The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  ‘That might lead to a sudden, unprovoked assault. But a planned killing like this? It seems hard to believe.’

  ‘But what if,’ said Calpurnia, thinking hard, ‘what if there is something more than just the house itself. What if there is something in the house that everyone wants? Samuel, Emma, Joseph Parker, James Rossiter, perhaps even Edward and William and Laure.’

  The rector looked at her. ‘From which of your novels does this idea spring?’

  ‘The Ghost-Hunters of Mirador, of course. If you had read them, you would not have to ask. I think,’ said Calpurnia firmly, ‘that there is a secret at New Hall, a secret that someone wants very much to stay secret. A secret so great that someone is willing to kill to protect it.’

  ‘Who?’ asked the rector, and ‘What?’ asked Mrs Chaytor, simultaneously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Calpurnia simply. ‘But we must find out.’

  ‘Thank you for the statement of the blindingly obvious,’ said the rector. He looked at Mrs Chaytor. ‘We discussed this earlier too, if you recall? The possibility that Emma was killed because someone is trying to protect a secret at the house.’

  ‘We did,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘We did not get very far. Are you proposing this as a line of inquiry?’

  ‘As my sister has pointed out, it is about all we have,’ the rector said. ‘Let us start with Parker. We must look into him, somehow. But I have already asked Clavertye for help, and been rebuffed.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help,’ said Mrs Chaytor reluctantly. ‘It means contacting some people from the old days.’

  He heard the tone in her voice. ‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘if it will distress you.’

  ‘Distress me?’ She smiled a little. ‘A man’s life is in jeopardy, and a murderer is on the loose. My distress is not even a matter worth discussing. I will write in the morning.’

  ‘If you are quite certain . . . I must take my leave. I suggest you join me, Calpurnia; it has grown dark, and there is no moon.’ He had driven back from New Romney in a dim light that blurred the difference between land and sky, his hand on the butt of his pistol the entire way, listening for every small night noise in the fields around him.

  ‘The search resumes tomorrow?’

  ‘It does.’ The rector sighed. ‘I told Parker we were on the verge of capturing the French. In truth I am not so sure. The Marsh is large and we have too few men. Unless we have a stroke of luck, Foucarmont could evade us for weeks.’

  SANDY HOUSE, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.

  3rd February, 1797.

  My dear Willie,

  It has been some time since we last corresponded, and I must apologise most sincerely for my silence. I fear I was never the most diligent of correspondents, and since coming to rusticate in the country I have become something of a stylite. One day I must descend from my pillar and come up to London and visit my old friends, before they forget me entirely.

  Meanwhile, dear Willie, I have a favour to ask of you. Your present position will doubtless have led you to become acquainted with Mr James Rossiter, a member of the American embassy. Perhaps you also know Mr Joseph Parker, the eminent American lawyer who is married to Mr Rossiter’s sister. By coincidence they are staying quite near me, at a house belonging to the Rossiter family.

  The Rossiters are charming people and we all enjoy their company very much. They have done their utmost to make themselves agreeable. But we are all very curious to know more about the family and their background. Little is known of them in the neighbourhood, due, no doubt, to their long absence from the country.

  Now, at this point, Willie dear, you are doubtless clutching at your head and exclaiming that you are a busy man who has no time for idle female gossip. I am sure you are very busy indeed, but do please humour me in this matter. There is a most particular reason why I should like to know more about the Rossiters, and especially about Mr Parker. I shall confide it to you when next we meet.

  I thank you for this and your many other kindnesses, and remain your faithful friend,

  AMELIA

  P. S. Please convey my fond regards to Anne.

  A stroke of luck was needed, and that night it came, in the form of a vicious easterly squall that caused ships in the Channel to put about sharply and run north to avoid the dangerous shoal known as the Varne Bank. Most succeeded, but one French lugger was taken aback with all sails set and driven onto the shoals. Morning found her fast aground on the Varne.

  Three fishing boats from New Romney approached the stranded ship and, after a short argument punctuated with threats of violence, an agreement was reached. The boats kedged the lugger off the sand and then towed her, sails lowered, into Romney Haven where she dropped anchor in the shallow water behind Littlestone. Her crew and her unhappy passengers were taken ashore by the fishermen and marched up the beach to New Romney. Joshua Stemp watched them come, and rubbed his nose.

  ‘What did you bring them here for?’ he demanded of the leader of the fishermen.

  ‘What the fuck were we supposed to do? You saw who it is, didn’t you? We couldn’t just leave them out there and let the navy find them. And if we’d helped them off and then let them go, all it would take is for some bugger to see us and inform the Preventives, and then we’d get our necks stretched.’

  ‘All right, keep your hair on.’ Stemp looked around. There was no one about. All the idlers in the village were presumably down the high street, watching affairs at the Ship. A thought came to him then, and he grinned and patted the fisherman on the shoulder. ‘Can you keep your mouth shut about this?’ he asked. ‘And make sure the other lads do the same?’

  ‘Of course. We’re hardly going to go blabbing, are we?’ The fisherman looked narrowly at Stemp. ‘What have you got in mind, Josh?’

  ‘I think I’ve just figured out a way we can all make a profit out of this,’ said Stemp. ‘All right; take them up to the gaol and bring them in through the back door. Keep the lads quiet, and if anyone asks about the lugger, tell ’em it was derelict when you found it. I’ll go talk to him.’

  ‘He’s mad as hell. He didn’t want to come with us, but I told him we’d leave him out there if he didn’t agree to lower his sails and let us take him in tow. What the fuck was he doing out there, anyway?’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ said Stemp.

  Swiftly, he walked back to the high street and along to the Ship, where he found the New Romney constable. ‘Is his lordship here? Or Reverend Hardcastle?’

  ‘Clavertye’s gone out to see what progress the dogs are making, and Hardcastle ain’t here yet.’

  ‘Good. If either asks for me during the next hour, say you haven’t seen me.’

  Back at the gaol, Stemp knocked and entered. ‘Got ’em all locked up, George?’

  ‘All safe,’ said the gaoler. ‘There’s four crew; I put them in one cell, and the six passengers in the other. It’s a bit tight for breathing room, and they’re all complaining like mad in Frog-talk. What’s going to happen to them?’

  ‘That depends on whether they’re prepared to be reasonable,’ said Stemp. ‘Bring the skipper out to me, George. And let me alone with him.’

  ‘Is this regular, Josh?’

  A coin spun from Stemp’s fingers into the gaoler’s hand. ‘That regular enough for you?’

  A few minutes later, the French smuggler who called himself Bertrand was ushered into the anteroom. The gaoler went out, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Bonjewer, Bertie,’ Stemp said cheerfully. ‘Sa-va?’

  The Frenchman, a lean, muscular man with face and hands hardened by the sea, turned and saw Stemp. He blinked in amazement. ‘Yorkshire Tom! What are you doing here?’

  ‘My job,’ said Stemp.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Stemp gestured the other man to a wooden stool, and sat down himself. ‘Well, you see, Bertie, over here I’m a constable.’ The Frenchman looked blank. ‘A sort of Mary Josie,’ Stemp explained.

  Light dawned. ‘Ah!’ said
Bertrand, and he tapped his nose. ‘A smuggler who is also a gendarme. Very good. I admire.’

  ‘It has its uses,’ Stemp admitted.

  ‘Then, for the sake of the God: use your job to get me out of this . . . this shithole, and give me back my boat!’

  Stemp wagged a finger. ‘Not so fast, Bertie. There’s a few things me and you need to talk about first.’

  Bertrand looked at him, wary. ‘You’re a damned lubber, getting yourself grounded on the Varne,’ said Stemp. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘The wind caught us aback, and the water was more shallow than I expected. It must have been the spring tide.’

  ‘Spring tide was five days ago, you pillock. Come on, Bertie, you’ve been sailing these waters long enough to know where all the shoals are. And you know better than to have the Varne to leeward when there’s an east wind blowing. What were you doing out there?’

  ‘Merde. Those imbeciles my passengers. They wanted to land in a place, some horrible-sounding place call Gallops-deen Gout. I wanted to go about south of the Varne, but they said I had to steer a direct course. I say again, imbeciles!’

  ‘Who are your passengers? Spies?’

  ‘Of course. Will you shoot them? I don’t care if you do. They are stupid. No one will miss them.’

  ‘Dunno. That’s not down to me.’ Stemp leaned forward. ‘I’ve got another problem on my hands,’ he said, ‘and I’m hoping you can help me with it. And if you help me, then maybe I can help you too. See what I mean?’

  Bertrand stared at him. ‘You want me to turn informer,’ he said. ‘Bon dieu! Why don’t you just shoot me now and have done with it? If it is found that I give you information, I am a dead man.’

  ‘If you don’t, you’ll rot in an English prison. And we’ll seize your boat.’

  ‘Not my boat, no! Tom, that boat, she is all I have! I beg you, for the sake of our friendship! Give my boat to me, and let me go!’

  ‘Now, we’re not really friends though, are we, Bertie?’ reproved Stemp. ‘We’re partners, engaged in a series o’ mutually beneficial commercial transactions, that’s all.’

  The Frenchman sat, digesting and translating the series of polysyllables. ‘Now, I’m going to be bloody straight with you,’ Stemp went on. ‘I can get you back your ship. But – and mark this, Bertie – only if you tell me where your passengers planned to go once they were ashore.’

  Bertrand jerked his thumb towards the cells where the spies waited miserably. ‘You could interrogate them. Force them to tell you what they know.’

  ‘They might not tell. Or they might spin us a pack of lies to throw us off the scent. I don’t trust them. But I trust you, Bertie.’

  ‘I am fortunate,’ muttered the Frenchman, his voice deep with sarcasm. ‘What makes you think I know where they were going?’

  ‘Bertie. Don’t try my patience.’

  The Frenchman threw up his hands. ‘Bon dieu! You hold my balls in your hand,’ he said, ‘and now you squeeze. All right. I tell you.’ Stemp was listening carefully.

  ‘Now you keep your side of the bargain,’ said Bertrand.

  ‘Do you doubt the pledged word of Yorkshire Tom? I’m surprised at you, Bertie. One more thing. We’re sending those six spies back with you.’

  ‘Ah, mort-dieu! It is bad enough that I have to carry them once; I will not do so again. Why don’t you just shoot them? It would be much easier.’

  ‘But before someone shot them, they might talk about how they were captured. And then someone would start looking for the boat, and they’d dig around and find out I met you and sent you home, and then they would shoot me too, you see. You’re a good fellow, Bertie, and a very useful business connection, but I’m already sticking my neck out for you on this business, and I ain’t sticking it out any further. You’ll take those fellows home, like I told you.’

  Stemp stood up and clapped the other man lightly on the shoulder. ‘We’ll keep you here ’til after dark, so no one will see you go. That will give me time to square things with Reverend Hardcastle.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘My boss. He’s the local magistrate.’

  ‘You are a smuggler who is also a gendarme,’ complained Bertrand. ‘Your chief is a priest who is also a judge. What sort of country is this?’

  *

  ‘He gave up everything,’ Stemp reported to the rector. ‘He’s a nosy bugger, old Bertie, and I knew he would eavesdrop on his passengers, and a lugger’s so small there ain’t no privacy. He was going to land them at Globsden Gut, just north of St Mary’s Bay. That’s where he put the last lot; the other party landed down near Dungeness. Once ashore, the Frenchies were to head inland to the lookers’ hut, where they’d find a message telling them where to meet with the others. There’s a series of meeting places all pre-arranged. The message would indicate which one was safe to use.’

  ‘Did this man Bertrand know where the meeting places are?’

  ‘He did. There’s five of them. A fisherman’s cottage near Camber. Another lookers’ hut, west of Hope Church. A cottage out by the Paradise Bush. The old stone barn at Cuckold’s Corner.’ Stemp paused. ‘And the cellars at New Hall,’ he said.

  ‘What? Are you certain?’

  ‘Quite certain. I even made him repeat it.’

  The rector rose, reaching for his hat and cloak. ‘A moment, if you please, reverend,’ Stemp said. ‘I made a deal with Bertrand for the information. I said if he told us what he knew, we’d let him have his boat back and he and his crew could go.’

  There was a long pause, during which Stemp gazed innocently at the rector, and the rector read his thoughts without difficulty. ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘The fisher boys who brought him in, and the gaoler. I’ve told them all to keep quiet. Others’ll see the boat, of course, but they won’t know we have the crew. We’ve put it about she’s derelict.’

  ‘Can the fishermen be trusted to keep their mouths shut?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve made sure they’ll be well paid. I told Bertie that he had to send money across on the next run, to pay them off. He promised he would.’ Stemp told the rector about the rest of the arrangement. ‘I know we’ll lose them other spies. But I reckoned it’ll be worth it, if we can catch Foucarmont. The minnows don’t matter if we get the big fish.’

  The rector thought about this. ‘Will Bertrand keep his word?’

  ‘If he wants to do business on this side of the Channel again, he will.’ He hesitated, looking around. They were alone in Clavertye’s office in the Ship, but Stemp had the caution of a man with a lifetime of felony behind him. He lowered his voice to a murmur. ‘I’ll wait ’til midnight, then we’ll let them out and get them down to the lugger. If the wind holds fair, they’ll be back in Wee Meroo by dawn.’

  There was silence again, and then the rector said, ‘Make it so. You take care of that business, and I will get word to Clavertye. We will have to raid all these places.’

  ‘Including New Hall?’

  ‘Of course. You know the cellars; the entrance is outside, by the stables. And I – cleverly – told the Rossiters to keep everyone indoors last night. Foucarmont and his men could have crept in and out during the night, with no one in the house any the wiser. We might as well have sent them an engraved invitation.’

  When Clavertye returned to New Romney half an hour later, Hardcastle sought him out at once. ‘Stemp, my constable, has information. A derelict boat was found off the coast this morning. It looks like the crew got caught in the storm last night, and either abandoned her or, more likely, were swept overboard. But Stemp found a list of locations the French are using as meeting places.’

  ‘Well done! Where are they?’

  The rector named them. ‘The Paradise Bush?’ asked Clavertye.

  ‘A whorehouse,’ explained the rector.

  ‘Right.’ Clavertye was on his feet. ‘Where’s Austen? Ah, there you are, captain. Time for action, at last. Get together as many of your men as you can. B
e ready to move in a quarter of an hour.’ His face was alight with pleasure. ‘We’ve got the bastards this time,’ he said.

  Chapter 12

  The Captain’s Tale

  For a few hours that February day, war came to Romney Marsh. The lanes and meadows were full of hurrying men. Pale low sunlight shone on swift red-coated columns and gleamed off browned steel musket barrels and the long spikes of bayonets.

  The conflict was sporadic and brief. At Cuckold’s Corner, the two men hiding in the old stone barn looked up sharply as they heard the tramp of marching feet. The sound drew closer. Seizing their weapons and scrambling to their feet, they ran out, and almost crashed into a line of Excise men, deployed silently there a few minutes earlier. Juddery, the Excise chief, shouted at them to surrender; instead the Frenchman drew their swords, and a few moments later both died in a hail of short-range pistol fire.

  At the looker’s hut west of Hope Church, two more men huddled, shivering. Still wet from their swim the previous day, they had spent a miserable night. Although the freezing weather had passed, it was still a long way from spring, and with the pursuit all around them they had not dared make a fire. The mutton ham they had purloined from a woodshed a few days earlier had been gnawed down to the bone, and they had eaten nothing since the previous day. They heard Cole and his armed Customs officers encircle the hut and then turn inward, tightening the noose, but they were too cold and dispirited to resist. Hands securely bound, they were dispatched under escort to New Romney.

  Up at the Paradise Bush, a rambling house lying alongside the track between Ivychurch and Newchurch, Hardcastle and Captain Austen waited while the latter’s men took up their positions. There were several buildings here: the house itself, a big stone barn and beyond that a low thatched cottage. The volunteers circled quietly around the cottage, muskets at the ready.

  Hardcastle knocked at the door of the larger house. A moment later he heard the sound of the door being unbarred, and then it swung open. A woman, a gently faded blonde in an open robe over a purple corset, surveyed them, taking in the captain’s red coat.