It was not Eden, nor anything like it. In autumn and winter the Channel storms roared over the flat fields without hindrance, drenching them with rain, biting with cold. Summer heat brought with it marsh fever, from which many people suffered; thus far he seemed to be immune, but his time would undoubtedly come. Fogs shrouded the flat fields in dripping gloom, often for days on end. And sometimes, like last winter, there were cold winds from the north that cut like a knife.
Then there were the people: silent, suspicious of strangers, disliking the uplanders from the rest of Kent who regarded them in turn as lower forms of life; moody, much taken with alcohol, occasionally inbred, periodically violent, and with both smuggling and a resentment of authority bred into the bone for generations far back in time. Cross-grained and incurably stubborn himself, the rector knew that like called to like. The Marsh had become his home.
Hythe lay at the bottom of the green slopes where the North Downs met the sea, on the very northern edge of Romney Marsh. The crumbling stones of Saltwood Castle, ruined by an earthquake two centuries earlier, frowned down from the slopes over the town. Like New Romney, Hythe had once been a busy seaport; again like New Romney, its harbour had now mostly silted up, and was home to nothing more than a few fishing vessels and coasters; and, of course, smugglers.
A woman of substance, Martha Redcliffe lived in a fine house near St Leonard’s church, overlooking the town. The rector pulled up before the house, seeing broken windows in some of the buildings along the street, tiles missing from the roofs of others. A footman, hearing him arrive, looked out the door. ‘Bring your rig around into the yard, sir. Don’t leave it in the street, or someone will nab it as soon as your back’s turned.’
It was good advice; there was a large and ugly man loitering not far away, smoking a pipe and spitting into the gutter, with a large and even uglier dog on a lead beside him. Hardcastle drove into the yard and stepped down, the footman coming to take the horse. He too was a big man; the blue tattoos on his cheeks suggested he was once a sailor. ‘You here to see Mrs Redcliffe?’
Hardcastle handed over a visiting card. The big man took it and disappeared inside, coming back out in a moment. ‘She’ll see you now, reverend.’
Martha Redcliffe received him in the drawing room of the big house. Tall windows looked out over the town and the sea. To the right, a yellow strip of sand curved away south towards Dymchurch and New Romney. Far away, just on the edge of sight, the cliffs of France lurked like an enemy spy watching from the horizon.
‘Will you take coffee, reverend? Or something stronger?’
‘Coffee will be capital,’ he said. She dispatched the big footman to the kitchen; he returned a few minutes later to serve the coffee from a silver pot. He had tattoos on his wrists, too, but he handled the china cups dexterously. Despite the sunlight pouring through the windows, the room was dark; the paper on the walls was night blue, unrelieved by any design. Martha Redcliffe herself wore a gown the colour of charcoal. The rector noticed her sallow skin and dull eyes.
‘You are here, of course, to talk about Mr Munro,’ she said. ‘I fear I will almost certainly disappoint you. Since my husband’s death I have largely been a silent partner. I know very little of the bank’s day-to-day workings.’
The rector nodded. ‘You have no knowledge of why Munro might have been killed? Did he have any enemies that you know of?’
The widow shook her head. ‘Did you know about the timber investment that he and Faversham were making?’ Hardcastle asked.
‘No. I had never heard of it until this moment.’ She pondered. ‘I wonder if that was an entirely wise move. If Lord Malmesbury’s mission succeeds, we shall have peace soon. The navy will be paying off ships, not building them.’
And there would be less demand for gunpowder too. Peace might not be altogether a good thing for the partners in the East Weald and Ashford Bank. The unease that had been stirring in his mind since the interview with Cotton made itself felt again. ‘Allow me to ask another question,’ Hardcastle said. ‘What do you think of the bank and how it conducts its affairs? Are you satisfied with the way it is run?’
He had expected bland reassurance. Instead she stopped to consider the matter in silence, taking a sip of her coffee and then sitting with her head a little to one side.
‘Things had improved after Mr Munro arrived,’ Mrs Redcliffe said at last. ‘I felt he had a good head for business. He made some economies, and dismissed the bank’s old stockbroker, who had been cheating us for years. The appointment of Ricardo was a very good decision, I think, and we shall reap the benefits over time.’
‘And before Munro came? Who governed the bank then? Cotton and Faversham?’
‘Cotton is a provincial dullard, with no more vision than a mouse. Faversham made all the decisions. The problem, reverend, is that Faversham thinks he is far more clever than he actually is.’
‘Oh?’
‘He likes the grand gesture, the big coup. He has expanded the bank greatly from its old base in Rye, but at a cost. He borrowed heavily to buy out Henry Maudsley, and again to rescue Cotton. The smaller branches, in Tenterden and Cranbrook, have a number of bad loans. Overall our ratio of capital to debt is little short of catastrophic. The bank is overextended; though by how much, I am not entirely certain. Faversham keeps the books very close to his chest.’
She seemed quite calm. Was that the opium, Hardcastle wondered. ‘Does this not concern you, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘It does,’ Mrs Redcliffe said quietly. ‘Not for my own sake; the money I have in the bank is an historic investment, made by my husband before he died. I have many other assets. If the bank fails, I will survive the loss. But the same cannot be said for the bank’s many depositors: merchants, tradesmen, ordinary people. A bank failure would ruin them.’
‘And do you think the bank is in danger of failing?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said directly. ‘You would have to ask Charles Faversham, although even if the bank is in difficulties, he might be unwilling to admit it. My impression is no, not yet. We have very large debts, but we also have other assets we can realise. One sensible decision Munro made was to use some of our reserve capital to buy gold. That will shore up our position and maintain confidence in our currency.’
The rector frowned. ‘Even with the Restriction? Your notes can no longer be redeemed for gold. Whatever gold Mr Munro bought must still be sitting in your vaults.’
‘The fact that we have gold is what matters. People know it is there, and that gives the impression that we are still well found. Perception is everything in business, reverend. If people think your business is sound, then it is sound. Lose their confidence, and all the strength in the world will not avail you. Your customers will ebb away, and your business with it.’
‘May I ask one further question? I promise the answer will not leave this room. Your husband was a shipowner. Was he also involved in smuggling?’
‘Of course,’ she said coolly. ‘So am I. Most of our business is legitimate cargo, but yes, we are also part of the free trade.’
‘I see. And do you know whether Hector Munro might also have had connections with the trade?’
‘Well, his father-in-law does, so it is quite possible. Maudsley’s path never crosses mine; he is a backer, while I am in the carrying trade. We use different routes and employ different gangs. So I am in no position to know what Munro’s involvement might have been.’
‘You have no financial link with Maudsley or Munro, apart from the bank? Neither ever employed your services, or gave you instructions about smuggled consignments of goods?’
She smiled. ‘I don’t obey orders, reverend. I give them.’
The rector nodded, slowly.
‘Am I the last of the partners to be interrogated?’ she asked. ‘I hope you also spoke to Mr Batist in Ashford. If anyone would know Munro’s affairs, it would be him. Were I in your shoes, I would have begun my investigation with him.’
‘Indeed
I did speak to Mr Batist,’ Hardcastle said. ‘He was not very illuminating.’
She smiled a little. ‘Batist is very good at being discreet,’ she said. ‘Well, it was a thought. I imagine Cotton and Maudsley were of no use at all.’
She was testing, he knew, to find out what he might have learned. He wondered why. He decided to trail his coat a little. ‘That’s not quite true,’ he said. ‘I think Cotton did know about Munro’s smuggling. He pretended not to; he got onto his high horse and ranted about Christian morality, then more or less threw me out of his office. I’m still not quite sure why.’ The rector looked at the woman. ‘You know him better than I.’
‘Cotton is a prig,’ she said, ‘who preaches sanctimony while making money out of death. But that is about all I know of him.’ She looked at him. ‘I warned you I would be of very little use.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs Redcliffe. May I call upon you again, should I have further questions?’
‘You are always welcome,’ she said. ‘Kindly give my regards to your friend Mrs Chaytor. I enjoyed her company. I would welcome a call from her, if she so wishes it.’
*
Hardcastle had a brief, unsatisfactory conversation with Sawbridge the magistrate before taking the road home. He left Hythe without regrets. The crumbling town, the big man and his dog, the tattooed footman, the dark house had all unnerved him. He recalled Joshua Stemp once saying that the smugglers from Hythe were among the toughest and most villainous on the coast; even worse than the men from Deal, and that was saying something.
Out in the open lands of the Marsh, he tasted salt air on his lips and felt free once more. The afternoon sun glistened out of a brilliant sky. He flicked the reins and his tired horse picked up to a grudging trot. The high road followed the line of the shore to Dymchurch, where he turned off onto a country lane, a strip of grass distinguished from the surrounding fields only by the presence of a dilapidated fence down each side. Ahead, the tower of his church, St Mary the Virgin, rose into a periwinkle sky.
He turned into the rectory drive opposite the church and drove up to the house and stopped. Amos the groom came out to take the horse and cart round to the stables. Mrs Kemp greeted him in the hall. ‘Mr Stemp was here earlier. He wants to see you.’
‘Send Biddy around and ask him to call on me. I need a change of clothes and a drink.’
By the time Stemp arrived, the rector had washed the travel dust away and drunk a glass of cider, cool from the cellar, and was feeling like a new man. He offered a glass to the parish constable. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. I thought it would be at least Monday before you returned.’
‘Happens I didn’t have to go too far afield,’ said Stemp. ‘You were right, reverend, he never went near London. He came straight down to Romney Marsh and spent the whole time here, right up until he was killed.’
9
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot
‘He took the post-coach from Ashford to Hythe,’ said Stemp. ‘He arrived in Hythe around midday. He went into the Swan, where he hired a private parlour and asked not to be disturbed. He was calling himself Mr Bradford, but the landlord recognised the description I gave and was sure he had a Scotch accent.’
Stemp had gone carefully in Hythe. He had not seen or heard any report of Noakes since the incident near Dungeness three weeks earlier, but he knew the threats made on the beach were not empty ones. If Noakes found Stemp had been on his ‘patch’, in Hythe, then the boatman would come looking for him. Fortunately, Manningham the landlord at the Swan was an old acquaintance and occasional ally in the free trade; he did not like Noakes either, and would be discreet.
‘The landlord brought him food and drink and left him alone,’ said Stemp. ‘About an hour later another man came in and went straight into the parlour. The landlord didn’t get a clear look at him, but thought he was a slightly built fellow, quietly dressed; that’s all he could say. That’s also how Jem Clay described the man who hired the boat,’ Stemp added.
‘Was he meeting Munro to receive instructions, or to give them? I wonder which. Go on.’
‘The other fellow left, and then a few minutes later Mr Munro left, too, on foot and walking south. A couple of people saw him on the Dymchurch road, and another spotted him walking on towards New Romney. He was wearing the same coat as when we found him and carrying a small bag, so that’s how I know it was him.’
‘So, he went to New Romney on Wednesday,’ said the rector. ‘But he wasn’t killed until Friday morning. Where did he spend the rest of the time? You checked the inns and the rooming houses.’
‘I reckon he was trying to disappear. Perhaps he thought he was being followed, or people might be watching for him; maybe he didn’t want to attract the notice of the Preventive men. He surely reckoned the inns and rooming houses would be the first places anyone’d look for him. So he knocked on the door of a private house and asked for a room for the night, offering to pay well. You’ll never guess who took him in.’
‘Surprise me,’ said the rector.
‘Ruth Tydde. Ebenezer and Florian’s mother.’
Hardcastle sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘Well, you’ve certainly succeeded. Why in the name of God did she not come forward when the body was discovered?’
‘According to her, she didn’t want to cause trouble for her boys after they found the body. She was sure that if it became known the stranger had been staying under her roof, they’d get blamed for the killing.’
‘For God’s sake! Concealing evidence in a murder investigation is a criminal offence!’
‘I told her so, reverend. She got very uppity at that point. Said she hadn’t concealed anything, cuz no one had ever asked her anything.’
‘I don’t suppose she knows anything useful?’
Stemp shook his head. ‘She’s dancing with the fairies most of the time. Reads novels like those ones your sister writes, and treats ’em like they’re real. She thinks Munro’s ghost is still haunting New Romney, and won’t go away until justice is done. According to her, Munro kept to his room the whole time, never went out, didn’t meet anyone. Then late on Thursday afternoon he thanked her and took his leave. She didn’t see which way he went.’
The rector pondered for a moment. ‘Can her sons confirm this?’
‘I spoke to them again too. They were out fishing in the afternoon, then went straight to the Ship and had a late night, and slept most of the next day. They didn’t even know their mother had taken in a lodger until I told them.’
‘Mrs Tydde said nothing to them? Why?’
‘I went back and asked her that same question. She said nothing to them that evening because she didn’t think it worth mentioning. I get the impression they don’t talk to each other that much. When she heard about the body next morning, she worked out pretty quick who it was.’ Stemp grimaced. ‘She said she didn’t tell the boys because she didn’t want to worry them.’
‘Do you think she is hiding something?’
‘Well, you can never be sure, reverend. But I honestly don’t think so. She’s no sort of murderer, and neither are the boys.’
The rector considered briefly whether to interview Mrs Tydde himself, then pushed the matter to the back of his mind. ‘Something else happened that night that may be of importance,’ he said.
He told Stemp about the chance meeting with Captain Haddock and the story of the Dutch lugger, and saw Stemp’s face change. ‘What is it? Do you know that ship?’
‘I do,’ said Stemp. ‘I saw her a week or so before. Reverend, I’m afraid I have a confession to make.’
He told his own story, omitting mention of the French smuggler but describing Noakes’s boat and the meeting with the Dutchman and his discovery of the coffin. ‘I should have reported the matter, I know. But I wasn’t at all sure of what I had seen, or what it meant. It’s not illegal to bring a coffin ashore, is it? There’s no duty on them.’
‘No,’ said the rector slowly, ‘but to land one from a
small boat on a deserted beach is certainly odd. You are convinced there was a body inside the coffin?’
‘I didn’t open it,’ said Stemp, ‘so of course I can’t be certain. There was something inside that box, though. I watched them handling it, and there’s no doubt it was heavy.’ Stemp paused. ‘This Dutchman. Do you think it was someone on that ship who killed Mr Munro?’
‘A pound to a shilling says it is. Dr Mackay said he was shot from a close distance, though, not point-blank. Also, the man with the gun was standing at a higher elevation.’
‘Like a man on the deck of a ship shooting down into a small boat,’ said Stemp.
‘Exactly. I wonder if the killing happened just before the Stag arrived on the scene. In their haste to get away, the crew of the Dutch ship abandoned the boat with Munro’s body still in it. The Stag, intent on its quarry, failed to spot the smaller boat in the darkness.’
‘So now we’ve a good idea how Mr Munro was killed,’ said Stemp. ‘What we don’t know is why.’
‘I asked several people whether they thought Munro might be involved in smuggling,’ Hardcastle said. ‘Most professed shock at the idea.’ Mrs Redcliffe hadn’t, but then it was difficult to imagine Mrs Redcliffe being shocked by anything. ‘Have you learned anything further?’
‘Manningham in Hythe deals with half the smugglers there, and knows about most of the rest. He had never heard of Munro, though he knew about Maudsley. Same goes for the boys in Dymchurch and New Romney. I’ll ask in Lydd, but I suspect I’ll get the same answer. There’s only one other group I can think of.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Noakes and his gang, also from Hythe. Manningham doesn’t know what they’re up to, but I heard a rumour they’re working with one of the French captains, Bertrand. They might well be working with the Dutch as well. With your permission, reverend, I’d like to find out what they’re doing. It don’t seem likely that a villain like Noakes would work with a gent like Mr Munro, but you never know.’
The Body in the Boat Page 11
