John the Baptist
They drove the twelve long miles back through the rain to St Mary in the Marsh. Shocked and exhausted, Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper said nothing, and Mrs Chaytor could not bring herself to speak.
But as the gig stopped outside the ladies’ tumbledown cottage, the full enormity of what had happened slammed home. The two frail women clung to each other. ‘Oh, Rosie!’ cried Miss Roper. ‘What shall we do? We shall lose our lovely home; our sanctuary! We shall lose everything!’
Somehow, Mrs Chaytor got them inside. Kate, the housemaid, frightened and uncomprehending, stood staring at them. Miss Roper’s despair turned to shame as she realised her loss of self-control. ‘I am sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I am so sorry. I am a foolish, witless old woman, and I am troubling you all. I am sorry, Mrs Chaytor.’
‘Hush,’ said Amelia, her heart breaking. To Miss Godfrey, who was white and shivering, she said, ‘You must both get into some dry clothes. Have you any laudanum?’
‘A little.’ Miss Godfrey went to fetch it and Amelia looked at the girl. ‘Kate, build up the fire. Good and hot.’
‘Ma’am, whatever has happened?’
‘A betrayal,’ said Mrs Chaytor grimly. ‘The fire, my girl. Quick, now.’
The laudanum did its work; within a few minutes Miss Roper was quiet and drowsy. They eased off her rain-sodden outer clothes and wrapped her in blankets. Miss Godfrey sat before the fire holding the other woman in her arms, kissing her grey hair from time to time. ‘What shall we do?’ she asked Mrs Chaytor softly.
‘Wait,’ said Mrs Chaytor. Sorrow was turning back into fury. ‘They will not get away with this.’
In the grip of a magnificent rage, she stalked outside and drove her carriage up the rainy street to the rectory. Hardcastle looked up startled as she entered his study.
‘There is a run on the bank,’ she said.
‘I know. I was in Ashford today, and heard about it there. And Bessie Luckhurst has just been to see me, in a panic.’ Her father was up in Hythe with Joshua Stemp, watching for Noakes and his companions.
‘I have just left Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper in utter despair. Their entire world has been shattered. What are we going to do, Marcus?’ she demanded.
‘Read this,’ he said, and pushed a paper across the desk to her. ‘I wrote it after Bessie left. I am now debating with myself whether to send it.’
THE RECTORY, ST MARY IN THE MARSH, KENT
22nd of September, 1797
By express
Mr James Martin, Sir,
I write to you in your capacity as senior partner of the esteemed bank Martin, Stone and Foote. You have for a number of years acted as the City representative of a country bank, the East Weald and Ashford. In particular, one of your junior partners, Mr George Stone, has negotiated a number of bills of exchange coming from Germany on behalf of the East Weald and Ashford, to the value of many tens of thousands of pounds. Your bank will have earned a commission on each of these bills, and you have profited from these transactions.
I have to inform you that these bills represent money dishonestly and immorally earned, through the illegal export of gold from this country. Not only is this in violation of the Restriction Act, but I also have evidence that this gold has gone straight into the coffers of the French Directory. In other words, Mr Martin, the East Weald and Ashford Bank has been helping to arm our enemies, and you have been a party to this.
Whether you were aware, whether you were a witting or unwitting party to treason, I do not care. Nor will the law. You will be deemed an accessory, and will be punished accordingly. I am told your bank sets great store by its reputation for honesty and probity. That reputation will lie in ruins – if this information is made public.
If you do not wish this to happen, then you must take action. The East Weald and Ashford is about to go bankrupt. You must intervene, and see to it that the bank survives. If you do so, then I will do my utmost to see that your reputation is protected.
There is not a great deal of time. I urge you to make up your mind quickly. I remain,
Yr very obedient servant
REV. M. A. HARDCASTLE, JP
‘Strewth!’ said Mrs Chaytor, startled out of her anger. ‘You’re blackmailing the Grasshopper!’
‘Do you think I should send this?’
‘Certainly you should. And I apologise most sincerely for berating you.’
‘Are the ladies deeply distressed?’
‘They are devastated, the poor dears. They’ve already aged years since this crisis began. This could finish them.’
‘I know.’ The rector rubbed his forehead. ‘They won’t be the only ones who suffer either. I think of the splendid charity of our village, feeding and clothing the refugees. Soon, some will not even be able to feed themselves. Those reckless, criminal fools have condemned a generation of our people to poverty.’
‘Then send the letter,’ said Mrs Chaytor, and there was iron in her voice. ‘And let them know St Mary in the Marsh will not go down without a fight.’
He smiled at her and reached for the sealing wax. ‘I went to Ashford to see Batist,’ he said as he waited for the wax to melt.
‘Did you find him?’
‘No.’ He sealed the letter and turned to face her. ‘The run had begun there, too, and people were clamouring to withdraw their money. Batist is away, and the other clerks were in a state of panic. They did not know where he went or when he would be back. I then called on Mr Batist senior, who says his son went down to Hythe a week ago. He is a worried man. I think he believes his son is in trouble because of the bank.’
‘Can you ask Joshua to look for Batist in Hythe?’
‘I was about to do so when Bessie called. He and Hoad and the others will have a lot on their plate, searching for Batist, hunting for Noakes and intercepting Jean . . . What is it?’
Mrs Chaytor had stiffened in her chair, her hands suddenly clenched. ‘Biblical nicknames,’ she said. ‘The Twelve Apostles have always been fond of them. You said Jean worked for them, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said the rector. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Jean. Batist, which is a corruption of Baptiste. Jean-Baptiste, John the Baptist. I will wager anything you care to name that Batist the bank clerk and Jean the courier are the same person.’
‘Of course! Great heaven; as a churchman, I of all people should have seen this. It makes sense. Batist knows the details of the gold shipments, and goes across to negotiate with Vandamme. And Matthew confirmed Jean has connections in France. Oh, I cannot believe how blind I have been!’
‘So much for the quiet, self-effacing clerk,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘What will you do?’
‘According to Matthew, Jean is due to return from France tomorrow. I shall go up to Hythe tomorrow to join Joshua, and we shall intercept him. Look after Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper while I am away, and will you also call on the refugees and see that they have all they need?’
‘Of course.’
*
It was the 23rd of September, and the wind whistling across the Marsh carried with it the sour taste of autumn. Dusk fell early under a chilly blanket of cloud. As darkness gathered, a small rowing boat moved into the haven of Hythe, passing a row of fishing boats. The boat eased up onto the beach and the man inside stepped out, easing limbs cramped by a long row from the ship that had dropped him off out at sea. Still a little stiff, he walked through the narrow, cobbled streets of Hythe.
He came to the Swan, where lamplight gleamed through greasy windows, shedding little pools of light into the street. The man, quiet-faced and slender, watched the street for a while; then, satisfied he was not being followed, he pushed open the door of the Swan and went inside.
The only people in the common room were Manningham the landlord, and another, smaller man with a smallpox-marked face, drinking gin and water. As the door closed, this man turned and drew a pistol from his belt. ‘Jean,’ he said. ‘Welcome home, mon ami.’
The bank clerk was fast on his feet. He turned while Stemp was still speaking and pulled the door open again. A shadow filled the doorway; another man, this one squarely built with a heavy stick in his hand. Before the first man could move, the stick came up like a striking snake and pointed at his throat, the ferrule resting just under his chin.
‘Mr Batist,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I must speak with you.’
Slowly Batist edged backwards and Hardcastle walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Stemp was behind Batist now, still holding the pistol. ‘Let us speak privately,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Mr Manningham, may we use your parlour room?’
Manningham gestured to a door. The three of them moved into the parlour, Hardcastle picking up a candlestick and then closing the door behind them. ‘Sit down,’ he said to Batist.
Batist sat. Stemp came to stand beside him, a heavy hand on his shoulder keeping him pinned in the chair, the pistol still levelled at his head. ‘You know who we are, and why we are here,’ said Hardcastle.
‘I have no notion what you are talking about,’ said Batist. His face was completely still, but his eyes flickered from one man to the other, around the small room and back again.
‘If I were to search you now,’ said Hardcastle, ‘I would find two things. First, a receipt from Monsieur Vandamme of Boulogne for 5,720 ounces of gold sold to him by the East Weald and Ashford Bank and delivered four days ago, the 19th of September. Second, a message in code which I suspect comes from Peter, the leader of the Twelve Apostles, to be delivered to Matthew, his lieutenant in this country.’
Batist’s composure cracked. He stared, panic suffusing his face. ‘How in the name of all that is holy do you know about that?’
‘Matthew now knows about the gold smuggling,’ the rector continued. ‘He knows too that you have been selling gold to our enemies. He regards you as a traitor. If he finds you, he will kill you. No arrest, no formality of a trial, just a pistol ball in the head or a knife in the back. You are a dead man, Batist, unless you cooperate with me. I can restrain Matthew, but in return, you must answer my questions.’
Batist’s eyes flickered round the room again. There was only one window, small and high, and Hardcastle was between him and the door. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What happened to Hector Munro? Who killed him, and why?’
‘I don’t know. I swear to God I don’t.’
Hardcastle studied Batist for a moment. ‘Mediumheight, slender, well spoken. What do you think, Joshua?’
‘Could be, reverend.’
‘Mr Batist, on the afternoon of the 10th tenth of August, did you go to New Romney and hire a boat from a man named Jem Clay?’
‘No,’ said Batist.
Hardcastle nodded. ‘So if we brought Mr Clay into the room now, he would not identify you as the man who rented his boat?’
Batist’s shoulders slumped. ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘Yes.’
‘And did you also come here to the Swan and meet Mr Munro?’
‘Yes. It was I who suggested this as a meeting place. I knew Manningham would be discreet.’
‘You know Manningham?’ Stemp demanded. ‘He claimed he didn’t recognise you.’
Batist spread his hands. ‘Like I said, Manningham is discreet.’
Hardcastle was still staring at Batist, his eyes boring into the clerk’s face. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Batist swallowed. ‘At the beginning of August, Mr Munro came back from a meeting with Mr Faversham. He was angry about something to do with the gold. He said he had to go across to France and fix things, and asked me to help him. We arranged that I would travel down separately and hire a boat for him. A ship would be waiting for him; I don’t know how he arranged that. I was to row him out to the ship, and bring the boat back as if nothing had happened.’
‘But the plan changed. Why?’
‘I don’t know. At the last minute, he said he would row himself out to the ship. He’d let the boat drift, he said, and someone was bound to find it and take it back to its owner.’
Batist’s hands twisted in his lap. ‘I should have insisted. Had I gone with him, I might have been able to save him.’
‘Save him?’ said Hardcastle, eyes unblinking. ‘From whom?’
‘From the men who killed him. I might have been able to intervene.’
‘So you know who killed him.’
Batist did not trust himself to speak. He nodded, his eyes miserable.
‘Why was Munro going to France? To see Vandamme? Was this in connection with the fraud?’
‘Fraud?’ said Batist. He looked even more desperate now. ‘I’ve never heard of any fraud. Mr Munro didn’t tell me. He just said there was a problem with the gold shipments, and he needed to go to France and see Vandamme.’
‘Did he also mention the name of Staphorst?’
‘He . . . he might have done. I don’t remember for certain.’
‘And Cotton?’ asked Hardcastle. ‘He was killed by the same men?’
‘Yes. It was a warning to the rest of us, to keep silent.’
‘A warning from whom? Faversham? Is Faversham defrauding the bank, Batist?’
‘If he is, sir, I don’t know a thing about it.’
‘Or is it you? Are you embezzling, Batist? Are you stealing gold, or the money that comes from the gold?’
‘No,’ said Batist. ‘I swear to God I am not.’
Hardcastle paused, staring down at the other man. Stemp’s pistol moved a little, restlessly, and Batist’s eyes flickered towards it.
‘Who are you afraid of?’ said the rector. ‘You know who the embezzler is, of that I am sure. You know who ordered the murders of Munro and Cotton. Who?’
‘I cannot tell you.’ The fear in Batist’s face was naked and open now.
The rector nodded. ‘Very well. We shall let you go now. Matthew and his men are doubtless waiting for you outside. I hope for your sake the end is swift. But I know from experience that the Twelve Apostles are not fond of traitors. The last one was beaten to death by his fellows.’
‘No!’ Batist pleaded. ‘Please don’t! If I tell you the truth now, I am still a dead man. These others, they will find me and kill me. Either way, you are condemning me to death. For the love of God, reverend!’
‘It would seem there is no alternative,’ said Hardcastle in a voice of stone.
‘No, there is, I promise you. Look, I could tell you everything now, but it would be my word against theirs. And I would never live to stand trial; they would make sure of that. Even if you lock me up in gaol, they will still find a way to get at me. Believe me, I know what these people are capable of, better than anyone.’ Batist squirmed in his chair, on the edge of panic. ‘Let me work for you,’ he pleaded.
‘Work for me? In what capacity?’
‘I can bring you evidence. I know the whereabouts of papers relating to the gold exports. I can bring you proof of how the gold was shipped to Cotton’s mills and packed in gunpowder casks; how it was sent down to Romney Marsh, the times and places where shipments were exported, the names of all the people involved, everything. Let me gather those papers and bring them to you.’
‘How do you know all this? I thought you were merely the courier to Vandamme.’
‘No. You see, the idea of smuggling gold was mine in the first place. I planned the whole thing.’
*
The rector stood for a moment, digesting this. ‘I worked it all out,’ said Batist. ‘I knew gold sold for a premium on the Continent. I already knew Vandamme; my French family have connections with him, and I knew he dealt in gold. I knew too that he was trustworthy.’
‘Was it you who also designed the trail the money would follow? From Boulogne to Amsterdam, then on to Hamburg and back to London?’
‘Yes.’ Batist blinked. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Mr Batist, there is very little about this affair that I do not know. The only missing details are the names of the men who killed Munro and Cotton. You claim to be able to provide proof of the gold smuggling. But I also want the murderers. Who gave the orders to kill them, and who pulled the trigger? Can you tell me that?’
‘Noakes killed them,’ said Batist.
‘Both of them?’
‘Mr Munro certainly, and I think Mr Cotton.’
‘On whose orders? Who pays Noakes?’
Batist shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s as I said. If I tell you now, I am a dead man. Let me go and I will bring you the proof; then you can arrest them immediately, and I can get away. But I want something in exchange.’
‘What is it?’
‘Complete immunity. No charges will be brought against me. As soon as I hand over the papers, I will disappear. You will never see me or hear from me again. I intend to get as far away as possible, so they cannot follow me.’
‘We can help you do that,’ said the rector.
‘No. I don’t want any government spies tracking me, or that bastard Matthew coming after me. I intend to vanish without a trace.’
‘Of course,’ said Stemp, ‘if we let you go now, you might vanish anyway.’
‘Look,’ said Batist desperately, ‘you must believe me. I want out of this whole devilish enterprise. I never dreamed of any of this when I started. My only purpose was to help the bank. I hoped that by doing the bank a service, my worth would be recognised. Mr Faversham and Mr Munro might see fit to make me a partner. That was the summit of my ambitions. Now it has all gone horribly wrong. Men are being killed, there is threat and danger everywhere. I cannot sleep at night. Every time there is a knock at the door, I think they might be coming for me. Let me work for you. It’s the only way this hell will ever reach an end.’
For the first time, Hardcastle raised his eyes and looked at Stemp. ‘I don’t know if we can trust him,’ the rector said.
‘Manningham,’ said Batist. ‘He’ll vouch for me. We’re kinfolk, blood relations. He’ll know you can trust me.’
Stemp hauled Batist to his feet, opened the door and marched the clerk into the common room, the pistol jammed in the small of his back. ‘Manningham? You said you didn’t recognise him, you lying bastard. Now tell the truth. Is he a relation of yours?’
Manningham shrugged. ‘He might be. Anything is possible. Who knows what Mother gets up to, when Father is at sea?’
‘Will you vouch for him?’ Stemp persisted.
‘Of course not. How long have you known me, Stempy, to ask such a question? I will not vouch for the truthfulness of anyone, not even myself . . . Especially not myself,’ Manningham amended.
Stemp pulled Batist back into the parlour, pushed him into his chair and slammed the door shut. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Why should we believe you?’
‘Because you have no choice,’ said Batist. ‘If you are to take your murderers and smugglers, you need proof. And there is no one but me who can give you that proof. I am your best chance, whether you like it or not.’
The rector made up his mind. ‘Very well,’ he said to Batist. ‘We have a bargain. You have three days to return to Ashford, find these papers and bring them to me. After that, I shall inform Matthew. I believe he will have little trouble in tracking you down, no matter where you choose to hide.’
Batist nodded dumbly. Hardcastle turned and walked out into the common room. ‘Mr Manningham,’ he said to the landlord, ‘you will not breathe a word of this evening’s events to a living soul. If I find you have done so, I will have you arrested and charged with smuggling and murder under the law of joint enterprise. Am I clear?’
‘Your Worship is the embodiment of clarity,’ said Manningham. ‘Have no fear. I have forgotten every conversation that has ever taken place in my inn. Experience teaches that a short memory is the key to a long life.’
*
Back in St Mary on Sunday, Hardcastle conducted the church service as usual. To his surprise and pleasure, the little congregation was inflated by the arrival of some of the refugees. He was less pleased to see the state of Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, the latter in particular looking very pale and thinner than ever. She trembled when the rector took her hand after the service. ‘You must not worry,’ he said gently. ‘All will be well. We shall look after you.’
‘Oh, reverend. I do not want so much, truly I do not. All I ever wanted was to live in my own little cottage with my dear Rosie until it was time to go to my rest.’
‘We shall look after you,’ he repeated. ‘We in this parish, we are your family, my dear.’ He watched her walk away, shuffling, stoop-shouldered, and thought Mrs Chaytor was right; she had aged five years in just a few days.
That afternoon he and Calpurnia dined with the priest and some of the older refugees, the younger ones preferring the kitchen where they could enjoy the company of Biddy. His mind was largely absent, and he escaped into his study as soon as he decently could.
Calpurnia followed him in, looking worried. ‘Marcus? You barely touched your dinner. Are you unwell?’
‘I am deeply worried about our poor friends.’
His sister, who was as fond of the two ladies as he, looked mournful. ‘Is there no one to whom an appeal can be made? No way of obtaining redress for them?’
‘I have written to someone who may be able to help. There is no certainty that he will respond.’ If not, the rector thought, then by God, my next letter on this subject will be to the Morning Post. He looked at Calpurnia. ‘If he does not, then I think we should set up a charitable fund to help the people whose lives will be ruined by the crash.’
‘Marcus, that is a most excellent idea. I have some experience in these matters; will you allow me to do this? I shall donate a portion of my royalties from my last novel, The Lighthouse of Vavassal, as an example to others.’
‘Thank you. I am very grateful to you.’ Voices sounded in the drawing room, talking in French; she had given up her own sanctum to the refugees, and he thought she looked a little lost. ‘Come,’ he said on impulse. ‘Sit down.’
She stared at him in sudden delight; never before had he suggested she join him. ‘Would you care for a glass of brandy?’ he asked. ‘Very fine Hennessy cognac, on which not a penny of duty has ever been paid.’
‘Oh, Marcus! Run brandy! How exciting!’ That evening they sat together for a long while and talked of small things, and for once he was happy not to be alone with his thoughts.
*
On Monday morning, two letters were delivered from the post office in New Romney.
MIDDLE TEMPLE, LONDON
22nd of September, 1797
My dear Hardcastle
Thank you for your most recent letter. Cole’s failure is to be deeply regretted. The man is a buffoon and an ass. You have my permission to approach the colonel of the Volunteers if you feel you must. Try to sort out this mess as soon as you can, will you?
Yr very obedient servant
CLAVERTYE
That is Lord Clavertye all over, the rector thought angrily. There has been a failure, and he is washing his hands of it. Had Cole taken the gold, Clavertye would have been on the scene in a flash, ready to claim the credit. He broke the seal on the second letter.
MARTIN, STONE AND FOOTE, LOMBARD STREET, LONDON
23rd of September, 1797
By express
Reverend Hardcastle,
I am this moment in receipt of your letter of yesterday’s date, and am responding by return. I tell you plainly, sir, that I consider your letter to be damned high-handed and offensive, and if you ever repeat in public the accusation that my bank was complicit in this affair, I will break you. I will brook no insolence from you, sir, and I will not allow you to slander myself or my bank. I trust I have made myself perfectly clear on this matter.
Attend on me at the offices of the East Weald and Ashford Bank in Rye at twelve of the clock on Tuesday, the 26th of September.
JAMES MARTIN, SENIOR PARTNER
Someone knocked at the study door. ‘Enter,’ Hardcastle called.
It was the priest, Abbé de Bernay, bowing. ‘I have come to say farewell.’
‘Oh,’ said Hardcastle in surprise. ‘So soon, sir?’
‘Letters have come from the French community in Canterbury, inviting some of us to join them. Wagons and carriages are arriving shortly to collect us. Your hospitality has been magnificent, but we cannot impose on you forever. And we feel a need to be with our own people.’
‘I understand,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In your position, I expect I should feel the same. Exiles need the company of others like themselves.’
‘Indeed. My people are beginning now to realise that we have lost everything. We may none of us ever see our homes or our families again. So, we must find a new community, a new home; a new place in the world.’
‘The French of Canterbury; are they not mostly Huguenots? Protestants?’
‘No one is perfect,’ said the priest, smiling. ‘And these past few days have reinforced a lesson I already knew: that Protestants and Catholics can be friends. Our common humanity is far stronger than any difference of faith.’
‘That is a noble sentiment,’ said Hardcastle. ‘God go with you, my friend.’
‘And may He watch over you also. I hope He helps you to catch your murderer.’
*
It was not the hand of God that would bring the killers of Munro and Cotton to justice, but the remorseless efforts of man. Hardcastle wrote to the colonel of the East Kent Volunteers asking for men, and if possible for the services of one of his best officers, Captain Edward Austen of Godmersham. Then, on Tuesday morning, he set out for Rye.
The atmosphere in the town was tense. Two constables guarded the East Weald and Ashford Bank. A big black carriage stood outside the door, its team still in harness, watched by silent onlookers. They stared at Hardcastle, too, as he walked towards the door, and he heard dark whispers running through the crowd. How many people in Rye had Charles Faversham ruined? he wondered.
A nervous servant ushered him into Faversham’s office. Faversham himself stood to one side; his place behind the desk was occupied by a big man in a black coat and breeches, square-faced and strong-jawed with bristling eyebrows and iron-grey hair pulled straight back from his face. George Stone was there, too, looking solemn and worried. Also present were Maudsley, who avoided the rector’s eye, and Mrs Redcliffe, who looked up and smiled briefly. Dressed all in black today, she sat poised with gloved hands folded in her lap, her skin looking like old paper in the lamplight. A secretary sat at a side table, pen poised over his inkwell.
‘Are we all here?’ asked the big man. As if on cue, there came another knock at the door, and Mrs Chaytor walked briskly into the room.
‘Who the devil are you?’ asked the big man irritably.
‘Mrs Amelia Chaytor,’ came the reply. ‘I represent some of the depositors of this bank, and I have come to see justice done.’
‘Bravo,’ said Mrs Redcliffe, before anyone else could speak. ‘Well done, my dear. Come, take a seat beside me.’
The big man glared at them both, eyebrows bristling. ‘Very well,’ he said testily. ‘Are we likely to suffer any further interruptions? Good. Then we shall begin.’
He nodded to the secretary, who began writing. ‘My name is James Martin, and I am the senior partner at Martin, Stone and Foote. Certain rumours concerning the East Weald and Ashford Bank have come to my attention, rumours which Mr Faversham has now confirmed to me are true.’
Faversham nodded. He looked white and miserable. For him, this was the end.
‘This is what now will happen,’ said Martin. ‘The Grasshopper will acquire the partnerships in the East Weald and Ashford bank held by Mr Faversham, Mr Maudsley and Mrs Redcliffe, all of whom were involved in or had knowledge of this disgraceful affair. The heirs of Mr Munro and Mr Cotton, who are innocent of any malfeasance, will continue to enjoy their shares, unless they wish to sell them to me.
‘As the bank is now insolvent, each of you will be paid a notional sum of £1 in total for your partnership share. You will relinquish all rights and all control of the bank to me. Is that understood?’
Heads nodded.
‘As the new proprietor of the bank, I personally will guarantee all deposits. No one who has money in this bank will lose a penny. I will temporarily retain the restriction on withdrawals to stop the run, but once the bank is restored to health that restriction will be lifted. I shall inject capital from my own bank and bring in new partners. I expect the restoration of the bank’s fortunes will take no more than three or four weeks. If you know of any hardship cases who urgently require funds, inform them that they should make a request to my staff. Is that understood?’
Faversham and Maudsley nodded. ‘That is very generous of you,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘You are assuming all the liabilities of the bank? Do you know how large they may be?’
‘Having examined the books this morning, I have a fair idea. In any case, it does not matter. No one – no one – drags the good name of the Grasshopper through the mud.’
George Stone flinched. Martin glared at Hardcastle. ‘Well, reverend? And you, Mrs . . . Chaytor, was it? Are you satisfied?’
‘Quite satisfied,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I echo Mrs Chaytor’s sentiments. You are very generous. What do you ask in return?’
‘Your complete silence,’ said Martin. ‘Not a word of this arrangement leaves this room. If any of you spreads gossip or rumour about this affair, I will revoke the arrangements, let the bank crash and ruin you all. Faversham at the very least will go to prison. Once again, is that understood?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Mrs Chaytor calmly. Faversham looked sick.
‘Then this meeting is at an end. Hardcastle: a word, if you please.’
When the room was empty but for themselves, the big banker looked at the rector. ‘Why did you feel it necessary to blackmail me? Have you yourself invested in this bank?’
‘Not a penny,’ said Hardcastle. ‘But many of my parishioners have. I wanted to protect them.’
‘I see. It never occurred to you to simply write and ask for my help, freely given?’
‘Had I done so, would you have complied?’
‘I am quite capable of understanding what the fall of the bank might mean to your people. Not all of us in the banking profession are charlatans and thieves, reverend. A few of us, just a few, are honest.’
‘If I have misestimated you, sir, then I apologise.’
‘Thank you. One more thing.’
Hardcastle waited. ‘I know you want to prosecute Faversham and see him put in prison,’ said Martin. ‘In your place, so would I. But you can’t. If he goes on trial, the whole thing becomes public and our reputation is ruined. You’ll have to let him go.’
‘I understand,’ said Hardcastle. ‘The ultimate decision on whether to prosecute rests with the Lord-Lieutenant of Sussex and the Deputy Lord-Lieutenant of Kent, Lord Clavertye. But I will recommend that they do not proceed. Rightly or wrongly, the well-being of my parishioners means more to me than my desire to see Faversham face trial.’
He thought Martin looked surprised at his quick compliance; the banker had been expecting an argument. But Hardcastle had already decided not to pursue Faversham. He was guilty of smuggling, certainly. If he knew the destination of the gold then he might be guilty of treason, but it would be very hard to prove. He was not the embezzler, nor was he the killer of Munro and Cotton.
Martin was speaking. ‘You’re a good man, reverend. Your people are very lucky to have you looking after their interests. I hope they realise it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re welcome. Now, get out of my office.’
*
The rector’s dog cart could never match Mrs Chaytor’s gig for speed, and she reached St Mary in the Marsh long before he did. When he finally arrived at the rectory she was waiting for him, her face taut and set, white lines at the corners of her mouth.
‘What is it?’ he asked at once. ‘Miss Godfrey and Miss Roper, are they well?’
‘I told them the news and they collapsed in tears, but they are well enough. News has arrived from Ashford. I saw the messenger as I drove into the village, and he told me the tidings. Charles Batist has been shot dead.’