‘She adds that as soon as the meeting finished, Fanscombe departed, giving out that he was going down to Rye on business,’ she said. ‘He took a bag with him. I wonder what that means.’
‘He has a specific role in this new plot, and is moving into position.’
‘Yes. I wonder what that role is. I also wonder if on business is a euphemism.’
‘You think he might have a lady friend? And that she is there in part to provide him with an alibi, should things go wrong?’
‘Toys, for amusement,’ Amelia said wrathfully. ‘I will ask Mrs Merriwether to find out. If Fanscombe has a mistress in Rye, the ladies’ gossip society there will surely know about it.’ She gazed at Hardcastle. ‘What do we do about Eugénie?’
‘Get her out of that house,’ said Hardcastle grimly. ‘Foucarmont is clever and subtle. He will guess, sooner or later, that he has been betrayed. We must get Mrs Fanscombe away. Could you persuade her to come and stay with you for a few days, while her husband is away?’
‘And leave her stepdaughter unchaperoned with Foucarmont?’
‘Frankly, I am more concerned about Eugénie Fanscombe’s life and health than I am about Eliza’s reputation.’
She nodded. ‘I shall go now, and persuade Eugénie to leave with me.’
*
The fog lingered on through the afternoon. In the early evening he walked into the village and knocked at the door of Sandy House, and Mrs Chaytor came out to meet him. He saw at once the relief in her face.
‘She is here. She was reluctant to leave Eliza, but in fact the girl has barely been home since this affair blew up. Eugénie knows about her visits to the smugglers, and is terrified that she is about to do something stupid.’
If there was something stupid to be done, Miss Fanscombe would undoubtedly do it. ‘Never mind Eliza for the moment. Take good care of Mrs Fanscombe, and keep your doors and windows locked.’
‘I shall. Oh, I feel so sorry for her. She feels utterly alone in the world; even that rat Morley has deserted her. I feel as if I am her only friend.’
‘I suspect you may be,’ the rector said gently.
Her eyes searched his face. ‘It is about to happen, isn’t it? Whatever “it” is.’
‘I fear so. That is why I must urge you again to take great care.’
‘I shall. And while you are at it, you might take some of your own advice. Did you write to Clavertye?’
‘This very morning. The letter should reach him tomorrow, assuming he is in the country and not in London. That gives us three days. That should give him just enough time to take action.’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Just enough time. Marcus, I am growing afraid. Not for myself, but for what might happen.’
No one had called him Marcus since his university days. He detested the name, but he decided that perhaps in her voice it sounded a little better. Then he remembered Cornewall’s accusation, and anger stirred in his mind. Not trusting himself to speak, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then bowed and withdrew.
*
Walking back up the street towards the Star, he was surprised to encounter two giggling young women, both cloaked and hatted against the damp. ‘Miss Fanscombe,’ he said bowing gravely, ‘Miss Luckhurst. It is a damp, unpleasant day to be abroad.’
‘We don’t mind,’ said Bessie cheerfully. ‘We’re off to New Romney.’
‘And what do you do in New Romney, young ladies?’
‘Whatever we please,’ said Eliza archly. Two years older than Bessie, she acted much the younger.
‘We are calling on a friend of mine,’ said Bessie. ‘I have told Eliza she needs to get to know more people in the Marsh, not just her father’s snooty friends. After all, she will inherit the Hall one day. She needs to make herself known.’
They disappeared down the street, their laughter still audible even after the fog had swallowed them. Puzzled, the rector walked home. Two weeks ago, Bessie had roundly abused Miss Fanscombe in the common room at the Star; now here they were, apparently bosom friends. The young, he thought, are so fickle in their likes and dislikes; give it another week and they will be at each other’s throats . . . And there was Eliza, giggly and giddy; listening to her, one would never know of the storm that had broken around her, or that her father and stepmother had both moved out of the family home. What was going on in that head of hers?
The inconsistency of the young was a theme of conversation over the bar at the Star later that evening. Bessie had not yet returned from New Romney, and her father the landlord was glum. ‘She’s of an age,’ he explained to the rector and Stemp, ‘when I tell her what wants doing, and she listens meek and mild and nods her head – and then goes off and does exactly the opposite.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Stemp, ‘they’re like that. You need to take a firm hand, Tim. Show her who is the master.’
‘Oh, yes, that is easily done. You wait ’til your young ones are grown, Josh Stemp, and you’ll see just how easy it is.’
‘Got a few years to wait yet,’ said Stemp, whose eldest was nine. ‘Same again, Reverend?’
‘Thank you, Joshua, you are a gentleman, but I think I shall wend my way home.’
‘It’s not above ten,’ said Stemp in surprise.
‘I shall surprise Mrs Kemp by making an early night of it.’ In truth, he was weary; he rarely slept well, but lately his dreams had been wild ones in which hordes of armed men emerged from the darkness to attack the rectory from all sides. He shrugged on his overcoat, put on his hat, took up his stick and made his laborious way out into the street.
The night was inky black. The fog was heavier than ever, and no trace of starlight penetrated it. The lights from the windows of the Star gave him visibility for about thirty yards; after that he was lost in the swirling fog. He shuffled forward, using his stick like a blind man to feel the ground in front of him. Feeling a damp chill around his neck, he turned up the collar of his greatcoat. That action saved his life.
He felt rather than heard the movement in the fog. Then something struck his arm a painful blow and his stick went spinning. Before he could react, someone seized him from behind. He felt the man’s body hard and strong against his back, breath hissing angrily in his ear, and the rector had just time to register a sweet and rather sickly smell; then his head was pulled roughly back and a rigid forearm crashed across his throat and stayed there, pressing hard, choking him.
Gasping, too winded to shout for help, the rector clawed at the man’s arm. It remained immovable, hard as a bar of iron. The thick collar of his greatcoat provided his neck with some protection, but he could feel the pressure increasing steadily, and his own strength was failing. The man behind him swore and shifted his stance, pressing his arm still harder against the rector’s throat. ‘Damn you, you old bastard,’ an angry voice hissed in his ear. ‘Hurry up and die, will you?’
Indeed, the rector was dying. He gagged horribly as his epiglottis closed, and stars began to explode in front of his eyes. Consciousness departed.
And then, unexpectedly, returned. He found himself on his hands and knees, his breath whining and whistling as his lungs sucked in air. Beside him, above him, two men were fighting, and dimly he heard the gasps and grunts and the sound of blows hitting home. Then one of the men broke off and ran, his footsteps pounding and then fading. The other bent over the rector, a wraith shape in the dark fog. He too was breathing hard.
‘Are you all right, Reverend?’
‘I will be soon.’ The other man gave him a hand and helped him to his feet. ‘You saved my life, my friend,’ the rector said, still gasping. ‘To whom do I owe thanks?’
‘Call it a little gift from Peter,’ the other man said, handing him his stick. ‘Goodnight, Reverend. Go carefully.’
17
New Moon
The next morning, Friday, found the fog still hanging thickly over the Marsh. The rector, more shaken than he cared to admit, forwent his morning walk and ate his
breakfast quietly. His throat hurt, and he wore his neckcloth higher than usual so as to conceal the bruises on his neck.
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.
3rd June, 1796.
My lord,
There have been two further developments. First, Blunt has had a meeting with Foucarmont and Fanscombe. That all three are implicated in this affair cannot be doubted. We have extricated our prime witness from the Fanscombe household, but it is essential that she be taken as soon as possible to a place of greater safety.
Lest you think I exaggerate the danger to her, I must inform you that last night a murderous assault was committed upon my person. I am safe and well apart from a few bruises, but I believe that the attack on me is connected with this affair, and that more such assaults may be committed in future.
I await further word from you,
Yr very obedient servant
HARDCASTLE
After signing and sealing this and marking the envelope EXPRESS, he took his pistol out of his desk and loaded it, then went into the hall and put on his hat and coat. He was just about to call the groom to harness the horse to the dog cart when there was a knock at the door. He opened it himself and found Mrs Chaytor in a hat and long dark cloak, wearing her driving gloves. The gig stood behind her, dim in the gloom. Beyond, lurking invisible in the fog, were the watchers.
He let her in and closed the door quickly. ‘How is Mrs Fanscombe?’
‘The laudanum Dr Mackay gave me came in useful. She was drugged, but at least she slept. She is full of terrors.’ Her eyes searched his. ‘Were you going out?’
‘To New Romney, to post a letter to Lord Clavertye.’
‘I am just off there myself. I will happily post it for you. Another letter? What has happened?’
He told her about the attack last night. She went pale, but remained resolute. ‘My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled,’ she said softly.
‘The fire has certainly been kindled, and it nearly scorched me. The man who attacked me did so without warning and his intention, I am quite certain, was to kill. Someone thinks we are getting too close to the truth. If you insist on driving to New Romney, take your pistol with you.’
‘It is here,’ she said, patting the pocket of her cloak. She remained pale but there was defiance in her pretty eyes. ‘You are right. We must be getting close to the truth, and they are starting to panic. If they make mistakes, we shall catch them.’
Assuming we live long enough, the rector thought to himself. He let her out, watched until she had driven away down the high street, then locked himself and Mrs Kemp inside, and instructed the housekeeper not to open the doors to anyone. Surprised and alarmed, she obeyed.
Just before midday there came a rapid knocking at the front door. The rector rose cautiously and went to the door, opening it a few inches until he saw Mrs Chaytor on the doorstep. Once again he ushered her in quickly, closing and locking the door behind her.
‘I have just returned from New Romney,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I had a feeling, a woman’s intuition, if you must. I saw Eliza Fanscombe and Bessie Luckhurst going off arm in arm yesterday evening, and something about their attitude struck me as . . . unlikely. These two have never had any time for each other. What were they doing thick as thieves yesterday? And they were very late back; Lucy says they did not return until nearly midnight.’
That would have been well after he himself was attacked, the rector thought. The thought of the two girls abroad in a dark night full of armed men chilled him. ‘So, I thought I would try to find out whether they were up to mischief,’ said Amelia, ‘and if so, whether their mischief had anything to do with our business. And I was right.’
She shivered. The rector ushered her into the study and then unlocked the cabinet and poured her a small glass of brandy to ward off the chill; she did not refuse it. ‘No one I talked to saw Bessie at all,’ said Amelia. ‘Where she went and what she did are a matter for conjecture, though I suppose the most logical answer is that she has a lover. But my friend Mrs Spicer the landlady at the Ship certainly saw Eliza. She had a rendezvous with two gentlemen in one of the parlour rooms that lasted for about two hours. The girl had brought a letter, and there was a map that all three discussed, tracing routes from the coast inland. They seemed to be discussing which route would be used.’
‘Let me guess,’ the rector said gently. ‘One of the gentlemen was Blunt.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Chaytor drew breath. ‘The other was Folliott Cornewall.’
The rector slapped his hand down hard on his desk. ‘I knew it! I knew that infernal scoundrel had to be involved somehow. By God, this time I will have him!’
‘This time?’ she asked, the corners of her mouth twitching a little.
‘It’s . . . a long story. I’ll tell it to you another time.’
‘Give me the short version of it, then.’
He threw up his hands. ‘It involves a lady of a certain . . . disposition. I was aware of this disposition. Cornewall was not.’
Unexpectedly, she began to giggle. ‘You took her from Cornewall.’
‘In fact, it was the other way around. But Cornewall discovered, while courting her, that she was also connected to me. He spread a rumour which did my reputation no end of harm, so subtly that I did not realise for some time that he was at the back of it. My name ended up in the mud, and the lady married Cornewall. No doubt she has had plenty of time to repent of this.’
‘And you have spent many years waiting for an opportunity for revenge. But remember, we have more serious matters to deal with. It seems clear that Eliza Fanscombe is acting as courier between Foucarmont and Blunt.’
‘Little fool!’ He pounded one fist into his palm, his own pains forgotten, Cornewall forgotten too. ‘A pound to a shilling says she has no idea of the danger she is in.’
‘We must get her away from him,’ said Amelia. ‘I shall go to New Hall at once.’
‘I will go with you.’ They drove her gig down the high street, slowly in the fog, and if she heard the tapping footsteps behind them she did not let on. They pulled up outside New Hall, dark and shrouded in the gloom, and she engaged the brake and jumped nimbly down and rang the doorbell. A frightened servant showed them into a drawing room, and Eliza Fanscombe joined them a few moments later. She wore a plain wool gown with a shawl arranged around her neck. At first they could see nothing wrong with her, but when she turned her head they saw the bruise on her cheek and a swelling black eye.
‘Oh, my,’ said Amelia Chaytor, moving swiftly to her. ‘Sit down, dear, sit down. Have you sent for the doctor?’
‘No,’ said Miss Fanscombe, bursting into tears.
The rector gripped his stick hard, rage welling up inside him. ‘Where is Foucarmont? By God, I will teach that filthy French brute to lay a hand on a woman!’
‘He is gone!’ wailed Miss Fanscombe. ‘He is gone!’
‘What happened, dear?’ asked Amelia quietly.
‘I only asked him if I could help. I wanted to help, I truly did! I said that I loved him, and I wanted to be at his side, but he refused, he made me wait here. I said that if he departed I would follow him, and he struck me! He knocked me down, and then while I lay there . . . he kicked me, just as one would kick a dog! Oh, how I hate him!’
‘I think we had better send for Dr Morley,’ said Amelia to the rector. He yanked furiously at the bell rope and sent the frightened servant scuttling out to fetch Dr Morley. ‘Do you truly hate him?’ asked Amelia gently.
‘I despise him! He is cruel and wicked, and I hate the ground he walks upon!’
Mrs Chaytor glanced at the rector. ‘Then, will you help me?’
‘What do you want from me?’ sniffed the girl.
‘Tell me what you were doing in New Romney yesterday,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Do it, and I promise you will have your revenge on Foucarmont.’
She told them everything, adding what she knew about Foucarmont’s
departure and where he might be going. They listened in silence. Morley arrived just as she finished, Turner close behind him; he had seen the rector and Mrs Chaytor arrive and then the doctor, and had put two and two together. Morley examined her, gently and professionally, and pronounced no bones broken and gave her a liniment for her bruises. ‘I do not advise that she stays here alone,’ he said.
‘I will take her home with me,’ said Amelia. ‘Come, my dear. The servants can fetch your things later.’
‘Is she there?’
‘She is. Now then, Eliza, do not be foolish. This is for your own safety.’ Mrs Chaytor rose and looked down at the girl and in a voice both soft and steely said, ‘You will come with me, my dear. Now.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Turner.
The rector turned to him. ‘Have you a pistol, Mr Turner? Good. Can you keep watch at Sandy House tonight? I fear that both Miss Fanscombe and Mrs Fanscombe may be in danger.’
Turner sketched a bow. ‘I am happy to serve.’
*
Much later, when Morley had gone and Eliza was asleep in bed, and Eugénie Fanscombe sat white and cold as marble before the drawing-room fireplace, staring into the flames, Amelia walked the rector to the front door.
‘We have them,’ he said. ‘We know where and when and how they have planned the ambush. There is enough now for Clavertye to arrest all three of them when he arrives. It is almost over.’
‘Almost, but not quite. I still want to know what Fanscombe is doing in Rye. I am going down there tomorrow. Do not worry, I will be quite safe; I shall stay with Mrs Merriwether.’ She added, ‘I hope that leaving them alone with each other for a few days will give them time to talk. They may be able to find some peace for themselves, and each other.’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 22
