The Body in the Ice

by A. J. MacKenzie

  Calpurnia was still talking, oblivious to his silence. Hardcastle suddenly recalled his sister saying, What if there is something in the house that everyone wants? Good God, was she actually starting to make sense? But what could that ‘something’ be, and where would it be? He, Stemp and Mrs Chaytor had been diligent in their search of the house. The cellars had been almost entirely empty then, their brick walls and floors sound and solid.

  They rose from dinner. Still chewing over the events of the afternoon, he bowed to his sister and retreated to his study, leaving her to the drawing room and her music. Parker’s behaviour requires further consideration, he thought, as he poured himself a glass of port. Whenever I come to New Hall, he grows nervous and uncomfortable. And the sight of Austen’s uniform nearly made him jump out of his skin. Of course, for a former Son of Liberty, the appearance of a red coat might bring back bad memories; but, he thought, there is more to it than that. More significant is the servant with the broken nose, the one who tried to recruit men to liberate Samuel Rossiter.

  A second glass of port slipped down, and then a third. Samuel Rossiter would be in Maidstone gaol by now, crammed into a cell with perhaps a dozen other men; murderers, rapists, thieves, all living in a fug of their own sweat and stench, waiting for the day of doom that would send them to the gallows or the transports. His mind full of disturbing images, he fell asleep in his chair, and dreamed unpleasant dreams.

  *

  Next morning, Hardcastle had a headache again. He gulped some coffee, put his pistol into the pocket of his cloak and took Rodolpho for a walk in the dim, grey light of dawn, and then drove off through a light chilly drizzle to New Romney.

  At the Ship all was bustle; the secretary and servant were packing up and Clavertye was striding around the common room giving orders. ‘Foucarmont,’ he said tersely in answer to Hardcastle’s question. ‘We cornered him in the fisherman’s hut near Camber.’

  That hut, with its near proximity to the coast, had been identified as the most likely hiding place of Foucarmont himself, and Lord Clavertye had taken personal command of yesterday’s raid on it. ‘What happened?’ Hardcastle asked.

  ‘There was no cover around the hut, just open heath and shingle. He shot and wounded two of my men with that infernal rifle of his; that’s how I know it was Foucarmont. We pulled back and waited for dark, and then moved in, only to find the damned house was empty.’

  Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. ‘There was a tunnel,’ said Clavertye angrily. ‘Trust Foucarmont to know the place was an old smuggler’s haunt. He and his men escaped into the dunes. We brought up the dogs and tracked them across the river into Sussex. There were three of them, Foucarmont and two others.’

  There was a short silence. ‘What happens now?’ the rector asked.

  ‘I’m going after him, of course. I’m off to Rye, to co-ordinate the search with the magistrate there.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘We’ve killed two and taken three, so apart from Foucarmont and his two, that wraps everything up. I’ve interrogated the three prisoners, but of course they don’t know anything of importance. These people work like criminal gangs: the lower ranks are told no more than they need to know; only the lynchpin knows everything. That’s why I am determined to take Foucarmont.’

  On another day, Hardcastle would have volunteered to go along. Today, his head hurt. He nodded. ‘I’m leaving you in charge,’ the deputy lord lieutenant said. ‘Take whatever measures you see fit, and keep me informed. I’ll be at the George in Rye.’

  Then Clavertye was away, vigorous as ever, galloping through the rain down the Appledore road, and the carriage for his baggage and attendants drew up at the door, preparing to follow. Captain Austen came to join Hardcastle. ‘Any orders for my men, reverend?’

  ‘If you are able to keep them here for a little longer, sir, I would be grateful. I’m not convinced this affair is over yet.’ Foucarmont was on the run, but if he escaped Lord Clavertye, he would come back to the Marsh; of that, the rector was certain.

  Austen bowed, and turned at a new commotion. ‘What have we here?’

  What they had was a messenger, pulling up a tired horse in the inn yard and jumping down from the saddle, shouting for a groom, then hurrying into the common room. He was wet and splashed with mud to his neck, breathing hard still from his ride. ‘Lord Clavertye?’ he gasped. ‘Can anyone tell me where to find his lordship? I’ve urgent news for him.’

  ‘You must have passed him on the road,’ said the rector. ‘My name is Hardcastle, I am the magistrate here. What is your message?’

  ‘That prisoner they were taking to Maidstone, Rossiter. He’s escaped!’

  Chapter 13

  Mr Parker Calls

  The escort had underestimated Samuel Rossiter; they all had, it seemed. The usual practice when transporting a prisoner was for one guard to ride inside the van, but this was never a popular duty and most guards tried to avoid it if possible. On this occasion Rossiter had seemed quiet and biddable, so his escort remained outside, four guards marching in front of the van and two behind. Somewhere along the road, Rossiter managed to pry up some of the floorboards of the van; then, waiting until it was dark, dropped through the floor onto the road and rolled silently out of the way before the trailing guards came up. Not until the van reached Maidstone prison and was opened did anyone realise he was missing.

  Mrs Chaytor had been right: Samuel Rossiter had woken up, and realised he wanted to live.

  The rector turned to Austen. ‘It appears I have some work for your men after all, captain. I should be obliged if you would send out details to search for the fugitive. I will inform the parish constables and ask them to lend you every assistance.’

  Austen nodded. ‘It shall be done. But it’s a big task you’ve set us, sir. We struggled to find eight men, until we’d received sound information about their whereabouts. It will be harder still with just one.’

  ‘Do your best. One more thing, captain: I want Rossiter alive and unharmed. If your men capture him, they are to use him kindly.’

  Austen raised his eyebrows. ‘He is wanted for murder.’

  ‘Yes,’ the rector said. ‘All the same. I am quite serious about this. No harm must come to him.’

  Austen bowed and departed, calling to his sergeant and corporal. The rector sighed again. ‘Mrs Spicer,’ he said to the landlady of the Ship, ‘I would be obliged if you would bring me paper and ink and pen.’

  THE SHIP INN, NEW ROMNEY, KENT.

  4th February, 1797.

  My lord,

  The messenger who carries this letter will have informed you that Samuel Rossiter has escaped from custody while on his way to Maidstone gaol. Your other officials will doubtless make you aware of the details in due course. Anticipating that Rossiter might attempt to return once more to Romney Marsh, I have asked Captain Austen to undertake a thorough search of the area, and apprehend Rossiter if possible. I have no doubt that he will carry out this task to the very best of his ability.

  I will inform you as soon as Rossiter is retaken, so that you make whatever arrangements you desire for his custody. I must inform you, however, that I have grave reservations about the case against him, both pertaining to the murder of his sister and his supposed association with Foucarmont. I should also warn you that I intend to reopen the case of the murder of Emma Rossiter.

  With that end in mind, and so that I may better attend to my parochial duties, I am returning to St Mary in the Marsh. I would humbly request that you direct all correspondence to me there.

  Yr very obedient servant,

  HARDCASTLE

  Back at St Mary in the Marsh, it felt a little as though a siege had been lifted. News of yesterday’s events had already spread; now windows and doors were unbarred and people came out into the streets despite the cold. When the rector called in at the Star after the Murton baptism, he found the common room full of cheerful people come to wet the baby’s head. The air was dense w
ith tobacco smoke while his neighbours chewed over recent events and speculated about what the French might be up to. The rector drank three tankards of small beer, answered patiently as many questions as he could about Foucarmont’s agents, and said nothing whatever about Samuel Rossiter.

  The next day, Sunday, he conducted matins as usual. James Rossiter, his wife and their two children attended along with the young master of the house, but Parker and his wife were noticeably absent. The rector pondered on this, briefly.

  That afternoon, for the first time in many weeks, he had no engagements and no demands on his time. He put on his cloak and, after a moment’s pause, took the pistol from its pocket and replaced it in the usual drawer of his desk. Then he snapped his fingers and called for Rodolpho.

  The weather had improved a little; the wind still had an icy edge, but the clouds had broken to reveal a pale sun hanging low in the south. Rodolpho, his shaggy coat impervious to the weather, bounded across the meadows, barking with pleasure. The rector realised that, although he still resented his sister’s presence in the house, he had grown rather fond of Rodolpho. The dog was, he knew from Calpurnia, about two years old; he had been a stray when she found him, only a few months old, and she had taken him into her home, raised him and fed him, and made no attempt whatever to train him. The dog had no more self-discipline than his mistress, but Hardcastle found him rather endearing.

  They walked down towards the sea, the rector’s favourite destination, to the tiny indentation in the long strand of sand and shingle known as St Mary’s Bay, and climbed up onto the dunes. There, pale in the distance, were the chalk cliffs of France, the water between them churned grey and shredded into white foam by the incessant wind. The rector gazed once more at the enemy coast, wondering again what Foucarmont had been planning and what had brought him back to the Marsh. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he was right. The Marsh held the key. More particularly, New Hall held the key.

  Something had drawn back Foucarmont to New Hall. At about the same time, something also had prompted the Rossiters to come to New Hall.

  What if it was the same thing?

  The rector stood for a long time in the wind, unseeing, ignoring Rodolpho scrabbling in the sand not far away while he considered this. Was it likely?

  On the surface, no. Foucarmont was an agent of the French Republic, intent on carrying the war into England. James Rossiter was an American diplomat; he had fought against the British in the past, yes, but he was now tasked with concluding an agreement by which Britain and America would join forces against the French. Joining forces with Foucarmont would be against the interests of both his British hosts and his own country, and that Rossiter would choose to do so seemed highly improbable.

  Rodolpho had caught the scent of something and was now excavating a hole in the rear elevation of the dune, interrupting Hardcastle’s thoughts. The dog’s shaggy coat would be full of sand, which would get everywhere in the house; Mrs Kemp would be furious, and probably would hand in her notice again.

  Of course, it need not be the case that the entire family is involved, thought Hardcastle. Maybe only one apple has been spoiled; the rest of the barrel might be perfectly sound. Mrs Rossiter, for example, seems little more than an appendage to her husband.

  Of the younger generation, Mrs Chaytor’s evaluation of Laure seems fair. But then there is Edward, of course; and young William, who did after all break with his father to join his uncles.

  And, what of Parker? We know that he bullied and threatened Samuel and Emma on two occasions. Parker has been nervous and full of bluster each time I called at New Hall. Parker has something to hide; and I am willing to bet that Parker knows the secret of New Hall, whatever that may be. And if this new theory of mine is right, there is also some connection between Parker and Foucarmont.

  Oh, yes. It was time, and past time, that he spoke to Parker.

  A rabbit, aroused by the noise overhead, popped its head out of a hole ten yards from Rodolpho and stared. The wolfhound raised its head and spotted the rabbit, and gave a single high-pitched yelp. Then, gathering his long ungainly legs, he fled, bounding behind the rector and skidding to a halt. The rector, roused from his thoughts, looked down and patted the frightened dog on the head, reassuring him. Rodolpho gave his gloved hand a lick of gratitude.

  ‘Home, boy,’ said the rector with a touch of grimness in his voice. ‘There’s work to be done.’

  *

  Back at the house, Biddy the maidservant promised with her usual cheer to clean Rodolpho thoroughly before he was let loose in the house. Her mistress, she explained, was at work on her book and must not be disturbed on any account. Hardcastle went into his study, warmed himself by the fire while he drank a glass of port, and then sat down at his desk with pen and paper and ink and began to write.

  THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT.

  5th February, 1797.

  My dear Mr Jessington,

  I am writing to ask you for some additional information concerning the list of members of the Rossiter family, which you so kindly provided me with last year. I am particularly interested in Mrs Amélie Rossiter, late wife of Mr William Rossiter, deceased in 1770. I understand from your document that her maiden name was Mirabeau and that she was of French descent.

  Are you able to tell me anything further about the lady and her antecedents? Any information you provide will be received gratefully, and, I need hardly add, treated in the strictest confidence.

  I look forward to your soonest reply,

  Yr very obedient servant,

  REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE, J. P.

  That same cold bright Sunday afternoon brought Laure to call upon Mrs Chaytor. Over the past couple of weeks the two women had become friends. Laure made no secret of her warm admiration of Mrs Chaytor, her appearance, her manner, her taste, her clothes and her fondness for books and music; for her part, Amelia, though occasionally embarrassed by the other woman’s shiny-eyed enthusiasm, could not help warming to Laure’s honesty and innocence.

  They sat before the fire in Mrs Chaytor’s drawing room and discussed current ideas, everything from steam engines to the discovery of nitrogen, and it was clear that in most cases Laure was rather better informed than her hostess.

  ‘I fear I am a little behind the times when it comes to the scientific papers,’ Mrs Chaytor said. ‘You, on the other hand, are wonderfully well-informed. Your curiosity and interests seem to know no bounds. That is commendable.’

  ‘Yes. Well,’ said Laure, going rather pink. ‘I believe that women should be educated, as much as possible. The only reason why men are allowed to think that our sex is inferior to theirs is because most women are not as well-educated as most men. That makes the women look stupid. In fact, women are just as clever as men, if not more so. They lack knowledge, not intelligence.’

  ‘An interesting idea,’ observed Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘Oh, it is not my own. I read it in a most remarkable book, The Vindication of the Rights of Women, by Miss Wollstonecraft. You have not read it? Oh, I am astonished to hear it. I beg you to read it, you will find it full of the most fascinating ideas; some of them very radical. Miss Wollstonecraft is in favour of abolishing the rite of marriage altogether.’

  ‘Oh? And why?’

  ‘Marriage, says Miss Wollstonecraft, is an institution dedicated to keeping women in a position of servitude related to men.’

  ‘In theory, that may be true,’ observed Mrs Chaytor. ‘In practice, it depends entirely on the man, and the woman. My own marriage was entirely equal; whatever my husband did, I did too, and I do not recall there ever being any discussion of the matter between us.’

  It was a measure of their friendship that she could speak to this girl – and she continued to think of Laure as a girl despite their similarity in age – about John without pain. Laure smiled. ‘You were indeed truly fortunate,’ she said. ‘And you are right, of course, some marriages are very much equal. Indeed, I would say
the marriage of my aunt and uncle is such a union.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You might not think it to look at them, but they are very much suited to each other. They share the same tastes; literature and music and of course, the objets they collect. Aunt Jane was saying only yesterday that she cannot wait to go to Paris and Rome, to buy pictures and rare cameos. She was a little miffed when Uncle Joseph told her they must wait.’

  ‘I suppose the diplomatic negotiations in London must be resolved before they can depart the embassy,’ observed Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Joseph has nothing to do with the embassy. He is only here at Father’s invitation. But you are right, the negotiations are pressing; Father received word on Friday that he is wanted back in London, and so he departs tomorrow. But the only thing keeping Uncle Joseph and Aunt Jane from travelling further is lack of money.’

  Mrs Chaytor poured more chocolate with a steady hand. ‘I am surprised at that. These days, surely, the better banks such as Hoares and Coutts can arrange a line of credit and allow Americans to draw on their funds back home.’

  ‘That’s just it; they have no funds back home. I love Uncle Joseph and Aunt Jane dearly, but even I must admit they are frightful spendthrifts. Every penny they have, they spend on . . . things. Their house in Boston is like a magpie’s nest, stuffed full of things that glitter. Father had to pay their fare to come to London, and put them up in our house. It is silly of them, but I don’t expect they will ever change. It runs in the family,’ explained Laure. ‘Eddy, my brother, is just as bad.’