The Body on the Doorstep Page 3

  *

  ‘Wool-gathering, Reverend?’ asked a woman’s voice.

  The rector collected himself and turned and bowed to the woman who stood on the footpath ten feet away. She was tall, in her early thirties, wearing a short grey coat. A green and white bonnet covered her dark brown hair and framed a slightly thin face, made pleasing by blue eyes with long delicate lashes and a dimple at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. She was smiling now.

  ‘It was a joke,’ she said. She had a light voice and spoke with very little inflection and just the merest hint of a fashionable drawl, which made it hard to tell what she was really thinking. ‘You were gazing at the sheep. Gathering wool.’

  ‘I beg your pardon most humbly, Mrs Chaytor,’ said the rector. ‘My mind was indeed far away. You are going for a walk?’

  She wore sturdy brown boots and carried a light blackthorn walking stick in her hand, so this was not a difficult deduction. ‘I thought of walking down to the sea,’ she said. ‘Do I perceive that you have just come from there?’ When he looked at her, she added, ‘There is sand on the hem of your coat.’

  ‘Oh!’ Hardcastle bent automatically to brush it off, collecting his thoughts. He did not know Mrs Chaytor well. She had moved into the village last year, taking a pleasant house and living, so far as anyone knew, a blameless life. She had given out that she was a widow, but said little else about herself. In other villages, a woman of marriageable age living on her own would have been a source of gossip, but most people in St Mary had secrets, and she was allowed to keep hers undisturbed. She did not attend church, but then neither did anyone else in the parish, so the rector bore her no particular animosity on that account.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, straightening. ‘It seemed a pleasant day for a stroll by the sea.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said, and her smiled faded. ‘Reverend Hardcastle, I have heard the news. It must have been a terrible shock for you.’

  He looked at her again, and realised she was talking about the death last night. Of course, it would be all over the village by now. Morley’s housekeeper must have talked, or perhaps Fanscombe’s servants; the justice of the peace’s household ran to gossip like dogs run to fleas. ‘I fear my housekeeper is suffering the blow most of all,’ he said. ‘She is a peaceful soul who hates violence. Let us hope things settle down quickly, and we can put this dreadful business behind us.’

  It was her turn to look at him; she recognised a platitude when she heard one. ‘Is it known who the man was?’

  ‘Not at all. His pockets were entirely empty, and there was no clue about his clothing or his person. We are completely in the dark.’

  She arched her eyebrows. ‘His pockets were empty? How curious. I wonder who emptied them, and why?’

  ‘A very excellent question,’ said the rector, bowing and thinking, another one. Mrs Chaytor regarded him, her blue eyes perplexed. ‘Why do you suppose he knocked at your door in particular?’

  ‘The lamp was still lit in my study,’ said the rector. ‘I expect he saw the lighted window, and made for that.’ He paused, and then to his own faint surprise added, ‘Also, the rectory was the nearest house. I found tracks this morning, indicating that he and his pursuer had both come from the west. They crossed the churchyard and then entered my garden, you see. The poor lad was shot just as he knocked at my door.’

  ‘My goodness . . . When was this?’

  ‘Midnight. Just a minute or so after, to be precise.’

  ‘Why, then it must have happened at about the same time as the shooting down towards the bay.’ Her blue eyes regarded him. ‘Did you hear it?’

  His ears began to tingle again. Not one but two other witnesses had now confirmed that his hearing had not betrayed him. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘I have just come from the bay myself.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And you are planning to walk there now?’

  ‘I am.’

  There was a wealth of meaning in her short answers. He thought of giving her the same warning he had passed to Turner, then hesitated. She had lived here long enough to know the risks, and in his limited experience of her, she seemed a woman who knew her own mind and would do exactly as she pleased in any case. ‘Then I wish you good day,’ he said bowing again, and she smiled and moved past him down the path. He gazed after her for a moment, but then remembered his thirst.

  *

  The village of St Mary in the Marsh was strung out along the road that ran from New Romney north up to Dymchurch, surrounded by fields full of sheep. The church and the rectory lay on opposite sides of the road, at the north end of the village and a little detached from it. To the south, set back from the road and surrounded by parkland, was New Hall, the home of Fanscombe, the local squire and justice of the peace, and his family. The rest of the village consisted of a series of thatched or tile-roofed cottages, a few pleasant larger houses, one of which belonged to the doctor and one of which, Sandy House, was rented by Mrs Chaytor. There was the usual range of village services: bakery, forge, wash-house and a few shops and workshops. At the centre of the village was a white-washed two-storey structure with a sign creaking on hinges over the main door. The sign showed a rather crudely painted white star on a black background.

  The rector ducked through the low doorway of the inn into the common room, and a handful of men sitting and smoking pipes and drinking looked up at him, eyes keen with curiosity. Clearly they too had heard the news. He bowed to them, silently, and they waved their hands and went back to their conversation and pipes. Bessie, the landlord’s bright-eyed daughter, came smiling to take his coat and hat. He had always thought of Bessie as a rather sweet girl, but after his conversation with Turner he saw her in a rather different light. ‘Are you all right, Reverend?’ she asked in a voice of gentle concern. ‘That was a dreadful thing that happened.’

  ‘I’ll be better still, my dear, once I’ve a mug of beer in me,’ said the rector, shrugging off his coat. Behind the bar her father was already pouring a large tankard of small beer; he slid this over the counter to the rector, who pushed a few coins back.

  ‘Been out for a walk, sir?’ asked the landlord.

  None of the other customers were in earshot. ‘Just down to St Mary’s Bay. Saw that painter fellow down there, Turner. Do you know him?’

  He had his mug to his lips, and he nearly choked when Bessie thumped him on the back with a broom handle. ‘So sorry, Reverend,’ the girl said sweetly. ‘Could you move along just a little so I can sweep up? There’s a good gentleman.’

  The rector caught the warning look in her eyes and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen his pictures? They’re really rather good.’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ said Luckhurst. ‘Don’t know much about painting myself.’

  The rector drained the mug and passed it across to be refilled. ‘I’m sorry about that business of yours last night,’ said Luckhurst, filling the mug from a cask and passing it back. ‘That must have been something of a trial for you.’

  The rector mumbled a response, face buried in his mug. ‘Any idea who he was, sir?’ asked Luckhurst, carefully.

  ‘Not at all. He had no papers, nothing to identify him. And he was stone dead by the time I found him, poor fellow, so there was nothing he could tell me.’ Each time he repeated it, the lie became easier to tell. The rector wondered if he would soon start to believe it himself.

  He decided to chance his arm a little. ‘I wondered at first if there was some connection with the run last night,’ he said, pushing his mug back for a second refilling. ‘You heard about that?’

  ‘I did,’ said Luckhurst soberly. ‘That was a bad business.’ He gestured around the common room. ‘Reckon that’s why things are a bit quiet today. Folk are keeping their heads down.’

  ‘Oh?’ said the rector, raising his eyebrows.

  Luckhurst nodded. ‘They’re saying a Customs man was killed, stone dead. They took his body down to New Romney, and he’s lying there now.’

  �
�Customs?’ said the rector, blinking. ‘I heard it was the Excise that were out last night.’

  ‘No, this was definitely a Customs man. Jack Hoad came up from New Romney this morning with the news. It’s a bad business,’ the landlord reiterated. ‘The government don’t mind a few broken bones, but they take it serious when a Preventive man gets killed. This will be reported to the lord-lieutenant, I should think.’

  The rector thought about this. The Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, the Duke of Dorset, cared for very little except cricket and women, and was unlikely to stir himself over this matter. In practice, responsibility for any investigation would devolve on his deputy, Lord Clavertye. Hardcastle knew His Lordship well; among other things, Clavertye was patron of the living of St Mary in the Marsh; it was thanks to his influence that the rector held his present post. Clavertye was a bit puffed up with himself, these days, but he had a sharp mind.

  ‘It will depend on what verdict the coroner’s inquest brings in,’ he said slowly. ‘If they find it was unlawful killing, then I expect you are right. Does anyone know how this unfortunate fellow met his end?’

  Luckhurst looked around the room. The men, heads over their mugs of beer and cups of gin, looked silently back; they were of course listening to every word. ‘Not a blessed thing,’ said the landlord. ‘He was shot, that’s all I’ve heard. The affray wasn’t much to tell about apart from that. The lads got their cargo ashore up towards Dymchurch, and were just about to move off the beach when the Preventives appeared. There were only a few shots fired; the Preventives were outnumbered and gave way. That’s about all there is.’

  Damn and blast, thought the rector. There it was again; just when he had it settled in his mind that the firing had come from near St Mary’s Bay, up popped this rumour of Dymchurch once more. But could it be dismissed as rumour? Luckhurst had probably been out on the run last night, which was why his daughter had felt bold enough to entertain a lover in her bedroom. What he was hearing came from the horse’s mouth.

  He sat silent over his beer, brooding and trying to make the facts fit with each other. This they resolutely refused to do.

  *

  The door of the common room opened and shut and a man moved up to the bar beside the rector; a big man, much more stout than himself, balding with brown hair and red flabby cheeks above his white stock and big, meaty hands. He looked as if he had had a sleepless night; his eyes, small and bright, were rimmed with red.

  ‘Mr Blunt,’ said Luckhurst in a carefully neutral voice. ‘Always a pleasure to see you, sir. What can I get you?’

  ‘Pale ale,’ said the head of the Customs service in Romney Marsh. He had a loud rasping voice which he seldom bothered to moderate. His eyes swept the room. ‘Bit quiet today, ain’t it, Luckhurst?’

  ‘It’s Saturday, sir. A lot of folk are at market in New Romney. Rest are out in the fields, or the boats.’

  Blunt grunted and took his drink. Hardcastle noticed that he made no move to pay for it. The other men in the room were talking in low voices, pretending to take no interest but watching the Customs man out of the corners of their eyes.

  ‘Bad business last night, sir,’ said Luckhurst, wiping the counter with a cloth. ‘I was sorry to hear about that poor fellow of yours. Is it known what happened?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He looked at the rector. ‘I heard you had a bit of bother too, rector. I trust you came to no harm yourself?’

  Hardcastle knew Blunt – everyone on the coast did – and thought him detestable. Blunt was an uncivilised brute, big, boorish and bullying. To save himself from having to reply Hardcastle took a deep drink from his mug, waving his hand as if to signify that the matter was of no account. Blunt at once lost interest in him and turned back to the landlord.

  ‘People are asking questions about last night, sir,’ said Luckhurst quietly. ‘They’re saying a Customs man was killed.’

  ‘Tell them to mind their own god-damned business.’

  ‘That won’t do no good, Mr Blunt. Every tongue from here to New Romney is already wagging like a dog’s tail,’ said the landlord, mixing his metaphors, ‘and rumours are flying thick as feathers.’

  ‘Look here, Luckhurst,’ snapped the Customs man. ‘This is a Customs matter, do you understand me? You and the rest of these god-damned peasants will stay out of it, or else face the consequences. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Very clear, sir. But that won’t stop the rumours.’

  ‘The rumours are bollocks. Ignore them.’

  ‘Are they? Some of the stories seem pretty believable, Mr Blunt. For example, some folk are saying that the Twelve Apostles are back.’

  Blunt had half turned away from the bar, but now he turned back to face the landlord squarely. His beefy face had set hard as stone, and his hands clenched a little. He glanced at Hardcastle, but the rector was nodding over his beer mug, eyes closed. ‘Forget about the Twelve Apostles,’ the Customs man said in a low voice. ‘Don’t ever mention that name in public, do you hear? That lot are gone and are never coming back. Savvy?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Luckhurst after a long pause.

  ‘Good. Then I’ll be on my way.’ The door opened and closed once more; outside, they heard the clatter of hooves as the Customs man rode away. Luckhurst muttered under his breath.

  ‘Mr Blunt seemed in a bad temper,’ observed the rector in his most neutral voice.

  ‘He’s never in any other kind of temper,’ Luckhurst grumbled. He shook his head. ‘I know what I heard. The Twelve Apostles went away, but that doesn’t mean they’re not coming back. And I reckon they are back.’

  ‘Who might the Twelve Apostles be, Tim?’

  ‘They’re a gang that used to operate on this coast. You know. Free-traders.’ Luckhurst shot the rector a glance. ‘Not from around here, but they operated here. So people said, anyway.’

  ‘I see,’ said the rector mildly. ‘And Mr Blunt has something against them?’

  ‘Maybe so. Or maybe they have something against him. I’ve heard it said both ways.’ Luckhurst looked up sharply at this point, suddenly aware that he might have said too much. He turned and went down into the cellar, and Bessie tapped the rector on the shoulder.

  ‘Time for your luncheon, Reverend. Unless you want a scolding from Mrs Kemp for arriving late? I thought not. I’ll help you with your coat. Stand up, now, there’s a good gentleman.’

  *

  The rector walked slowly home, where he ate his luncheon of cold beef with a tankard of claret and thought about what he had heard. Dr Morley had been right; there had indeed been a skirmish involving Excise men up towards Dymchurch. However, he, Turner and Mrs Chaytor had also heard firing coming from the direction of St Mary’s Bay. Blunt’s men had also been out, and had lost a man. Had the Customs men been involved in a second, quite separate incident? One that Blunt was unwilling to talk about?

  It was entirely possible. The Preventive men, charged with stopping the smuggling trade, were divided into two separate services: Customs, which collected duties on all imported goods, and Excise, which collected taxes on all goods of certain categories such as liquor and tobacco, regardless of provenance. In theory they worked together against the free-traders. In practice the heads of the two services in the Marsh, Blunt of the Customs and Juddery of the Excise, hated each other passionately and never worked together if they could help it.

  If both services had men out on the Marsh last night, they would have been operating independently. It now looked as if, at about the same time, both had run into parties of smugglers and come under fire.

  Very well, he thought, where does that get me? He had solved the puzzle of the gunfire, but he was no closer to knowing who the dead man was, or what his dying words meant.

  He was tired now, and it was time to stop thinking. The rector rose and went into his study, where a little smile crossed his face. There, sitting on his desk on a silver tray, was an open bottle of port with a napkin around its neck, and a single glass.

 
‘Mrs Kemp,’ he said aloud, ‘You are a queen among women.’

  An hour later the rector lay stretched out on the chaise longue before the study window, bathed in sunshine and surrounded by an aura of port fumes, fast asleep.

  4

  Unwelcome Visitors

  ‘Behold,’ said Lord Clavertye, raising one hand and pointing in dramatic fashion, ‘the most advanced system of communication yet devised by man!’

  ‘What about woman?’ said Amelia Chaytor, but she said it under her breath and not even Captain Shaw of the militia, her nearest neighbour, heard the words. She stood with her gloved hands clasped together, the wind tugging at her hat and pulling out stray curls of brown hair; every so often she moved impatiently to tuck these back in again. Clavertye prosed on, describing the workings of the semaphore system in exacting, ear-aching detail.

  She looked up at the semaphore station, a tower about thirty feet high with a rectangular frame containing six large wooden shutters arranged in two vertical rows. Really, she thought, it is all quite simple. Each shutter can be opened or closed, and each pattern of closed shutters symbolises a word, a letter of the alphabet or a number; not unlike the flag system used by the navy. A man in the distance watches with a telescope, notes down the patterns and decodes them into a message, then uses his own semaphore station to pass the message on. The system could be described completely in about two minutes. Clavertye has been talking for nearly half an hour. The man used to be a barrister, but even so!

  ‘And so,’ said the Deputy Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, ‘this is the first in a chain of fifteen semaphore stations that will soon connect London directly with the Channel coast. I invite you to consider this. The fastest courier, riding post and changing horses every ten miles, will still take four or five hours to reach London. But with this system, should the French attempt a landing in Kent, His Majesty’s government in Whitehall will know about it within a mere fifteen minutes!’