‘Yes,’ the rector said slowly. His eye fell on something on the table, a scattering of small dark objects like grains of sand. He moistened the tip of his finger and touched some of the objects, then held them up to the light. ‘What is it, reverend?’ asked Stemp.
‘Gunpowder,’ said the rector.
*
Back at the rectory he retreated into his study, trying to ignore the sounds of trunks being unpacked in every room of the house; apart from his own room, he trusted, but had doubts even about that. The little Irish maid was singing as she worked, and it struck Hardcastle that she had quite a sweet voice. He wished she would stop.
When another knock came at the door, he groaned. ‘What in God’s name now?’ he asked himself. But when Amelia Chaytor was shown into the study he looked at her with relief. He had not seen her for several days, and concern for her had been another thing plaguing his mind.
‘How are you?’ he asked gently.
‘Resolved,’ she said, and did not explain. She had shadows under her fine eyes, but otherwise she seemed well enough. She looked at the papers on his desk. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘Ostensibly, I am writing next Sunday’s sermon. In reality, I am worrying.’ There came a thunderous crash from overhead as something large and heavy was dropped hard on the floorboards, and the rector pressed his hands to his temples. ‘My sister has come to stay,’ he said by way of explanation.
‘My condolences.’
‘I suspect your condolences are not sincere, but I thank you for them anyway. That is not what is worrying me. We have a definite sighting of Samuel Rossiter.’ He told her quickly about Clavertye’s letter and then about the lookers’ hut, she listening intently. ‘Gunpowder?’ she asked at the end.
‘It was priming powder, only a little. My guess is that it spilled from the priming pan of a pistol or musket left lying on the table. So, if this is Samuel Rossiter, then it would appear he is armed.’
‘We saw no sign of a firearm at New Hall,’ she said. ‘No gunpowder or smells of smoke. And the victim was bludgeoned, not shot.’
‘There could be any number of reasons for that. But Rossiter is clearly more dangerous than we suspected.’
She nodded. ‘Do you think he has been hiding at the lookers’ hut?’
‘No, but he or someone has visited it repeatedly. It must be a meeting place; and if that is the case, then he must be meeting with someone, or expecting to meet with someone. Who, and why?’
‘Find out why, and we will be closer to knowing who,’ she suggested. ‘What has drawn Samuel Rossiter back to the Marsh after apparently murdering his sister?’
‘Apparently? It looks increasingly certain to me.’
‘Why?’ she challenged.
‘Why else would he still be here, hanging around the Marsh?’
‘But surely that makes him less likely to be our killer, not more. What sort of murderer risks detection by remaining near the scene of the crime?’
‘Someone who has a pressing need to do so. Someone who has a secret to conceal, and is more afraid of that secret being revealed than he is of the gallows.’
‘And what about the boot?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I know; the boot. Why hit her, push her into the water, then try to pull her out again, then stop halfway through? I agree, it makes no sense. But Rossiter is our only suspect, and we must pursue him. Even supposing he did not murder Emma himself, I am quite certain he knows who did.’
‘So we come to your question, why?’ she said. ‘Why is he still here, hanging around the Marsh?’
‘New Hall,’ he said. ‘It’s that blasted house. It must be. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’
‘There we are in agreement, I think. What other interest could Samuel Rossiter possibly have in New Hall and Romney Marsh? We know he wanted access to the house. We know he became angry when Jessington refused. We believe he left London a day after Emma, and it appears he caught up with her and they came to New Hall together. That places him at the Hall when she was murdered. Both of them were fascinated by New Hall for some reason.’
‘Well, that surely is obvious. They believe it to be theirs. If they are genuine, and the will is genuine, then they think themselves to be their father’s rightful heirs.’
‘And the secret you think Samuel Rossiter has killed to protect,’ she said, her blue eyes suddenly intense, ‘is connected with the inheritance.’
‘It must be. Perhaps they quarrelled over that secret; perhaps that is why he killed her. Dear God.’ The rector looked down at his hands in distaste. ‘I hoped all along that this would not prove to be a case of sororicide. I fear my hopes are fading.’
A thought struck Mrs Chaytor; her lips parted suddenly, and she said, ‘What about the other family?’
‘You mean Nicholas’s son, William? The other heir?’
‘Yes. Here is a theory. Emma is the one truly obsessed by the house; that is why she sets off on her own. William, impatient to come into his inheritance and not trusting the courts to do the right thing, contacts Samuel and arranges to buy him off, pay him to go away and leave the original will uncontested. Samuel, who is less interested in the house, agrees, but Emma refuses. They quarrel, and he kills her. You will note that I have not mentioned the boot.’
Hardcastle mused on this for a moment. ‘Jessington said that the family had shown no interest in New Hall, did not even ask for the keys. And he also said that he did not intend to tell the family about Samuel and Emma, at least not until this case was resolved.’
‘Was he telling the truth?’
The pause this time was even longer. ‘I believe he was,’ the rector said. ‘But the possibility that he was lying cannot be discounted. Nor can your theory that another member of the family was involved. I said I did not intend to go near the Rossiters. I may have to change my mind on that score.’
*
He showed her out himself, then returned to his study. Perhaps a minute elapsed before the door opened and Calpurnia came into the room, wiping her hands on an apron. Her eyes, button-bright, shone with unconcealed curiosity. ‘Who was that lady, Marcus?’
‘Do you never knock before entering a room, Calpurnia?’
‘She was here for quite a time, was she not? And it was most unusual of her to come alone, without even a maidservant as chaperone.’
The rector drew breath. ‘The lady is Mrs Chaytor, a respectable widow, and also one of my parishioners. She was here on a matter of business. If you must know, she is making a donation towards the repair of the church roof.’
‘A widow? Well, she and I shall have something in common when we meet. Has she been widowed for long?’
‘About three years, and she is still deeply stricken with grief. Please, for the love of God, do not allude to the matter in front of her.’
Calpurnia clicked her tongue. ‘Really, Marcus. I am not that indiscreet, or that unfeeling. But I wonder if there was more to her visit than just a little donation to church funds. Surely that was business that could be concluded in a few minutes, and yet she stayed for half an hour.’
‘Will you kindly keep your nose out of my affairs?’
‘But someone needs to look after your affairs, brother dear. Charming widows are often on the lookout for male companions to ease their solitude.’
‘You should know,’ he said nastily.
She ignored him. ‘I should like to meet her. Will you contrive an introduction between us?’
‘I really am rather busy—’
‘Or if you prefer, I will write to her directly.’
‘Very well! I will introduce you at the first opportune moment. Now will you please go away?’
ANTHONY JESSINGTON, ESQ
LINCOLN’S INN
LONDON
12th January, 1797.
By express
The Reverend M.A. Hardcastle
The Rectory
St Mary in the Marsh
Kent
The Reveren
d Hardcastle, Sir,
I write with news, none of which I fear is happy. Yesterday afternoon, I received a caller at my chambers in the person of Joseph Parker the younger, in his capacity as solicitor to the Rossiter family. You will recall that he is the son of my esteemed former patron, and is married to Mr James Rossiter’s sister Jane. He now resides in Boston, Massachusetts, and travelled to England in the retinue of Mr Rufus King, American ambassador to the Court of St James.
Having laid out his facts with lawyerly care and attention, Mr Jessington continued.
Somehow, by means I have not been able to determine, Mr Parker has learned of the presence in London of the persons calling themselves Samuel and Emma Rossiter. He also learned that Samuel Rossiter had called on me. He was very angry, and his language was most intemperate; indeed, he used words that I do not think one gentleman should ever use to another. It is only my poor health that prevented me from insisting that he give me satisfaction.
The substance of Mr Parker’s complaint against me was an accusation that I had deliberately concealed the presence in London of Samuel and Emma Rossiter from himself and the rest of the family.
Well, thought the rector, but that is precisely what you did.
He denounced me for lack of honesty and integrity – as I said, had my dyspepsia not intervened, I should surely have called him out on this matter – and accused me of colluding with Samuel and Emma Rossiter to defraud the estate. In vain, I protested that I had done no such thing and had acted entirely in accordance with the law.
Mr Parker then demanded to see the will and other documents Mr Samuel Rossiter had lodged with me. When I refused, he flew into a great passion, and denounced Samuel Rossiter as a bastard and a fraud. He insisted that Mr Nicholas Rossiter had conducted an illicit affair – those were not his exact words, which were not fit for repetition – with a black maidservant, by whom he had two by-blow children, but there is no question of him ever having married the woman.
The children themselves had not been seen for many years until they reappeared in Boston the year before last, asking questions about their father. Mr Parker says he refused to allow them to meet the rest of the family, and sent them on their way.
Mr Parker expressed the view that the will and testament of Mr Nicholas Rossiter given in Montréal early last year is a forgery. I find myself less convinced by this, especially as Mr Parker has inadvertently confirmed that the man I saw was indeed the real Samuel Rossiter; his description of Samuel – such as could be gleaned from among his many expletives – fit very closely with the man I met. Therefore, Samuel Rossiter, and by extension his sister, would appear to be genuine.
The principal remaining issue remaining, then, is whether Mr Nicholas Rossiter and the maidservant were married, as Samuel claims, or not, as Mr Parker asserts. I will endeavour to find the truth, but as I have said, it will be spring before the Atlantic is clear of ice and storms and there is regular traffic with the Americas once more.
There is one final item of interest. Before he left, Mr Parker insisted I hand over the keys to New Hall. I was then given instructions to see the house opened and made ready for habitation. As matters stand, I have no legal justification for denying them access to the house. It is my understanding that the Rossiter family intend to come to New Hall in the near future.
Your faithful servant,
ANTHONY JESSINGTON
So, the Rossiters are coming here, the rector said to himself. He laid down the letter and stared into the fire, thinking. He wondered why they had suddenly changed their minds about New Hall. He wondered how much the American lawyer knew. He wondered when and how Parker had learned that Samuel and Emma Rossiter were in London, and if he had discovered where they were lodged in Marylebone. He wondered, finally and disturbingly, if Parker had known that Emma and then Samuel had left London with the intention of coming to Romney Marsh.
Blast this business! he thought. Every time I think we have a possible solution, something else comes up and muddies the waters. Will we ever learn the truth?
That was Saturday. The next day the rector’s text for his sermon was the epistle of John the Apostle; appropriately enough its subject was brotherly love. After the service he stood at the church door as usual and said farewell to the verger, Misses Godfrey and Roper and the malodorous old man from Brenzett. After they had gone, he turned on impulse and walked across the damp churchyard to gaze out across the grey wastes of the Marsh towards the distant hills.
It was a cold morning but a bright one, the first such in a while, though the clouds promised more rain later. He glanced down at the grave beside him. It had a headstone, a simple slab already showing marks of weathering. Carved on its face was a simple inscription: Amélie Rossiter, 1709-1770. Called unto God.
Here in darkest mid-winter there were no flowers in bloom. But someone had cut two sprigs of holly, leaves deep green and berries rich and bright with the promise of regeneration, and laid them neatly in the shape of a cross on the earth at the head of the grave.
A thought struck him, with sudden, blinding force. He walked swiftly across the grass to the newly filled grave of Emma Rossiter. Wet earth lay in a dark mound, some of the soil washed down into the grass by the recent rains. There was of course no headstone. But lying on the earth, evidently placed with reverent care, was another bright cross of holly.
Chapter 6
The Rossiters
Excitement over the murder had barely died down when the arrival of the Rossiter family at New Hall created a fresh stir in the village. First to come on Tuesday the 17th were the house servants: three full carriages of them, agency staff sent ahead to open the house and make all ready. No sooner had they arrived than wagons and carts began rumbling in from New Romney and Rye and Dover, bringing provisions and furniture and carving deep ruts in the muddy roads.
Kate, Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper’s maid, was predictably the first up to the hall to nose around. She reported back to the village that the new staff seemed quite friendly, ‘with no stuck-up London airs about them’. Emboldened by this, a couple of village women went up to inquire about work in the kitchens, and to their surprise were hired on the spot. Lights burned late into the night at New Hall as the servants laboured to erase the marks of six months of emptiness and neglect.
On Wednesday, wagons laden with more furniture and baggage began to arrive, punishing the roads still further. Children stood with their mouths open by the side of the track watching the wagons pass. A dog barked furiously at each passing team.
*
‘It would appear that they intend to live in state,’ observed Mrs Chaytor, standing at the door of the rectory and watching another wagon roll down the road. ‘They will put us all to shame.’
‘Perhaps that is the idea,’ said the rector. ‘Have you received your invitation?’
‘I have. I confess to being intrigued.’ The invitations, printed and embossed, had arrived that morning by post from London: Mr William Rossiter hoped for the pleasure of their company on the afternoon of Saturday the 21st, three days hence.
‘Come in out of the cold. Thank you for agreeing to meet her. She is curious about you, and until she satisfies that curiosity, I will have no peace.’
‘It is my pleasure,’ Amelia said as he took her cloak. ‘How is Mrs Kemp bearing up?’
‘She handed in her notice yesterday, declaring she would tolerate no further interference in her house. I refused to accept her notice, and we had a furious argument. That made her feel better for the moment, but I don’t know how long it will last. Now, prepare yourself.’
He ushered Amelia into the drawing room and Calpurnia, her face smiling and her eyes sharp as a barrister’s tongue, came forward to greet her. She was, the rector saw, assessing every detail of Mrs Chaytor including her bearing, her manner and her clothing, pricing the latter and, quite likely, arriving at a fair estimate of the other woman’s income.
‘Mrs Chaytor,’ he said formally, ‘my sister, Mr
s Vane. Mrs Vane, my neighbour and parishioner, Mrs Chaytor.’
‘I remember hearing your name,’ said Calpurnia smiling innocently. ‘I am sure you have mentioned her to me, Marcus. Something to do with the church roof, was it not?’
‘Mrs Chaytor has been a most valued benefactor to our poor church,’ said the rector, bowing.
‘You attend services regularly, Mrs Chaytor?’
‘No,’ said Amelia honestly, ‘but I do feel all churches should have a roof.’
They sat, Calpurnia slipping into the role of hostess and pouring tea with her own hand, ‘for that is how they do things in Town nowadays. Do you ever get up to Town, Mrs Chaytor?’
‘Very seldom, Mrs Vane.’
‘That’s surprising. Your clothes, if I may say, are quite beautiful. I assumed you must patronise some terribly fashionable dressmaker.’
‘The woman who makes my clothes comes from Rye,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘I would be pleased to introduce you to her, if you wish.’
The preliminary skirmishes over, Calpurnia settled in for the main assault. Mrs Chaytor saw her open her mouth, and forestalled her. ‘And Mr Vane? Is he here with you?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Calpurnia in surprise. ‘Did Marcus not tell you? Like yourself, my dear, I am a widow. Marcus, I am surprised at you for not telling Mrs Chaytor of my sad condition.’
‘It must have slipped my mind,’ said the rector stonily. He was saved further scolding by the arrival of Rodolpho, who spotted the newcomer and lumbered over to her, laying his head on her knee and looking up at her with sad brown eyes. ‘What a lovely dog,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
Rodolpho responded with a wag of his tail that would have sent the sugar bowl spinning into the fireplace, had not Calpurnia lifted it neatly out of the way. ‘What is his name, Mrs Vane?’
The Body in the Ice Page 8
