They rose to their feet, and Maskelyne said, ‘Out of curiosity, how did you identify our fair informer here in St Mary?’
‘It was not so difficult, once I had overheard you and knew that the informer was a woman. From there it was a process of deduction. Only a limited number of women are in a position to see and hear everything that goes on in the village, and of those only two had the boldness and wit that would be needed by anyone working with you. One was easily eliminated; the other therefore had to be your informer. Bessie is a good girl. Be careful how you use her.’
‘Bessie is one of the best. When she is older, I’ll take her into the service, if she still wants it.’ Maskelyne chuckled. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Reverend. Perhaps you should join us too. I reckon you’d make a fine codebreaker.’
‘I shall take that as a compliment. Thank you, but no. My present calling gives me all that I need.’
The door of the pew opened and closed; the other man’s footsteps faded in the nave; then the outer door too opened and closed. The rector sat on for a while, gazing at the altar until the shadows deepened, and then he rose and walked slowly across the road to the rectory.
20
Stella Maris
It was Monday, the sixth day of June; a month to the day since the man called Jacques Morel died in the hallway of the rectory, and Curtius Miller met his end out on the Marsh.
The rector woke after a long sleep and went out for his morning walk. The weather was fine; the wind sweeping over the fields and salt marshes had a chilly tang to it, but the air was clear. The line of low hills beyond Appledore seemed to be so close that one could reach out and touch them. The sea rolled and hissed on the beach at St Mary’s Bay. The white cliffs of France shimmered in the sea spray; but this morning, thanks to what he now knew, they seemed less menacing. Breathing deeply, his lungs full of clean air, he returned home to breakfast.
He spent the morning in his study, reading Cicero and wondering how many and which of the seven would show up at the church this afternoon. His letters were a dangerous and complex double-bluff, hinting that he knew more than he said while concealing how much he really knew. Blunt must be aware by now that he was under suspicion; to Foucarmont and Fanscombe he had pretended ignorance of their own roles. It was to be expected that all three would compare notes, but the promise of information about the Twelve Apostles and the whereabouts of the dispatch bag would lure them to the church. They would come full of suspicion; but they would come.
He ate his luncheon absent-mindedly, rehearsing what he would say. He felt a pang of guilt about not inviting Amelia Chaytor, but there was a chance that this meeting could become dangerous, and she had risked enough already. She would be angry with him when she found out; but not, he hoped, for very long.
At a quarter to three, well-groomed, alert and sober, the rector let himself quietly out of the house and walked through the afternoon sun across the road to the church. Captain Shaw was waiting at the lychgate, in civilian clothes rather than his usual uniform. The change was not an improvement; his brown breeches were baggy at the knees and his black coat was wrinkled; the cravat around his neck had the merest gesture of a knot. There was an ungainly lump in his coat pocket which Hardcastle guessed was a pistol. This was probably a wise precaution. The rector had, after some debate, left his own weapon at home. He was a man of God in the house of God; it was not for him to spill blood there.
‘Thank you for coming, Captain Shaw. I appreciate you taking the time from your duties to join us.’
‘I’m delighted to be of assistance, Reverend. I thought it best to leave my uniform behind; if these fellows think I am here on official business, then they might take fright.’
‘A sensible precaution,’ said the rector approvingly.
‘What do you need from me, sir?’
‘First of all, I need you as a witness. I’ve invited several others, but the more the better. Then, you will need to apprehend these men. Lord Clavertye is joining us, and he will no doubt give you further instructions.’
‘Lord Clavertye will be here?’ Shaw rubbed his hands together, looking eager. Performing his duties well in front of Lord Clavertye would bring him to the deputy lord-lieutenant’s attention; and having Lord Clavertye’s favour would mean much to a young man like himself. There was a chance of patronage now, perhaps promotion to a better post where he could make a name for himself. They walked up the path to the church to the porch, and the rector opened the door and ushered Shaw inside.
The nave was quiet, filled with afternoon sunlight pouring through the tall windows. The rector walked towards the font at the rear of the church and turned to face the door. From here he could see the entire church; more importantly, none of the others could get behind him. He stood, clasping his hands behind his back, and Shaw took up a position too, standing silently a little closer to the door.
The door opened, and two men came in quietly; Turner, stocky and faintly pugnacious, and Dr Morley, elegant and quiet as ever. The latter nodded to Shaw and then turned to the rector. ‘Well? Will they come?’
‘They will come,’ said the rector tranquilly. Morley nodded and stood to one side, lounging against the back of the nearest pew; Turner stood a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest.
Two minutes passed and then they heard huffing and puffing outside and Fanscombe strode in, dressed as ever in his riding coat. He stopped dead when he saw Morley. ‘You!’
It struck the rector that Fanscombe sounded surprised rather than angry. ‘Come in, please, Mr Fanscombe,’ he said. ‘Dr Morley has been invited here today for a purpose, as have you. I beg you to put aside your personal differences for the moment.’ And as the justice of the peace hesitated, the rector said quietly, ‘Upon my honour, Mr Fanscombe, this is vitally important. I would not have summoned you otherwise.’
They heard Blunt striding up the flagstone path and then the Customs man stood in the doorway, his beefy face hard with suspicion. ‘What is this, Hardcastle? I thought this was going to be a private meeting, just you and I.’
‘My apologies for the deception,’ said the rector, bowing a little. ‘My purpose will, I hope, become clear in time. Now, we are waiting only for His Lordship. I left word at the rectory that he was to join us here . . . and here, I fancy, he is.’
Lord Clavertye strode into the church and looked at the others. ‘Hardcastle. It seems that you got your dates wrong.’
‘I fear so, my lord. The smugglers chose to make their run two days early. However, all ended well.’ Foucarmont was not there, but he had not really expected the Frenchman to show himself. The others were enough. ‘Thank you all very much for coming,’ he said gravely.
‘You are most welcome,’ said the doctor, ‘but I think it might help if we knew why we were all really here. Your letter was a touch mysterious.’
‘I said that it was time to deal with this matter for once and all,’ said the rector. ‘That is the truth, though I freely confess it is not the whole of the truth. We will come to the whole truth shortly, but first I have a story to tell you. You will find this story fascinating, I think, though each of you will find it so for different reasons. Are you all comfortable?’
No one spoke. ‘Then I shall begin,’ said the rector.
*
Just before New Romney Amelia Chaytor’s horse threw a shoe. She would have to stop; she still had some distance to go, and could not risk the horse going lame. She drove the gig at a walking pace into the town and pulled up outside the smithy, where she stepped briskly down, unhitched the horse and led him into the yard. ‘Can you help me? I need to get to St Mary, quickly.’
‘Be with you in a minute, ma’am.’ The blacksmith raised his head and looked at the lathered horse. ‘Aye, you are in a hurry.’
She had been pushing hard all the way up from Rye, rushing to get to St Mary with her news. The blacksmith ambled slowly over to look at the horse, and she fought down the urge to scream at him to hurry. The man
looked at the animal’s hoof, then strolled back into the workshop and begin rummaging in a wooden box beside the forge. He pulled out a shoe, held it up to the light and squinted at it.
‘Please,’ said Amelia a little desperately, ‘I really am in a frightful hurry. I’ll pay you well.’
‘Now, now, ma’am. These things have to be done right. More haste, less speed, as they say.’ He picked up a bellows and puffed the forge into glowing light, then turned and began rummaging again. ‘Now, where did I put my nippers?’
*
‘Allow me to take you back four years ago, to the year 1792,’ the rector said. ‘The year we went to war with France. That same year, a new gang of smugglers appeared on the Channel coast. It was quite a small gang, originally twelve men, though the numbers have fluctuated over the years.’
‘The Twelve Apostles,’ said Morley.
The rector nodded. ‘To all intents and purposes they were just another gang, smuggling small quantities of brandy and tobacco and lace from France. In fact, the cargoes carried by the Apostles were merely a ruse. What they really smuggled was secrets. M. de Foucarmont tried very hard to persuade me that they were French agents carrying important information out of England into France, and I allowed him to think that I believed him. In fact, I already knew the truth.’
‘Which is?’ asked Turner.
‘The truth is that the Twelve Apostles are British agents. They smuggle secrets from France to England, not vice versa. They are confidential agents employed by our government, at the very highest level.’
The men in the church shifted, looking at each other. The rector watched their faces. ‘Last October, the Apostles were attacked shortly after they landed in Kent,’ he said. ‘They realised that their enemies must have known they were coming, that information about their movements and activities was leaking out. They launched an investigation of their own, hoping to plug the leak. Their leader, who went by the name of Peter, had a connection with a former Treasury agent now working with the Customs service at Deal. His name was Curtius Miller.’
Turner let out a little sigh. Lord Clavertye nodded slowly. Morley watched the rector closely, eyes never leaving his face. Blunt had begun to perspire.
‘Miller agreed to help the Twelve Apostles. In April he went to France, presumably in disguise, where he worked with another agent connected with the Apostles, a young man named Jacques Morel, code-named Paul. Morel was a French emigré who had fled the excesses of the Revolution, and been recruited by Peter to work as a runner and watcher.
‘The Apostles were summoned to make a run in early May. At the eleventh hour, Miller and Paul learned that once again the secret of the run had been betrayed, that the Apostles were to be ambushed while crossing the Marsh. Miller hurried back across the Channel to rejoin the Customs, with a view to warning the Apostles once they landed.
‘A day or so later, Morel learned an even more horrifying truth. One of the Apostles, who went by the name of Mark, had turned traitor and was feeding information to the French. Desperate to get this news to his comrades, he stole a small boat and sailed single-handed across the Channel on the night of 3rd May. He attempted to reach Dymchurch, where he knew Miller would be, but the currents took him off course and brought him to St Mary’s Bay around dawn. The swells near the English coast were rough and he overset his boat, but managed to swim ashore. Two ladies from the village saw him soon after landing, and testified that he was soaking wet. And Mrs Chaytor said there were traces of corrosion in his watch, as if it had been immersed in salt water.’
He watched the others closely now. ‘Morel made his way to St Mary in the Marsh and, needing shelter, knocked at the door of New Hall. Did he tell you who he really was, Mr Fanscombe?’
‘No,’ said Fanscombe. He looked watchful, but not concerned. ‘I recognised him when he came to the house, we had met before. But I knew him only as an emigré gentleman. All the rest of this is news to me.’
‘What story did he tell you?’ asked Clavertye.
‘He said he was down from London on a holiday, my lord, and had been out sailing and overturned his boat. We took him in, of course, gave him dry clothes and a bed; it’s what one does. Then he said he wanted to try to recover his boat. He was a pleasant young chap and we got on well, so I told him to stay on until his affairs were in order. He stayed for a couple of days, then went off to London.’
‘No, Mr Fanscombe. That is not true. Jacques Morel did not go to London.’
Turner was tense; he had guessed the truth. ‘How do you know?’ asked Morley.
‘Because I saw him,’ said the rector tersely. ‘So did you.’
‘What happened?’ asked Captain Shaw, his brow furrowed.
‘M. de Foucarmont was also staying with the Fanscombes at the time. I invited him to join us today, but it would appear that he has declined the invitation. A pity, as I am sure he could shed much light on what happened next. However, since he is not here, I shall tell you what I know about him. To begin with, Foucarmont is not Mrs Fanscombe’s brother.’
There was a hiss of indrawn breath from someone; that was Turner, suddenly putting two and two together. ‘Fanscombe?’ said Lord Clavertye sharply. ‘Is this true?’
The justice of the peace held up his hands. ‘Upon my honour, my lord, I cannot credit what I am hearing! Not my wife’s brother? Are you suggesting she would deceive me . . .’
His eyes fell on Dr Morley, who gave a little cough of embarrassment. ‘Hardcastle, I think that once again you must explain. How do you know he is not Mrs Fanscombe’s brother?’
‘I know he is not Mrs Fanscombe’s brother because he told me so,’ said the rector impatiently. ‘Morley, if you are going to interrupt me every minute to ask how I know things, we shall be here until midnight. When I say that I know something, believe me: I know it.’
Morley made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Fanscombe, still staring at the doctor, swallowed suddenly. He too had begun to perspire.
‘Foucarmont is a French spy,’ the rector said quietly. And into the chill silence that fell over the church, he added, ‘He is also a ruthless killer. It was his rifle that ended the life of Jacques Morel, the man who was shot on the doorstep of the rectory. That is what I meant, doctor, when I said that you had seen him.’
He had their full attention now; Morley’s eyes remained riveted on his face. ‘What I do not yet know is how Foucarmont discovered who Morel was. Perhaps Morel himself said or did something that gave the game away. At all events, Foucarmont set a trap for him. I suspect that a false message arrived from the Twelve Apostles, asking Morel to meet them at the looker’s hut. Morel went there, all trusting. He was met instead by Foucarmont and his confederates. Morel was beaten, and his pockets were emptied and searched for clues. When he refused to tell what he knew, he was locked in the back room of the hut.’
‘Why?’ asked Clavertye. ‘What did they want from him? The timing and location of the run?’
‘No, my lord, thanks to the traitor Mark they knew that already. They wanted to interrogate Morel more thoroughly, find out how he had learned about them and what else he knew. But time was running out; the Twelve Apostles were coming. Morel was locked in the hut and left until they could deal with him at greater leisure.’
‘Knowing that the Apostles had been betrayed and desperate to give warning, Morel broke free of his bonds and kicked down the door. Foucarmont had left the building, for whatever reason; we may hypothesise that he had gone to help with arrangements for the ambush, but it is of no importance. Morel began to run across country to the east, hoping to find the Apostles and warn them. But Foucarmont returned, found he was missing, and began to hunt him down.’
The rector sighed. ‘Poor Morel never had a chance. Among other things, Mrs Fanscombe told me that Foucarmont is a very keen huntsman and a superb tracker. Even in the darkness and the wind, he tracked his man over the Marsh like an avenging fury. One of his proudest possessions, which he had brought to Engl
and with him, was a German hunting rifle. When he caught up with Morel, the young man was knocking at my door. I think Morel must have heard something behind him, something that caused him to turn around. Foucarmont was standing in my garden by the elm trees, and he raised his rifle and shot Morel through the chest.’
‘He did not die immediately,’ said Morley quietly.
‘No. I deceived you on that score, doctor, and you also, my lord. Morel lived long enough to breathe his last words in my ear. I did not understand his words, not at first, but they were enough to convince me that this was no ordinary murder.’
‘What did he say? And why did you not tell me?’ demanded Clavertye.
‘Those words were a dying man’s confession, my lord. What passed there was between us alone, and God.’ There were some things about the case that not everyone needed to know. Clavertye subsided, a little huffily.
‘Meanwhile,’ the rector continued, ‘a little way to the east of St Mary, the second half of the tragedy was played out. Curtius Miller was with Blunt’s men waiting in ambush on the Marsh. When the Apostles came close, he called out to warn them. Another man from the Customs shot him through the belly, and he died. But, he did not die in vain. The Apostles heard the warning, and made their escape.’
‘Rubbish!’ shouted Blunt. ‘He shot himself! It was an accident, for Christ’s sake!’
‘It was not. Dr Morley has confirmed that the wound could not have been self-inflicted. And in any case, we have a witness who saw another man shoot Miller in the belly.’
Blunt, glaring at Morley, jerked his head around at this. ‘Who?’
The rector ignored him. ‘I shall skip over many of the remaining details, for I am sure that you know them already, or have guessed. The Twelve Apostles learned the identity of Mark and killed him; his was the third body, the one found in the churchyard. Meanwhile, Foucarmont received fresh orders from France, insisting that the Twelve Apostles must be stopped. The loss of Mark was a blow, but Foucarmont’s chief, who I will come to in a moment, undoubtedly has many sources of information up and down the coast, and these sources collected rumours and fed them back to him. Foucarmont and his allies laid their plans.
The Body on the Doorstep Page 26
