The Absence of Hope
Dawn broke over Romney Marsh. Church towers rose like stone fingers against the skyline. Light washed over the flat open fields, brilliant in the clear light. Sheep bleated softly in their pastures, watched by sleepy shepherds. Ducks quacked among the reeds that fringed the sewers, the network of drains holding back the waters that threatened to reclaim the Marsh. In the distance the green hills of Kent rose, a wall sealing off the Marsh from the rest of the world.
Out of the sunrise came a young man, running. He wore rough fishermen’s clothes and a battered hat, and had long hair flowing down over his shoulders. His face was red and perspiring, for the morning was already warm, and his eyes were wide and shocked. Reaching the village of St Mary in the Marsh, a mile from the sea, he hastened down the village street. Finding the cottage he was looking for, he knocked hard at the door.
The knock brought Joshua Stemp awake in a moment. He sat up quickly in bed. Maisie, his wife, was still asleep beside him, and so were their two daughters. He slid out of bed and went through the little cottage to the door, picking up his fisherman’s knife as he did so. Two weeks had passed since the encounter with Noakes and there had been no trouble, but Stemp was still uneasy.
‘Who’s there?’ he hissed.
‘It’s Florian Tydde, Josh. You’d better come out. There’s trouble down by the water.’
Relief, of sorts. ‘I’ll be out directly.’ Stemp pulled on his clothes and tucked his knife into its sheath, then unbolted the door and stepped out into the bright, glowing morning. Seen in daylight, he was a short man with dark hair and cheeks scarred by smallpox. He stared at the fisherman, who was still breathing hard from his run. ‘Well?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Josh. But you need to see this, you being parish constable and all.’
They started to walk towards the sea, the wind hissing over the flat fields around them. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘My brother Eb and I were out fishing last night. Come dawn, we saw a boat drifting. Then it got a little lighter and we could see more clearly, and Eb says, ain’t that Jem Clay’s boat? You know Jem. He lives nearby to us, in New Romney.’
‘I know him well.’ New Romney was only a couple of miles away; the fishermen and smugglers of New Romney and St Mary were often friends and allies.
‘Well, we thought first he was out fishing like ourselves. But then we realised the boat was empty, or it seemed to be, so we reckoned it must have come loose from its moorings. And then Eb says, look at the gulls circling round. What do you reckon is drawing them?’ Tydde swallowed. ‘It’s ugly, Josh.’
Stemp looked at him sharply. ‘Is it Jem?’
‘No. We’ve never seen this fellow before. He’s dressed like a gent, too.’
They climbed the rear slope of the dunes that fronted the sea and then slithered down to the beach. It was a little past high tide. They walked out across the short, wet strand to the boat, beached in the gentle surf. Another man waited here, armed with an oar to ward off the gulls who were still intent on their feast. Ebenezer Tydde, more stoic than his brother, nodded to Stemp. ‘Nasty, this.’
It was more than nasty. Joshua Stemp was a hard man, but when he looked into the boat, even he felt a little queasy. The body of a man lay sprawled on its back across the rowing bench. The eyes were gone, plucked out by the greedy birds, and the soft flesh of the cheeks had been ripped away, exposing bone and teeth. The birds had been at the man’s throat, too, and the backs of his hands had been pecked to rags.
The floor of the boat was full, a reddish mixture of salt water and blood. The front of the man’s waistcoat was soaked with blood, too, beginning to dry in the sun. In the middle of the waistcoat was a round hole, crusted with black.
‘God damn,’ said Joshua Stemp quietly, and the words might have been an invocation or they might have been a curse. He straightened and turned to the two fishermen. ‘All right, Eb, Florian. Get the boat up onto dry ground and stand over it. Keep those bloody birds off him, and don’t let anyone else come near. I’ll fetch the rector.’
*
By the time Stemp returned with Hardcastle forty-five minutes later, the sun was well up. The gulls had settled down, resting on the water or stalking along the beach, eyeing the boat with single-minded determination and waiting for the men to leave so they could resume their meal. The Tydde brothers sat on the thwarts, smoking pipes, their backs to the body. They stood up as the rector approached.
‘You’re the men who found the boat?’
‘Yes, reverend,’ said Ebenezer.
‘Tell me what happened.’ They recounted their story again while he watched their faces. He knew them by sight only; they were Ebenezer and Florian Tydde, the sons of old George Tydde of New Romney.
‘You’ve not touched the body?’ asked the rector.
‘No, reverend.’ Florian shuddered a little. ‘Didn’t fancy handling him, not at all.’
The rector approached the boat and gazed at the ravaged body, bending down to inspect the wound more closely. The bloody hole was nearly an inch in diameter; the weapon must have been of large calibre, a heavy pistol or perhaps an army musket.
He straightened. ‘While you were fishing last night, did you see any other ships or boats? Any other vessel at all?’
The Tyddes shook their heads. ‘And did you hear anything? Any sound that might have been a gunshot?’
‘No, reverend,’ said Florian regretfully. He had the air of a man who wanted to be helpful, and was disappointed that he could not be so.
The rector nodded and bent over the corpse again. There was too little left of the face to allow for recognition. Carefully, he began to go through the pockets, beginning with the bloodstained waistcoat. Here he found a watch, glinting gold when he pulled it out and held it up to the light. It was a fine piece, with a London maker’s name on the case. That was good news; the watchmaker could probably help him trace the owner.
In one outer coat pocket there was a small pistol, plain and unadorned with a proofmark engraved on the barrel; Hardcastle recognised the mark as that of a London gunsmith. He thumbed back the cover of the pan and saw the priming powder; the pistol had not been fired. An inside pocket yielded coins – several shillings and some small change – and a notecase containing six of the East Weald and Ashford Bank’s new £1 banknotes.
The rector straightened, and as he did so a glint of metal in the bottom of the boat caught his eye. He reached down into the blood and brine and pulled out a coin, a bright gold guinea. How it had come to be there was impossible to say; fallen from the man’s pocket when he was shot, perhaps? He laid the guinea down on the thwart beside the watch.
There was a small valise resting in the bow of the boat. The rector wiped the bloody water from his fingers, then lifted the valise out onto the grass and opened it. A couple of changes of clothes, a hairbrush and clothes brush, a small writing case; a man of affairs, perhaps?
The writing case had an engraved nameplate on the front. He picked it up and read the name, and stood suddenly very still.
HECTOR MUNRO, ESQ.
Slowly, Hardcastle turned to look at the body in the boat once more. The face had been obliterated, but he should have recognised that big, broad-shouldered figure. The watch would confirm the dead man’s identity, of course; but he knew he was looking at the body of Hector Munro. Maudsley’s son-in-law. Cecilia’s husband, father of the child still in her womb.
He remembered the quiet confidence of that overheard voice. Nothing will happen to me. Men make this journey all the time. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer, wishing God’s protection for Hector Munro as he made his last journey of all.
‘Bad news, reverend?’ said Stemp.
‘It could not be much worse,’ said Hardcastle.
*
Dr Mackay arrived soon after from New Romney. The stocky middle-aged Scot had seen much worse than this in the course of his duties as assistant coroner; he clucked his tongue at the sight of the dead man’s face, and then examined the body with brisk care. He looked shocked when Hardcastle told him who the dead man was.
‘Aye, now you say it, I can see it’s him. But what the devil was he doing here?’
‘That is what I am asking myself. I assume the cause of death to be the gunshot wound?’
‘I can see no sign of other injuries. Of course, I’ll only know for certain when I get him on a table. Rigor mortis is not fully advanced; mind, last night was a cool one. If you’re wanting a time of death, sometime between midnight and four in the morning would be my estimate.’
‘By then the tide was coming in,’ said Stemp. ‘That would have carried the boat back in towards the beach. Good thing the boys found him when they did. The tide’s been going back out since dawn. If the boat had drifted back out to sea and got caught in the mid-Channel current, we might not have found it ’til doomsday.’
Hardcastle nodded. ‘Find Jem Clay. Ask if he knows how his boat came to be here. Ask around among the other fishermen too; they might have seen something. And check with Mrs Spicer at the Ship, and also the New Inn and the rooming houses. If he drove down from Shadoxhurst, he’ll have left a horse and rig somewhere.’
The parish constable nodded. New Romney was outside his patch, but he knew the Romney constable well; they often worked together. ‘What’ll you do, reverend?’
‘I must inform the family,’ said Hardcastle.
‘Do go gently with Mrs Munro,’ warned the doctor. ‘She is near her time. She is under my care, so I shall come up and see her when I am finished here.’
‘Magpie Court is rather outside your usual area, is it not?’ Hardcastle asked.
‘Mrs Munro found the doctor in Ashford was not very sympathetic to women in her condition. Knowing that obstetrics is a particular interest of mine, she asked for me instead. Tell her I will be there as soon as I can.’
As soon as I have learned for certain how her husband died, was the unspoken thought. Hardcastle nodded, looked once more at the ravaged remains of Hector Munro and turned away towards the village.
*
Rumour on Romney Marsh sped faster than the wind. By the time Hardcastle returned to St Mary, the village was stirring. Heads turned as he walked down the street, and several people called to him, anxious, asking for news. He prevaricated: a body had been found; it was not known who it was, but it did not appear to be a local man. That reassured them; relief turned instead to curiosity.
He knocked at the door of Sandy House, Amelia Chaytor’s home. Lucy the housekeeper admitted him and showed him into the morning room where Mrs Chaytor sat drinking strong, sweet black coffee. ‘I am sorry to intrude on you so early,’ he said, bowing.
‘Not at all. Like you, I rise with the larks. What has happened?’
She could see most of it in his face; he told her the rest. ‘This is a dreadful imposition, I know, but will you come with me? Cecilia Munro is the only woman in the house apart from the servants and her young sisters. I would like someone to be with her when we break the news.’
He meant someone strong. ‘Of course. I shall go and change. Lucy! Call Joseph and tell him to harness Asia and bring the gig round at once.’
Ten minutes later they were away, the gig racing across the flat lands of the Marsh towards Newchurch, the green hills rising steeply beyond. They were silent, Mrs Chaytor concentrating on her driving, the rector holding on to his seat. The day was brilliant and clear, the sky a flawless blue, but the brightness of high summer was beginning to fade a little; today was the 11th of August, summer just beginning its long curve into autumn. The 11th, thought the rector. We were at Magpie Court only four days ago, listening to Elisabeth Mara sing. Hector was so happy, so proud of his little wife bubbling with expectant joy.
We don’t know who we can trust in this business, Munro had said later. And then, There’s no choice. I must attend to this myself.
They reached Ruckinge and slowed to walk up the long hill into the Weald. Trees closed in along the road, their branches intermingling overhead, dark and rustling. There were few trees on Romney Marsh, and after that wide, flat land open to the sky, this rolling wooded country felt enclosed, almost claustrophobic. It is odd, thought the rector, how in seven years the Marsh has begun to feel like home, and I am uncomfortable anywhere else. I must be getting old . . .
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Mrs Chaytor.
The rector shook himself out of his reverie. ‘I imagine you can guess. How did Hector Munro end up in a boat in the Channel? And who killed him there, and why?’
‘Did he die in the boat?’ she asked. ‘Or was he killed somewhere else, and his body put in the boat and left to drift?’
He thought about this. ‘It’s a good point. Stemp says that if the boat had been dragged back out by the tide, it might never have been seen again. Perhaps someone wanted Munro to disappear completely.’
‘It is hard to know which is worse,’ she said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘For his wife and family. Which is worse: to know what has happened to one’s loved one, or never to know, and always wonder if he will return? To have vain hope, or no hope at all?’
He was silent at this. A cuckoo called from the woods. ‘Have you any ideas?’ she asked.
‘Some . . . By chance, when we were at Magpie Court the other evening, I overheard part of a conversation between Munro and Maudsley. Munro spoke of going away on business. Maudsley tried to dissuade him, saying it was too dangerous.’
‘Ah. Any idea what that business might be?’
‘None, I am afraid . . . No, that is not quite true. Munro mentioned the Grasshopper. If the Grasshopper finds out, he said, there will be hell to pay.’
‘The Grasshopper? Meaning the bank?’
‘I assume so.’ For reasons that were lost in antiquity, the London merchant bank of Martin, Stone and Foote was universally known as the Grasshopper. ‘I assume further that there is some sort of connection between that bank and the East Weald and Ashford, and that the latter are involved in something they do not wish the Grasshopper to know about.’
Mrs Chaytor thought for a moment. ‘Mr Stone from the Grasshopper was at the soirée at Magpie Court, and seemed on good terms with Mr Faversham and Mr Munro. But I don’t suppose that is terribly surprising. Banking is a shadowy business. I’m sure the Grasshopper has its secrets too.’
‘That may be so. But there was an urgency to the conversation that made me think they were discussing more than just a straightforward business relationship.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Chaytor. She paused for a moment. ‘While we are speaking of the East Weald and Ashford Bank, may I raise another matter with you? Yesterday I had a rather odd conversation with Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper.’
‘Does one have any other kind of conversation with them?’
‘Tut-tut. They are your most loyal parishioners. No, they asked, in a most elliptical way, the same question Mr Ricardo asked; that is, whether I had any of my money with the East Weald and Ashford.’
‘Don’t tell me they too are thinking of taking up stockbroking.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past either of them. To be serious, they are rather concerned. You will recall that the husband of Miss Roper’s niece is a senior clerk with the East India Company in London. The niece, in her last letter to Miss Roper, made an allusion to the health of country banks, such as the East Weald and Ashford. Miss Roper in particular was all aflutter. It transpires that they have virtually all their money with the bank. Should it go down, they would be destitute.’
They were trotting on towards Shadoxhurst now, the morning heat rising around them. The rector wiped his brow. ‘If I understood correctly, Munro and Maudsley were discussing some sort of deal that had gone wrong. Whatever that is, I very much doubt the bank itself is at risk. The East Weald and Ashford is one of the largest and best-funded country banks in England; and they are partnered with the Grasshopper, the most powerful merchant bank in London. I cannot imagine the ladies have anything to fear.’
‘It would be a kindness if you would tell them so. They trust you.’
‘I know, and thank you for informing me. I shall try to find a way of reassuring them.’ Ahead, the gatehouse of Magpie Court came into view. ‘Amelia, thank you for coming. I know this will not be easy for you.’
‘I am not the one who matters,’ she said quietly. ‘Not now.’
*
‘Hardcastle, what a pleasant surprise! And Mrs Chaytor too, welcome, my dear. Capital to see you both. Sit down, sit down. Is it too early for a glass of madeira?’
Hardcastle sat, uncomfortably. Mrs Chaytor sat down too, straight-backed with her gloved hands clasped in her lap, silent. Outside the lead-paned windows of the library, the sun poured across the garden. The warmth and beauty of the scene mocked them. ‘I am sorry, Maudsley,’ the rector said. ‘I must tell you that I am here in a professional capacity.’
He watched Maudsley’s smile fade. ‘Oh? As a clergyman, or as a justice of the peace?’
‘Both, I fear.’ Hardcastle reached into his pocket and pulled out the watch and handed it across. ‘Do you recognise this?’
Maudsley went very still. ‘That is Hector’s watch.’
‘Then that removes all doubt. It grieves me to tell you this, but Hector Munro’s body was found near St Mary in the Marsh early this morning.’
He watched the blood drain from Maudsley’s face. ‘Oh, dear God,’ he said faintly. He continued to stare at the watch for a few moments, and then forced himself to look up at Hardcastle. ‘What happened?’
‘I’ll know for certain when the assistant coroner provides his report. But it would appear that he was shot dead. His body was found in a boat, floating in the Channel.’
Maudsley raised a hand to his face, covering his eyes. ‘Dear God,’ he said again. ‘Dear God.’
‘Believe me when I say how truly sorry I am,’ said the rector. ‘I met him several times, as you know. I formed an impression of a kind and generous man and a loving husband.’
‘Oh, God. Poor Sissy. She must be told . . . I don’t think I can do this alone. Will you . . . will you come with me, Hardcastle?’
Hardcastle inclined his head. ‘Of course.’
‘I will come also,’ said Mrs Chaytor quietly. ‘That is why I am here.’
‘But before we go to her, there are a few things I must ask you,’ said Hardcastle. Maudsley nodded dumbly. ‘When did Hector depart?’
‘Two days ago,’ said Maudsley. Speaking was a visible effort. ‘Wednesday morning, I think. Yes, that’s right.’
Today was Friday. ‘Was it bank business that took him away?’
‘Oh, yes. It was . . . some investment he was trying to put together. I don’t know much about it, Hardcastle. I don’t take much interest in the bank’s affairs, as you know.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’
‘London, I believe,’ said Maudsley. He had gone very pale. Hardcastle rose and crossed to the side cabinet, unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured a stiff measure, handing it to Maudsley. Mrs Chaytor sat still as a statue.
Maudsley drank, and a little colour came back into his face. ‘London,’ he said again. ‘I’m positive it was London he was going to. Oh, God . . .’ Maudsley broke down then, tears welling in his eyes, his throat tightening. ‘Poor Hector,’ he whispered. ‘I loved that lad like my own son. He was such a good fellow . . . Oh, poor little Sissy.’
‘I think we must tell her now,’ said Mrs Chaytor softly. ‘Shall we go to her, Mr Maudsley?’
*
Cecilia Munro was in the drawing room, embroidering something that Hardcastle recognised vaguely as a baby’s garment. She sat bathed in sunlight, her brown hair glowing. From outside came squeals of merriment, her younger sisters playing in the sun. She smiled at her father, and then she saw Hardcastle and Mrs Chaytor behind him.
‘Father! You did not tell me we had guests.’ She put her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself to her feet, standing with her hands under her round belly. ‘Reverend, Mrs Chaytor, how delightful to see you!’
Then she took a closer look at their faces. ‘What is wrong?’ Prescience came to her and she said, ‘Is it Hector?’
Mrs Chaytor walked forward and took the young woman’s hands in hers. ‘It is Hector,’ she said softly. ‘My dear, I am so sorry. It is the worst news there could be.’
‘He is dead? My Hector is dead?’ It was said quietly, almost without emotion. ‘How can that be?’
‘We don’t yet know what happened,’ Mrs Chaytor said in the same gentle voice. ‘We shall find out.’
Cecilia Munro’s knees gave way. Mrs Chaytor caught her, struggling to keep her from falling to the floor. The two men sprang forward to help, and between them they eased the unconscious young woman onto a settee. ‘Oh, dear God!’ said Maudsley in horror. ‘Parrish! Parrish! Come quickly!’ The butler hurried into the room, gasping when he saw Cecilia. ‘Send for the doctor!’ Maudsley cried. ‘At once, do you hear?’
‘Dr Mackay should already be on his way,’ said Hardcastle. ‘He said he would call as soon as he could.’
He looked down and saw that Cecilia’s skirt was soaking wet. Mrs Chaytor saw it too and moved sharply, resting her hand on Cecilia’s belly. ‘Never mind the doctor,’ she said. ‘She needs a midwife.’
The young woman’s eyes fluttered as she regained consciousness, and then she gasped and clutched at her belly. ‘Lie still, my dear,’ said Mrs Chaytor softly. ‘Mr Maudsley. The midwife?’
‘We have a month-nurse here,’ said Maudsley, on the verge of panic. ‘Hector insisted she be installed here in the house, in case something—’
‘Then I pray you send for her without delay,’ said Mrs Chaytor, her voice full of calm command. ‘Do not fear, Mr Maudsley. All will be well.’
The nurse hurried in and knelt beside Mrs Chaytor, briskly taking charge. More servants arrived. Maudsley stood awkwardly, getting in the way, and Mrs Chaytor shot the rector a quick look. ‘I think we should withdraw,’ said the rector, laying a hand on Maudsley’s shoulder. They walked back to the library, Maudsley moving like a man half-stunned. The rector made him drink the rest of the brandy and then poured another glass.
‘What do I do now?’ asked Maudsley after a while.
‘I intend to say a prayer,’ the rector said kindly. ‘You may join me if you wish.’
There was a fine Turkey carpet on the floor. They knelt on this and prayed for the safety of Cecilia Munro and her child, and the rector said another quiet prayer for the soul of her husband. Then they waited, in silence at first, hearing the sounds of the house, and the wind in the trees and the birds singing in the meadow beyond. The rector knew he should be asking more questions about the murder – where Munro had been going, who he intended to meet – but he found he could not bring himself to do so. At this moment he was a clergyman first, a magistrate only a distant second. There would be time later to deal with the dead; here and now, it was the living who mattered most.
‘Who else needs to be told?’ he asked after a while.
‘My son and the younger girls, of course. They will take it very hard. They’re fond of him; were fond of him . . . Oh, God, poor Hector! Would you come with me while I tell them, Hardcastle? Please?’
‘Of course. I shall do whatever I can. And Munro’s own family? He was from Edinburgh, I believe.’
‘His brothers run the family firm there. His mother is still alive also.’
‘Should you like me to write to them on your behalf?’
‘Hardcastle, we would be so grateful.’ Maudsley stood up and walked, stumbling a little, across to his desk. After searching for a few minutes, he found the piece of paper he was looking for. ‘Here is the address. Thank you, old fellow. I don’t think I could bear it. Oh, God, I feel so weary . . .’
They lapsed into silence again. Parrish the butler entered the room quietly and asked if they desired further refreshment; both men shook their heads. Some time later, Maudsley stirred again. ‘Who will investigate?’
‘The incident happened in the Romney Marsh jurisdiction. I shall take the case myself. I’ll inform the deputy lord-lieutenant.’ The Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, the Duke of Dorset, rarely troubled himself with his duties; his deputy, Lord Clavertye, did most of the work. Clavertye was currently in London, attempting to further his political ambitions.
‘Good,’ said Maudsley vaguely. ‘I am glad it will be you.’ Silence fell once more.
They heard the rumble of iron-shod wheels on the drive; Dr Mackay, arriving as promised. Gently, Hardcastle reminded Maudsley of the other children. Like a man in a trance, Maudsley rose and walked slowly through the house, Hardcastle beside him. They found the three younger girls with their governess. The rector waited quietly while their father told them the news of their brother-in-law’s death. They were shocked into silence. Maudsley kissed all three of them, silently, then rose to his feet and motioned to Hardcastle.
They found Maudsley’s son in his room, sitting half-asleep in his bathchair, his crippled hands resting on its arms. The young man made a little movement when he heard the news of Munro’s death; he murmured something indistinct, then closed his eyes. ‘He’s just had his dose, sir,’ said the nurse who looked after him. She too looked upset.
‘Laudanum,’ said Maudsley to Hardcastle. ‘For the pain, you know. It gives him some ease, for a while at least . . . I don’t know if he understood what I said. Later, when he wakes, it will hit him hard. Poor boy, poor boy.’ It was hard to know to whom he was referring: his own son, or the dead man he had so loved. Perhaps it was both.
They returned to the library. Half an hour later Amelia Chaytor joined them. She looked pale and tired, and there were fine lines at the corners of her blue eyes. ‘She is doing well,’ she said before either man could speak. ‘She had fainted, but the doctor and midwife both concur that this was due to the shock of the news. She is strong, and she is in excellent hands.’
‘And the child?’ asked Maudsley.
‘Soon. And before its time, of course, so we must hope it is strong enough to survive.’ The younger children came to join them, all three with faces shocked and streaked with tears. Quietly, Hardcastle and Mrs Chaytor tried to comfort them. Maudsley sat still, slowly stroking the youngest girl’s hair and looking out of the window, not speaking while the sun tracked across the sky.
It was early evening before Dr Mackay knocked and entered the library. ‘Mr Maudsley, I know this has been a terrible blow to you and your family. I am glad now to be the bearer of more fortunate tidings. Your daughter has given birth to a son, and although he is small, both he and his mother are healthy and well.’
‘I should go to her,’ said Maudsley, standing up with an effort. The three children rose, too, their young faces pale in the sunlight. The doctor held up a hand. ‘She is sleeping, in the care of the nurse. Wait until morning. You yourself should get some rest, sir, if I may say so.’
It was sound advice; Maudsley was white with shock and exhaustion. ‘Then, with your permission, we shall take our leave,’ said the rector. He and Mrs Chaytor could do no more for the moment; the family needed time now, time to grieve and time to heal. He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Go and rest, my friend. We shall see ourselves out.’
Maudsley nodded. The rector and Mrs Chaytor walked out into the evening light, looking up at the trees swaying overhead. The wind was changing and strengthening; the fine weather was coming to an end. There would be a storm later.
Dr Mackay followed them. ‘Will you stay?’ Hardcastle asked him.
‘For a while longer. Mrs Munro is in no danger, and neither is the child; but I want to assure myself that all is well.’ Mackay too looked up at the trees and sky. ‘From terrible death to new life,’ he said. ‘It has been an eventful day.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘There may be more such days to come, before we get to the bottom of this.’
The two men looked at her, but said nothing. The groom brought the gig around, Asia stepping smartly in the traces. Hardcastle handed Mrs Chaytor up to the seat and climbed up beside her, and she took the reins. At the end of the drive they turned onto the road towards Ruckinge and back to the Marsh, picking up speed to a trot.
‘I was wrong,’ said Mrs Chaytor, watching the road.
‘About what?’
‘Whether it is better to hope in vain, or have no hope at all. To not know is always to wonder, what happened? Who is responsible? Could it have been prevented? The absence of hope at least means certainty. One may not be able to bear what has happened, but at least one knows.’
‘What are you saying, my dear?’
‘I am saying that Cecilia Munro and her child deserve the truth. We shall find out who killed her husband, and why.’ She turned to look directly at him. ‘Shall we not?’
He found that he could smile. ‘Did you doubt it?’ he said.