The Body in the Boat by AJ MacKenzie

Author:AJ MacKenzie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction

14

Ricardo’s Revelation

Half a mile beyond Ivychurch, a gig stood empty and abandoned by the side of the track. There was no sign of a horse. A huddled shape lay on the ground beyond the gig. Two men stood guard over it, looking wet and unhappy. One turned and touched the brim of his dripping hat as Hardcastle pulled the dog cart to a halt. His name was Honeychild, and he was the parish constable in Ivychurch.

‘Who found him?’ Hardcastle asked.

‘One of the boys from the village,’ said Honeychild. ‘He went out early to go shrimping in the sewer.’ The little freshwater shrimp that lived in the drains in this part of the Marsh were a staple of the local diet. ‘He found the body and came running straight home. This here’s Caleb Atkins, the boy’s father.’

Hardcastle looked at the other man. ‘Did your son see anyone? Hear anything?’

‘Nothing, reverend,’ said Atkins. ‘This fellow’s been stiff and cold for some time, I’d say.’

It was Monday morning; Hardcastle had been about to sit down to breakfast when a runner from Ivychurch brought Honeychild’s message. The rector dismounted and walked across the wet grass to the body.

The dead man lay on his back, arms outstretched. His clothes were dark and soaked with water; as Atkins had said, he had clearly been lying there in the rain for some time. He had been shot in the face at point-blank range. The dark entry wound of the ball was surrounded by burnt skin and the black stains of powder residue, making him almost unrecognisable. But Hardcastle did not need the face to tell him who this was. One look at the left hand, with two fingers missing and a third curled and bent, was enough to confirm that this was Sylvester Cotton.

Oh, dear God. Not again.

Cotton had a wife and two children. Before the day was over there would be more tears, more misery, more loss and loneliness and emptiness. As if there was not already enough grief in the world.

He straightened and looked at the constable. ‘Send to New Romney for Dr Mackay, if you please. Where is the horse?’

Honeychild nodded to Atkins, who hurried off through the rain towards New Romney three miles away. ‘I reckon they took the horse, reverend. See here; there’s tracks going up the road towards Snave. I’m thinking they both rode off on it together, trying to get away quickly before someone heard the shot and got curious.’

The rector squinted at the hoofprints in the mud, already filled with rainwater. ‘You think there were only two men?’

‘Looks like it. At least, I’ve only found two sets of footprints.’ Honeychild frowned. ‘It’s strange, reverend. If this was a robbery, why did they only take the horse? The gig is worth a lot more than the beast.’

‘This was no robbery,’ said the rector. He knelt down on the wet grass and opened Cotton’s saturated coat. Once again, his watch was still there. The notecase in his inside pocket had not been touched either.

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