The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  The rector shook himself out of his reverie. ‘I imagine you can guess. How did Hector Munro end up in a boat in the Channel? And who killed him there, and why?’

  ‘Did he die in the boat?’ she asked. ‘Or was he killed somewhere else, and his body put in the boat and left to drift?’

  He thought about this. ‘It’s a good point. Stemp says that if the boat had been dragged back out by the tide, it might never have been seen again. Perhaps someone wanted Munro to disappear completely.’

  ‘It is hard to know which is worse,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For his wife and family. Which is worse: to know what has happened to one’s loved one, or never to know, and always wonder if he will return? To have vain hope, or no hope at all?’

  He was silent at this. A cuckoo called from the woods. ‘Have you any ideas?’ she asked.

  ‘Some . . . By chance, when we were at Magpie Court the other evening, I overheard part of a conversation between Munro and Maudsley. Munro spoke of going away on business. Maudsley tried to dissuade him, saying it was too dangerous.’

  ‘Ah. Any idea what that business might be?’

  ‘None, I am afraid . . . No, that is not quite true. Munro mentioned the Grasshopper. If the Grasshopper finds out, he said, there will be hell to pay.’

  ‘The Grasshopper? Meaning the bank?’

  ‘I assume so.’ For reasons that were lost in antiquity, the London merchant bank of Martin, Stone and Foote was universally known as the Grasshopper. ‘I assume further that there is some sort of connection between that bank and the East Weald and Ashford, and that the latter are involved in something they do not wish the Grasshopper to know about.’

  Mrs Chaytor thought for a moment. ‘Mr Stone from the Grasshopper was at the soirée at Magpie Court, and seemed on good terms with Mr Faversham and Mr Munro. But I don’t suppose that is terribly surprising. Banking is a shadowy business. I’m sure the Grasshopper has its secrets too.’

  ‘That may be so. But there was an urgency to the conversation that made me think they were discussing more than just a straightforward business relationship.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Chaytor. She paused for a moment. ‘While we are speaking of the East Weald and Ashford Bank, may I raise another matter with you? Yesterday I had a rather odd conversation with Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper.’

  ‘Does one have any other kind of conversation with them?’

  ‘Tut-tut. They are your most loyal parishioners. No, they asked, in a most elliptical way, the same question Mr Ricardo asked; that is, whether I had any of my money with the East Weald and Ashford.’

  ‘Don’t tell me they too are thinking of taking up stockbroking.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past either of them. To be serious, they are rather concerned. You will recall that the husband of Miss Roper’s niece is a senior clerk with the East India Company in London. The niece, in her last letter to Miss Roper, made an allusion to the health of country banks, such as the East Weald and Ashford. Miss Roper in particular was all aflutter. It transpires that they have virtually all their money with the bank. Should it go down, they would be destitute.’

  They were trotting on towards Shadoxhurst now, the morning heat rising around them. The rector wiped his brow. ‘If I understood correctly, Munro and Maudsley were discussing some sort of deal that had gone wrong. Whatever that is, I very much doubt the bank itself is at risk. The East Weald and Ashford is one of the largest and best-funded country banks in England; and they are partnered with the Grasshopper, the most powerful merchant bank in London. I cannot imagine the ladies have anything to fear.’

  ‘It would be a kindness if you would tell them so. They trust you.’

  ‘I know, and thank you for informing me. I shall try to find a way of reassuring them.’ Ahead, the gatehouse of Magpie Court came into view. ‘Amelia, thank you for coming. I know this will not be easy for you.’

  ‘I am not the one who matters,’ she said quietly. ‘Not now.’

  *

  ‘Hardcastle, what a pleasant surprise! And Mrs Chaytor too, welcome, my dear. Capital to see you both. Sit down, sit down. Is it too early for a glass of madeira?’

  Hardcastle sat, uncomfortably. Mrs Chaytor sat down too, straight-backed with her gloved hands clasped in her lap, silent. Outside the lead-paned windows of the library, the sun poured across the garden. The warmth and beauty of the scene mocked them. ‘I am sorry, Maudsley,’ the rector said. ‘I must tell you that I am here in a professional capacity.’

  He watched Maudsley’s smile fade. ‘Oh? As a clergyman, or as a justice of the peace?’

  ‘Both, I fear.’ Hardcastle reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch and handed it across. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  Maudsley went very still. ‘That is Hector’s watch.’

  ‘Then that removes all doubt. It grieves me to tell you this, but Hector Munro’s body was found near St Mary in the Marsh early this morning.’

  He watched the blood drain from Maudsley’s face. ‘Oh, dear God,’ he said faintly. He continued to stare at the watch for a few moments, and then forced himself to look up at Hardcastle. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ll know for certain when the assistant coroner provides his report. But it would appear that he was shot dead. His body was found in a boat, floating in the Channel.’

  Maudsley raised a hand to his face, covering his eyes. ‘Dear God,’ he said again. ‘Dear God.’

  ‘Believe me when I say how truly sorry I am,’ said the rector. ‘I met him several times, as you know. I formed an impression of a kind and generous man and a loving husband.’

  ‘Oh, God. Poor Sissy. She must be told . . . I don’t think I can do this alone. Will you . . . will you come with me, Hardcastle?’

  Hardcastle inclined his head. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I will come also,’ said Mrs Chaytor quietly. ‘That is why I am here.’

  ‘But before we go to her, there are a few things I must ask you,’ said Hardcastle. Maudsley nodded dumbly. ‘When did Hector depart?’

  ‘Two days ago,’ said Maudsley. Speaking was a visible effort. ‘Wednesday morning, I think. Yes, that’s right.’

  Today was Friday. ‘Was it bank business that took him away?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was . . . some investment he was trying to put together. I don’t know much about it, Hardcastle. I don’t take much interest in the bank’s affairs, as you know.’

  ‘Do you know where he was going?’

  ‘London, I believe,’ said Maudsley. He had gone very pale. Hardcastle rose and crossed to the side cabinet, unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured a stiff measure, handing it to Maudsley. Mrs Chaytor sat still as a statue.

  Maudsley drank, and a little colour came back into his face. ‘London,’ he said again. ‘I’m positive it was London he was going to. Oh, God . . .’ Maudsley broke down then, tears welling in his eyes, his throat tightening. ‘Poor Hector,’ he whispered. ‘I loved that lad like my own son. He was such a good fellow . . . Oh, poor little Sissy.’

  ‘I think we must tell her now,’ said Mrs Chaytor softly. ‘Shall we go to her, Mr Maudsley?’

  *

  Cecilia Munro was in the drawing room, embroidering something that Hardcastle recognised vaguely as a baby’s garment. She sat bathed in sunlight, her brown hair glowing. From outside came squeals of merriment, her younger sisters playing in the sun. She smiled at her father, and then she saw Hardcastle and Mrs Chaytor behind him.

  ‘Father! You did not tell me we had guests.’ She put her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself to her feet, standing with her hands under her round belly. ‘Reverend, Mrs Chaytor, how delightful to see you!’

  Then she took a closer look at their faces. ‘What is wrong?’ Prescience came to her and she said, ‘Is it Hector?’

  Mrs Chaytor walked forward and too
k the young woman’s hands in hers. ‘It is Hector,’ she said softly. ‘My dear, I am so sorry. It is the worst news there could be.’

  ‘He is dead? My Hector is dead?’ It was said quietly, almost without emotion. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘We don’t yet know what happened,’ Mrs Chaytor said in the same gentle voice. ‘We shall find out.’

  Cecilia Munro’s knees gave way. Mrs Chaytor caught her, struggling to keep her from falling to the floor. The two men sprang forward to help, and between them they eased the unconscious young woman onto a settee. ‘Oh, dear God!’ said Maudsley in horror. ‘Parrish! Parrish! Come quickly!’ The butler hurried into the room, gasping when he saw Cecilia. ‘Send for the doctor!’ Maudsley cried. ‘At once, do you hear?’

  ‘Dr Mackay should already be on his way,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He said he would call as soon as he could.’

  He looked down and saw that Cecilia’s skirt was soaking wet. Mrs Chaytor saw it too and moved sharply, resting her hand on Cecilia’s belly. ‘Never mind the doctor,’ she said. ‘She needs a midwife.’

  The young woman’s eyes fluttered as she regained consciousness, and then she gasped and clutched at her belly. ‘Lie still, my dear,’ said Mrs Chaytor softly. ‘Mr Maudsley. The midwife?’

  ‘We have a month-nurse here,’ said Maudsley, on the verge of panic. ‘Hector insisted she be installed here in the house, in case something—’

  ‘Then I pray you send for her without delay,’ said Mrs Chaytor, her voice full of calm command. ‘Do not fear, Mr Maudsley. All will be well.’

  The nurse hurried in and knelt beside Mrs Chaytor, briskly taking charge. More servants arrived. Maudsley stood awkwardly, getting in the way, and Mrs Chaytor shot the rector a quick look. ‘I think we should withdraw,’ said the rector, laying a hand on Maudsley’s shoulder. They walked back to the library, Maudsley moving like a man half-stunned. The rector made him drink the rest of the brandy and then poured another glass.

  ‘What do I do now?’ asked Maudsley after a while.

  ‘I intend to say a prayer,’ the rector said kindly. ‘You may join me if you wish.’

  There was a fine Turkey carpet on the floor. They knelt on this and prayed for the safety of Cecilia Munro and her child, and the rector said another quiet prayer for the soul of her husband. Then they waited, in silence at first, hearing the sounds of the house, and the wind in the trees and the birds singing in the meadow beyond. The rector knew he should be asking more questions about the murder – where Munro had been going, who he intended to meet – but he found he could not bring himself to do so. At this moment he was a clergyman first, a magistrate only a distant second. There would be time later to deal with the dead; here and now, it was the living who mattered most.

  ‘Who else needs to be told?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘My son and the younger girls, of course. They will take it very hard. They’re fond of him; were fond of him . . . Oh, God, poor Hector! Would you come with me while I tell them, Hardcastle? Please?’

  ‘Of course. I shall do whatever I can. And Munro’s own family? He was from Edinburgh, I believe.’

  ‘His brothers run the family firm there. His mother is still alive also.’

  ‘Should you like me to write to them on your behalf?’

  ‘Hardcastle, we would be so grateful.’ Maudsley stood up and walked, stumbling a little, across to his desk. After searching for a few minutes, he found the piece of paper he was looking for. ‘Here is the address. Thank you, old fellow. I don’t think I could bear it. Oh, God, I feel so weary . . .’

  They lapsed into silence again. Parrish the butler entered the room quietly and asked if they desired further refreshment; both men shook their heads. Some time later, Maudsley stirred again. ‘Who will investigate?’

  ‘The incident happened in the Romney Marsh jurisdiction. I shall take the case myself. I’ll inform the deputy lord-lieutenant.’ The Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, the Duke of Dorset, rarely troubled himself with his duties; his deputy, Lord Clavertye, did most of the work. Clavertye was currently in London, attempting to further his political ambitions.

  ‘Good,’ said Maudsley vaguely. ‘I am glad it will be you.’ Silence fell once more.

  They heard the rumble of iron-shod wheels on the drive; Dr Mackay, arriving as promised. Gently, Hardcastle reminded Maudsley of the other children. Like a man in a trance, Maudsley rose and walked slowly through the house, Hardcastle beside him. They found the three younger girls with their governess. The rector waited quietly while their father told them the news of their brother-in-law’s death. They were shocked into silence. Maudsley kissed all three of them, silently, then rose to his feet and motioned to Hardcastle.

  They found Maudsley’s son in his room, sitting half-asleep in his bathchair, his crippled hands resting on its arms. The young man made a little movement when he heard the news of Munro’s death; he murmured something indistinct, then closed his eyes. ‘He’s just had his dose, sir,’ said the nurse who looked after him. She too looked upset.

  ‘Laudanum,’ said Maudsley to Hardcastle. ‘For the pain, you know. It gives him some ease, for a while at least . . . I don’t know if he understood what I said. Later, when he wakes, it will hit him hard. Poor boy, poor boy.’ It was hard to know to whom he was referring: his own son, or the dead man he had so loved. Perhaps it was both.

  They returned to the library. Half an hour later Amelia Chaytor joined them. She looked pale and tired, and there were fine lines at the corners of her blue eyes. ‘She is doing well,’ she said before either man could speak. ‘She had fainted, but the doctor and midwife both concur that this was due to the shock of the news. She is strong, and she is in excellent hands.’

  ‘And the child?’ asked Maudsley.

  ‘Soon. And before its time, of course, so we must hope it is strong enough to survive.’ The younger children came to join them, all three with faces shocked and streaked with tears. Quietly, Hardcastle and Mrs Chaytor tried to comfort them. Maudsley sat still, slowly stroking the youngest girl’s hair and looking out of the window, not speaking while the sun tracked across the sky.

  It was early evening before Dr Mackay knocked and entered the library. ‘Mr Maudsley, I know this has been a terrible blow to you and your family. I am glad now to be the bearer of more fortunate tidings. Your daughter has given birth to a son, and although he is small, both he and his mother are healthy and well.’

  ‘I should go to her,’ said Maudsley, standing up with an effort. The three children rose, too, their young faces pale in the sunlight. The doctor held up a hand. ‘She is sleeping, in the care of the nurse. Wait until morning. You yourself should get some rest, sir, if I may say so.’

  It was sound advice; Maudsley was white with shock and exhaustion. ‘Then, with your permission, we shall take our leave,’ said the rector. He and Mrs Chaytor could do no more for the moment; the family needed time now, time to grieve and time to heal. He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Go and rest, my friend. We shall see ourselves out.’

  Maudsley nodded. The rector and Mrs Chaytor walked out into the evening light, looking up at the trees swaying overhead. The wind was changing and strengthening; the fine weather was coming to an end. There would be a storm later.

  Dr Mackay followed them. ‘Will you stay?’ Hardcastle asked him.

  ‘For a while longer. Mrs Munro is in no danger, and neither is the child; but I want to assure myself that all is well.’ Mackay too looked up at the trees and sky. ‘From terrible death to new life,’ he said. ‘It has been an eventful day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘There may be more such days to come, before we get to the bottom of this.’

  The two men looked at her, but said nothing. The groom brought the gig around, Asia stepping smartly in the traces. Hardcastle handed Mrs Chaytor up to the seat and climbed up beside her, and she took the reins. At the end of the drive they turned onto the road towards Ruckinge and back to the Marsh, p
icking up speed to a trot.

  ‘I was wrong,’ said Mrs Chaytor, watching the road.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Whether it is better to hope in vain, or have no hope at all. To not know is always to wonder, what happened? Who is responsible? Could it have been prevented? The absence of hope at least means certainty. One may not be able to bear what has happened, but at least one knows.’

  ‘What are you saying, my dear?’

  ‘I am saying that Cecilia Munro and her child deserve the truth. We shall find out who killed her husband, and why.’ She turned to look directly at him. ‘Shall we not?’

  He found that he could smile. ‘Did you doubt it?’ he said.

  4

  Taking Stock

  THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT

  12th of August, 1797

  My lord,

  I write to inform you of an incident that took place in my parish early yesterday morning. The body of Mr Hector Munro of Magpie Court, Shadoxhurst was found in a drifting boat and brought ashore by two local fishermen. The assistant coroner has now confirmed that the cause of death was a gunshot wound. The evidence suggests very strongly that Mr Munro was murdered.

  Anticipating the verdict of the coroner’s inquest, I have begun to make enquiries. I have also informed Mr Munro’s family. Mr Munro, you may recall, is the son-in-law of Mr Frederick Maudsley JP, and is a partner in the East Weald and Ashford Bank.

  It is likely that my investigation will take me beyond the bounds of Romney Marsh, and thus outside my present authority. I therefore humbly request that your lordship, in your capacity as deputy lord-lieutenant, gives me discretion to conduct this investigation wherever necessary.

  Yr very obedient servant

  HARDCASTLE

  THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT

  12th of August, 1797

  My dear Mr Munro,

  Permit me to introduce myself; my name is Hardcastle. I am rector of St Mary in the Marsh and also a justice of the peace for Romney Marsh.