Before Munro could answer, there came the sound of hooves and wheels travelling fast, and an elegant little gig came racing up the drive towards the house. Hardcastle did not need to look at the gig to know that the driver was a woman, or that the groom sitting on the bench beside her was white-faced and clinging on for dear life.
The gig pulled up beside them, the house grooms coming to take both horses and rigs. ‘Welcome, Mrs Chaytor,’ said Munro to the driver. ‘I say, that’s a splendid little mare you have there. Does she run?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Chaytor, the driver of the gig, smiling and patting the horse on the flank. ‘She flies. She is called Asia; I bought her last month in Tenterden. I am very proud of her.’
‘And you are now more likely than ever to break your neck in a driving accident,’ the rector said to her. He and Mrs Chaytor were near neighbours in St Mary, and friends. She smiled at him, and then took the arm Munro offered as they passed into the house. Hardcastle and Calpurnia followed, he ignoring the meaningful looks cast at him by his sister.
‘I must thank you again for all your help in arranging the music for my dear wife’s birthday,’ said Munro to his companion.
‘It was nothing,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘The summer season always brings the best musicians out of London to escape the heat. I knew Mr Salomon and his orchestra were in Kent, and Mrs Mara too, and it was a simple matter to write to them. And it is good to do something for Cecilia, after all her kindnesses to me.’
‘And here she is,’ said Munro. ‘Now, not a word, any of you, about the music. It is a surprise.’
A small, pretty woman with a fine-featured face, plumply pregnant in a long, loose-flowing robe, came up and took Mrs Chaytor’s hands. ‘Oh, my dear Amelia! How simply splendid to see you! And Reverend Hardcastle, and Mrs Vane! My darling Hector has invited all of my dearest friends! Oh, I am quite overwhelmed.’
‘Happy birthday, my dear,’ said Hardcastle, smiling. He was very fond of Cecilia Munro; everyone was. Her husband watched her proudly. Hardcastle did not know him well, but approved of what he knew. Like his father-in-law, Maudsley, Munro was a partner in the local East Weald and Ashford Bank, and seemed solid and reliable. There was no doubt that he adored his wife.
They passed into the hall, already crowded with people. One of the oldest parts of the building, it was normally rather gloomy, but today it was bright with garlands and bunting and masses of late-blooming flowers. Frederick Maudsley came through the press, bluff and cheerful as ever, bowing to the ladies and clapping Hardcastle on the shoulder. ‘How are you, old fellow? Capital to see you, as always. Come and have a drink.’
‘A small glass,’ said Hardcastle.
Maudsley turned to look for a servant. Calpurnia had already been swallowed up by a little group of women, and Hardcastle could hear her talking about her latest book. He looked at Mrs Chaytor. ‘It was good of you to come,’ he said.
She seldom accepted social invitations of any kind, especially formal ones. ‘I could not refuse her invitation,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I spoke truly about her kindnesses. Why did you come?’
‘Calpurnia insisted. It was a case of anything for a quiet life.’
She smiled. ‘Hector has worked very hard,’ she said. ‘Most of the district seems to have turned out. Indeed, there is Edward Austen.’
‘Austen?’ The rector peered across the room. ‘I’ve not seen him for ages.’
‘That is unsurprising. He has a young family, an estate to run and his duties as a captain of Volunteers; I do not expect he has much time to call his own. The lady with him must be his wife. If you will forgive me, I must go and be introduced to her.’
‘I don’t expect she gets out much either,’ the rector said.
*
She was right about the turnout; there were fifty people or more in the hall and drawing room, a fine testament to the regard people had for Cecilia Munro. The rain was clearing away now, and the tall windows had been opened to take advantage of the afternoon sunshine. Let us hope they remain open during the performance, Hardcastle thought; otherwise the players may have to overcome the sounds of snoring from some of the audience. Not all the company looked as if they appreciated fine music as much as their hostess did.
A servant brought him a glass of punch. Freddie Woodford, rector of Ashford and an old friend, hailed him. ‘Hardcastle, old fellow! Come and join us. Gentlemen, this old reprobate you see before you is the Reverend Marcus Hardcastle, rector of St Mary and a justice of the peace in Romney Marsh.’
‘Temporary justice of the peace,’ Hardcastle corrected. ‘I took on the post as a favour for Lord Clavertye after Fanscombe’s . . . untimely departure last summer. I’m still waiting for him to find a permanent replacement.’
‘You may be waiting a while,’ said Woodford. ‘Too good at your job, old fellow, that’s the problem. Do you know everyone here? This is Cranthorpe, our solicitor in Ashford, and this young dandy is Ricardo, down from London.’
‘I imagine that between the smugglers and the French spies, being a JP on Romney Marsh is a busy occupation,’ said Ricardo. He was hardly a dandy; his dress was sober, though expensive.
‘At present, the spies seem to be more numerous than the smugglers,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Much of my time over the past year has been spent chasing spies and rumours of spies. I fear our proximity to the French shore makes them overly bold. As for the smugglers, I leave them alone and they leave me alone.’
They all turned as Hector Munro joined them. ‘Ah, here he is,’ said Cranthorpe. He was a big, bluff man in his early forties, both face and paunch showing signs of high living. ‘The very model of uxoriousness! Surely now, Munro, you have made a rod for the back of every husband in the district. We shall all have to work very hard to impress our own wives in future.’
The others agreed. ‘Aye, that’s your lookout,’ said Munro in his soft Edinburgh accent. ‘There’s no man alive will prevent me from spoiling my dear wife if I choose. So, gentlemen, what is the news? Has anything more been heard from Lille?’
The entire county, indeed the entire country, was hanging on events in Lille across the water in France, where the British diplomat Lord Malmesbury was meeting with French negotiators, hoping to bring the four-year war to an end. ‘Do any of us think his lordship will meet with much luck in Lille?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘I certainly hope so. I for one should like to be able to gaze out to sea without expecting to see a French armada on the horizon.’
The stockbroker, Ricardo, responded with a wry laugh. ‘Even if he returns with peace treaty in hand, the government will have to hope that the French also cease stirring up trouble in Ireland, if we are to see any real peace. The Irish and other troublemakers with revolutionary sympathies were certainly behind the mutinies in the navy last spring, at Spithead and the Nore. And all this uncertainty about French intentions is making for jitters in the market.’
‘Ah, but uncertainty also makes for good profits in the market, does it not?’ asked Munro, smiling. ‘A financial genius such as yourself should look on these events as an opportunity.’
Ricardo bowed. ‘Those who have the right contacts and sources of news will do well, perhaps,’ he said, smiling in return. ‘But what of the banks? They don’t like uncertainty either. They are so rattled they are issuing paper £1 banknotes instead of gold sovereigns. Is it true that your own bank has begun to do so, Munro?’
‘Small-value paper money is more convenient than coin,’ said Munro. ‘The banks will get used to it, and so will the country. And now, Ricardo, let us stop boring my guests with talk of banking. Is anyone going to the races at Canterbury next week?’
*
‘Austen. Very good to see you. And you too, Mrs Austen.’ Tall and aristocratic, wigged and elegant in a fashionably cut coat and breeches, the speaker bowed.
‘Mr Faversham,’ said Edward Austen. He was a tall man in his late twenties, with a cheerful face and an air of reliability. His voice was not exactly ful
l of enthusiasm. The three of them, Austen, his wife Elizabeth and Mrs Chaytor, had been having a cosy chat about the time, years ago, when Austen had called on Mrs Chaytor and her husband in Paris. Mrs Chaytor had been recounting some of his exploits that summer, to the amusement of his wife.
‘May I present Mrs Chaytor, from St Mary in the Marsh?’ said Austen.
‘Charles Faversham,’ said the other man, bowing again. He had an affected voice of a kind Mrs Chaytor knew well, and disliked; his name came out as Chawles Fevashem. ‘An honour to meet you, ma’am. May I present my wife, Anne? My son Grebell; my daughter Charlotte. And this is Mr Stone, from London.’
‘And what do you do in London, Mr Stone?’ asked Mrs Austen.
‘I am a banker, ma’am, with Martin, Stone and Foote,’ said Stone. He was young and keen, very smartly dressed. The same could not be said for Grebell Faversham; he had red hair and slightly protuberant brown eyes, and wore a purple brocade coat that Mrs Chaytor thought one of the most vulgar things she had seen in some time.
‘I very much fear, ladies, that you have fallen among bankers,’ said Faversham, smiling. ‘I too am in the profession, as is my son.’
‘I would expect little else in Mr Maudsley’s house, when both he and his son-in-law are also bankers,’ said Mrs Chaytor, smiling in return. ‘And on the subject of money, how is the Restriction Act affecting your business?’
There was a short silence as the men reacted to her question. Charles Faversham blinked; his son simply stared at her. George Stone recovered first.
‘We are managing to work within the confines of the new laws,’ he said. ‘We trust that the restriction will not be of prolonged duration.’
‘For your sake, gentlemen, I hope so. The currency is no longer backed by gold. This must be affecting confidence, in the markets and among the populace.’
‘Oh, indeed, ma’am,’ said Charles Faversham. ‘But these little ups and downs are all part of the everyday world of business for we men of money. The modern bank is designed to withstand such vagaries. You may be assured that the banks will weather this storm, as they have weathered many others.’
‘Truly it is remarkable to find a lady such as yourself interested in business and banking,’ said Grebell. He was still staring at her. He was in his mid-twenties, only a half-dozen years her junior, but he seemed younger.
‘Perhaps your husband or father was in banking?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Mrs Chaytor said. ‘But I do think it desirable to understand the institutions who control our money. You hold the future prosperity of your clients in your hands.’
Grebell looked at her even more intently. His father had turned away and was talking to Austen; his mother was chatting with Mrs Austen about her latest baby. ‘You are right,’ the young man said. ‘Ma’am, I feel sure that your opinions on such matters would be valuable to a man of business such as myself. Would you be so kind as to allow me—’
He got no further before he was interrupted by his sister, an effervescent young woman with red hair and sparkling eyes and what seemed to be an extraordinary number of teeth. Mrs Chaytor got the impression that she was used to interrupting her older brother. ‘Oh, ma’am, you come from St Mary in the Marsh; do you know the famous authoress, Cordelia Hartbourne?’
This was Calpurnia Vane’s nom de plume. ‘I know her very well,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Indeed, she is here tonight.’
‘Oh, Mrs Chaytor! I simply adore her books. I would be so honoured if you felt able to introduce me to her.’
Mrs Chaytor smiled. ‘I should be delighted to do so. But perhaps at the interval? I see the musicians are coming in.’
*
The musicians were indeed coming in, a dozen of them led by Johann Peter Salomon, the doyen of orchestral conductors in London, and with them a tall woman in a dark gown and headdress of swan’s feathers, the renowned German soprano Elisabeth Mara. Silence fell around the room. Cecilia Munro sat in a chair, her eyes enormous and round with astonishment, one hand resting on her belly, the other clapped to her open mouth.
Hector Munro came to stand beside her, smiling down at her. ‘My dear wife is aptly named,’ he said. ‘Cecilia, the patron saint of music, has clearly touched her, for music is her great love . . . though I very much hope that I can at least claim second place in her affections,’ he added, to laughter in the room. ‘As you know, in her condition she cannot travel to hear the music she loves. So, with the aid of a few affectionate friends,’ and his eye fell on Mrs Chaytor, ‘we have brought the music to her.’
Applause, and Salomon lifted his baton and the music began. They played Handel and Purcell and Arne, the music flowing like a soft river through the room, sweeping them all along. Hardcastle’s fears were unfounded; country solicitors and clerks and yeomen and their wives the guests might mostly be, but they sat straight in their chairs and listened, absorbed. And when Elisabeth Mara sang, in a voice of pure liquid gold, holding each note and letting it sigh into the flower-scented air, they held their breath. The applause at the interval was rapturous.
Outside the light was dimming a little; the servants were lighting candles, and little sparkling points of flame blossomed among the flowers around the room. Nervous and excited, Miss Charlotte Faversham was duly introduced to her heroine. Mrs Chaytor left Charlotte and Calpurnia to talk of the delights of the Gothic novel, and moved to join Hardcastle beside the terrace doors.
There was another man with him. ‘Mrs Chaytor, may I present to you Mr Ricardo, from London?’
‘Your servant, ma’am.’ Ricardo bowed gracefully. He was a likeable young man, immensely self-possessed in a way that young Mr Faversham could only dream of, she thought. This one has confidence; the other merely has bumptiousness.
‘And how was London when you left, Mr Ricardo?’
‘Hot and humid, ma’am. My wife and I were grateful for the excuse to leave.’
‘Are you staying with Mr Maudsley?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘No; with relations of my wife, who have a house near Canterbury. And yourself, Mrs Chaytor?’
‘I live close by, in Romney Marsh. I am one of Reverend Hardcastle’s parishioners. What is your connection with the Munros, Mr Ricardo?’
‘I’ve known Mr Munro for some time, since before he came down from Edinburgh. And the East Weald and Ashford Bank have recently become one of my clients. Thanks to Mr Munro, I have been appointed the bank’s stockbroker.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Chaytor. She peered at him. ‘You don’t much look like a stockbroker.’
‘You mean, I don’t have port wine cheeks and a chequered waistcoat?’ said Ricardo, smiling. ‘Perhaps with time these things will come to me, but I am relatively new to the business.’
‘Then you must have considerable skill,’ observed Hardcastle. ‘The bank is unlikely to have entrusted you with its affairs, unless it was certain of your abilities.’
Ricardo bowed. ‘You are kind, sir. I have some years of experience working with my father; I meant to say that I have only recently struck out on my own. But I am sure neither of you is remotely interested in talking about finance.’
‘You would be surprised to learn what interests Reverend Hardcastle,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘And how do you find the East Weald and Ashford Bank? Are they not a little provincial, after the excitement and hurly-burly of the City?’
‘I don’t mind provincial things,’ said Ricardo. ‘I actually quite like the quiet life.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Tell me, if you will. Are either of you clients of the East Weald and Ashford?’
‘No, not I,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I bank with Hoare’s.’
‘So do we all,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘but very few of us ever realise it.’
Both men looked at her. She smiled benignly back. ‘My affairs also are in London. Why do you ask, Mr Ricardo?’
‘It is of no great matter,’ said Ricardo, still looking at her wryly. ‘I was merely curious to meet some clients of my clients, if you take my meaning. It i
s of no account. What do you make of the music? I must say, Madame Mara is in fine voice this evening.’
*
Dr Mackay, physician of New Romney, made his way through the press of people looking for interval refreshment. Conversation and laughter washed around him in the candlelight. He scanned the crowd, looking for the one person who mattered to him.
He found her, for once on her own, by the windows where the soft evening air flowed in from the terrace. ‘Good evening to you, Mrs Vane,’ he said in his soft Scots accent, bowing.
‘Why, good evening, doctor! I have been having such a delightful talk with young Miss Faversham. So wonderful to meet one’s readers, and know that one has touched their lives. This is a very pleasant soirée, is it not? Such a fine house, and such distinguished company.’
‘And the music is splendid,’ said the doctor.
‘Oh, it is simply heavenly. Mr Salomon’s orchestra is reputed to be the finest in London.’
‘They are living up to their reputation,’ agreed the doctor. He hesitated for a moment. ‘May I be so bold as to congratulate you, ma’am, on the success of your latest novel? I am told The Lighthouse of Vavassal has become the most talked-about book in Town.’
Calpurnia beamed at him. ‘Dear doctor, you are too kind. My little tale has been fortunate to enjoy some modest success. It has not quite achieved the fame of my first book, Rodolpho, A Tale of Love and Liberty, but nevertheless, I am pleased. Have you read it?’
Mackay flushed. ‘I . . . I confess I have not. I’m not really a—’
‘Then I shall send you a copy as soon as I return home. Inscribed to you personally, of course. And you must tell me what you think of it.’
The doctor bowed. ‘And are you writing another novel, ma’am?’
‘Why, yes. It is to be called The Cardinal’s Jewels. It is a tale of lust, greed and revenge, set in Rome. There is a great deal of popery in it, but I trust my readers will understand that with any story set in Rome, popery is something of a necessity.’ She launched at once into a description of the plot. The doctor listened, his face a mixture of admiration and mild horror.
The Body in the Boat Page 2
