‘Did you see the man who shot Miller?’
‘It was pretty dark.’
‘But you could see clearly enough to know that it was Blunt.’
The man nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why he done it, and I don’t much care. But I know he done it.’
16
Eugénie
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.
1st June, 1796.
My lord,
In your last letter, you instructed me to stop pursuing our investigation into the deaths of Curtius Miller and the unknown Frenchman. However, an important item of information has come to light, and it would be remiss of me not to inform you.
In brief, my lord, a witness has been found, a member of the Customs service who saw Blunt shoot Miller in very much the manner we have hypothesised. I spoke to the witness myself and heard his story, and am convinced he is telling the truth. The witness insisted that he was speaking to me in confidence, and would not testify in court. However, I believe this witness to be involved in a great many corrupt practices. If he were promised immunity from prosecution, or at least a lenient sentence, I feel certain he could be prevailed upon to change his mind.
My lord, I believe this is sufficient cause to re-open the investigation, into both the death of Miller and the behaviour of the coroner during the original inquest. I leave this matter in your hands, and hope to receive further instructions from you soon.
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
That same afternoon, Wednesday 1st June, Eugénie Fanscombe knocked at the door of Sandy House and was quickly received and drawn inside. Lucy the maid brought tea and was dismissed. ‘Thank you for coming,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
‘I nearly did not come. I am surprised that you should want to see me again.’
Amelia smiled. ‘I thought you might be in need of a friendly face,’ she said, ‘and a consoling cup of tea. I confess I was concerned about you.’
The sharp face stared at her. ‘Why should you concern yourself with me?’
‘Because I sense that you are alone,’ said Amelia quietly. ‘And I know a great deal about loneliness.’
Silence fell. They sipped their tea. She saw how Eugénie’s eyes were rimmed with red, her cheeks a little hollow. Her heart sank. This was going to be difficult, even cruel, but it had to be done.
‘Are you safe?’ she asked directly.
‘What?’ The other woman stared at her. ‘Oh, yes, I suppose so. Charles would never dare . . .’ She fell silent again.
‘Is there somewhere that you can go?’ Amelia asked. ‘Have you money?’
‘Everything is in my husband’s name.’
‘Oh . . . Would Dr Morley help you? Lend you some money, on the quiet, of course?
‘Morley?’ Eugénie made a small choking sound and set down her cup of tea. ‘He has made it clear that he no longer wishes to have anything to do with me. He said, and these are his exact words, that he no longer found me amusing.’
‘Amusing?’ Amelia set down her own cup, so hard that it rattled the saucer. ‘Is that all we women are? Toys, to amuse the men?’
‘So it would seem,’ said the Frenchwoman bitterly. ‘He seduced me because deceiving my husband gave him pleasure. Once Charles knew the truth, the fun went out of the game. I was nothing. Just as you say, a toy.’
Morley, thought Amelia Chaytor, I was right to scorn you. You are even more of a snake in the grass than I suspected. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘But I think you must leave the house. I think you may be in danger. I will lend you money, and you can repay me whenever you are able.’
Eugénie Fanscombe’s lip trembled. ‘I cannot leave Eliza.’
‘From where I sit, my dear, you owe your stepdaughter very little.’
‘Oh, but it has not always been like this!’ said Mrs Fanscombe with a sudden wail. ‘We were so close, once! Eliza was a child still when I married Charles, but she was so good to me! There is only ten years between us, we have been more like sisters than mother and daughter. Then about a year ago, she changed. She became what you see now, spoiled, wilful, full of rebellion and spite. I cannot bear it. I am losing her, and it breaks my heart.’
‘What changed her, my dear?’
‘He came.’ She spat the words out in sudden anger, and Amelia felt her sorrow for this small, unhappy woman increase. ‘Foucarmont. He corrupted Eliza. Curse him, damn him, he has corrupted us all. Il est un démon, un diable.’
Her lapse into French was a sign of her distress. ‘He is not your brother,’ Amelia said quietly.
‘No. That is the story that I was forced to tell.’
‘And you know what he truly is?’
‘He is an agent of the French government. He has been sent here to work with a network of spies already operating in England. I do not know who any of the others are.’
‘None of them? What about Henry Blunt?’
‘Blunt is a tool; that is how Foucarmont describes him. He is a mercenary, I think, who serves for money.’
‘And your husband?’
‘He too is a tool. No; believe me. He hates the French; more than ever, now. He is not a willing member of this conspiracy.’
‘Then why does he take part?’
‘Foucarmont knows too much about him. If he were to talk, my husband would go to prison. I would be ruined, and so would Eliza.’ She swallowed suddenly, painfully. ‘I think he seduced Eliza . . . in part, because that is what men do, and in part to gain a greater hold over us, to ensure our loyalty; mine in particular. He knows I would never leave Eliza in danger.’
‘And your husband connives at the smuggling?’
‘He has for years, both he and Blunt. Foucarmont found out about this, and is using this knowledge to manipulate them both. They must do as he says, or he will expose them.’
‘Did your husband bribe the coroner at the inquest?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How often does Blunt come to New Hall?’
‘Usually about once a month, but recently more often. The three of them, my husband, Blunt and Foucarmont, meet in secrecy in the study; no one is allowed near. Eliza tried once to listen at the door, and they caught her. Foucarmont did not lay a hand on her, but he reduced her to wreckage with a few words. He can be so cruel,’ she added, her eyes dark as she remembered.
‘And the young Frenchman who came to stay here, the man they call Jacques Morel. Did you know him?’
‘I met him once only before. He called two months ago, asking for a contribution to a fund that supports destitute emigrés, those of my own people who left all their money when they fled France and have nothing to live on. He asked if I knew many of the emigrés. He mentioned Foucarmont’s name then.’
‘And later?’
‘He appeared early one morning, very wet and dishevelled. He said he had gone out sailing from Rye, but his boat had overturned. He was full of apology, but asked if he might stay a day or two in order to salvage his boat. Foucarmont was here as well. He took a great interest in the young man.’
‘Eugénie . . . I am so sorry to tell you this. M. Morel is the man who was found dead outside the rectory.’
The woman nodded, her face a picture of misery. ‘I knew it,’ she whispered. ‘I knew it from the moment I heard about the rifle bullet.’
‘Oh?’
‘Foucarmont has a rifle. It is one of his prized possessions. He sometimes goes out shooting when he comes to stay. Or at least, he says he does.’
My God, thought Amelia, we have hit the gold. She kept her face still and said, her voice gentle, ‘Eugénie, thank you. It was very brave of you to come here. But I hope that, very soon now, you will be relieved of M. de Foucarmont for ever.’
Hope softened the sharp face. ‘I would give anything for that to be so. Now, I have answered your questions. Will you please answer some of mine? Who are you, Mrs Chaytor, and why are you asking these questions?’
*
Evening was drawing on when the knocker at the front door of the rectory sounded loud, and a few moments later Mrs Chaytor was shown into the study. She looked tense; she too was well aware of the watchers outside his house, and hers.
‘I hope I have done the right thing,’ she said, after recounting the conversation with Mrs Fanscombe. ‘I had to tell her some of what we are doing. She has been lied to so often by so many people; she deserved a little of the truth, at least.’
‘I understand. But now that she knows, she is not safe in that house.’
‘She will not leave without Eliza. But also, once she learned of our intentions, she begged to be allowed to help us. She wants revenge . . . She intends to spy out whatever she can about Foucarmont’s plot, and pass it on to us.’
‘Heavens! Then she really will be in danger.’
‘She will have it no other way, and I could not persuade her.’ She looked at him. ‘I am sorry. If anything happens to her, I will never forgive myself.’
‘I shall write again to Lord Clavertye,’ said the rector, coming to a decision. ‘He must involve himself in this business once more. We have strong circumstantial evidence against this crew now, strong enough to warrant an investigation at least.’
‘Eugénie cannot give evidence against her husband.’
‘Indeed. But she can give evidence against Foucarmont.’
‘And the run? The Twelve Apostles?’
‘Whatever Foucarmont is planning must be stopped. We need Clavertye. He must involve himself.’
*
Dawn on Thursday morning found Romney Marsh covered by a thick, heavy sea fog. The rector came back from his morning walk with his coat and hat damp with clinging moisture. His mood was as damp as the weather, for he was bitterly worried about Eugénie Fanscombe; and also, the dean was due to arrive today. He ate his breakfast and then did some necessary correspondence in his study, writing absently with only half his mind engaged.
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.
2nd June, 1796.
My lord,
I apologise for troubling you again, so soon after my last letter. However, information of a very serious and sensitive nature has reached my ears. There is reason to believe that the French officer M. de Foucarmont, who we believe to be a royalist emigré, is in fact a secret agent of the Directory, acting on orders from Paris. He is hatching a plot to capture or kill the Twelve Apostles and prevent their bringing information out of France. Blunt and Fanscombe are both implicated.
Your Lordship will know better than I the extreme seriousness of this situation. So far the evidence is only circumstantial, but I believe that a full investigation will expose the entire plot and forestall the attack on the Twelve Apostles. However, the authorities must move quickly. The next smuggling run is on Monday, in four days’ time. There is, literally, not a moment to lose.
I hope to receive further instructions from you very soon.
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
It was just on midday, fog still hanging heavy in the branches of the elms, when the dean’s carriage rolled up the drive, and Mrs Kemp with a face bleak as a winter night showed Cornewall into the rector’s study. They made no attempt to shake hands. ‘I shall stay only for a few minutes,’ said the dean, his face longer and more horse-like than ever. ‘I wish to discuss with you, briefly and in a civilised fashion, I hope, this unfortunate business and its consequences.’
‘By unfortunate business, do you mean the murders of three men in this parish?’
‘Murders—’ Cornewall checked. ‘Mr Miller’s death was determined to be an accident. You were present at the inquest; though of course,’ added the dean with a sneer, ‘your faculties were somewhat impaired that day.’
‘Blithering nonsense,’ the rector snapped. ‘Miller was murdered, and the coroner was bribed to cover it up.’
‘Hardcastle,’ said the dean raising his hands helplessly and letting them fall again. ‘I am running out of patience, and so is His Grace. You were given a direct order not to involve yourself in this business, but what have you done? You have defied us, and carried on.’ He raised a hand to forestall any possible interruption. ‘We know very well what you have been doing these past few weeks, Hardcastle. You have been gallivanting around the Marsh, you and that woman, both of you meddling in matters that are quite beyond you.’
The rector stood up behind his desk. ‘Gallivanting!’
‘Sit down!’ said the dean sharply. ‘Control yourself, man!’
Reluctantly, the rector sat. ‘Now, hear me out,’ said the dean. ‘I have reminded you on several occasions of the need to avoid a scandal that would implicate the Church. Now I learn that you have been keeping close company with a woman, and that she is even some sort of assistant to you, travelling without a chaperone, asking questions on your behalf. Good God, man! What were you thinking of? Involving a woman, and a young widow at that? What will people think of you? What will people think of her?’
When the rector spoke again, his voice was deep and dangerous. ‘Damn your eyes, Cornewall. If you are suggesting that there is anything improper about my relations with Mrs Chaytor—’
‘Good God, Hardcastle, are you witless? It doesn’t matter what I think! It matters what everyone else thinks! You must cease and desist in this affair, and you certainly must break off your connection with the woman.’ A sneer crept into the dean’s voice. ‘Of course, that may be difficult for you. Perhaps the relationship is not as innocent as you protest? I recall you once had quite a weakness for demi-mondaines.’
‘Of course,’ the rector echoed. ‘Speaking of which, how is the fair Mrs Cornewall?’
The dean’s long horse-face went white. When he spoke again it was with barely controlled fury. ‘We – that is, His Grace the archbishop and the archdeacon and I – have a very generous proposition to offer you. His Grace knows of a vacant living in the West of England. Its patron is willing to offer it to you.’
‘The West!’
‘Yes. Herefordshire, to be precise.’
‘Herefordshire! Herefordshire!’
‘You will be perfectly comfortable there. Nothing ever happens in Herefordshire, and there will be no opportunities for you to become involved in mischief.’
That really was the limit, the rector thought. ‘There have been three murders here, Dean. Three men are dead. And you call it mischief? If you truly believe that, then I wonder about the soundness of your mind. And by God, sir! If you ever say another word against Mrs Chaytor, or suggest that her reputation is anything other than entirely spotless, then I will call you out! Damn me if I don’t!’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ said Cornewall, raising his own voice. ‘Even if you do not care about your own reputation, Hardcastle, think of that of the Church! That is more important than you, than me, than any of us. We must protect the Church!’
‘Against what?’ said the rector. Both had risen to their feet now. ‘No one has yet uttered a word to suggest that the Church has any involvement whatever in this business. Are you trying to tell me that it does?’
‘You made that accusation once before,’ said Cornewall sharply. ‘I warn you not to repeat it. If you so much as utter a word to slander His Grace –’
‘Damn your eyes, Cornewall, I am not slandering His Grace, I am slandering you! Do you take me for a blathering idiot? Don’t you think I can smell your foul stench all over this affair? Was it you who bribed the coroner, Cornewall? Are you tied up somehow with Blunt? Or do your interests lie with the smugglers? Come on, out with it!’
‘You drunken, ignorant sot! You know nothing of the affairs in which you meddle!’
‘Then explain them to me, you dunghill rat!’ Both were now angry beyond reason; they raged at each other, calling each other names of ever greater colour and originality, until finally the dean cracked. He turned and stamped out of the house, climbed into his coach, slammed the door and drove away; fi
ve minutes later the coachman, red in the face, knocked on the door and apologised profusely, explaining that the dean had been in such haste that he had forgotten his hat and coat.
Still seething, the rector stormed out of his own house and marched down the fogbound high street to the Star, where he forgot his usual custom and demanded a pint of strong ale. Bessie Luckhurst, who served him, regarded him with ill favour. ‘Have you had another quarrel with the dean, Reverend?’
‘I fear I have.’
‘It’s all very well, but then he comes down here and takes it out on us. He swore at father and demanded a different room from the one we gave him, with such a tone in his voice! You would think he was the Emperor of China, or something.’
‘He is staying here?’
‘Yes, he asked for a room for several days. Until next Monday.’
Monday 6th June. The day the run was set to take place. A finger of doubt ran down the rector’s spine. He had not been serious when he accused the dean of having a hand in the conspiracy. Now he was not so certain.
*
He returned home to find Amelia Chaytor waiting for him in the drawing room, still wearing her overcoat and gloves. She had refused refreshment. Her face was taut.
‘Eugénie Fanscombe has sent me a message.’
‘How?’ The rector sat down, watching her.
‘She gave an envelope to one her maids, swearing her to secrecy. The girl gave it to her friend who works for Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, who passed it to Miss Godfrey, who in turn delivered it to me. I made sure the seal had not been tampered with.’
‘It is still dangerous.’
‘I know . . . The message was that Blunt called again at New Hall this morning. He spent two hours closeted with Fanscombe and Foucarmont.’ With a courage born of anger and despair, Mrs Fanscombe had listened at the door. She had been able to stay only for a few minutes, but what she had heard was enough to implicate all three men fully in the attack on the Twelve Apostles. She also confirmed what the rector had assumed, that despite the loss of Mark they still had sources of intelligence and knew that the Apostles were planning another run. Blunt was preparing a new ambush, and had been warned by Foucarmont in no uncertain terms that this time he must not fail.
The Body on the Doorstep Page 21
