Chaytor mystery, The Body on the Doorstep.
Available in paperback and ebook now.
1
Death of a Stranger
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.
6th May, 1796.
To the editor of The Morning Post.
Sir,
For the past four years, BRITANNIA has been engaged in a state of continuous warfare against the regicides of the French REPUBLIC and their blood-stained minions. During this time, millions in treasure and thousands of men have been committed to expeditions to Corsica, Toulon, Holland, the Indies; expeditions which have resulted in no other good than the capture of a few small islands. Meanwhile, the coastline of BRITANNIA itself lies naked and open to the enemy . . .
The quill began to splutter. ‘Damn!’ said the rector. He dipped the pen into the silver inkwell sitting on his desk, and began again.
. . . naked and open to the enemy, so close that an invasion fleet might well reach the shores of Kent just A FEW HOURS after setting out from French ports. Yet, not a single shilling has been spent on the protection of the English coast, which is completely defenceless. How long, sir, before His Majesty’s government realises the danger that we face? Must we wait until France’s blood-stained sans-culotte hordes are marching over the fair fields of Kent marching over the fair fields of BRITANNIA itself herself . . .
The fire popped in the grate and a little shower of sparks flew up the chimney. The rector crossed out the entire final sentence and sat back in his chair, muttering to himself. ‘Damn, damn, damn. Not right, no, not right at all. Blast and damn!’