It is my sad duty to inform you that the body of your brother, Mr Hector Munro, was found in my parish early yesterday morning, in a boat drifting just offshore. Mr Munro’s wife and father-in-law have been informed.
Needless to say, both are deeply grieved. Indeed, the shock of the news brought on Mrs Munro’s labour, and she has been delivered of a son before her time. At the moment, both she and the child are recovering, but she is in no condition to write to you. I have volunteered to write on her behalf, so as to save her and her family from further distress.
I met Mr Munro on several occasions, and formed a very high opinion of him. Allow me to express my deepest condolences to you and your family for the loss of so fine a man.
I must also inform you that Mr Munro’s death is the subject of a criminal investigation. As justice of the peace, I am investigating the circumstances of his death. I will endeavour to keep you abreast of events, and will certainly inform you once there are any significant developments.
Once again, sir, you have my deepest condolences.
Yr very obedient servant
REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE, JP
Hardcastle folded the second letter, tipped a small blob of red wax onto the paper and sealed it. The letter would take three or four days to reach Edinburgh. It would be too late for any of Munro’s family to attend the funeral, of course; given the summer heat, burial would have to take place as soon as the coroner had concluded his business.
The inquest was scheduled for Monday, the day after tomorrow. Doubtless it would not take long. Dr Mackay’s autopsy report was on his desk; it contained some useful information, but no surprises.
The rector looked out the window. Last night had been wild, with wind and thunder followed by a sharp downpour. Now the last dregs of the rain were washing out of the clouds, a thin, sluggish drizzle falling through misty air. He watched the rain fall, his mind drifting away to the family at Shadoxhurst. How torn they must be; a joyous event, the birth of a son and grandson, quite overshadowed by the death of a beloved husband and father.
He heard a knock at the front door, and a moment later Mrs Kemp the housekeeper knocked and entered the study with her usual shuffling step. She was a woman of indeterminate age, with a face like a wrinkled apple and a soul pickled in vinegar. ‘Joshua Stemp wishes to see you, reverend.’
‘Show him in, please, Mrs Kemp. And ask Biddy to bring us some coffee.’
Stemp came into the study a moment later. ‘Good morning, Joshua,’ said the rector. ‘Do sit down. What have you learned?’
‘Not as much as I had hoped, reverend. I spoke to Jem Clay. It’s his boat, all right, but he didn’t lose it. He rented it out, to a fellow from Hythe, afternoon of the day before last.’
The day before the killing. ‘Not to Munro?’
‘No, reverend. I described Mr Munro – well, as best I could – and Jem was positive he’d never seen him.’
‘This man from Hythe, what did he look like?’
‘Jem wasn’t sure. About average height, bit on the light side, brown hair. Dressed simple but spoke smart. That’s all I could get out of him.’
‘Why did Clay rent him the boat?’
The door opened again and Biddy, the little red-haired Irish maidservant, came in with coffee. Stemp waited until the girl had departed and said, ‘Jem managed to gaff himself in the leg a couple of days ago, so he’s laid up and can’t go out fishing. He needed the money. He wouldn’t say how much he got either. I reckon he was paid pretty well, on condition he asked no questions.’
‘Why would a Hythe man come down here to rent a boat? There are plenty of boats in Hythe itself.’
‘Hythe’s a small town, reverend, same as New Romney. They all know each other’s faces up there, and each other’s business. If he wanted to hire a boat on the quiet, he’d have to come down here.’
Hardcastle nodded. ‘I wish to speak to this man. Go back to Clay and put pressure on him. Get a better description if you can. And I’ll ask Sawbridge, the Hythe magistrate, to make enquiries. If he can let us know of any Hythe men who have recently been down to New Romney, that might be a place to start. What of the other fishermen?’
‘Saw nothing, heard nothing. Most of ’em were down south, fishing for cod. The Tydde boys were only up north because they were after bass.’
‘And the Tyddes? Have they anything more to say?’
‘No, same story as before. They took their boat out just before dawn and rowed north ’til they were opposite the Warren, and then put out their lines. An hour or so later they saw the other boat drifting, thought it was abandoned and went to retrieve it. When they saw the body, they towed the boat inshore and Florian came to fetch me. That’s all they have to say.’
‘Do you think they are telling the truth?’
Stemp considered this. ‘I don’t have a reason to think otherwise,’ he said finally. ‘They’re pleasant enough fellows. Eb is the thinker; Florian does pretty much what his brother tells him to do. They’re both idle as the devil’s bones, cuz thanks to old George’s money there’s no need for ’em to work. They fish a little, and dabble in the free trade, but mostly they just sit around smoking pipes and daydreaming. They’ve never been involved in any trouble.’
‘As a matter of interest, how did old George make his money?’
Stemp shrugged. ‘There’s no harm in telling now. He started out as a fisherman, but moved on to other things. Back in the day he was one of the biggest free traders on the coast. He made plenty of money, bought that big house in New Romney and settled down to live comfortable. He’s been retired a good few years now. I haven’t seen him in a long while. I hear he’s none too well.’
‘And his family live off his money,’ said Hardcastle.
‘That’s right. Old George’s money greases a few wheels around New Romney. That’s how his daughter married that town councillor.’
‘Very well. What of the inns, and the rooming houses?’
‘Nothing, reverend. No one remembers seeing him. And there’s no sign of any horse or rig. I thought he might have brought a groom with him, who drove the carriage away again. But if he did, no one saw it.’
There came another tap at the door and Biddy entered again. ‘Mrs Chaytor to see you, reverend.’
‘Ah, good.’ He had been about to go and call on her when Stemp arrived. ‘Joshua, be so good as to stay.’
*
Mrs Chaytor entered the room a few moments later, a breath of summer air coming into that severely masculine room. She took her seat as Biddy poured coffee, looking around at the neat rows of books packed tightly into bookcases, the mahogany cabinet where she knew the rector stored his smuggled brandy, the big desk where, she also knew, he kept a pistol in the second drawer on the right. ‘Good morning, Joshua,’ she said.
‘Good morning, ma’am.’ Stemp regarded Mrs Chaytor with the natural respect a man will have for a woman who had once pointed a gun at his head. ‘What have we learned so far?’ asked Mrs Chaytor directly.
The rector repeated what Stemp had said about Jem Clay’s boat and the man from Hythe. ‘Dr Mackay has also delivered his report. The conclusion is beyond doubt. Munro died of a gunshot wound to the belly.’
‘An unpleasant death,’ she said.
‘Yes. The doctor thinks it may have taken him some while to die.’
All three were silent for a moment, all with the same thought: that Munro might still have been alive when the gulls came to feed on him.
‘According to Maudsley, Hector Munro left home on Wednesday, the 9th’ said Hardcastle. ‘He was found dead on the morning of the 11th, yesterday. The first question, therefore, is: where did he go? And the second is: what did he do in the interim?’
‘What did Mr Maudsley say, reverend?’ asked Stemp.
‘He thought Munro was going to London. But the more I think about it, the more unlikely that seems. Munro was killed less than forty-eight hours after leaving home. It is just feasible that, by riding pos
t, he could have travelled from Ashford to London and then back to Romney Marsh in that time. But is it likely? I do not think so.’
‘What of his valet?’ Mrs Chaytor asked. ‘Surely he would know where his master went? Assuming the valet went with him, of course. But it would be unusual for a gentleman such as Munro to travel without a servant.’
The rector pondered for a moment, staring out the window at the damp garden. ‘I shall speak to the valet, of course. And I must also interview Maudsley in more detail. And Mrs Munro.’
‘Let me talk to Cecilia,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘You would be gentle and kind, I know. But this is something I can do better than you.’
Hardcastle trusted her as he trusted few people in this world. ‘Thank you. The next question is, what was Munro’s purpose in making this journey?’
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Most importantly, why would a banker from Ashford come to Romney Marsh? What was there to draw him here?’ She paused for a moment, reflecting. ‘There is, I suppose, one obvious possibility.’
‘The free trade,’ said the rector, nodding. He looked at Stemp for a moment, wondering whether to take this subject further. ‘I have heard it rumoured that Maudsley is involved in smuggling,’ he said finally.
‘I’ve heard that too,’ said Stemp, without blinking. ‘It is said – just a story, mind you, there’s no proof – that Mr Maudsley lets the lads from Dymchurch store run goods in his barns before they ship inland. And I’ve heard it said too that he sometimes puts in money to buy cargoes, and sells them on.’
‘And Munro? Any rumours about him?’
Stemp shook his head. ‘None that I’ve heard, reverend. Of course, he might have been working with his father-in-law, on the quiet.’
The rector pondered again. ‘It is an interesting possibility. “We must find out what is happening”, Munro said. I assumed he was talking about a business venture relating to the bank, but he could equally have been referring to a smuggling operation. If so, that could also explain why Maudsley was concerned that Munro was going into danger, and why Munro was so concerned with secrecy. “If the Grasshopper finds out, there will be hell to pay”. Yes; an ancient and respectable City bank might not be too pleased to find that members of a partner bank were consorting with smugglers.’
‘I don’t imagine they would care that much,’ said Mrs Chaytor sceptically, ‘so long as Maudsley and Munro did not get caught. Profit is profit.’
‘Perhaps, but Munro made it quite clear: they were concealing something from the Grasshopper. And then he said to Maudsley, “We must find out what is happening”. Perhaps something had gone wrong with some smuggling venture, and Munro came down to the Marsh to investigate.’
‘But in that case,’ said Mrs Chaytor, ‘why Mr Munro? Why not Mr Maudsley? He knows the free traders, and presumably they trust him and accept him. Mr Munro, on the other hand, has lived in Kent for little more than a year, and would have been an unknown quantity.’
‘I don’t know,’ said the rector.
‘And then another question,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Why would the smugglers kill him? What motive might they have had?’
‘It’s rare for the free traders to turn against each other,’ said Stemp. ‘When they do, it’s usually a matter of revenge; one side believes the other snitched on them to the Preventives. Or a breach of faith; someone takes money and doesn’t pay it back, or takes part of a cargo that don’t belong to them. That’s the most likely reason. Sometimes there’s rivalry between the gangs,’ he added, thinking of Noakes, ‘but that’s rare.’
‘I did not know Mr Munro well,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘But I struggle to imagine him as either a cheat or a snitch. Very well. What next?’
‘Next, we wait to hear from Lord Clavertye. And of course, the inquest, and the funeral.’
*
They rose, and Mrs Chaytor took her leave. The rector gestured to Stemp to remain for a moment. ‘I hope this investigation does not create difficulties for you,’ he said. ‘But if it does, you must tell me, and I will appoint a new constable. I intend to take the killer of Hector Munro, and nothing shall stand in my way.’
The two men looked at each other. The rector knew full well that Joshua Stemp the parish constable was also Yorkshire Tom, the leader of the local smuggling gang. Neither ever spoke of the matter, and until today Hardcastle had never asked questions about the free trade.
Smuggling was the lifeblood of the coastal villages. Most people were involved in it, one way or another. Men sailed the boats that brought the cargoes over from France, and unloaded them; women helped hide smuggled goods in barns and lofts and cellars; children served as lookouts, warning if the Preventive men came too near. To do his job, both as a clergyman and as a justice of the peace, Hardcastle needed the trust and cooperation of his parishioners; Stemp foremost among them. If he attempted to interfere in the free trade, the entire community would close ranks against him.
And so he turned a blind eye and a deaf ear. At this very moment, his church tower was full of run tobacco – he could smell it, when the wind was in the right direction – and another dozen bottles of finest old Hennessy cognac had arrived on his doorstep as a thank you for looking the other way. None of these things disturbed Hardcastle’s conscience to the slightest degree. There were two Preventive services, the Customs and the Excise, whose task it was to prevent smuggling. They could get on with it; he had other things to do.
But if Hector Munro had been killed by smugglers, then both he and Stemp would face a test of loyalties. He had told Stemp that he had made his choice. Now he waited for his parish constable to do the same. He hoped Stemp would not resign; he doubted very much whether he would ever find another man of Stemp’s acuity.
Stemp nodded, pausing a little to choose his words. ‘Reverend, I can think of no reason why any of the Gentlemen of the Coast would want to kill Mr Munro,’ he said. ‘But if it turns out they did, I’ll not protect them. And you have my word on that.’
*
The following day was Sunday. The rector rose early as usual, dressed and drank a cup of coffee and then took his sister’s dog for a ramble. Rodolpho, the wolfhound, needed plenty of exercise, and as Calpurnia rarely emerged from her bedroom before late morning, the rector usually took the dog with him on his morning walks. He did not mind; Rodolpho, immense and shaggy with a huge head, was a gentle soul and good company.
This morning there were sheep in the fields between the rectory and the sea, white-faced Romney ewes and their half-grown lambs, grazing peacefully. The sheep gazed at Rodolpho with disdain; they recognised him, and knew they had the whip hand. Despite his ferocious appearance, Rodolpho was terrified of sheep. The lead the rector slipped around the dog’s neck was not for the protection of the sheep; it was to reassure the dog that he was safe from them.
They climbed up over the coastal dunes and scrambled down to the beach. Here the rector slipped the lead and Rodolpho raced down the strand trailing clouds of sand and water, barking happily at the gulls. The rector tramped after him, deep in thought. The air was warm but humid and thick, the clouds dark and threatening more rain.
Mrs Chaytor had wondered why Munro, rather than Maudsley, had come down to the Marsh. Hardcastle wondered that, too, but other things bothered him still more. The boat, for example. All the local smuggling gangs had their haunts on dry land; if Munro wanted to meet them, why would he need a boat? And why, after he was shot, was his body left in the boat? Stemp had suggested that the next tide might have carried the boat far out to sea, so the body would never be found; but it would have been equally effective simply to tip the body into the water, perhaps with some weights to carry it to the bottom.
Whoever shot Munro had abandoned the boat, and that too did not make sense. Good boats were expensive, and the Gentlemen of the Coast were thrifty men.
And what might have led Hector Munro to smuggling in the first place? Unlike the people of the Marsh, Hector had money; he did not need the inco
me. Maudsley and others like him dabbled in the free trade for the fun of it; there was a certain guilty pleasure to be had from cocking a snook at the Customs, whom no one liked, and of course the cheap brandy was welcome too. But Munro had seemed a sensible, careful, level-headed young man, in no way given to adventurousness. He was about the last person one would expect to find mixed up in smuggling.
He whistled to Rodolpho, who came bounding back down the beach with ears and tail flapping, skidding to a halt and grinning up at the rector. His shaggy coat was matted with sand. ‘You are a disgrace,’ the rector told him, but his voice was gentle. The dog grinned again, and held up his head for the lead.
After a quick breakfast of ham and eggs, Hardcastle crossed the road to the church of St Mary the Virgin, the bells already tolling in the heavy air. He robed in the vestry and walked out into the church just as the bell-ringers departed, slamming the door behind them. His usual congregation waited for him: the deaf, white-haired verger; the churchwarden who had already settled himself comfortably into his pew and was nodding off; the two elderly spinsters, Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, peering out from under their ancient bonnets; and the old man from Brenzett, about whom Hardcastle knew almost nothing save that he stank beyond belief. Over time, he had observed that the old man’s odour changed with the seasons: in winter, the smell was a mixture of decaying fish and turnips, while in high summer, as now, there was a combination of raw dung and cheese, mixed with mustard.
Five parishioners only. It was the same, he knew, in many churches across England; people flocked to the chapels of the Unitarians and the Methodists, but the old churches were nearly empty. Some clergymen complained about this, ranting at what they saw as a lack of godliness among the people. The rector disagreed. His people had faith enough, and on the whole they did not need him to help them find it. If they wanted the church, they knew where it was; and they knew also that whenever they came to church, no matter how infrequently, they would find him waiting to welcome them. To Hardcastle, that was all that mattered.
The Body in the Boat Page 5
