Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  A quarter of an hour later the Apothecary had managed to extricate himself and was heading briskly for Petronilla’s Platt, only to find when he got there that Agnes had returned home and Elizabeth, who had remained in bed, had gone back to sleep.

  Putting on a warm topcoat, for the evening had turned chilly, John set off to walk to the Roundle.

  It was as dark as pitch outside but he had had the good sense to bring a lantern, the light from which dimly illuminated the way. Stumbling and tripping, the Apothecary set off down the lane lying behind Paradise House, wishing that there could be even one glimpse of moon and stars. Passing the last house on the path, he left civilisation behind him and turned off towards the fields, the lane deteriorating into the roughest track. Bearing right by Joseph’s Tree, a local landmark, John headed down the path leading to the windmill, then crossed a stile, dropping the lantern as he did so and extinguishing its flame.

  Now he was in the wildest territory of all for the Round Tower, as some called it, stood in a field, these days quite deserted and alone, no longer used for the purpose for which it had been built. Yet Joe must have arrived there before him, for there was a light on in the Roundle, the Apothecary could see it quite distinctly.

  With a greeting on his lips, John hurried forward, only to stop dead as a sensation of great danger swept over him. Then a shape loomed up out of the shadows. There was a click as a pistol cocked in the darkness and the Apothecary felt the coldness of the muzzle against his temple.

  ‘One move, you little bastard, and you’re a corpse,’ said a rough voice.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked John, but there was no reply, only a mighty blow to the Apothecary’s head which sent him spinning into oblivion, spiralling downwards amongst the whirling stars.

  Chapter Eleven

  Regaining consciousness was painful, horribly so. With a mighty effort, John opened his eyes, only to close them again rapidly. His head throbbed with such indescribable savagery that even the movement of raising his lids had sent a wave of agony through his entire body. Wondering where he could possibly be and what terrible fate had befallen him, the Apothecary lay very still, willing the hurt to go away.

  Beneath him was a hard narrow bed, its mattress sharp with horsehair, its pillow rank with the smell of sweat. In fact so revolting was its stink that if John had had one ounce of energy left he would have thrown it to the floor. But as it was he just lay there, too weak to do anything, his body helpless but his brain slowly beginning to function again.

  The last thing he could remember was the sound of the cock of a pistol in the darkness, the blow, then oblivion. That had all happened in the open but now he was inside, most likely the prisoner of whoever had struck him. Bracing himself against the pain, John opened his eyes once more.

  He was in a narrow room beneath the eaves, a shaft of moonlight coming through one small window its only illumination. In the dim light, John could make out a broken table with an unlit candle on it, a grimy chamber pot standing beneath. These, other than the bed on which he lay sprawled, were the only furnishings. Very slowly, moving with extreme care, the Apothecary got to his feet, staggering as he did so.

  Holding on tightly, he peered out of the window. What view the meagre casement gave revealed nothing but moorland, with no sign of any other form of habitation Grimly wondering why he was being held captive, John was just about to try the door when he heard voices in the distance and the sound of feet ascending the wooden staircase. Moving as quickly as he could, he lay back on the bed. Beneath the door, the light of a candle was drawing nearer, and the Apothecary could make out the sound of two men speaking in undertones.

  ‘I shall deal with it in my own manner,’ one was saying.

  ‘To hell with that,’ answered the other contemptuously. ‘I know what I’d do with him.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ the first speaker replied tersely as the door opened. At which John closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

  ‘Merciful God!’ the first voice continued, using a noticeably different timbre. ‘This poor fellow’s wounded. Fetch some warm water and a bandage. He’s bleeding from the head.’

  ‘Yes, Your Reverence.’ And there was the sound of retreating footsteps.

  The candle was set down and the Apothecary felt himself being gently raised as a pair of probing fingers investigated the spot where he had been struck. Groaning theatrically, John lifted his lids.

  ‘He’s regaining consciousness, may the Lord be praised,’ said the voice, close to his ear.

  Squinting into the dimness, John could just make out the dark cloth of clerical habit. ‘Who are you?’ he asked faintly.

  ‘The Reverend Tompkins,’ replied the other, and as he moved into the light the Apothecary saw to his amazement that it was the extraordinary young curate he had encountered in St Augustine’s at Brookland.

  ‘I believe we’ve met before,’ John said. ‘A few days ago. I was looking around your church.’

  ‘Were you?’ The curate peered more closely. ‘Why, yes, I do remember. You were on your way to Fairfield, were you not?’

  The Apothecary nodded weakly. ‘Indeed I was. But, Father, where am I now? The last thing I recall was being in Winchelsea. Then someone struck me, with a pistol butt I think. The next I knew I was lying on this bed.’

  ‘My dear man, you’re but a mile or so from where we first met. You are in The Woolpack, an inn situated within a stone’s throw of Brookland Church.’

  ‘But how in Heaven’s name did I get here?’

  The curate shook his head. ‘That I do not know. The landlord found you lying on the Marsh when he went out in his cart about an hour ago. There was no clue as to who put you there. Someone who bears you a grudge, I suppose.’

  ‘But who could have a grudge against me in this part of the world? I am merely staying in Winchelsea and hardly know a soul there.’

  Unless, John thought, Mrs Rose’s would-be killer believes me to be nearer the truth than I actually am.

  There was a knock on the door and the landlord came in with a chipped bowl, a soiled towel and some grubby-looking rags. The Apothecary shuddered.

  ‘Does the wound need a stitch?’ he asked the curate, who had started on the business of washing the blood from it.

  ‘I hardly know. I am no expert.’

  John looked at the landlord. ‘Do you have such a thing as a couple of mirrors?’

  The man exchanged a glance with the Reverend Tompkins. ‘I might have. Why?’

  ‘Because then I can see for myself just how bad the gash is.’

  ‘And what would you know about such things?’

  ‘Quite a lot. I’m an apothecary.’

  The two stared at each other, clearly amazed. ‘An apothecary!’ exclaimed the curate.

  ‘Yes. Why so surprised?’

  ‘Because you don’t really look the part, Sir.’

  ‘Neither do you,’ John responded, grinning, then wincing.

  The other chuckled, eyes twinkling. ‘Well said. Fetch him the mirrors, Will.’

  He seemed very much in command, John thought, for the landlord ambled off to do the curate’s bidding without hesitation.

  ‘So you’re a man of medicine,’ the Reverend Tompkins said, starting to pat the wound dry.

  ‘Yes.’ John felt in his inner pocket. ‘Unfortunately I have no cards on me but I am John Rawlings, Apothecary, of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  John looked at him in astonishment. ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘Because whoever did this to you obviously thought you were engaged in some other form of business.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The curate leaned close to him, his wild blue eyes serious. ‘My friend, this is smuggling country. It is a fact that free-traders work the Marsh, always have and always will. And Winchelsea, with its wonderful old cellars for storage, provides excellent customers for those who bring goods across the Channel. So my reading of
the situation is that one of the fraternity, seeing a stranger in town, made a few enquiries and came to the conclusion that you were an excise man, working under cover as it were.’

  Despite his pain, John laughed. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth.’

  The Reverend Tompkins’s vivid gaze grew narrow. ‘But you aren’t all that you seem, are you? Because if you’re here simply to look at churches and visit your aunt, then my intuition ain’t worth a tuppenny cuss.’

  The Apothecary’s eyes tightened in return. ‘I don’t remember mentioning my aunt to you.’

  ‘Then somebody else must have done. But stick to the point, Sir, do. What have you really come to the marshland for?’

  John stared at the Reverend Tompkins, several curious ideas about the man vying for supremacy in his mind. Eventually, the Apothecary grinned as he came to a decision. Lowering his voice dramatically, he whispered, ‘To find a spy.’

  ‘A spy!’ exclaimed the curate, almost dropping the towel.

  ‘Well two, to be precise. Don’t ask me how I know because I have no intention of telling you. Simply trust me that there are two agents of France even now working out of Winchelsea. But I enjoin you to keep that information to yourself if you love your country.’

  The curate’s startled face grew serious. ‘I am a patriot, Sir. Of that I can assure you. But may I ask one question?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘If what you tell me is true would I be correct in believing you work for the Secret Office?’

  ‘In a manner I do. For a branch of it.’

  ‘And you are not connected with the Riding Officers, the excise men, in any way?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then word shall be put about the Marsh that you must be left in peace to conduct your affairs as you wish.’

  ‘And who will do this, Reverend Tompkins?’

  The curate sparkled with intrigue. ‘As a man of the cloth I naturally have connections.’

  ‘Oh, I’m absolutely sure you do,’ the Apothecary answered, smiling once more.

  An hour later, driven by a man in a trap, John was heading for Winchelsea beneath the dawn sky, his head neatly bandaged by the local physician who had been roused from his bed and brought to The Woolpack, clearly under protest. No stitch had been necessary but an ointment to stop wounds from becoming infected had been liberally applied to the gash, much to the Apothecary’s relief.

  ‘So you think I will be safe to pursue my inquiries?’ he had asked of the curate as they parted company.

  ‘I feel confident the freebooters will leave you alone when they discover you are not a Riding Officer.’

  ‘Then let it be hoped that word gets round quickly.’

  ‘It will,’ the Reverend Tompkins had answered, nodding and smiling.

  John had looked thoughtful. ‘About your name, Father.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Am I right in thinking it is quite famous round these parts?’

  The curate had become vague, his blue eyes veiled. ‘Is it? How so?’

  ‘I thought you might have known. It was one of the aliases, or maybe even the real name, of Kit Jarvis, a notorious smuggler, highwayman, and God knows what else, who worked the marshland as an owler in his early days. He was hanged in 1750 for robbing the Chester mail.’

  ‘May God rest his soul,’ the man of the cloth had said quietly.

  ‘Indeed, Father, indeed. A strange coincidence is it not, though? And now I really must be on my way.’

  John had given a bow which wobbled slightly as his head throbbed with sudden pain.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’

  And before he could protest, the curate, with amazing strength, had half lifted the Apothecary into the trap.

  ‘Until we meet again,’ he called as the vehicle set off.

  ‘Until next time, Dick,’ John had answered, and watched as the curate’s look of astonishment turned into a broad grin before he was lost to the Apothecary’s view.

  Chapter Twelve

  At close quarters, John observed with a slight sense of shock, Mrs Tireman was even more redoubtable than she appeared at a distance. Large-framed and broad of hip, her feet and hands matched the rest of her so closely that in some ways she resembled a man, an impression enhanced by her extremely odd make-up. For this afternoon Mrs Tireman was in full enamel, yet with very pink cheeks and heavily rouged lips, while her eyes and brows had been over-darkened with a substance which the apothecary recognised as being imported from China. On her head, much boosted up with false curls, not to mention a mass of frills, furbelows and flowers, Mrs Tireman wore a good sprinkling of Cypress Hair Powder, thus attempting to create an impression of being at the very height of fashion. But all this, combined with her big build, simply served to make her look like a transvestite or, more kindly, a country parson’s wife with desperate pretensions to being seen as a member of the beau monde.

  Also present in the salon of the Rectory, where John, having slept all the morning, was duly keeping his appointment to dine, were Mrs Tireman’s two daughters, their beauty almost unreal in comparison with their mother’s extraordinary appearance. The company was completed by the saturnine figure of the Marquis of Rye, who sat stretched full length in a chair before the fire. Of the Reverend Tireman himself there was no sign, and John could not help but wonder whether the poor man had taken himself off in order to escape the rigours of pre-dinner conversation.

  Having given Henrietta the warmest glance he dared in view of her mother’s presence, the Apothecary had let his gaze wander over to her younger sister, the cause of so much grief and distress. That the girl was arrogant beyond belief was clearly evident, every trick of someone totally conceited being played. Rosalind had long since learned to move her head so that her glorious hair picked up and reflected the light with each tiny toss, while her green-blue eyes, the lashes dark around them, gazed on the world serenely, confident that every man living was her adoring slave, and her lips curving into a smile because of it.

  Feeling John’s scrutiny, finely tuned as she was to every nuance of male attention, Rosalind looked up and directly at him. The smile deepened and the eyes widened guilelessly, a little gleam in their depths that was meant for him to see and him alone. The fact that the Apothecary thought her lovely clearly pleased Rosalind enormously. She was without doubt, John thought, one of the most dangerous young women alive.

  A very small sound drew his attention away from his study of this most ravishing of beauties and he realised that Henrietta had observed all that was happening and was biting her lip with consequent anguish. Well aware that Rosalind was still smiling at him, John turned his head to her sister and gave Henrietta a glance, the meaning of which could simply not be mistaken. She gave him a deep unreadable look in return, then smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, the Apothecary saw Rosalind’s expression become petulant. However, the vain girl did not let the matter rest there. Rising from her seat, she came to sit next to John on the sofa.

  ‘Where do you live in London, Mr Rawlings?’

  ‘In Nassau Street in Soho, Miss Tireman.’

  Rosalind examined her crescent shaped nails. ‘Justin has a house in Pall Mall. I hope very much to spend a good deal of time there when we are married, particularly in the winter. I find the cold months so dreary in the country.’

  ‘I am sure that town life will be all the brighter for your presence,’ the Apothecary answered blandly.

  Rosalind adored the compliment and gave the Apothecary a look aimed at leaving him helpless. It did not succeed.

  Meanwhile, the Marquis sat at ease, sipping a dry sherry and staring into the fire. He was, John considered, with his dark looks, black clothes and long, elegant frame, rather like some exquisite insect, a beautiful creature of the night drawn to the brightness of the flames.

  ‘Justin,’ Rosalind said, addressing her future bridegroom, her voice rich and sweet as honey, ‘when are we going to London? You did promise that it wou
ld be very shortly.’

  The Marquis ceased his contemplation of the fire. ‘I have some business to attend to here, my dear. That should take a week or so. We’ll go after that.’

  Her lower lip drooped a little. ‘I had hoped somewhat sooner.’

  Mrs Tireman entered the conversation. ‘Now, now, Rosie. You are lucky to have such a beautiful house to stay in when you are in town. Be content I pray you.’

  The Marquis smiled fleetingly and deliberately changed the topic. Looking at John, he said, ‘Tell me, Mr Rawlings, has your aunt been visited by a certain Mr Jago claiming he is from the Secret Office and asking the whereabouts of a Frenchman, supposed to have visited Winchelsea some eight months ago?’

  ‘Not that I know of, my Lord,’ the Apothecary answered truthfully.

  ‘Well he came to see me and I thought it damned impertinent. I hardly knew what he was talking about. No one answering that description called on me, I can assure you. However, he seemed much interested in the fact that my mother was French.’

  ‘A thing that the Marquis and I share in common,’ said Mrs Tireman unexpectedly. ‘My mama was Claude Vallier from Normandy.’

  ‘Which would explain why you speak the language so well,’ the Apothecary replied, his expression innocent.

  She shot him a penetrating look from beneath her darkened brows. ‘How did you know that, pray?’

  ‘Oh I heard you,’ John said vaguely.

  ‘Anyway,’ the Marquis continued, ‘it seems that we must all be careful. The man is here to snoop, there’s no doubt of it.’

  ‘But surely if one has nothing to hide, one has nothing to fear,’ said Henrietta, a note of defiance in her voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too certain,’ answered her former lover, not looking at her. ‘Men of Jago’s type can twist facts very easily.’

  ‘Was there a Frenchman here some months ago, then?’ John asked ingenuously.

  ‘Yes there was, as a matter of fact,’ answered Rosalind. ‘He stayed at The Salutation. Only for a few days. Then he left and did not return.’