by Deryn Lake
The Apothecary stretched out a hand towards the man of straw and even as he did so, a large crow appeared from nowhere and swooped downwards. ‘Be off!’ John shouted, flapping his arms. The bird hovered for a moment, almost as if it were taking stock of an enemy, then circled and flew away.
Thoroughly unnerved, John repeated the action, gritting his teeth and swiftly plucking the hat from the scarecrow’s head.
Hollow eyes stared into his and there was the brilliant gleam of bone beneath the sun. With a cry of pure terror the Apothecary took a step backwards, his gorge rising at the sight of what was revealed. For beneath the hat, still wearing a white wig that made it look utterly grotesque, lay a human skull, a skull which at that moment seemed to be grinning at John Rawlings as if it were greeting an old and long-lost friend.
Chapter Six
The horrific discovery had left him breathless and panting, and it took several minutes of deep breathing and concentrated effort for John to get a grip on himself. As he had so often before, the Apothecary recalled the saying of his old Master that the dead can hurt no one, and fought away his panic by telling himself so repeatedly. Yet still his heart was pounding and his stomach felt as if it had descended to his knees. Fighting off an overwhelming desire to vomit, John sat down on the damp grass and steeled himself for the unpleasant task of examining the body.
The scarecrow had been put in place by, quite literally, being hung upon a crucifix. A humble wooden cross, which had presumably been taken from the church, had been impaled in the ground, the dead man attached to it by the simple means of pushing the cross piece through the sleeves of his full-skirted coat. The head had been held upright by a ribbon which had been attached to the cross, tied at its other end through a cut in the brim of the scarecrow’s tricorne, now dislodged by John’s tugging at it. With trembling fingers, the Apothecary lifted the white horsehair wig which, with the hat gone, ludicrously crowned the skull. A host of maggots swarmed below, churning and seething in what remained of a dark head of hair. Another wave of nausea swept the Apothecary and he dabbed at his upper lip with the sleeve of his coat.
The dead man’s face itself had vanished, only the grinning skull intact after the attentions of the crows and flies. The victim had died with a full set of teeth, John noticed before he staggered away and was violently sick into one of the ditches. He then stood for a moment, mopping his brow with his handkerchief-and taking deep breaths, before he returned to his grisly task.
Tentatively, the Apothecary undid the silver buttons of the claret velvet coat, noticing as he did so that it had been sliced neatly through just over the heart and that there were traces of dried blood all around this cut. So the victim had been stabbed with a thin-bladed knife, a dagger most likely, and would have died almost instantaneously. Beneath the coat, a silver waistcoat revealed a similar cut and more blood, and below that a cambric shirt bore the most blood of all. Wishing he had gloves with him, John eased the shirt up and out of the breeches.
Beneath the shirt was a skeletal chest, only that, not an ounce of flesh left anywhere. Slightly relieved that he had not found the body in a state of putrefacation, John took careful note of the nick on the ribs which proved him right. A dagger had definitely entered this unfortunate man’s heart and left its mark to prove it. Steeling himself, the Apothecary looked downwards.
Below the knee the legs were completely missing, carried away by the foxes. Above, John saw after delicately lowering the breeches and hose, there were only bones, everything eaten away including the genitals, a bizarre thought to say the least of it. Of the missing shoes there was absolutely no sign and John realised that the impression that the scarecrow had been standing on legs must have been created by the moonlight. The hands, too, had been leaped for and devoured, only the frilled cuff remaining to cover the stumps of the wrist. Wishing he had a hip flask with him, the Apothecary stood silently, taking stock of the situation.
There was no sign of a violent struggle marking the raised bank on which the scarecrow had been positioned, though after several months, to say nothing of the floods, the time John estimated the body must have stood there, it might long ago have disappeared. Yet, he thought, if the crucifix had come from the church, might the house of God yield up anything further? Suddenly certain that there lay the scene of the crime, the Apothecary, his legs still weak from shock, waded through the drainage ditch that separated the ancient building from the grassy knoll on which the scarecrow stood.
On closer inspection, the older John could see the church was. Indeed, the building was clearly medieval, the exterior half timbered, the spaces between the wooden construction filled with laths and plaster. A weather boarded bell turret reared above, while entry was through an oaken door set in the newly built porch in the north wall. Glad to get away from the scarecrow for a moment or two, the Apothecary made his way into the shadowy interior.
Exposed timbers and arches of wood immediately caught John’s eye, lit by weak sunshine coming in through the plain timber framed windows. Though what little light there was was dimmed by a stud wall running across the whole width of the church in order to support the turret. In medieval times, rushes would have been strewn and the congregation would have either stood or sat on the floor. But to suit eighteenth-century demands, John noticed, a pulpit and pews had been recently installed, the pulpit being particularly interesting because it was of the three deck variety. The lower part of it consisting of a gated seat, was clearly meant for the parish clerk, a thin man, the Apothecary thought, for anybody stout would get wedged in in such a small space. Above it was another area from which the Perpetual Curate would conduct the main part of the service. Above this again was the third stage, to which the minister would ascend in order to deliver the sermon, usually of prodigious length and ending barely in time for the congregation to get home to dine at three. Because of the amazingly long time involved many families took chamber pots with them into their pews, which both ladies and gentlemen used discreetly while the service continued.
The pews themselves each had a locked door and were square in design, containing benches on which the occupants sat facing one another. Vaulting over the wall of one, John thankfully took a seat and rested quietly in the peaceful silence, letting his thoughts run on.
Could the murder have taken place here, within these very walls? Could there, perhaps, be a clue to the fatal stabbing in this old and holy building? And might there also be an indication as to the identity of the dead man? Much as John had disliked doing so, he had searched the scarecrow’s coat pockets, only to find that they had all been bare. Even the waistcoat openings had been empty, the fob watch missing. Whoever had killed him had made sure that the victim’s name would remain a mystery. Reluctantly, the Apothecary left the pew and began to search amongst the dim recesses of the little church.
An abandoned cloak lay in the parish clerk’s stall, though this, too, had no papers in it, nor the name-of the tailor stitched within. There were signs that this last might have been ripped out, for a few loose threads remained near the collar. However, the search for a fight was far less successful, there being nothing other than a few drops of dried blood on the floor by the font, though these could have been caused by anything, John considered, even am innocent nosebleed. Logically he had to admit that if the scarecrow had been dead for some months, any sign of the fight in which he died would have been cleared up by now. Dreading what he had to do next, the Apothecary stepped out into the daylight and gazed around him.
From this angle by the porch, the body was invisible, totally screened by the shepherd’s shelter. Small wonder, then, that nobody had seen it or, if they had, had not recognised it for what it actually was. Yet six months was a long time. Perhaps the scarecrow had been observed and simply allowed to remain where it was. But looking for the tailor’s name in the cloak had given the Apothecary an idea and now he felt impelled to put it into practice. Hideous though the thought was, John approached the skeleton once more.
The maker’s label had been ripped out of the coat, as had that in the horribly foreshortened breeches. But it was just as he was straightening from examining these that the Apothecary caught a glimpse of something protruding from what had once been a fine silk lining, and raised the hem of the coat to eye level. A paper had been stitched inside, there was no doubt of it. A paper that had only become visible as the elements and scavengers tore at the scarecrow’s clothing. Taking his herb knife from his pocket, John cut through the remaining stitches and withdrew a sealed document. Breaking the seal, he spread the paper on to the ground in order to study it.
‘189 1504 598 2211 1905 500 665 2099,’ he read, followed by the cryptic phrase, ‘la Grenouille et le Papillon de Nuit’. Then ensued another series of numbers, together with the word ‘Winchelsea’.
John stared in astonishment, his brain racing, only able to conclude that he had inadvertently stumbled across some sort of code and wondering how, with all the goodwill in the world, the village constable was going to deal with this extraordinary set of circumstances. And then as he looked at the paper again, the realisation that he had come across some altogether larger game than a straightforward killing for gain or revenge dawned on him. The document stitched into the lining of the scarecrow’s coat could be nothing but sealed and coded orders.
The Apothecary stood silently for another few moments, deciding on the best course of action. Then, with great determination, he folded the paper and put it safely in his inner pocket, meanwhile ramming the scarecrow’s hat back on its maggot-blown wig. Then having pulled the tricorne well down to hide the skull, John swiftly mounted his horse and went at the gallop back along the road he had come.
‘La Gren-oil eh le Pap-pill-yon de Newt’, read Joe Jago in an atrocious French accent.
‘Extraordinary!’ commented the Blind Beak, who sat leaning back in his chair, his black-bandaged eyes tilted towards the ceiling, his hands folded across his stomach, his feet upon a footstool. ‘Quite extraordinary.’
‘Then come another series of numbers, Sir.’
‘Obviously a cipher. Well done, Mr Rawlings. You did absolutely the right thing in bringing this document straight to me.’
‘Thank God,’ said John. ‘My instinct told me so. Yet I kept thinking I ought to inform the constable about the body. Though how on earth he would have sorted it all out, I dread to think.’
‘I somehow feel it would have been beyond him. We are a nation at war, Mr Rawlings, and judging by the code the dead man was carrying and the fact that it was concealed in the lining of his coat, I can only presume the victim was a member of what is known as the Secret Service.’
‘You mean a spy?’
‘Yes, I do.’
The Apothecary gave a sudden laugh. ‘I seem to remember you advising me to find myself one, and not that long ago at that.’
Mr Fielding rumbled an answering chuckle. ‘Yes, so I did. Well, you appear to have succeeded. But more of espionage in a moment. First, tell me, my friend, how are you getting on with your mysterious visit to Winchelsea?’
‘You know about it?’
‘Sir Gabriel came here to dine the other evening.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, Sir, the mysterious lady turned out to be none other than Elizabeth Harcross, widow of the profligate Jasper. She sent for me in great secrecy because she is under the impression that some enemy from the past is trying to kill her.’
‘And are they?’
John frowned. ‘Possibly, yes. Anonymous gifts of food and drink are left on her doorstep which she claims are making her ill. However, I sampled a bottle of wine donated in a similar manner and all it did was make me sing.’
Joe Jago cracked a laugh as did the Blind Beak.
‘How typical,’ said the Magistrate. Then he grew serious. ‘None the less, it is a situation that should be watched. What do you intend to do?’
‘Return there when you have decided what action you want to take regarding the scarecrow.’
‘Um.’ Mr Fielding fingered his chin, then turned to his clerk ‘What do you think, Joe? Should we leave our spying friend to the mercies of the village constable?’
‘No, Sir. Let’s send a couple of Runners to bring him back here. The clothes should be examined, if nothing more. After all, we can give him a burial just as easily as anyone else.’
John’s stomach churned. ‘His head is in a terrible condition.’
‘The Runners can clean him up,’ answered the Magistrate cheerily. ‘But before we do anything, we must get this piece of paper to Dr Willes.’
The Apothecary’s mobile brows rose. ‘Dr Willes?’
Mr Fielding laughed again. ‘Should we tell him, Joe?’
The clerk’s foxy features vanished in a dried-out riverbed of wrinkles as he grinned scampishly. ‘Not all of it, Sir, no.’
Catching their mood, John’s crooked smile appeared. ‘What don’t I know? Who is this Dr Willes?’
The Blind Beak cleared his throat and suddenly looked immensely stern. ‘Have respect. We speak of the Decipherer to the King, Sir. A man of great importance whose name you must keep utterly confidential, you understand.’
The Apothecary’s jaw dropped. ‘I was not-aware there was such a post.’
‘That is because you are young, my friend. Believe me, there is a Secret Department attached to the Post Office which was founded about the turn of this century and has been functional ever since, its task to open suspect mail and decipher coded messages. That is apart from the Secret Office which falls directly within the jurisdiction of the Secretary of State himself and is responsible for organising the secret agents or spies.’
‘I am frankly astounded. Why should there be the need for such things?’
Joe Jago broke in, tapping the side of his nose with his finger. ‘To garner information, Mr Rawlings. Governments need intelligence, and they are prepared to pay to get it.’
Mr Fielding shifted the papers on his desk and the other two men turned to look at him. ‘I suggest you take your find directly to Dr Willes yourself, Mr Rawlings. It is quite clearly time that you learned something of what goes on behind the scenes. But tell me first, have you breakfasted?’
‘Yes, thank you. As I told you, I rode straight from Fairfield to Hastings, a goodish way. But by going hell for leather I managed to catch the two o’clock post chaise. So, having arrived early this morning, I booked a room in one of the inns and got a few hours’ sleep and some food before I came here.’
‘Very sensible. Then would it suit you to visit Dr Willes immediately? Jago will write a letter of introduction and you can explain to the King’s Decipherer exactly how you came across this document.’
‘I should be more than delighted. In fact, positively intrigued.’
‘Excellent. I shall order you some coffee while Joe puts pen to paper.’
‘I think I’d rather take a stroll, Sir. Twelve hours in a coach is enough to give anyone cramp.’
‘Indeed, indeed. Come back in half an hour, my friend, and all will be ready for you.’
Emerging into the cold unflattering brightness of London on a February morning, still dressed in the clothes he had worn for the last twenty-four hours and feeling desperately in need of a shave, was hardly the moment to run into the woman for whom John perpetually wanted to look his best. But fate was obviously in quizzical mood, for there she was. Wondering whether to hide in a doorway, but for all that longing to speak to her, the Apothecary hovered like a moth round a flame as Coralie Clive walked in his direction, clearly not yet having seen him.
John’s heart beat faster as she drew nearer and he felt his mouth go dry. Then, telling himself not to be a fool, he bowed low, horribly aware that the sleeve of his coat, obviously put under a strain by the marathon ride he had undertaken yesterday, ripped as he did so.
‘Good heavens,’ said Coralie, her voice rippling with amusement, ‘if it isn’t Mr Rawlings.’
He felt instantly irritated. ‘I had t
hought we were on first name terms by now, Miss Clive.’
Her green eyes, bright as emeralds and easily as sparkling, gave him an enigmatic look. ‘Of course we are. I apologise for being so formal.’
‘Then why were you?’
‘Because you are such a strange young man.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked John defensively. ‘I studied hard for my profession, I have a shop of my own which is doing very well. I am a model of rectitude. How dare you call me strange!’
Although he was annoyed, laughter was only a breath away, as always with her. In fact every emotion he had for her – love, desire, adoration even – constantly fizzed beneath the surface like a glass of champagne and was just as difficult to control.
She slipped her arm through his. ‘I have not seen you for an age, my friend. What have you been up to?’
‘Not a great deal, that is until now.’
‘Why? What has happened? No, don’t tell me. We meet in Bow Street. You are once more involved with Mr Fielding and one of his inquiries.’
John nodded. ‘You guess correctly.’
Coralie laughed. ‘You look as if you might be.’
He was falling in love with her all over again and the Apothecary took an iron grip on his affections, knowing the extent of her power to hurt him. Indeed, had it not been for Coralie Clive’s avowed intent to become as celebrated an actress as her sister, Kitty, John would long ago have proposed marriage.
‘I take it from that remark that you noticed I haven’t shaved.’
‘Something of that sort. Oh my dear, you look a positive ruffian.’
‘That’s because I am one.’
‘How you do surprise me!’
‘Do I?’ said John, and without another word he kissed her deeply on the mouth, there in Bow Street, in full view of the passing populace.
Mad thoughts went through his mind. Of taking her straight to his home and going to bed with her, of throwing her into a hackney coach and driving to a church where the parson would marry them, of simply offering her his hand and heart for evermore. But John, perhaps to his credit, perhaps not, did none of those things, somehow wanting Coralie to make some gesture indicating that she was as strongly attracted to him as he was to her. Her response to him was warm enough, returning his kisses with ardour, not fighting him off as she so easily could have done.