The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  The rector looked at her in alarm. ‘Is that so? Mrs Chaytor said only that there was some rumour concerning country banks.’

  ‘Clara, my dear, you are exaggerating,’ said Miss Godfrey, looking sternly at her friend. ‘I think you should show the letter to Reverend Hardcastle, and let him judge for himself.’

  It took Miss Roper a couple of minutes and several false starts to locate the letter, but eventually she found it and handed it over, indicating the relevant paragraphs with a bony finger.

  And now, dear aunt, there is something most important I must tell you. According to Jasper—

  ‘Jasper?’ asked the rector.

  ‘Jasper Hobbes, my niece’s husband,’ said Miss Roper. ‘He is from Bedfordshire; or is it Lincolnshire? Oh, I’m not at all certain now. He has been with the East India Company for many years, and is very well thought of there. There is talk that he—’

  ‘Clara, dear,’ said Miss Godfrey gently, ‘allow Reverend Hardcastle to finish reading.’

  According to Jasper, the Restriction Act is likely to have a most serious effect on the prosperity of our dear country. Now that banknotes can no longer be redeemed for gold, it seems that gold may cease to be used as common currency, and this might have an effect on the price of gold itself. The East India Company clearly believes this will happen, and is selling off some of its gold reserves. Jasper himself arranged a very large sale, over 3,000 ounces, just a few weeks ago.

  If the price of gold does fall, Jasper said, many of our country banks will be in quite desperate straits. Many are very badly found, he says, and devaluation of their gold reserves could lead to loss of confidence in their paper currency. If that happens, then some of the smaller banks could fail entirely.

  I asked Jasper at once if he knew which banks might be most in danger, and he replied that he had absolutely no idea, but certainly a large number were at risk. I then asked what would happen if a bank failed, and whether the depositors would get their money back, and he looked at me across the table and said he doubted it very much, and then went out to walk the poodle.

  Upon hearing this news, I confess I felt deeply concerned for you, dear aunt, for I know that you are with a country bank. I felt I should pass this news on to you as soon as possible. It may be that your bank is in absolutely no danger at all, in which case I do hope that I have not alarmed you!! On the other hand, if your bank does face danger, then I only hope that I have been able to give you timely warning.

  The rector laid down the letter. ‘What can it mean?’ asked Miss Godfrey. ‘I confess I do not like this talk of danger and risk. At our age, we are no longer interested in taking risks.’

  The rector considered while she refilled his teacup. His first thought was that Mrs Hobbes deserved a strong kick up the backside for alarming two elderly spinsters. But he remembered, too, the words of Martha Redcliffe. Were there cracks in the edifice of the East Weald and Ashford Bank?

  ‘These are difficult times,’ he said, choosing his words with care. ‘But it seems that, as Mr Hobbes said, the banks most at risk are those that are small and badly found. The East Weald and Ashford is one of the largest country banks in England, and has a record of solidity and probity. I do not think, ladies, that you have much to fear. But if you are concerned, then I recommend you move your money to another bank.’

  ‘But where, reverend?’ asked Miss Godfrey. ‘All the nearby banks, even so far away as Canterbury, are owned by the East Weald and Ashford. We should have to go as far away as Maidstone to find a different bank; and who is to say that it might not be at risk of failing also, perhaps even more than our own bank?’

  ‘You could try one of the London banks,’ said the rector, but his voice was doubtful. The aristocratic banks of the capital – Coutts, Hoares, Drummonds, Childs – would not be interested in holding an account for two provincial spinsters of no great means. He himself had no special connections in London that would help them.

  ‘I fear we shall have to make do,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘We have little choice but to leave our money with the East Weald and Ashford and hope for the best.’ Miss Roper watched her, eyes bright with concern. The rector pushed Mrs Redcliffe’s words firmly into the back of his mind and nodded his agreement.

  ‘I think that is the right course of action,’ he said firmly. ‘Mr Hobbes is right, and the banks are facing a spell of bad weather. But if any bank can come through safely, it is surely the East Weald and Ashford. Your money is as safe there as it can possibly be. And, dear Miss Godfrey, dear Miss Roper: if you have further concern about the bank, or you need assistance, please come to me. I am always at your service.’

  He departed an hour later, leaving the two of them reassured, or so he hoped. Sunset still glowed in the western sky; near at hand, the village was wrapped in twilight. Lamps shone brightly in the windows of the Star, and the rector thought suddenly of beer. It would be something to take away the taste of the cake, he told himself.

  In the common room, Jack Hoad the fisherman greeted him. ‘What’ll you have, reverend?’

  ‘A mug of strong, please, Jack.’ Tim Luckhurst the landlord served him and poured one for himself, and they stood and talked about money; Luckhurst was another who did not like the new £1 banknotes. ‘Suppose there’s a fire, now?’ he said. ‘There goes your money, up in smoke. Or what happens if they get wet? No, sir, they can keep their paper. Give me good, honest gold and silver any day.’

  ‘Bloody banks,’ said Jack Hoad, who tended to speak plainly. ‘Don’t trust ’em. Never have.’

  The rector thought again about Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper. Luckhurst too banked with the East Weald and Ashford. ‘Where do you keep your money, Jack?’ he asked the fisherman.

  ‘Hole in the ground,’ said Hoad.

  *

  The rector heard a knock at the front door, and raised his eyes briefly to the heavens. The last few days had been busy, leaving him with little time to think. Three of his parishioners were down with marsh fever, one a child who was very ill indeed; news had come that a young man from the village, a sailor on the Culloden, had been killed in battle at Tenerife earlier in the summer, and his family were in need of consolation; and he had had a blazing argument with his sister, who wanted to repaint the hall of the rectory in a particularly vile shade of yellow. Yesterday he had sat on the bench during a long and trying court of petty sessions in New Romney, listening to Elsie Warren attempt to prove paternity of her child against Tom Shanks. She, in the rector’s view, was a simpering nitwit, while he was a scrawny youth who barely looked capable of fathering progeny on anyone. Mostly, Hardcastle felt sorry for the child.

  Now he was tired, and wanted a drink. He looked up as Mrs Kemp entered the study. ‘An angry man from Scotland to see you, reverend,’ she said, the corners of her mouth more downturned than ever. ‘Shall I send him away?’

  Mrs Kemp disapproved strongly of the Scots, along with the French, the Irish, Londoners, vagrants, Methodists, travelling salesmen, people from the colonies and women who plucked their eyebrows. The rector took the visiting card from the salver. It was plain in design, with the visitor’s name written in simple script: Mr Alexander Munro.

  The rector sighed. He had been expecting a letter from Hector Munro’s family, but not a visit in person. He wondered what had brought Munro rushing south in such haste, and had an uneasy feeling that he already knew the answer.

  ‘Show him in, Mrs Kemp,’ he said.

  *

  Physically, Alexander Munro was very like his brother: big, strongly built, with the same brown hair and eyes. But whereas Hector Munro’s face had been pleasant, his brother’s at the moment was set hard, his brows frowning and his mouth a grim line.

  ‘Thank you for receiving me,’ he said. ‘No, I’ll have no refreshment. I shall get down to business straight away. Have you discovered yet who murdered my brother?’

  Hardcastle watched him for a moment, gauging his mood. Mrs Kemp was right; he was certainly angry. ‘
Not yet,’ the rector said. ‘I now know with a fair degree of certainty where and how your brother was killed. I don’t yet know by whom, or why.’

  ‘Not yet? For God’s sake, man, you’ve had two weeks to discover this!’

  ‘The case has proved to be a complex one,’ the rector said calmly.

  ‘Complex? Complex, sir? It’s nothing of the sort! It’s as plain as the nose on your face what happened. Those two fishermen killed my brother. And they did so on the orders of Hector’s father-in-law, that thieving old bastard Maudsley!’

  ‘That is a very serious accusation,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Why might Mr Maudsley have wanted to kill your brother?’

  ‘Theft,’ said Munro. ‘Theft of his grandson’s inheritance, plain and simple. That’s why he had himself named guardian of the child, along with his daughter; so they could help themselves to Hector’s money and plunder the child’s inheritance.’

  The will, thought the rector. He has found out about the will.

  Fists clenched in his lap, Munro leaned forward. ‘Either myself or one of my brothers should have been named as co-guardian along with the daughter, to protect the child’s interests. But according to Maudsley, we’ve been set aside. Well, I do not believe it. Hector would never cut his own family out of his will.’

  ‘Do I take it you have seen Mr Maudsley?’

  ‘I went straight to his house from London. He practically showed me the door! And I wasn’t even allowed to speak to the daughter. Aye, she’s in on it too, I have no doubt. They’re a family of thieves.’

  ‘Mrs Munro is grieving,’ said the rector, ‘and is still recovering from the rigours of childbirth. It is not surprising that Mr Maudsley should be protective of her, given that your family have not always been kind about the marriage. I understand that when Mr Munro first proposed to Miss Maudsley, as she then was, your family objected. Is that not correct?’

  ‘Aye, we did at first,’ said Munro. ‘We were suspicious of her, of all of them. Hector was a wealthy man. We were sure there was some plot by the Maudsleys to get their hooks into Hector’s money. But the couple seemed happy, according to his letters; and we are not unkind people. In time, we were reconciled and gave them our blessing.’ Munro shook his head. ‘How wrong we were.’

  ‘Mr Munro, I can understand your disappointment in the matter of the will,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But I understand its provisions were spelled out very clearly. You can of course attempt to challenge the will, but you will need to return to London and apply to the courts there.’

  ‘That will is a blasted forgery! Maudsley wrote it himself, and passed it off as Hector’s. And he paid that snivelling solicitor in Ashford to back him up; oh, I saw him, too, and he insisted the will was genuine. They’re all in it together. Lawyers, thieves, the whole rotten cabal.’

  The rector frowned. ‘You are accusing Mr Maudsley of murder, forgery and fraud. I hope, sir, that you have some very good evidence to back up your case. Mr Maudsley is a well-respected man, a justice of the peace. You cannot simply go around accusing him willy-nilly.’

  ‘Fraud? I’ll tell you who’s a fraud, sir! Maudsley, that’s who! He’s a criminal! Man, he’s a smuggler! And don’t tell me you didn’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, I know it.’

  ‘And you also are an officer of the law, and you do nothing about it?’

  ‘Mr Munro, if you wish to lay a complaint of smuggling, I advise you to contact either the Customs Service or the Excise. Smuggling is not my department.’

  Munro stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘These two fishermen whom you say killed your brother,’ Hardcastle continued. ‘Do you mean the Tydde brothers?’

  ‘Aye, that’s them.’

  ‘What makes you suspect them?’

  ‘They’re part of the same smuggling racket as Maudsley, aren’t they? They told me so themselves. Smuggling and murder; they’re just two different forms of criminality. People like these will easily turn from one to the other.’

  Oh, dear God. The rector sat silent for a moment. He had been growing tired of Munro’s ranting accusations, and was about to show the man the door. But if this was true – and a sinking feeling in his stomach told him it probably was – and there was indeed a connection between the Tyddes and Maudsley, then Munro’s allegations began to take on form and substance. This was serious.

  ‘How do you know this?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘I spoke to their mad crank of a mother, who seemed to think I was some sort of ghost of my brother. And I interviewed her half-witted sons. To be frank, I wasn’t sure at first if either of them had the intelligence or the imagination to carry out a murder. But I expect that if someone told them very clearly what to do, and paid them enough, they’d find a way to manage it. It’s plain enough what happened. Maudsley found some pretext to lure Hector to New Romney, to the home of the Tydde family. He stayed there the night before he was killed; the mother confessed as much to me. They probably killed him in the house, then waited until nightfall and took his body out to sea and left him in the boat. Oh, my God, Hector . . .’

  Suddenly, Munro buried his face in his hands. When he raised his head again, his eyes were wet. Behind the accusations, behind the anger, there was a deep well of grief and mourning. That Munro had loved his brother was beyond doubt.

  ‘When will you arrest them?’ he asked.

  ‘I will interview the Tydde family first, and ask them to account for themselves.’ Hardcastle felt suddenly sick. Stemp had interviewed the Tydde brothers, and he himself had watched them give evidence at the inquest; he could have sworn they were both straight. Could I have been wrong? he wondered. Could they have deceived us all? It was possible.

  And Maudsley. I cannot believe it of him. But better men than him have committed worse crimes.

  ‘I shall summon them to a formal interview in New Romney tomorrow,’ the rector said.

  Munro wiped his eyes. ‘I insist on being present when you do so.’

  ‘As a courtesy, given that you are Mr Munro’s next of kin, I will permit it. Where are you staying?’

  ‘In New Romney. I have taken a room at the Ship. I’ll be close by while you do your work. Mark my words, reverend; I intend to hold your feet to the fire. I want justice for my brother, and I’ll not leave until it is done.’

  *

  ‘My goodness!’ said Calpurnia, coming into the study after Munro had gone. ‘Can he really think that the Tyddes, of all people, have committed murder?’

  Eavesdropping, along with not knocking at doors, was one of Calpurnia’s many annoying habits. ‘I am still not speaking to you,’ said the rector.

  ‘Fiddle-faddle, you are doing so right now. What is more, chartreuse is a perfectly admirable colour, and you know it. Marcus, what Mr Munro said is perfect nonsense. My friend Mrs Tydde could not possibly have killed anyone.’

  Startled, the rector looked at his sister. ‘Your friend?’

  ‘I know Mrs Tydde intimately. She is a dear friend, and a great admirer of my books.’

  He thought of several sarcastic things to say, but bit them back. Instead, he sighed. ‘All the same, Munro’s claims must be investigated. I have agreed to interview the Tydde family tomorrow.’

  ‘Really? Oh, Marcus! Ruth Tydde is the gentlest soul on this earth. She would not hurt a fly. And Eb and Flo are delightful boys, but they can barely summon the energy to catch a fish. Killing a man would be far beyond them. Murder? It is too astonishing.’

  ‘What? Eb and Flo?’

  ‘Ebenezer and Florian, of course. Her sons.’

  Despite himself, the rector started to laugh. ‘Did she do that deliberately? Name her two sons so they would be known as Eb and Flo Tydde?’

  ‘I asked her once,’ said Calpurnia, starting to giggle too. ‘She affected not to know what I was talking about. In the early days of her marriage, when her husband was still a poor fisherman, she was much taken up with religion, and named her first son Ebenezer because she thought i
t was a godly name. Then she discovered that glorious realm of imagination and romance that is the Gothic novel, and so her second son was called Florian, after the hero of one of her favourite works.’

  ‘Isn’t there a daughter as well?’

  ‘Yes. Rather disappointingly, she is called Mary. You know her; she is married to Juggins, the town councillor in New Romney. Mary is the apple of her mother’s eye, for she has made her way in society just as the Tyddes always hoped the children would do, once their father’s business prospered. Sadly, the two boys have not followed suit. They are quite . . .’ Calpurnia paused to choose her word. ‘Unambitious,’ she said.

  ‘Well, as it happens, I agree with you. I do not think the Tyddes are murderers. But they do have a connection with Maudsley, which I am duty bound to investigate.’

  Calpurnia gazed at him seriously. ‘Marcus; Ruth Tydde is a dear woman, but her nerves are not of the strongest. She will find being interviewed by you very trying. I should very much like to be present when you do so. I think she will answer your questions more readily if I am there to reassure her.’

  Hardcastle considered this, and nodded slowly. If Munro had already accused the Tyddes of murder – and it was highly possible that he had, for the man had the subtlety of a sledgehammer – then Ruth Tydde was likely to be in a nervous state. He recalled Stemp’s description of her: dancing with the fairies. An advocate might reassure her and help concentrate her mind. ‘Very well. Thank you, Calpurnia. And . . . you may have your chartreuse.’

  His sister beamed at him. ‘There. I knew you would see sense.’

  11

  A Pitiful Conspiracy

  For once, Calpurnia was up early the next morning, joining Hardcastle at breakfast and tucking into ham and eggs with a hearty appetite. ‘I shall squeeze into the dog cart with you, Marcus. My gig is still not mended.’