‘No, no, it will never come to that,’ said the rector absently. ‘Lord Clavertye’s new semaphore system will protect you . . . Ladies, this cannot be correct, surely? M. de Foucarmont is the girl’s uncle, even if only by marriage.’
‘Ah, but is he?’ Miss Godfrey said in the same low voice. ‘The maids at the house say that the relationship is a pretence, nothing more. Mr Fou-car-mont and Mrs Fanscombe are in no way related.’
‘Then . . . why does he come to stay at New Hall?’
‘That is the mystery, is it not?’ asked Miss Roper cheerfully. ‘Why indeed? Do you suppose he is a French spy, come to prepare the way for the invasion?’
‘Clara, dear,’ said Miss Godfrey severely, ‘you are quite obsessed with this idea of a French invasion.’
The rector reflected that it would be a good thing if a few of their leaders in Whitehall were similarly obsessed. ‘M. de Foucarmont is a French royalist of unimpeachable character,’ he said, ‘and very much on our side. That is the word from Lord Clavertye, who should know.’
‘I think the pair of them deserve each other,’ said Miss Godfrey. Miss Roper nodded. ‘He is rich and handsome, and she is ambitious. There is a certain vulgar expression which fits her admirably.’
The rector knew the expression. ‘All teeth and tits,’ was how young Bessie Luckhurst at the Star had described Eliza Fanscombe some weeks back, to the delight of the common room. He had reprimanded Bessie gently for her language, but admitted to himself that Eliza was admirably equipped with both assets. ‘I don’t know the young lady well,’ he said cautiously. ‘What little I have seen suggests a young woman of spirit, but whose manners could be improved.’
‘Oh, she does not lack spirit,’ said Miss Godfrey acidly. ‘Her behaviour, quite apart from this business with Mr F-f-f-.’ She waved an airy hand. ‘You know who I mean. Him. Regardless, her behaviour is not that which one would expect from a girl of good family.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the rector.
‘She is a hoyden,’ said Miss Godfrey. ‘She goes riding alone, at all hours of the day and night. Who knows what she gets up to, or whom she meets? And she is quite out of control at home. She ignores her father entirely, and treats her stepmother quite abominably. They fight like cat and dog, we understand, and do not always disguise their quarrels from the servants.’
‘There have been some dreadful scenes,’ said Miss Roper, nodding. ‘That girl is going wild, mark my words. And her parents cannot, or will not, tame her.’
‘She goes out at night?’ asked the rector, astonished.
‘She certainly does. She has been seen, riding alone across the Marsh on nights of the new moon, when the smugglers make their runs. She is gaining a reputation,’ said Miss Godfrey solemnly.
‘I cannot imagine why she would be so foolish,’ mused the rector as Miss Godfrey refilled his cup.
‘She is young,’ said Miss Roper, with unusual tolerance. ‘She is full of spirit. She does not want to live the same narrow, dull life as her parents. I do not entirely blame her. Indeed, on one level I almost envy her.’
‘Clara!’ said Miss Godfrey, staring at her open-mouthed. ‘My dear, you never cease to amaze me!’
He detached himself gently from their company after a while and walked home, his belly uneasily full of brandy and lard. He could eat little of his luncheon, which incurred the displeasure of Mrs Kemp, and afterwards lay down on the settee in his study, listening to his stomach rumble and looking up at the branches of the elms waving in the south-westerly wind.
Today was 24th May. The moon was on the wane. Matthew had said that the next smugglers’ run would likely be on 6th June. That was less than two weeks from now. What would Blunt do? He had lost his agent inside the Twelve Apostles, but he was likely to have other sources of information. The rector had no doubt that Blunt would try once again to capture or kill Peter and his men. There would be more violence, more death on the Marsh.
Unless, somehow, he and Mrs Chaytor could prevent it.
They desperately needed allies. Clavertye had abandoned them. Cornewall was already set firm against them. Who else? He thought about approaching Captain Shaw, and wondered whether the young man really would continue to investigate. There was little that the captain could do officially without sanction from above; he could not call out his men, for example. But he might have another perspective and other, better sources of information. He was, it was now clear, cleverer than he looked, and he might spot something that the rector himself had missed. The same was true of Turner, the painter, with his famous eye for detail and detachment from local affairs.
Then, there was Dr Morley.
He disliked the doctor as cordially as ever, but even he had to admit that Morley worked hard and was dedicated to his profession. Furthermore, he was intelligent and perceptive and in a position to hear gossip and acquire useful information. The affair with Eugénie Fanscombe need not necessarily be held against him. Morley had been as closely involved in this affair as he himself. Should he perhaps now sound out in the doctor? Could he help them in any way?
He promised himself that he would think about the matter, and then fell asleep.
*
On the following morning, Wednesday, the rector rose early and walked down to St Mary’s Bay under a cloudy sky. Here he laboured up to the crest of the dunes and stood for a long time, the hem of his overcoat flapping in the fresh wind, looking at the coast of France so perilously near. There was no sign of Turner; perhaps the light was not right for painting.
He wondered what was happening on that far shore. The armies of revolutionary France were large and powerful; for four years they had defied the rest of Europe. There had been hopes that a royalist uprising the previous autumn would overthrow the republic, but that uprising had been suppressed and the new revolutionary government, the Directory, appeared stronger than ever.
There was every chance that one day the Directory would launch its armies across the thirty miles of windswept water that lay between France and England. And when that day comes, the rector thought darkly, there are not a few Englishmen who will welcome them with open arms. Men full of revolutionary zeal, men to whom loyalty to their king means nothing. Men who, driven by political beliefs or greed, would betray their country.
Miss Roper might not be so hazy-witted as she seemed. What if this whole affair really was the prelude to an invasion? What if Blunt and his confederates, whoever they might be, were part of a plot to deliver England to her enemies? He thought about this for a long time, staring out at the coast of France as if he expected to see the invasion barges sailing across the water at any moment. But nothing stirred on the rolling steel-grey sea except for a few fishing boats.
He drew a long breath of sea air, and his mind began to work more clearly. Things which had been obscure started to make sense. He had never understood why Blunt had been prepared to betray the Twelve Apostles. He had seen the man’s terror and desperation at first hand. Bullies like Blunt never stood up to men stronger and more dangerous than they, unless . . .
Unless someone more powerful still was calling the shots. Blunt must be taking orders from someone, and that someone must know the Twelve Apostles were not just a smuggling gang. He must know exactly who the Apostles were, and what their business was. So, Blunt probably knew as well.
That meant that Blunt was not just a murderer; he was also a traitor.
And where did that leave Fanscombe and his family, and Foucarmont? Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper had told him a few of the secrets of New Hall, but he was certain that the Fanscombes’ domestic troubles were not at the heart of the matter. Something was very wrong in that household. Distasteful thought it might be to contemplate, it was likely that either Fanscombe or Foucarmont was involved – even if unwittingly – in Blunt’s treason.
Could he take this knowledge to Clavertye, and ask him to rethink his position? But once again, he told himself, to quote His Lordship, I have no evid
ence, only a fanciful theory, unproven and unprovable.
Eventually his stomach reminded him that it was past time for breakfast, and he turned and walked back to the village. He passed the rest of the day engaged almost absent-mindedly in pastoral duties, thinking hard but coming to no conclusions.
On the following day, Thursday 26th, a letter arrived.
THE RECTORY, ST MARY THE VIRGIN, ASHFORD.
25th May, 1796.
My dear Marcus,
How perfectly splendid it is to hear from you, old fellow. Thank you very kindly for asking about Martha; yes, she is entirely recovered from her chill. Even as I write, I can hear her outside berating the gardener; from which you may deduce that she is in fine fettle! How are things in your sleepy old Marsh? By the way, thanks most sincerely for the fine bottle of brandy you sent at Christmas. I trust there is plenty more from the same source!
I know Mrs Shaw, of course. She was quite poorly for some time before anyone knew of it; she is, I fear, the sort of lady who prefers to suffer in silence, rather than risk being a burden to others. When I learned she was ill, I sent at once for her family. I recall Captain Shaw visiting her; he called on me afterwards, and I gained the impression of a very devoted son. His sisters, Mrs Shaw’s daughters, are here and nursing the old lady, who is now very much on the mend. But I will certainly inform you if her malady takes a turn for the worse.
William is tearing up Trinity College, and we wait daily for news of his expulsion. Young dog! Ha-ha!
In friendship and in Christ
FREDDIE
So, thought the rector, reading the letter in his study after breakfast, Shaw’s story was true. He seems genuine . . . Indeed, he has never given me any reason whatever to distrust him. I have been prejudiced against him because he is a gangling, scrawny, untidy young man whose mannerisms irritate me. I wrote him off at the beginning as the nearest thing to a halfwit. Perhaps it is time I revised my opinion of him.
He pondered this, drumming his fingers on the table and wondering once more whether to take Shaw into his confidence. Then he came to a sudden decision. Not yet, he told himself, not until I know more; and I will discuss it with Mrs Chaytor too. We may yet need Shaw; but let us keep quiet until we know for sure.
There was a knock at the front door, and he heard Mrs Kemp go to answer it. He had thought it would be Mrs Chaytor, but instead he heard a man’s voice in the hall, and then Mrs Kemp appeared in the doorway with the usual expression of disapproval on her lined face. ‘Mr Turner to see you, Reverend.’
Turner was shown in, and Mrs Kemp was dispatched for coffee. ‘Does she always look like that?’ the painter asked.
‘She disapproves of you. You are a foreigner; that is, you do not come from the Marsh. Also, like many of the older women here, she suspects you of interfering with the virgins of St Mary.’
‘A virgin, in St Mary? You’d sooner find a buffalo in Bond Street.’ Turner suddenly recalled that he was talking to a clergyman, and coughed. Mrs Kemp returned with coffee, served it, and slammed the study door as she departed.
‘What may I do for you, Mr Turner?’ the rector asked.
Turner coughed again, still embarrassed. ‘This is a bit delicate,’ he said. ‘But . . . I think that there is something odd going on at New Hall.’
The rector’s ears began to tingle. ‘Go on,’ he said gently.
‘For one thing, the place is like Piccadilly. People come and go all the time. Dr Morley calls three times a week, though to my knowledge no one there is ill. Blunt has been there twice in recent days, slipping through the grounds like a burglar and looking over his shoulder before he reaches the door. There’ve been half a dozen others, too, some coming openly by day, others at night. And then there is Mad Eliza, galloping out yesterday at ten in the evening, if you like, and not coming back until nearly dawn.’
‘Why do you call her Mad Eliza?’
‘Because she’s . . . Mad is too harsh a word, perhaps, but I think she is ten pence in the shilling.’ Turner tapped his head. ‘She is, what, eighteen? But she behaves like a spoiled child.’
The rector sipped his coffee, and waited. ‘I should make it clear that I don’t spy on them,’ said Turner. ‘The back windows of Rightways look out over the gardens and the front of New Hall, and it is difficult not to notice these things. No one else in the village would see, because none of the other houses overlooks the gardens or the drive.’
‘I understand,’ said the rector. ‘Does Mr Fanscombe go out often? Or M. de Foucarmont, who I assume is still there?’
Turner looked at the rector for a full half-minute, his eyes searching the older man’s face. ‘You also think something is wrong,’ he said finally.
‘I do. But I am not yet certain what it is.’
‘I should have known you would be aware of this,’ said Turner half to himself. ‘To answer your question, I have not laid eyes on Foucarmont, but I have seen his valet. So I assume Foucarmont is still there, but lying low. Fanscombe rode out yesterday and was gone for most of the day. Dr Morley called while he was absent. I assume Dr Morley’s . . . business, was with Mrs Fanscombe.’
‘It seems likely. You must have a very low opinion of the morals of this parish, Mr Turner.’
Turner smiled. ‘On the contrary, I quite like it here. But Blunt is an unpleasant sort of cove, and I cannot work out what he is doing hanging around. Surely he isn’t . . .’
‘No. He needs to see Fanscombe on official business, of course.’
Again Turner gave him a long searching look. ‘And what else?’ he asked.
‘Again, I fear, I do not know.’ At all costs, he had to prevent Turner from following up his suspicions on his own; any interference by him might spoil the rector’s own inquiry, and could also be dangerous for Turner himself. ‘I fear we are looking at the beginnings of a domestic tragedy at New Hall,’ he said quietly. ‘There are secrets under that roof, I am quite certain, but they are secrets that concern the Fanscombe family only. We must allow them their privacy.’
He was lying, and Turner knew it. The painter gave him another long look, and then nodded. ‘You are warning me off,’ he said. ‘Doubtless you have your reasons. I know you well enough by now to trust you. But if I learn anything else of importance, then I will come to you again; and next time, I will insist on an explanation.’
‘Next time,’ said the rector, ‘you shall have it.’
*
Now the rector was worried. When he called on Amelia Chaytor later that morning her servants told him that she was away; she had driven down to stay with a friend near Rye and would not return until Saturday morning, the day of her dinner party. He was surprised that she had gone without telling him, and once more he contemplated where her true loyalties lay.
That evening he visited the Star, and sat down in the common room with Joshua Stemp and Jack Hoad, fishermen and veterans of the free-trade. He found them as gloomy as himself, for different reasons. Rumours of invasion were spreading along the coast again. Stemp and Hoad feared mostly for their boats; these were their main livelihood, licit and illicit, and they worried that in event of war the boats might be damaged or, worse, confiscated. There was a persistent rumour that in the event of an invasion, the Royal Navy would burn or sink every fishing boat along the coast to prevent the French using them to bring men and supplies across the Channel. ‘You’re a clever man, Reverend,’ said Stemp, ‘so you’ll know the answer to this. Why don’t the government do something to prevent the Frenchies gettin’ ashore? Way it is now, I reckon they could land anywhere they liked, and be marchin’ through London in a week.’
The rector stirred a little. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Joshua. If the government sends troops and builds forts along this shore, that could be the end of the free trade.’
They muttered at this. It was late, and the three of them sat alone in the common room, the fishermen drinking gin and the rector nursing a tankard of beer; behind the bar, Bessie L
uckhurst was yawning openly.
‘I reckon I’d rather lose the free trade than be taken over by them fuckin’ Frogs,’ said Hoad, who tended to say what he thought, without embellishment.
‘Might not come to that,’ argued Stemp. ‘I don’t see how a few redcoats is goin’ to stop the free trade. It’s been around since my granddad’s day. It ain’t goin’ away.’
‘Not so long as the smugglers keep paying the Customs to look the other way when they make their runs,’ observed the rector.
The others nodded at this, straight-faced, and agreed that corruption was a terrible thing, much to be deplored. ‘Blunty’s a greedy bastard,’ said Hoad, which seemed to sum up his entire feelings on the affair.
‘He is an unpleasant man, to be sure. Do you suppose it is only the smugglers who are paying him off?’
Hoad finished his gin, and the rector signalled to Bessie for another round. He was chancing his arm here, hoping that the fishermen might have heard something, even if only a rumour. Now Stemp rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. ‘There’s something odd about him, that’s for certain. Take this business of the Twelve Apostles, now. They were payin’ him off sweet and regular, just like the rest of the gangs. Then suddenly he stitches them up, takes their money and then tries to kill them. What’s that all about?’
The rector knew exactly what it was about, but did not say so. Instead, he lowered his voice. ‘Gentlemen; what do you think of this business of the officer who was killed? Miller, his name was. Blunt insisted that his death was an accident.’
There was a long pause. ‘Well,’ said Stemp, the smallpox pits on his cheek full of shadow in the lamplight. ‘It might have been an accident. And then, it might not.’
‘What have you heard?’ asked the rector quietly.
The Body on the Doorstep Page 17
