He raised his arms and let his deep, rich voice fill the nave of the church. ‘Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge our manifold sins and wickedness . . . And although we ought at all times humbly to acknowledge our sins before God, yet ought we most chiefly so to do when we assemble and meet together, to render thanks for the great benefits that we have received at His hands.’
The service, as always, left him feeling clear-headed and refreshed. Afterwards he stood at the door of the church and thanked his little congregation. Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper were the last to leave. ‘Ladies, thank you as always. God bless you.’
‘And may He bless you too, reverend,’ said Miss Godfrey firmly. ‘Your sermons never fail to uplift me. I feel positively joyous after hearing you speak.’
He bowed. ‘Thank you again. And I must apologise. I have been so busy of late that I have neglected my favourite parishioners.’
They took the hint at once. ‘You must come for tea,’ said Miss Godfrey. They settled on Thursday and the ladies took their leave. Quietly, Hardcastle hung up his robes in the vestry and then walked through the churchyard and over the road to the rectory. From the north came a grey curtain of rain, blotting out the hills beyond Hythe and sweeping steadily across the Marsh.
That afternoon Hardcastle dined with his sister, as usual barely hearing her chatter, grunting occasionally to signify assent to whatever she was saying. The dining room had once been a forbidding place, dark with wainscoting. Calpurnia had redecorated it last spring, with light curtains and some bright wallpaper of mock-Oriental pattern, freshening and lifting the room. The rector looked around and thought, as he did during every meal, how much he missed the old gloom.
Biddy brought in a platter of roast duck and the rector began to carve. Only when he was halfway through his task did he realise Calpurnia had asked him a direct question.
‘Your pardon, sister, I was thinking of something else. What did you say?’
‘Oh, Marcus, you are so inattentive. I said, what progress are you making on the case of Mr Munro? Dr Mackay is quite convinced that the poor man was murdered.’
The rector laid down his knife. ‘When did you see Dr Mackay?’
‘Yesterday morning, while you were out. He came in person to deliver the autopsy report.’
‘He did? Whatever for?’
‘He wanted to be certain you received it promptly. He arrived about eleven, having driven directly from New Romney.’
He looked at her, incredulous. ‘Eleven? And you were out of bed?’
‘Marcus, don’t be vulgar. Of course I had risen by then, and as you were out, I received the doctor on your behalf. It was very kind to come all that way himself, don’t you think? Instead of sending a messenger?’
‘Very kind,’ agreed the rector, considering. Was he imagining it, or had Dr Mackay begun in recent weeks to pay more than ordinary attention to his sister? They had been very thick together that evening at Magpie Court, for example. Hope leaped suddenly within him. Might Mackay have deeper intentions? Did he intend to ask for Cordelia’s hand? Even better, might they be intending to elope; and for preference, very soon?
‘Dr Mackay said it is a most perplexing case,’ said Calpurnia. ‘Why would anyone kill Mr Munro and set his body adrift at sea? he asked. It seemed most odd to him. But I think I may have the answer.’
‘Oh, dear God.’
‘In my books, bodies are either disposed of in highly devious ways so they will never be found; or else they are left artfully arranged in places where they are sure to be discovered. Sometimes the body is left as a warning.’
The rector was caught off guard. ‘A warning? About what?’
‘Take The Ghost-Hunters of Mirador, for example. When Cassini was killed by the Periculpi, his body was left in a prominent place so that the Incandeschi would be sure to see it and understand the message: stay away from us. Whoever killed Mr Munro could easily have hidden his body by disposing of it at sea. But I think they left the body in the boat quite deliberately, so it would be found.’
‘And why do you think so?’ Hardcastle asked heavily.
‘Dr Mackay told me about the coin. Surely that is significant? Remember, the Periculpi left a single gold coin placed in the centre of Cassini’s forehead. The coin was to pay his passage; you know, the fee for Charon, the boatman who ferries lost souls to Styx.’
‘No, he doesn’t ferry them to Styx, he ferries them across the River Styx, into the underworld.’
‘I’m sure you are wrong. The underworld is called Styx, the river is called Lethe.’
‘Of course,’ said the rector sarcastically. ‘What would I know? I merely have an MA from Cambridge.’
‘Exactly,’ said Calpurnia. ‘Now, as I was saying, in The Ghost-Hunters of Mirador—’
‘Calpurnia, I beg you, stop. These are stories, inventions of your own mind. I am attempting to deal with a real murder, in the real world.’
‘—in The Ghost-Hunters of Mirador the murder turns out to be an illusion. Cassini is not actually dead. The Periculpi made him appear dead to warn off the Incandeschi.’
The rector clutched briefly at his forehead. ‘What has this to do with anything?’
‘The killers placed Mr Munro’s body conspicuously in the open where it would be found, so his associates would take note. They were sending a message, don’t you see? Just like the Periculpi did. They were saying, do not interfere with us, or you will suffer the same fate. I said as much to Dr Mackay, and he agreed with me.’
‘I’m sure he did. It might interest you to know that Joshua Stemp thinks the body was abandoned in the boat so the currents would carry it out to sea, and it would never be found.’
‘Then Mr Stemp is clearly wrong,’ said Calpurnia. ‘Now, as for the motivation behind the murder, Dr Mackay and I discussed that too. I think the novel I am writing now, The Cardinal’s Jewels, holds the key. In The Cardinal’s Jewels, the motive for the killing is greed. I am certain this case is the same. Mr Munro was a banker, was he not? Then surely money is at the heart of this matter.’
The rector had resumed carving the duck. Calpurnia looked at him suspiciously. ‘You are saying nothing. What do you think?’
‘I think,’ said the rector, ‘that in the morning I shall ask Amos to take the long ladder around to Dr Mackay – with my compliments – and beg him to make swift use of it.’
*
Later, in his study with a second glass of port at his elbow, the rector sat staring at the fire. Rain continued to hammer down outside, thumping against the windows behind the curtains.
A glint of metal caught Hardcastle’s eye. He looked down at his desk and saw the gold guinea he had taken from the boat, from beneath Munro’s body. It was of quite new minting, the image sharp and clear. On the one side was the royal coat of arms inside a shield, with a crown resting on top; on the other, a rather pudgy profile of the king, identified for those who might not recognise him as GEORGIUS III DEI GRATIA.
A coin for passage to the underworld. A banker, killed for his money, and his body left as a warning to others: this is what will happen if you meddle in things you should leave alone.
Dear God; could it be possible that his imbecile sister was actually right?
5
The Funeral
On Monday morning the rain had stopped and the Marsh was shrouded in a thin white mist, draped across the open fields and ditches. At a quarter to ten Hardcastle walked down to the Star, a whitewashed, two-storey building in the middle of the village. A rather handsome sign – a neat white star above a pattern of black and silver waves painted by a highly professional hand – hung from an iron bracket above the street.
Ducking under the low lintel of the door, the rector saw the common room was already largely full. Dr Stackpole the coroner had arrived with his secretary and was unpacking his bag. The jurymen were in their seats, talking in low voices; the spectators sat watching them, the men with m
ugs of beer and glasses of gin, the women clustered together and whispering behind their hands. Hardcastle saw Mrs Chaytor with Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, the latter ladies bright-eyed with curiosity. His sister sat just behind them, her round face intent as she watched the scene.
He made his way to the bar and asked for small beer. Bessie Luckhurst, the landlord’s daughter, a smart young woman of seventeen, served him. ‘This is a bad business, reverend.’
When she said it in those tones, she sounded exactly like her father, now at the far end of the bar talking to Jack Hoad, one of the local fishermen. ‘Such a tragedy,’ she said. ‘They say the poor fellow’s wife has just given birth to a child who will never know its father.’
There was curiosity as well as sympathy in her pretty face. We are fascinated by tragedy, he thought. And why not? It is all around us. People die frequently, often without explanation. We are all closer to death, and to God, than we like to believe; these tragedies serve to remind us of this.
Heads turned, and the rector looked up to see Frederick Maudsley entering the common room. He looked pale and tired, and there was a hesitation in his walk that Hardcastle had never seen before. He crossed the room quickly and laid a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder.
‘You did not need to come,’ he said. ‘I would have informed you.’
‘That is good of you. But I felt I must be here.’
They sat together, quietly, as the coroner opened proceedings. Dr Mackay was summoned to give evidence and took the stand, square-jawed and prepared to be pugnacious. He and the coroner did not like each other; Mackay had received his medical training in Edinburgh and the coroner, an Oxford man, was inclined to treat anyone not educated at Oxford as a charlatan.
‘Thank you for your report, Dr Mackay,’ said Stackpole. He was a long, thin man with a bony face. ‘I found your conclusions clear for the most part. Scotchly ungrammatical in places, of course, but that is of no great matter. There are just a few points we need to clarify for the record. Your report indicates the cause of death as a gunshot wound followed by damage to the internal organs and bleeding. How in your view might this wound have been received?’
‘It is quite clear that the weapon was fired by another hand,’ said Mackay.
‘I see. There is no possibility of suicide?’
‘None whatever. A pistol fired at point-blank range would have left flecks of powder and smoke stains on the body. I found no sign of these. Also, the pistol in the deceased’s pocket had not been discharged.’
‘And I see further from your report that the weapon that killed him was of larger calibre than a pocket pistol. But the deceased may have carried a second weapon as well,’ suggested Stackpole. ‘A dragoon pistol or a musket. And perhaps, after discharging the fatal shot, he dropped this weapon into the sea.’
Mackay stared. ‘Are you saying that a man might shoot himself, and then in his dying moments throw the weapon overboard? That rather passes belief, don’t you think?’
‘The weapon might have fallen into the sea by accident. Very well, very well, doctor, I am merely trying to eliminate the possibilities,’ said the coroner testily. ‘I assume that for the same reasons you are prepared to rule out an accidental discharge of the deceased’s own firearm? A simple yes or no will do, thank you. Now, you further state that the weapon was apparently fired at a distance of a few yards. Can you explain your reasoning, briefly?’
‘I found the projectile lodged against the spinal column,’ said Mackay, red in the face. ‘As the weapon had been fired from in front, that meant the ball had very nearly passed through the entire body.’ Beside Hardcastle, Maudsley gave a slow shudder. ‘If the weapon had been fired from a distance, penetration would not have been so deep. Had it been fired at closer range, there would have been powder residue, as I have already mentioned. My estimate is that the fatal shot was fired at a range of no less than three yards and no more than ten.’
Meaning that, even in the dark, the killer was likely to have seen Munro’s face. That made it even more likely that he knew who his victim was. This was a deliberate killing, not the random shooting of a stranger.
‘One final point,’ said the coroner. ‘You note in your report that the ball, after entering the victim’s body, travelled downward at an angle of about sixty degrees from the vertical; that is, the angle between the entry wound and the point where the ball was recovered from the cadaver. What do you take this to mean?’
‘The man with the weapon was standing on a higher elevation, above the deceased. If, for example, he was three yards away, he would have been three to four feet above the deceased. At ten yards’ distance, the height might have been as much as twelve feet.’
‘Thank you, doctor. That is all we require from you; you may step down.’
Ebenezer Tydde was summoned and repeated his story of how he found the body; his brother Florian corroborated his evidence almost word for word. The parish constable, Joshua Stemp, confirmed the position of the body when he first saw it. The coroner instructed the jury, who took less than two minutes to bring in a verdict of unlawful killing. Dr Stackpole nodded at Hardcastle. ‘The matter now rests with the judiciary. This inquest is closed.’
Out in the street, Maudsley’s coach waited. Hardcastle walked him to the carriage door. ‘How is Cecilia?’
Around them the mist was clearing, a pale sun breaking through. ‘Not well. She is recovering from the birth . . . She is very quiet, Hardcastle. She hardly speaks at all.’
‘That is unsurprising. Her body and mind have suffered severe shocks. She needs to rest and recruit her strength. When is the funeral to be?’
‘Tomorrow. The undertakers are there today, making ready. Hardcastle . . . Our vicar also has the living of Goudhurst, and spends most of his time there. And the curate is a weedy little man. Hector never liked him much. I thought of asking Woodford, but . . .’ Maudsley hesitated.
‘You need say no more,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I should be honoured to conduct the funeral service.’
‘Thank you,’ said Maudsley, and then his voice choked and fell to a whisper. ‘Thank you so much.’ There were tears in his eyes when he stepped into the coach and was driven away.
*
The first thing the rector saw when he arrived at Magpie Court the following day was Mrs Chaytor’s gig, parked with other carriages and rigs beside the stable block. Parrish the butler greeted him quietly at the door and showed him to a room where he could robe.
The drawing room where Hector Munro lay waiting for burial was elegant and sombre. As well as the local undertakers, Maudsley had engaged a London funeral finisher to come down and arrange the details. The room was hung with black crepe flecked with silver, a hint of the celestial firmament to give a little starlight glint of hope among the colours of mourning. Black candles rested in silver candlesticks, glowing with light. The coffin, covered in black velvet tacked down with gilded nails, rested in the centre of the room, surrounded by silver baskets and sprigs of rosemary, whose sharp scent cut through the air and lifted the senses. The coffin, of course, was closed.
The mourners stood in little groups. Hardcastle moved among them, talking quietly to friends and neighbours and tenants, offering what condolence he could. In nearly every face he saw the same shocked expression. Only a few days ago Hector Munro had been among them, young and strong, smiling and full of life. Now he was dead, and they could not understand why. He found Ricardo talking quietly with Edward Austen from Godmersham.
‘I understand you are investigating Munro’s death, reverend,’ said Austen.
‘That is so.’
‘He was a good man. I find his murder very troubling. You will let me know if there is anything I can do. Anything at all.’
‘And myself also,’ said Ricardo. ‘I am returning to London in three days’ time, but you may write to me there if you need my services.’
He thanked them and moved on. Charles Faversham was there, tall and aristocrat
ic as ever, in a beautifully cut black coat and breeches, his grey wig perfectly brushed. ‘Thank you for coming to take the service, reverend,’ he said, his usual drawl a little muted. ‘It means a great deal to Maudsley to have his friends around him on this unhappy day.’
‘There is nowhere I would rather be,’ the rector said gently. ‘I see your son is here also. It is good of you both to come.’
‘Munro was our partner. We owe it to him to pay our last respects. Poor fellow,’ Faversham added.
‘He is with God now, Mr Faversham. We have that to comfort us.’
‘Indeed.’
Beyond Faversham was Mrs Chaytor, talking with a quiet, black-haired woman, both clad in mourning. ‘I did not know you would be here,’ he said to the former.
‘I felt someone should be with Cecilia during the funeral. Mrs Redcliffe had the same thought. Reverend Hardcastle, may I present Mrs Martha Redcliffe to you? She is also a partner in the East Weald and Ashford bank.’
Hardcastle bowed; the other woman curtsyed without speaking. The clock in the hall chimed. ‘It is time,’ he said, and bowed again. ‘I must go.’
On the edge of Shadoxhurst village he waited outside the lychgate, the little church of Sts Peter and Paul behind him. The wind stirred. White clouds drifted over the sun. Rooks cawed, distant in the trees beyond the village. From the church tower the funeral bell tolled, sad and slow.
Down the road the procession came. Two black Belgian horses drew the hearse, their harness topped with black ostrich plumes. Behind came the mourners, led by Maudsley and some of his tenants. The hearse halted, and the pallbearers lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and bore it forward, followed by the mourners. As they reached the lychgate the rector raised his hands and intoned in his deep voice, and around him the world fell silent save for the tolling of the bell.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whomsoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.
I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth; and though this body be destroyed, yet shall I see God, whom I shall see for myself and mine eyes behold, and not as a stranger.’
The Body in the Boat Page 6
