by Deryn Lake
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he’s never at home. If he’s not off to London, he’s out and about the county, or walking his terrible dog.’ He paused and looked contrite. ‘I’m being indiscreet, aren’t I? Which is not becoming in a man of my calling.’
‘I would imagine,’ said John acutely, ‘that you often feel rather isolated.’
‘Indeed I do. Your coming here is a godsend, quite honestly.’
The Apothecary felt a rush of genuine sympathy. ‘As long as I stay, you are most welcome to this house. I am positive I speak for my aunt when I say that.’
‘And you must both come and dine with me. As you have gathered, I have no wife, but the serving girl is an excellent cook.’
‘I should be delighted. Talking of men who live alone, I was much taken with Captain Pegram. What’s your opinion of him?’
‘He’s something of an oddity. Apparently he left the army because he could not stand the life and does not approve of war. Now he spends most of his time studying and is very learned, I believe.’
‘How old is he?’
‘About fifty, I imagine. He told me once that he was twenty-five when his wife died and that was some considerable while ago.’
‘And he never remarried?’
‘No, nor has he taken a mistress, at least that I’ve heard of. He lives very much as a confirmed old bachelor.’
‘How interesting – and how sad. And what about Mr Gironde the apothecary? I take it he is of Huguenot extraction.’
‘Yes.’
‘My aunt thinks his wife a regular busybody.’
Dr Hayman gave a shout of laughter. ‘To hear the gist of our conversation, I could easily imagine that description being applied to us.’
John grinned wryly. ‘It might very well. But, Dr Hayman …’
‘Richard, please.’
‘… if someone is making an attempt to kill Aunt Elizabeth it is essential that I find out about the local characters.’
The physician nodded, suddenly serious. ‘You’re quite right, of course. Well, Nan Gironde is a troublemaker, there’s no doubt about that. She simulates great friendship for one and all, then proceeds to put the knife in. I don’t trust her at all. But Marcel I like. He is a good apothecary and works hard. Inexplicably, he is besotted with her. In his eyes the little shrew can do no wrong.’
‘It is often the way. Tell me, is there anyone else my aunt knows who might wish her ill?’
Dr Hayman shook his head. ‘She does not have droves of friends. In fact I can’t think of anyone else other than the rector and his wife.’
‘And what are they like? I saw them at the assembly but wasn’t introduced.’
‘She is an amazing woman, a femme formidable. Quite loud and vulgar for the wife of a cleric, and built like a carthorse. But I suppose she must have been pretty once. How else could she have given birth to two such beautiful girls?’
John shrugged and spread his hands. ‘A freak of nature, maybe. There often seems no accounting for such things.’
‘Do you really believe that amongst these people we’ve been discussing there lurks a cruel killer?’ Dr Hayman asked seriously.
The Apothecary refilled their glasses, shaking his head slowly as he did so. ‘I don’t know what to think. But one thing I do know, and please don’t ask me how, is that Winchelsea, this pretty little town, contains hidden secrets.’
‘In what respect?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
The physician narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you an excise man, Sir?’
John laughed. ‘No, I am not. Yet I am well aware that the smugglers have returned to the Romney Marsh.’
‘Not only the Marsh!’ Richard Hayman said pointedly, and there they let the matter drop.
It was late when the doctor left the house and John set about the task of locking up for the night. Yet even as he prepared to throw the bolts on the doors he was aware that there was movement in the darkness outside. Horses with muffled hooves were making their way up the cobbled streets and, peering through a crack, he saw that solitary candles stood in the windows of several houses. There could be no doubt about the cause; the freebooters were making a delivery. Brandy, tobacco, tea, silks and satins were at this very moment finding their way into the cellars of the good people of Winchelsea. Presumably Dick Jarvis, Kit’s rascally bastard, was hard at work even while the Apothecary peered out.
To go outside was dangerous, John knew that well, but the temptation to get a closer look was so strong that without stopping even to get a pistol, the Apothecary had slipped through the door almost before he knew what he was doing. Moving silently, he stood in the shadows and watched.
It was as he had suspected. Horses with leather shoes on their feet were pulling laden carts towards various houses. John saw one head off towards The Salutation, another towards Paradise House, and a third in what could easily have been the direction of Grey Friars. So it would appear that the entire town were customers, with one or two exceptions. He was just about to go back indoors, when a different sound attracted the Apothecary’s attention.
A voice was ringing out in the darkness, a voice speaking too loudly for its own good, yet one, John thought, that would have some difficulty in moderating its tone. Interestingly, the voice was speaking fluent French then translating what it had just heard and said into English for the benefit of another, someone who spoke softly and therefore was more difficult to identify. Hardly able to believe his ears, the Apothecary quietly observed.
A cart was turning in the road, so that it pointed once more towards the sea, and as it did so the moon came out and clearly lit the scene. Driving the vehicle was a figure which looked familiar yet which John could not altogether recognise. Being pulled up into the cart, almost toppling the driver as he strained to help her, was the rector’s wife, the fearsome Mrs Tireman. And jumping up beside her, carrying his medical bag and looking decidedly ill at ease, was the man with whom John had just parted company, Dr Richard Hayman himself. Then as the cart crept stealthily down the street, the moon disappeared behind clouds and the Apothecary was alone in the darkness, listening as the sound of the smugglers slowly faded away and all was silence once more.
Chapter Ten
That night John slept with his bedroom door wide open so that he could hear if Elizabeth happened to cry out, but all stayed quiet, and by morning, when he woke and looked in on her, she was in a deep and peaceful sleep, her face quite serene. The Apothecary went downstairs shortly afterwards, only to find that Agnes, tottering around but wearing a bravely defiant expression, had come to work and was making breakfast in the kitchen.
‘Good morning,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Are you feeling better?’
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’
‘Excellent.’ John went into the room and closed the door behind him, taking a seat at the scrubbed wooden table. ‘Have you eaten anything yet?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Then may I suggest a little bread, and I can make you an infusion if you should still be suffering queasiness.’
Agnes smiled gratefully. ‘That would be very kind, Sir.’
‘It’s no trouble. I was going to prepare some for my aunt, in any event.’
He busied himself alongside her, boiling kettles and pounding thyme leaves, covertly watching the serving girl out of the corner of his eye. Finally, when she seemed sufficiently relaxed to be no longer wary of him, John said, ‘Agnes, you told me my aunt said something about his writing on the label that came with the pie. Do you know who she was talking about?’
‘No, Sir. But the box is still over on the dresser. I’ll get it for you.’
A second later it was in his hand and John read the attached note with something approaching amazement. For this was no anonymous gift left in suspicious circumstances. For all the world to see, the donor had written, ‘Baked in my kitchens this morning. Please accept this pie with my best wishes, N.P..’ So, unless there was
someone else with identical initials, it would appear that Captain Nathaniel Pegram had given his friend the present which had poisoned her.
‘Is breakfast going to be long?’ John asked, well aware that Agnes’s eyes were boring into him, willing him to say something.
‘Coming now, Mr Rawlings. Sir—’. She stopped abruptly.
‘Yes?’
‘Who did send the pie?’
‘Surely you know.’
‘I can’t read, Sir.’
John considered for a few moments, then said, ‘Captain Pegram gave it to Mrs Rose, which only goes to show that even in the greatest houses it is possible for bad meat to be used.’
‘Bad meat? Is that what it was, Sir?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Not poison?’
‘Meat that has gone off is a poison in itself. But if you mean the kind of poison deliberately used to kill people, then the answer is no.’
Agnes looked positively downcast and John suppressed a smile. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, clearly disappointed that events had turned out not to be as dramatic as she had hoped.
‘Good girl.’ The Apothecary winked his eye disconcertingly. ‘Now take your mistress her breakfast on a tray while I eat mine here. And be sure to tell her that I will come and say goodbye before I go out.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And take care that both of you stay on a light diet for the rest of the day. A mess of eggs would be just the thing.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
The servant appeared so crestfallen that John decided to cheer her up. ‘Food poisoning can be fatal, Agnes. Both you and Mrs Rose had a lucky escape. And you can tell your friends I said so.’
The serving girl brightened. ‘Oh, I will, Sir.’
‘Good,’ and with that John fell to eating an enormous breakfast as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Throughout his short walk to The Salutation, the Apothecary gave much thought as to how he was going to engineer a conversation with Joe Jago. To reveal that he knew him would be to ruin the entire plan, yet he felt the urgent need to tell John Fielding’s clerk the latest turn of events. The only answer seemed to be to bump into the Magistrate’s right hand man and somehow signal that he wished to speak to him alone. But, in the event, the opportunity presented itself without difficulty. Just as John approached the inn, Joe Jago was coming out.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ said the clerk, a suspicion of a wink about his eye. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but I’m a stranger in town. Only arrived late last night from London. I wonder if you could direct me to the Rectory.’ He bowed, his hair blazing in the early sun.
John bowed back. ‘Indeed, Sir, I certainly can. I am walking that way myself. If you would care to accompany me, I can guide you to the very door.’
‘Splendid,’ Joe replied, and rubbed his hands together.
They fell into step and no sooner had they left The Salutation than John launched into a description of all that had taken place, from the poisoned Mrs Rose, to Mrs Tireman and the doctor departing with the smugglers.
Joe listened in silence, then said, ‘I’ve had some further thoughts on the signalling you saw. Did the flashes appear to be a number sequence?’
‘Definitely so.’
‘Then another visit to Dr Willes may be in order. We must get the latest cipher from him. The Frog and the Moth may be killers but, for all that, one of them appears to have started work already.’
‘Yes, damn it. Tell me, what will happen to the Scarecrow now?’
‘A physician will examine his skeleton to establish the cause of death.’
‘Stabbed through the heart with a thin-bladed implement,’ put in John, always slightly irritated when his diagnosis had to be confirmed.
‘Quite so,’ answered Joe tactfully. ‘Then his clothes will go to a tailor to see if he can identify them as definitely being French. After that the Scarecrow will be buried in your own parish church of St Ann’s in Soho, where many of his fellow countrymen have been laid to rest.
‘Poor thing,’ said John, much saddened. ‘He probably left a wife and children behind who will never know where he vanished to. Did you know, Joe, that my father disappeared, my real father that is? My mother waited for him to return from London – they were running away to be married – but he did not arrive. And though she went to look for him, she never found out what happened.’
‘One day you must seek him out.’
‘Oh, he’s quite definitely dead. He would not have let her down otherwise.’
‘If you are anything like him, then that is most certainly true,’ Joe answered. ‘But for the moment let us consider the present problem. I am going calling this morning, starting at the Rectory then proceeding to the richest of them all, Mrs Finch herself.’
‘She will eat you alive, my friend.’
‘In what way?’
‘She’ll offer you her honour.’
Joe’s face exploded into its customary desert of lines as he roared with laughter. ‘A rum doxy, eh? She dances Moll Peatley’s jig, I take it?’
‘I’m not quite sure what that means but if it’s anything like it sounds, the answer is yes.’
‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘if I ain’t returned by nightfall you’d better send out a search party, Mr Rawlings.’
‘Send out the smugglers more likely. Anyway, you’ve passed her house. It’s the imposing mansion next door to the Town Hall.’
‘I noticed it. Grand indeed! Now, we should meet tonight in order to compare notes. Where do you suggest?’
‘There’s a place called the Roundle to the north-west of the town. It’s a deserted area and the Roundle itself, once a watch tower I believe, is rarely visited. Let’s rendezvous there.’
‘At what time?’
‘Ten o’clock?’
‘I’ll be punctual,’ said Joe, and with that he made a sweeping bow and turned into the Rectory, while John set off for Grey Friars.
The house lay to the east of the town, down a pleasant avenue known locally as Friars Walk. Having left the church and other dwellings behind him, the Apothecary strode out, passing through cherry orchards, the trees still in tight bud, on one hand, and pleasant green meadows on the other. With each passing step, John grew more and more envious of Captain Pegram, whose house, whatever it was like as a building, was surely one of the best situated in the county.
The cherry orchards continued, acre after acre of them, and then to the Apothecary’s left a lodge house and drive appeared. Going through the gates, wondering whether he was going to be challenged, John continued on, glad of so fine a day in which to enjoy such a pleasant walk. Then the house came into view and he stopped in his tracks, lost in admiration.
That it had once been an abbey was abundantly clear from the architecture, indeed the choir of the chapel still stood, its lofty and rather beautiful arch making a most attractive ruin. Beyond this, surrounded by its gardens, its orchards and outbuildings, stood the house itself, incorporating into its whole an ancient Chapter House, a cloister range and a gate tower, together with recent wings and what looked from the exterior like the soaring splendour of a Great Hall. Captain Pegram, or one of his forebears, had transformed the entire complex into a domestic dwelling by commissioning a series of corridors to join together this somewhat asymmetrical group of buildings. The result, triumphantly enough, was a medley of architectural styles which blended together in perfect harmony. Extremely impressed by the size and grandeur of the place, John approached the oak door in the tower and rang the bell.
A servant answered and the Apothecary presented his card, then waited for a few moments before the footman reappeared.
‘If you would follow me, Sir. Captain Pegram will see you in the library.’
He set off, John walking immediately behind as the servant opened a door from the Great Hall, which was no more than fifty years old in the Apothecary’s estimation. This led them straight into the cloisters, now an internal part of the buildi
ng and backed on either side with indoor plants. Looking round him, John saw marble pillars contrasting with ornate sixteenth-century perpendicular work, above his head a vaulted roof. To his right and left, what had once been open archways had now been filled with glass, making the place an ideal walkway for inclement days.
At the end of the cloisters lay a stone spiral staircase and having climbed this, the servant knocked discreetly on the door at the top.
‘Come,’ said Captain Pegram’s voice.
‘Mr Rawlings, Sir.’
‘Tell him to enter.’
And John, who had been shuffling on the landing, went through into an extremely long room, built quite recently above the cloisters themselves, on their very roof in fact. Profusely windowed, it presented stunning views over the sea in one direction and the cherry orchards and fields in the other.
Looking round in undisguised admiration, John saw that between the dozen windows, six on each side, were shelves of books, ranging from floor to ceiling, while at the far end a fire burned brightly in a marbled fireplace, a desk and chair placed in front of it.
‘What a room!’ the Apothecary exclaimed. ‘I envy you this, Sir.’
‘I’m glad you like it. My father restored the abbey, you know, and built on all the modern parts, including this library. I’ve always loved it here, have done ever since I was a child. But he, strangely enough, preferred to live in his other property at Rye. And now, alas, there is no one to inherit except my nephew, and I do not believe he has such a love for the old place as I have.’ He motioned John to take a seat on one of the many sofas that stood beneath the windows. ‘I was just about to have a sherry, Mr Rawlings. Would you care to join me?’
‘I’d be delighted, Captain.’
John’s host pulled a bell rope, then sat down at the sofa’s other end. ‘And how is your aunt today?’ he asked conversationally.
The morning light was such that it was difficult to see his face but Captain Pegram’s whole demeanour was hardly one of a brutal poisoner. None the less, the Apothecary proceeded with caution.
‘As a matter of fact, that is the reason for my call.’