The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  There followed a discussion of the dog’s name, a long and detailed description of the plot, characters and main themes of Rodolpho, A Tale of Love and Liberty followed by that of another of her novels, The House of the Lost Spirits, and then an account of her late husband Captain Vane, R.N., sadly deceased of fever ten years hence, complete with full details of his looks (handsome), his manners (perfectly polished), his habits (those of a true gentleman in every respect) and his passion for fly-fishing, a sport at which he excelled even the renowned Izaak Walton. Mr Walton, Calpurnia explained, was the great master of the sport of fishing, author of the much respected book The Compleat Angler, and—

  ‘I am acquainted with Izaak Walton’s works,’ interrupted Mrs Chaytor gently. ‘My husband taught me to fish, and introduced me to The Compleat Angler.’

  ‘Did he? Captain Vane never offered to teach me, but then I am sure he knew I was quite busy enough with my writing. But enough about me, my dear. I should like to know much more about you.’

  There then followed an appalling interrogation concerning every detail of Amelia’s private life, including her own marriage and widowhood, her background, her family, and the life in Paris and Rome and London that she had abandoned for solitude on the Marsh. Rodolpho sat all the while with his head on Mrs Chaytor’s knee, occasionally giving her hand a gentle lick. No amount of significant looks from Calpurnia’s brother could stem the flow of questions.

  After inquiring as to whether Amelia had a dog of her own, and if not why not, Calpurnia finally fell silent. The rector, who had been sitting for several minutes with his eyes closed in pain, intervened. ‘Dear sister, I think it is time we let Mrs Chaytor go, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, but we were having such a lovely chat! Weren’t we, my dear?’

  ‘Delightful in every respect,’ said Mrs Chaytor smiling. ‘But I fear I really must go. Mrs Vane, I shall of course be delighted to return your hospitality as soon as possible. We may continue our conversation then, I am sure.’

  ‘Oh, I should like that very much. I shall be most interested to see your house. I am sure it is full of lovely things. Mementoes of your time in Paris and Rome, perhaps? Dear Captain Vane used to send me souvenirs from every port where his ship touched. As he was on the Channel Blockade, I fear most of them came from Portsmouth.’

  They rose and, after the two women curtseyed to each other and exchanged fond farewells, the rector walked Mrs Chaytor to the door.

  ‘I am so very sorry,’ he said, drawing her cloak about her shoulders.

  ‘Do not be. She is quite artless. I was able to bat most of her questions away without her realising I had not answered them. And of course, I understand why she asked. Do you know she is fond of you?’

  ‘The thought had not occurred to me.’

  Mrs Chaytor smiled. ‘There have been no further sightings of our man?’

  ‘None. Stemp has been out every day, looking into possible hiding places, and I know the constables in the other parishes are doing the same. But, nothing. He has gone to earth; or, perhaps, seen sense and left the district.’

  ‘While the family who disinherited him, at least in his eyes, arrive to take possession of his house? I think not. Whoever left the holly on the graves was doing more than making a memorial. They were sending a signal that they are here, and intend to stay.’

  ‘I fear you may well be right. Let us take another tack.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Rossiters. I am glad you have been invited to this levee, because I want to know what you make of them. When we visit them, keep your eyes and ears open.’

  ‘I had every intention of doing so,’ she said, smiling.

  *

  To the disappointment of the parish, the carriages bringing the Rossiter family arrived after dark on Thursday, and thus no one was able to get a clear look at them. Friday passed quietly for the rector, who, after a morning walk through occasional showers of sleet, sat by the fire in his study with a reviving cup of coffee and read the letters and reports from his fellow magistrates concerning the hunt for Samuel Rossiter. There had been reported sightings of their man in Dover, Deal, Ashford, Chilham and Whitstable. In each case the magistrate had stated his firm opinion that the man spotted must be Samuel Rossiter, and then gone on to give a description.

  The rector sipped his coffee, and winced. The beans were burnt; he would have to tell Mrs Kemp, and that would be the cue for another argument. Most of the people who had been spotted were very obviously not Samuel Rossiter. One had grey hair; one was described as stoop-shouldered with a furtive air; one had a wooden leg. The one in Deal was fairly obviously a sailor from one of the Royal Navy warships in the Downs – possibly a deserter, but that was not the rector’s business – and the one in Whitstable was an itinerant pedlar selling brushes. The only thing they had in common was that they were all black men; that being enough, apparently, to identify them as Rossiter.

  The rector pondered on the last sighting for quite a while. Whitstable was nearly forty miles away and it seemed unlikely, given his current theories, that Samuel would have gone so far from the Marsh. But his theories had already been exploded several times, and anything was possible. He wrote to the Whitstable magistrate, thanking him and asking for the brush-seller to be apprehended and his identity established if possible.

  Saturday morning dawned bright and cold, the wind for once absent. Hoarfrost painted the rosebushes and hedges in the garden with silver-white rime. The rector put on his coat and hat and gloves to go for a walk and turned to find Rodolpho staring at him, beseeching eyes peering out from beneath the shaggy coat. The rector paused, and then snapped his fingers. ‘Come on, boy.’

  Rodolpho promptly bounded towards him, wagging his great tail and crashing against the furniture. ‘Sit,’ growled the rector, and the dog sat at once, looking up earnestly and waiting. The rector snapped his fingers again, and this time Rodolpho trotted meekly after him as they went out into the bright, cold morning.

  They walked across the frosty meadows towards the sea. It was a beautiful morning; the sun was still a glowing promise below the horizon, streaking the sky with glowing red. The fields around were a marvel of feathery frost. Rodolpho scampered across them, bounding with puppyish energy. It came to Hardcastle that he had never once seen his sister walk the dog. Her usual routine was to rise around midday, spend several hours in the drawing room where she pretended (or so he strongly suspected) to write her new book, and then join him for dinner. After the meal he retreated to his study while she returned to the drawing room and amused herself most evenings by playing the fortepiano very badly. Rodolpho’s only outings were brief ones into the garden to answer calls of nature.

  Now, given his freedom, he bounded across the meadows barking with pleasure, a mass of half-coordinated shaggy limbs and flapping ears and tail. When there are sheep in these fields, Hardcastle thought, he will need to be kept on a lead; otherwise, every local shepherd will want to murder him.

  When they reached the sea, the dog stopped dead on the crest of the dunes, eyeing the water with deep suspicion, before trotting warily down across the frozen sand to inspect it more closely. The rector followed after him, looking into the brightness of the dawn and seeing the black line of the enemy coast on the fiery horizon.

  There was someone else on the beach: a woman in long cloak and bonnet gazing at the sunrise. Not wishing to intrude on her, Hardcastle called sharply to the dog; but at the sound of his voice she turned and waved, then walked along the sand towards him. Rodolpho saw her and rushed to meet her, jumping up and putting his great paws on her shoulders and licking her face. To the rector’s considerable relief, the woman burst into peals of laughter.

  ‘Down!’ he snapped, and the dog subsided, still wagging his tail, sand flying in all directions. Hardcastle stepped forward, reaching into his pocket and holding out a handkerchief. ‘Ma’am, I am extremely sorry.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t be. He was only being frien
dly, I am sure. He is a lovely dog.’

  She was a tall woman, with a pleasant pale face and a determined line to her chin and jaw. The hair that escaped from under her bonnet was fair, reddened by the sunrise. Her eyes, above cheeks flushed with cold, were sparkling green. ‘Is it not the most glorious morning?’ she asked. ‘I saw the sunrise, and simply could not remain inside another moment.’

  ‘You must be from New Hall,’ he said, bowing. ‘Permit me. I am the Reverend Hardcastle, rector of this parish.’

  ‘My name is Laure Rossiter,’ she said, smiling. Her voice was soft and rather gentle. ‘My cousin William is the new owner of New Hall.’

  That would make her the daughter of James Rossiter, William’s uncle, Hardcastle reasoned. He guessed she was about thirty. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Doubtless I shall see you later today at New Hall, and then someone can introduce us formally.’

  She laughed at that. ‘Yes, we are looking forward very much to meeting our new neighbours. Father has invited all the quality of the district, it seems.’

  ‘You intend to stay in St Mary for long?’

  ‘Who knows?’ They had turned and walked up over the dunes, back towards the village where St Mary’s church tower stood squat in the glowing light. ‘It was a whim of Father’s that we should come down here, and doubtless we shall stay as long as his whim keeps us here.’

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Rodolpho frolicking around them, and then the young woman said, ‘Tell me, Reverend Hardcastle: is it true that you are also the magistrate for this district?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then may I ask you, while we are in private, whether any progress has been made in finding out who killed that poor girl? On Christmas Day?’

  ‘Inquiries are ongoing,’ he said. ‘You must understand I can tell you no more. Does it distress you, living in a house where someone died in such a fashion?’

  ‘No,’ said Laure. ‘I lived through the war, reverend. I was eight when Bunker Hill was fought, and I still remember seeing the dead and wounded brought back into the city after the battle. Death was all around us in those days, and it holds no terrors for me now. But I am concerned for justice.’

  ‘Justice? Why? The young woman was surely a stranger to you.’

  ‘We are all strangers to each other, Reverend Hardcastle. Who can say that they truly know their fellow men and women, even their own family? And yet at the same time, we are also linked by our common humanity. New Hall is the home of the Rossiter family, and as a member of that family I feel responsible for what happened. I should like to know the truth, should the truth ever come to light.’ Her clear green eyes looked directly at the rector.

  ‘When the truth is found, I shall be sure to tell you,’ he said quietly. They walked on through the thin winter sunshine.

  *

  Just on the stroke of noon, a smartly handled carriage pulled up in the drive of the rectory. Lord Clavertye stepped out and banged on the front door. Mrs Kemp showed him into the rector’s study.

  ‘My lord,’ said Hardcastle, ‘this is a pleasant surprise. Mrs Kemp, the madeira, if you please.’

  ‘I’m invited to this damned affair at New Hall,’ said Clavertye briefly. ‘Thought I’d call on you first. Don’t want to go, of course. I can’t abide these bloody rebels. But this particular rebel is important, and it would be best not to offend him.’

  Clavertye was tall and patrician with commanding dark eyes and hair going silver at the temples. Dressed in fashionable style with boots whose mirrored finish did not betray the slightest speck of mud, he made the rector feel shabby and ungroomed beside him. That had been the case throughout their acquaintance, since they first met at Cambridge twenty years ago when one was studying divinity and the other law. They had been friends then; their relationship had cooled a little since, but there was still mutual respect. Clavertye knew the rector as an irascible, insubordinate and occasionally alcoholic clergyman who still possessed what a contemporary had called ‘the finest mind in the Church of England’; the rector recognised that Clavertye was a lawyer turned ambitious politician who could be relied on utterly, except when his own interests were at stake. They made use of each other when needed, and for the most part got along well.

  ‘Do you mean James Rossiter?’ asked Hardcastle as the madeira was poured. ‘What makes him important?’

  ‘You’d never know there had been a war,’ said Clavertye, whose brother had died at Yorktown and whose hatred of Americans had begun at that moment. ‘Rossiter has managed to worm his way into every fashionable circle in London. Every time I turn around, there he is. He even has the interest of the home secretary, would you believe it?’

  The home secretary, the Duke of Portland, was also leader of the moderate Whig faction of which Clavertye was an ambitious member; if there was one man in the kingdom Clavertye did not wish to offend, it was Portland. ‘What did Rossiter do during the war?’ asked the rector.

  ‘Fought against us, of course. What else? Oh, to blazes with Rossiter. Have you any news about that other business?’

  The rector told him about the footsteps at the lookers’ hut and the gunpowder, the holly, and the brush-seller in Whitstable. ‘I doubt very much that he is our man, but I have asked for inquiries to be made all the same. I am certain Samuel Rossiter is somewhere close by. The constables are looking out for him, but there is only so much they can do. Could the militia not be called upon to undertake a more thorough search?’

  ‘The militia have gone north. They’ve been summoned to Derbyshire, to deal with the unrest up there.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said the rector sarcastically. ‘A handful of striking millworkers and their wives are undoubtedly a greater threat to the realm than the French Army of the North. Is there now any military force protecting the coast of Kent?’

  ‘There’s the East Kent Volunteers. And the Customs and the Excise.’ Clavertye raised his hand. ‘Hardcastle, stop. I know what you are going to say. I have been lectured by you often enough about how our government and army are unprepared to meet a French invasion. As it happens, I agree with you. As it also happens, there is not a damned thing I can do about it. Now, let’s go and get this over with, shall we?’

  *

  In the drawing room of New Hall, now bright with candlelight and warm with fires, the air scented by candles, Mrs Chaytor watched them enter. A butler in periwig bowed and presented Lord Clavertye, the Reverend Hardcastle and Mrs Vane to their host, William Rossiter. Mrs Chaytor repressed a smile. There had been no mention of Calpurnia Vane in the rector’s invitation.

  William Rossiter was a tall, slender young man, with fair hair, a strong jaw reminiscent of his cousin Laure, and amiable hazel eyes. Flushed a little with excitement and responsibility, he bowed. ‘Your servant, my lord; your servant, ma’am; your servant, reverend. May I present my uncle and guardian, Mr James Rossiter? His wife, my lady aunt, Mrs Antoinette Rossiter. My cousins, Mr Edward Rossiter and Miss Laure . . . Where the deuce has Laure got to? Oh, there she is.’

  The rector turned his head and saw Laure by the window, talking with Mrs Chaytor. ‘And my aunt, Mrs Jane Parker,’ finished the young man, ‘and her husband, Mr Joseph Parker.’

  The men bowed; the ladies curtseyed. ‘What a lovely house,’ said Calpurnia before either the rector or Clavertye could get a word in. ‘I do declare, Mr Rossiter, I did not know that there was a house of such state in St Mary, or indeed anywhere in Romney Marsh. And how beautifully you have furnished it! Those chairs are by Hepplewhite, are they not? So elegant. My late husband’s family had a pair of Hepplewhite chairs that were the envy of the district. Oh, canapés! How delightful!’

  By the window, Laure Rossiter watched the scene and turned back to Mrs Chaytor. ‘What sort of man is the rector?’ she asked.

  Amelia Chaytor smiled. ‘What a curious question,’ she said. ‘May I ask what prompts it?’

  The other woman hesitated before answering. ‘I me
t him this morning, when I was out walking by the sea. When I learned who he was, I am afraid I was rather forward. I asked him about the . . . thing that happened here. Afterwards, I began to worry that I might have been too bold. Should I seek him out and make my apologies?’

  Mrs Chaytor smiled. ‘He will certainly understand,’ she said. ‘He understands most things. I see you have heard about our tragic event.’

  Laure Rossiter looked around to ensure there was no one within earshot. ‘We all know what the report in the newspaper said, of course. But I cannot help thinking that this matter closely concerns our family.’

  ‘Oh? What makes you say that?’

  This time the hesitation was longer. Laure Rossiter flushed. ‘I am sorry. I have only just met you, and here I am talking nonsense like a silly girl. Please forgive me, and I shall now remove myself from your company.’

  ‘There is absolutely no need to apologise,’ said Mrs Chaytor, softly. Over Laure’s shoulder she saw Calpurnia Vane approaching. ‘It is clear that something is troubling you.’ She searched Laure’s face. ‘Will you call on me tomorrow afternoon, at two? Sometimes troubles are best shared.’

  She saw the sudden leap of gratitude in Laure’s eyes, and then Calpurnia descended on them.

  ‘Mrs Chaytor, how delightful to see you again! Have you tried the canapés? They are delicious! Will you introduce me?’

  ‘Miss Rossiter,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘This is Mrs Vane, Reverend Hardcastle’s sister. She too is recently arrived in the parish.’

  ‘And what brings you to St Mary, ma’am?’ asked Laure as they curtseyed. ‘Is this a family visit?’

  ‘Oh, no, it is more than that. I am a writer, Miss Rossiter,’ announced Calpurnia. ‘As I tell everyone, I have come to Romney Marsh seeking inspiration for my new book.’

  ‘A writer? How exciting! What do you write?’

  ‘I write novels, Miss Rossiter. To be more specific, I write novels in what Lord Orford has called the Gothic style. It is the very latest thing, you know; all the fashionable people are reading Gothic novels now. Have you read any of mine, perchance? Rodolpho, A Tale of Love and Liberty? The House of the Lost Spirits? Or, The Silent Sorcerer? That was serialised in The Lady’s Magazine earlier this year, and was very successful. No? You have not read it?’