Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Very civil of you, Sir. Very civil,’ he croaked, the first polite thing that John could recall him saying to the dapper little man of medicine.

  ‘No trouble, Sir Ambrose, I assure you. You have been badly shaken,’ Dr Hensey replied.

  ‘You must come and dine with me and m’wife, so you must. How long will you be staying in Hastings?’

  Dr Hensey shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Sir. I have to attend a rather difficult patient, an extremely querulous invalid. The old lady will permit no other physician near her except myself. Depending on her condition, my visit could be as brief as a day or as long as a week. I am in the lap of the gods.’ He spread his hands.

  ‘Write to me when you know,’ ordered Sir Ambrose, grunting as Dr Hensey deftly fastened the Squire’s breeches back into place. ‘You shall be entertained royally. Indeed you will.’

  ‘Most kind, Sir. Most kind,’ the physician answered, and John could not help but be glad that Sir Ambrose was treating Dr Hensey with a degree of courtesy at last.

  He turned back to Miss Tireman. ‘This looks like marshland to me. Why is it called a moor?’

  ‘Heaven alone knows, for it’s full of drainage ditches as you can see.’

  And sure enough, illuminated by the light of a fitful cloud-flurried moon, John observed that the territory through which they were passing was slashed with ribbons of gleaming water, a maze of trenches used by the smugglers of earlier times to outwit pursuit, vanishing into them as Hereward the Wake had once done in the Fenlands of East Anglia in order to elude the Norman invaders.

  ‘The weather’s going to change,’ announced Miss Tireman.

  John, having successfully imprisoned poor Coralie in a deep dungeon at the back of his brain, gazed at her entranced. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It often happens in Kent, and in Sussex too, when one gets near to the coast. The cloud is thinning all the time. Soon it will be gone and it will be bright moonlight. Just you wait and see.’

  ‘What time do you think we will get to Winchelsea?’

  ‘About half past seven or thereabouts. In time for supper.’

  ‘I wonder if Mrs Rose will give me any?’

  ‘I should call on her tomorrow morning if I were you. Book yourself a room at The Salutation, Mr Rawlings. You will be comfortable there. Besides, they are known for their excellent food.’

  ‘Is the inn far from the Vicarage?’ John asked boldly.

  ‘There is no Vicarage,’ Miss Tireman answered, smiling to herself

  ‘Then where. …?’

  ‘I live in the Rectory, Mr Rawlings. And, no, it is but a short pace from The Salutation.’

  ‘Then I hope to have the pleasure of calling on you.’

  ‘Had you not invited yourself, I would have invited you,’ Miss Tireman answered, then closed her eyes, signifying that the conversation was at an end.

  The village of Appledore safely negotiated, the postillions set out on what John could only think of as a somewhat perilous route, for now they had left all habitation behind and were winding along a track through the marshland. Even a road covered by fallen trees would have been preferable to this, he thought, for other than a glimpse of an occasional isolated farm or remote inn there was no sign of life whatsoever. Suddenly he felt desperately alone, as if he were the only person left awake. Behind him, the snores of Sir Ambrose and Dr Hensey blended together in a strange duet of falsetto and bass, while beside him Henrietta Tireman slept as neatly as a dormouse, her head tipped over on to his shoulder, her body relaxed next to his. Even the postillions, weary now with the extra miles of their detour, seemed in a world of their own.

  Henrietta’s prediction about the weather had proved correct. Overhead an almost full moon shone brightly, the clouds blown away to reveal a mass of glittering stars in the jet black firmament. The rain had stopped completely, the wind was at dead calm. It was a landscape of unreality, drawn from legend. No human entity, or so it seemed to the Apothecary, was left alive. And then he saw something so incredible that he blinked his eyes in disbelief, while down his spine ran a chill of unease.

  A man stood in the grasslands beyond the track, ignoring the sheep which grazed at his feet in the moonlight. A man in clothes so fine that one could have laughed at the incongruity of his setting had not the stillness of his stance struck such an awful note of fear. Behind the man and slightly to his right was an ancient church, oddly shaped and somehow hunched against the darkness. Before and all around him curved the marshland ditches, winding gashes of silver sparkling in the moonlight. John stared until his eyes hurt, wondering what any human being could be doing on such a night as this, so distant from habitation and standing so terrifyingly still. And then the Apothecary laughed harshly and Henrietta Tireman stirred beside him.

  It was a scarecrow who stood there, he could see that now, the elegant clothes tattered and torn by the elements. Even the lace-trimmed tricorne hat, pulled well forward to hide the fact that the dummy had no face, had a slightly battered look. And yet its lifelike quality was extraordinary. So much so that John realised his heart was pounding and his mouth had gone dry with fright. As the coach continued down the track and the scarecrow passed out of sight, the Apothecary stared back over his shoulder for a final glimpse through the small window set in the door. But to no avail. The unearthly vision had vanished into the night.

  Just under an hour later, by dint of making the best time they possibly could, the flying coach crossed the river Rother by ferry and passed rapidly through Rye, the noise of the cobbles beneath the horses’ feet waking up the three sleeping passengers. And shortly afterwards they came to Winchelsea and were put down outside the church, John alighting first to help Miss Tireman and Sir Ambrose down the step. Dr Hensey stuck his head out of the window.

  ‘Goodbye to you all. It really has been a pleasure to travel with you.’

  Thinking the man either a saint or an extremely tactful liar in view of Sir Ambrose’s initial rudeness, John made a respectful bow. ‘Do look me up when you are in London, Sir.’

  ‘I intend to ask you to compound some physicks for me.’

  ‘I will be delighted to do so.’

  The Squire broke into the conversation, jovial now that he was back on home territory. ‘Gentlemen, forget London. You shall meet again when I invite you to dine. Dr Hensey, please write to me as soon as you know your plans.’

  ‘I certainly will.’

  The chief postillion, who by now looked ready to drop with fatigue, said, ‘We must go on, Sir. Neither horse nor man is fit for much more.’ Then he brightened as John Rawlings handed him a generous tip on behalf of the departing passengers, a douceur to which Sir Ambrose had liberally contributed. ‘Well, goodbye, lady and gentlemen, we’re at your service at any time should you require us.’ And they were off into the darkness, leaving the three remaining to make their own way to their final destinations.

  ‘If you will wait while I secure a room at The Salutation I’ll walk you home, Miss Tireman,’ said the Apothecary hopefully.

  ‘Nonsense,’ answered the Squire genially. ‘It is no trouble to me. The lady’s route is the same as my own.’

  Henrietta smiled her mercurial smile. ‘Gentlemen, I need bother neither of you. My Papa is always in church at this hour of the night, leading evening prayers for those who wish them. So, as we are almost at its very door, all I have to do is go down the path. That being the case, I’ll bid you both farewell.’

  She curtsied and would have turned to go had not John taken her hand to kiss it. ‘I shall call on you if I may,’ he said.

  She bowed her head so that her ridiculous feathers brushed her shoulder. ‘I hope I shall be in, Sir,’ she replied, and, with only the merest backward glance, made her way into the ancient portals of St Thomas the Martyr.

  Chapter Four

  It was the lucent sunshine of a late February day that woke John Rawlings the following morning. Leaping out of bed with one of the hare-like bounds that so often
characterised his gait, the Apothecary threw back the shutters and stared out over Winchelsea, taking in the details of the houses and the pleasing symmetrical pattern in which the town was laid out. Then, almost of their own accord, his eyes were drawn towards the imposing church, and his thoughts straight to the delectable Miss Tireman. Had she, John wondered, located her father and returned to the Rectory in safety? Then he frowned as a picture of Coralie Clive came to mind and smiled sweetly at him.

  ‘Don’t start any of that,’ John grumbled aloud. ‘You’ve played fast and loose with me for too long, my girl. It’s time for fresh fields and pastures new.’

  The vision pulled a face and vanished, and the Apothecary turned to see the chambermaid standing in the doorway with a jug of hot water, staring at him, mouth agape. The girl hurried in, put the pitcher down, and fled, not stopping even to say good morning. With a grin, John turned to the mirror and started to shave, noticing as he looked at his reflection that his cinnamon hair had started to get long again, thus making it difficult for him to wear a wig. With a shrug he decided against putting it on, thinking that after all he was in a country town and the fashion codes of the metropolis no longer applied. None the less, he completed his rural ensemble with a very handsome burgundy velvet coat before sauntering down to breakfast.

  Delighted to find that the landlord clearly shared the Apothecary’s views on a hearty repast being the only way to start the day, John tucked in to a great plate of pickled sea trout and prawns, fresh caught that morning, or so he was informed, followed by a bowl of beef broth, and rounded the meal off with a gammon of bacon and three helpings of bread. With this he drank several cups of tea, thinking that it had probably been acquired through the good offices of Dick Jarvis, tax on the commodity being extremely high. Then, much refreshed, John set out to solve the mystery of the Voice from the Past.

  He felt fairly certain that he knew who it was, matching the description Miss Tireman had given him against people of his old acquaintance. Yet still there was an element of uncertainty and danger about the whole situation, and John felt a shiver of excitement as he left the inn by the front entrance and made his way down Castle Street to the High Street.

  Before he left London, the Apothecary had consulted one of his father’s many guide books, on the subject of the historic town of Winchelsea. He had read the following: ‘At some Unknown Date in our History, five Towns in South-East England banded together to form the Famous Cinque Ports. These Towns were Hastings, Romney, Hythe, Dover and Sandwich, and it is Believed by your Writer that the confederation could have begun as Early as the Reign of Edward the Confessor. By the Thirteenth Century, the Antient Towns of Winchelsea and Rye had been Added to Their Number.’

  This information continued with a vivid description of how the fleet of the Cinque Ports had ruled the high seas, had given King John a navy, had indulged in piracy and private wars, all of which had struck the Apothecary as highly colourful. But these glories of the thirteenth century had been ended at a single stroke by an implacable enemy. In October 1250 the town had been partly submerged by an exceptionally high tide which ‘flowed Twice without Ebbing with a Horrible Roaring and a Glint as of Fire on the Waves.’ Thirty-seven years later the town suffered a similar fate and was practically submerged. On that same occasion the whole of the Romney Marsh was flooded and the River Rother changed its course.

  Edward I had come to the aid of Winchelsea and had designed a new town on Iham Hill, planned on the gridiron principle of the French bastides, which his royal majesty had also ordered built in his duchy of Aquitaine. Stones had been brought from Caen in Normandy and some, indeed, from the ruins of the submerged city, accessible at low tide. Marble for the church had come from West Sussex, timbers for both houses and other buildings from the great oaks of the forest of Anderida. Putting the guide book down, John had thought momentarily that romantic legends of church bells that ring beneath the sea might well have originated in the ‘antient’ town of Winchelsea.

  The story had continued, telling of repeated raids by the French, of rape and bloodshed, of pillage and arson, of how the great days of the town were over by the end of the fifteenth century when ‘the Last Merchant had left’. For the new harbour had silted up and trade had depended on there being a port. Even the support of the religious houses had gone when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. But there had been a ray of hope. Within the last year or so Huguenot émigrés had started a textile business, manufacturing lawns, cambrics and crepes, which it was hoped would bring renewed prosperity to Winchelsea. Though now, thought John as he turned into the High Street, with war declared, the town must be on its guard. For if ever there was a good spot for an invasion it was the flat coast between Fairlight and Hythe, placing Winchelsea right in the firing line.

  Petronilla’s Platt, the interestingly named cottage in which the enigmatic Mrs Rose had taken up residence, turned out to be a typical eighteenth-century dwelling, with no sign of its medieval origins. Knocking loudly on the front door, John stood in anticipation, his heart beating faster at the prospect of who would answer – only for his hopes to be dashed. There was nobody at home. Wondering what to do next, John decided on a tour of the town and set off to look at the Strand Gate, an age-old portcullis dating from the thirteenth century, which once had given access to the port. Having inspected this, he proceeded to Back Lane, from whence he had a view of the church’s eastern end. And it was just as he was admiring the building’s size and splendour that a figure came into sight in the far distance, slowly walking towards him. Instantly, John knew who it was and why he had been sent for above all other members of his profession. The thought of old dark secrets stirred within him and he briefly stepped into the shadow of the church wall, better to observe the creature who was coming his way.

  Just as Henrietta Tireman had said, the woman still had that air of beauty about her which, with her inborn grace and charm, the passing years could never take away. Yet there was much sadness in the droop of the shoulders and the carriage of the head, the bearing of one who has seen too much of life and as a result withdrawn to a quiet backwater in which to pass the years left to her.

  John, could see from where he stood the lovely shock of silver hair which he had always so much admired. This woman might be cowed by all that had happened to her, living in fear of her life from an unknown poisoner’s hand, but for all that she was finely coiffed and elegantly presented. As always she wore enamel on her face, attempting to disguise her true age and yet, in a way, drawing attention to it. But the steadfast eyes, though full of despair, were none the less bright as crystal. John’s heart went out to the Voice from the Past that she had still not found peace.

  He stepped out from the shadows and bowed deeply. ‘Don’t be afraid, Madam,’ he said gently. ‘Your summons has been answered. I am John Rawlings, come to serve you as best I can.’

  She was so startled that she drew in her breath on a rasp. ‘Is it really you?’ she asked in a quivering voice.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harcross, it really is.’

  She seized his arm in alarm. ‘Oh, don’t call me that, I beg you. She is dead, that evil woman. Her hour came long ago.’

  This was hardly the place to ask the unhappy creature why she had tried to eradicate all evidence of her past, though it was not difficult for John to guess the reason. Instead he said, ‘Then would you prefer me to address you as Mrs Rose?’

  She froze. ‘How did you know I used that alias?’

  ‘Because I made one or two discreet enquiries about the owner of Petronilla’s Platt. You must understand that it is not every day one is delivered a note in the fog. You can hardly blame me for trying to find out a little more about the messenger.’

  Mrs Rose relaxed a little. ‘No, of course not. I am being foolish. After all, if I can’t trust you, Mr Rawlings, who can I depend on?’

  ‘Then shall we go back to your cottage so that you may tell me exactly what is troubling you?’

  John’s co
mpanion grew tense once more. ‘No, I cannot rely on the serving girl, Agnes. She comes from the town and, I feel certain, has been primed to find out all she can about me. Let us go into the church. At least it is quiet there.’

  So saying, Mrs Rose took the Apothecary’s arm and guided him to the gate, then down the path and through the entrance of St Thomas the Martyr, into the hushed and dim interior. Instantly, a sense of great antiquity consumed him – that and something else. There was an air of continuity, as if the medieval craftsmen who had built it had only stepped outside momentarily and would be back at any moment. Their handiwork seemed as fresh as the day it had been carved despite the acts of vandalism inflicted by the fanatical puritans who held sway during the Commonwealth. John, looking to his right, found his eye drawn to the face of the Green Man, that pagan figure of fertility and tree worship, thought by some scholars to be the basis for the legend of Robin Hood, his head planted centrally in the canopy above the tombs that lay beneath.

  Taking the Apothecary’s hand in her gloved one, Mrs Rose, after glancing all around, led him to the left and down the northernmost aisle, divided in half by a wall with a door in it. Going through this to a pew tucked close to the pulpit, a private place if ever there was one, she sat down. Then she turned her eyes on him, the look in their depths unfathomable.

  ‘One thing before we begin. Swear to me, Mr Rawlings, swear in this holy place, that you will never mention the reason why we are both here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I cannot bear to hear the names that since … since Jasper’s death … I now have come to dread. Swear to me by all that you hold dear that you will not talk about the past.’

  ‘But if I am to discuss your present situation, surely that will be inevitable.’

  ‘No, it will not,’ she answered vehemently. ‘The facts are, as I told you in my letter, that I am sure I am being slowly poisoned. Yet whether by a friend of Jasper’s killers or by a woman who once loved him, and there were so very many, I do not know.’