by AJ MacKenzie
He needed inspiration. He dropped the pen, reached for the port bottle that stood beside the inkwell, and upended it. A thin trickle of muddy liquid ran into the bottom of the glass, and stopped.
A sudden rage seized the rector’s clouded mind. ‘Damn!’ he shouted, and he hurled the bottle into the fireplace. It smashed against the fireguard, spraying bits of broken glass onto the parquet floor. A few drops of port lay on the polished wood, glinting like blood in the firelight.
‘Mrs Kemp!’ the rector shouted. ‘Mrs Kemp!’
Waiting a few seconds and receiving no answer, still fulminating over the injustice of the empty bottle, the rector bellowed again. There came a sound of shuffling feet in the hall, and the door of the study opened to reveal a grey-haired woman with a downturned mouth, holding a candlestick. At the sight of the rector, the corners of her mouth turned down still further.
‘For heaven’s sake, will you stop shouting!’ the woman scolded. ‘Don’t you realise it is nearly midnight?’ Then she saw the broken glass around the fire, and raised her hands in despair. ‘Oh, Reverend!’ she said, her own voice rising. ‘Reverend Hardcastle! What have you done now?’
The rector stared at her. Nearly midnight? It had just gone nine in the evening when he sat down at his desk to write his latest letter to The Morning Post. How could three hours have passed? Then he spotted another empty port bottle, and knew a moment of unease.
He rallied quickly. ‘Never mind all that,’ he said brusquely. ‘You can clear up in the morning. Go to the cellar, and fetch me another bottle.’
‘I will do no such thing, Reverend Hardcastle! You have drunk quite enough for one evening!’
‘For God’s sake, woman, you are my housekeeper, not my wife! Go and fetch a bottle, and have done arguing!’
The housekeeper shuffled towards the cellar door and the rector sat behind his desk, both muttering under their breath. The clock in the hall chimed midnight, confirming the hour. The rector yawned suddenly. He considered going to bed and finishing the letter in the morning . . . but then, the housekeeper had just gone to the cellar. It would be a pity if her errand were wasted.
A thunderous noise interrupted his reverie. It took him a moment to realise that someone was knocking on the rectory’s front door; knocking, and with considerable force. He opened his mouth to call Mrs Kemp to answer the door, but remembered she was down in the cellar and would not hear him. Muttering again, he rose to his feet, staggered, recovered, walked steadily to the door, turned into the hallway, over-rotated, bumped into the wall, stopped for the moment to take a deep breath and then walked in a fairly straight line down the hall to the door, weaving just once when he collided with a side table. He reached the door just as the heavy door-knocker thundered again, reverberating in his fume-filled mind like the stroke of doom.
‘Wait a blasted moment!’ shouted the rector, fumbling with the bolts. ‘Look here, whoever you are, don’t you know what time it is? It is after midnight!’ In answer there came more noises, a sharp crack and almost immediately after the heavy thump of something landing hard on the doorstep. Puzzled, the rector drew the last bolt and opened the oak door.
Outside all was very dark. A brisk offshore wind was blowing, roaring in the invisible trees. He peered into the night, remembering vaguely that it was the new moon. His forehead furrowed and he opened his mouth to shout again, for he could see no sign of the man who had knocked at the door and interrupted his writing.
Then he looked down and saw the body on the doorstep, lying slumped almost at his feet. He saw too the blood, pooling darkly on the stone.
Frowning still, not yet fully comprehending what he was seeing, the rector knelt down for a closer look. That action saved his life. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of light at the end of the garden, and in the same instant something tore the air just over his head, so close that he could almost feel it in his hair. From behind came the sound of shattering glass.
Instantly, the rector’s mind was very clear. Someone had shot at him. He knew he had about thirty seconds before the invisible marksman reloaded and fired again. He seized the body by the shoulders and, with a strength that few would have guessed he possessed, dragged it into the hall, slammed the door shut and bolted it. Panting, he stood leaning against the door, listening for another shot or the sound of an intruder approaching the house. His own pistol was in the desk in his study; he wished he had had the forethought to collect it before answering the door.
The housekeeper stood at the far end of the hall, motionless, mouth wide open, holding a broken bottle. Her apron was covered in blood. No, not blood, port; the shot meant for his heart had instead smashed the bottle she was holding as she returned from the cellar. ‘Reverend Hardcastle,’ she whispered.
‘Hush.’ The rector held up a hand, still listening at the door. At first there was silence. Then another shot sounded, then two more in close succession; but these shots were fainter, more distant. The sound seemed to be coming from the east, towards the sea, and he thought at once: smugglers. The gunfire popped and crackled uneasily for about thirty seconds, then died away. Once again all was silent, save for the moaning wind.
Now the rector moved swiftly. He pulled the body into the middle of the hall and took down a lamp from the wall so he could see more clearly. The body was that of a man, young, not more than twenty or so. He was well dressed in a dun brown coat and breeches and darker brown waistcoat, the latter stained with the blood that still bubbled brightly from the hole in his chest.
‘He breathes,’ the housekeeper whispered. She had not moved from where she stood, but she could see the faint rise and fall of the shattered chest in the candlelight.
‘Merciful heavens, so he does.’ The rector knelt by the young man’s head and saw that his eyes were open, and saw too that he was trying to speak. He bent still further, taking the man’s hand in his and feeling a light fluttery pulse in his wrist.
‘Lie still,’ said the rector. ‘We will send for help.’ But even as he spoke he knew it was too late, the pulse was growing slower and fainter and the blood bubbled faster. There were smears of it on the floor where the body had lain when he first dragged it inside. He doubted if the young man even heard him. It was the latter’s last moment of life, and still he strained to speak, yearning to pass a message to the stranger who leaned darkly over him.
‘Tell Peter,’ he breathed, his whispered voice only just audible. ‘Tell Peter . . . mark . . . trace . . .’
The young man exhaled once more and then lay still. His heartbeat flickered to a halt. The rector knelt for a moment longer, then very slowly and with great gentleness and compassion, lifted the man’s lifeless hands and crossed them over his chest, hiding the wound that had ended his young life. Then he bowed his head, and, kneeling there on the bloodstained floor with the wind roaring outside, prayed softly for stranger’s soul.
Don’t miss the second Hardcastle and Chaytor mystery
A twisting tale of murder, mystery and eighteenth-century England
On the frozen fields of Romney Marsh stands New Hall; silent, lifeless, deserted. In its grounds lies an unexpected Christmas offering: a corpse, frozen into the ice of a horse pond.
It falls to the Reverend Hardcastle, justice of the peace in St Mary in the Marsh, to investigate. But with the victim’s identity unknown, no murder weapon and no known motive, it seems like an impossible task. Working along with his trusted friend, Amelia Chaytor, and new arrival Captain Edward Austen, Hardcastle soon discovers there is more to the mystery than there first appeared.
With the arrival of an American family torn apart by war and desperate to reclaim their ancestral home, a French spy returning to the scene of his crimes, ancient loyalties and new vengeance combine to make Hardcastle and Mrs Chaytor’s attempts to discover the secret of New Hall all the more dangerous . . .
Available in paperback and ebook now
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Zaf
fre Publishing
This ebook edition published in 2018 by
ZAFFRE PUBLISHING
80-81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE
www.zaffrebooks.co.uk
Copyright © A.J. MacKenzie, 2018
Cover design by www.headdesign.co.uk
Cover photographs © Steve Oldfield/Alamy Stock Photo (landscape); Shutterstock.com (boat)
The moral right of A.J. MacKenzie to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–7857/6127/0
Paperback ISBN: 978–1–7857/6126/3
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Zaffre Publishing is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre, a Bonnier Publishing company
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