by Deryn Lake
Killed on the Romney Marsh, John thought. Aloud, he said, ‘Surely that was strange, with war declared.’
‘It was just before hostilities began.’
The Marquis laughed. ‘You seem to recall events very distinctly, my dear.’
‘I noticed the fellow because he was so beautifully dressed.’
Or, more likely, because he ogled you and you loved every moment, John reflected cynically.
‘Then perhaps you should seek this Jago out and tell him what you remember.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said a voice from the doorway. ‘He came into church this evening. He will be calling at the Rectory tomorrow.’
Every head turned and words of greeting were exchanged. The Reverend Tireman had arrived home.
He was a sandy sort of man, John observed, his wispy hair, or all that remained of it about the rector’s balding pate, a soft ginger shade, as were his bushy brows. Beneath those protuberances, as untamed and sprawling as a nest of spiders, the rector’s eyes were the colour of syrup, while his skin was almost dun in tone. Once again, the extraordinary beauty of his daughters seemed inexplicable until the Apothecary remembered their French grandmother and wondered if that might be whom they took after.
‘Well, well,’ said the reverend gentleman, advancing on John with a beaming smile, ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Sir.’
His guest, who had risen to his feet, bowed politely. ‘John Rawlings, apothecary of London.’
‘An apothecary, eh? How interesting. Have you met our local chap, Gironde?’
‘Briefly, Sir.’
‘You must chat with him. He’s very knowledgeable I believe.’
Mrs Tireman rose to her feet. ‘Shall we go in to dine? Mr Rawlings, will you take in Henrietta?’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ John answered, and offered the young lady his arm.
It was not easy to concentrate during that meal, sitting close to the elder Miss Tireman as he was, and consequently beset by passionate feelings every time he looked at her. And yet the Apothecary was acutely aware that there was a pressing need to be alert. With Rosalind’s assertion that the Scarecrow had been in Winchelsea on the very eve of war, it was clearer than ever that contact with the Moth and the Frog, or at least one of them, had been made, with disastrous consequences for the spy master. Even now, John was aware, one or both of the secret agents could be sitting at this very table.
He looked round covertly. Mrs Tireman with her awful maquillage and overbearing manner seemed too stupid for a spy, yet she spoke French fluently and her mother had come from that country. Could her connection with the smugglers mean that she was also associated with other equally sinister figures from across the Channel? Equally, the sable-toned rector seemed impossible to suspect, yet the Apothecary had learned long since that the least likely person was often the most guilty. The Tireman women were particularly well turned out for the family of a simple country parson. Had the man of God sold his soul in order to clothe his wife and daughters in style? Or could he be being blackmailed into spying by someone who knew of Mrs Tireman’s connection with Dick Jarvis?
Almost unwillingly, John looked at the girl beside him and, as always with his particular personality, shuddered away from the idea that Henrietta could be involved. But had she not gone to the Marquis’s household to teach French to his young sister? Did her knowledge of the language stem simply from the fact of having a French grandmother? Or had there been a liaison with a Frenchman at some time in her past? A liaison that had led to her becoming a spy?
Slowly, John turned his eyes to Rosalind, who glowed in the candlelight like a nymph of dawning. She was so totally perfect and so very aware of it that he doubted she had room in her head for another single thought. As far as he could tell, her entire life revolved around her glorious hair, her wonderful eyes, her enticing body, and the art of enslaving men. And even now, feeling him look at her, Rosalind gave him a glance of sublime assurance, her pupils green as the ocean in the dim light. But beauty often masked an ugly heart, the Apothecary knew that well. With looks such as hers there was little doubt that Rosalind had been attracting men since puberty. Had she agreed to become a spy in order that the secret of a past indiscretion should never come to light? Or could avarice alone have been her motive?
Beside her the Marquis fluttered darkly, his hawk face shadowed and closed. Could he, John wondered, peer of the realm though the man might be, have betrayed his country for some reason? And then he remembered Lady Ffloote telling him of the Marquis’s early debts and wondered whether Justin had sold out for money at a very different stage of his life and was now too deeply in the abyss to turn back.
The Scarecrow almost certainly had been killed in the church then dragged outside and hung upon the wooden cross, a task that would have taken a certain amount of strength. Staring at the women, John considered Mrs Tireman well up to the task. And Henrietta and Rosalind, gorgeous though they looked, were strong young women with the fresh complexions of those who both rode and walked. The Scarecrow had not been a big man, his tattered clothes gave evidence to that. Though it would have required effort, the Apothecary felt certain that either of them could have disguised their crime in the macabre way that was chosen.
Making as if she had dropped something, Henrietta leaned towards him. ‘When can we meet?’ she whispered close to John’s ear.
‘Tomorrow,’ he murmured, pretending to search the floor.
‘In the same place?’
‘Yes. At noon.’
‘Henrietta, what are you doing?’ enquired Mrs Tireman, staring down the length of the table.
‘I lost an earring, Mama, but Mr Rawlings has found it for me.’
‘I’m sure Mr Rawlings is excellent at discovering things,’ Rosalind commented, but though John shot her an enquiring glance she gave him her usual infinite gaze into which he could read absolutely nothing at all.
As before, to risk exposing Joe Jago as an associate was a terrible prospect, but even more terrible was the thought of not catching up with him at all. Therefore, when dinner had ended and John had sat through the usual hour of musical entertainment, he walked out into the dusk and hurried through the back lanes to The Salutation, there to put his head round the door of the various public rooms to see if he could locate Mr Fielding’s clerk. Yet again, luck was running with him, for Joe was standing in the taproom, his wig at a rakish angle, his ragged face creased into a smile, consuming ale with the locals and undoubtedly coming by as much gossip as he possibly could. Not quite sure how to handle the situation, the Apothecary went up to the bar and a few moments later felt Joe come and stand beside him.
‘Good evening, Sir. Forgive me for intruding but I’ve been racking my brains ever since you were kind enough to give me directions the other day. You see, I can’t help feeling that I know you from somewhere. You don’t by any chance come from London, do you?’
John turned to look at him and saw a light eye winking. ‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact,’ he answered.
‘I thought I was not mistaken. I never forget a face. Correct me if I am wrong but do you not own a shop in Shug Lane off Piccadilly?’
‘What a phenomenal memory,’ the Apothecary replied overloudly. ‘My dear Sir I congratulate you on it.’ He wrung Joe Jago heartily by the hand.
‘Not quite so good as you might think,’ the clerk replied, grinning a great display of teeth. ‘I have an aged mama who lives close by. I have to pass your place every time I go and visit her. Small wonder that you were familiar to me.’
He said it so convincingly that John looked at him twice, wondering if it might be true. It had never occurred to him that Joe had parents or any other kind of family, being the type of man who just seemed to be there, permanently arrested in the middle years of his life. Yet this extraordinary individual who spoke cant, the language of the streets, as fluently as standard English, must have come from somewhere.
‘Have you really?’ John a
sked, meaning it.
‘London is scattered with my relations,’ Joe answered, and laughed. ‘And now, young gentleman,’ he continued, his eyes full of amusement, ‘will you allow me to buy you some ale? It is so pleasant to see an acquaintance from town.’
‘By all means,’ the Apothecary replied, and secured a place for them at a table which stood rather distant from the others, taking his seat on the high-backed settle close by.
‘Now,’ said Joe in an undertone, putting down the two foaming tankards, ‘tell me what happened to you? I waited at the Roundle till late but though much occurred, for that damned foolish fellow’s still out there signalling to the Frenchies for all he’s worth, you did not appear.’
‘I was taken prisoner by the smugglers who clouted me over the head thinking I was an excise man,’ John answered, equally quietly. ‘In the end I was dragged off to Brookland on the Romney Marsh in order to be interrogated by the head man himself, Dick Jarvis, infamous son of a notorious father. He’s little older than I am but has the cheek of the very Devil. He strolls the Marsh dressed as a curate, if you please. What a rogue.’ He laughed and removed his wig, delicately feeling the cut that lay concealed beneath.
‘You like him,’ said Joe, and it was a statement not a question.
‘It’s difficult not to.’
‘Even when he knocks you unconscious?’
‘That was one of his henchmen.’
‘But his order.’
‘Joe, I think he has befriended me,’ said John, just above a whisper. ‘I believe that he will leave me alone in future. Now, tell me what has been happening to you.’
‘I managed to call on most of Winchelsea’s worthies, other than for the rector and his family, all of whom were out for the day. Most of them denied seeing a Frenchman or said they couldn’t remember that far back, with two exceptions that is.’
‘And who were they?’
‘Mrs Finch and Captain Pegram.’
The Apothecary chuckled. ‘So you braved the lady, did you?’
Joe Jago, man of the people, actually coloured the ripe rich shade of ruby port. ‘Yes,’ he said non-committally.
John laughed uncontrollably. ‘Oh dear me, did she have her wicked way?’
Mr Fielding’s clerk put on a dignified countenance, a look that did not sit at all easily on his rugged features.
‘I conducted my business formally, Sir.’
‘Ha ha,’ bellowed John, ‘but how did she conduct hers?’
‘I thought the lady very amiable.’
‘I’ll wager she was too,’ the Apothecary answered, wiping his streaming eyes.
Joe looked severe. ‘Mrs Finch informed me that when out walking with her daughters she was asked the way by am elegant man with a French accent. He told her that he was staying in town at this very inn and also enquired whether she knew where the Marquis of Rye resided.’
John stopped laughing and leant forward. ‘Really? How very interesting.’
‘Just as I thought. However, the Marquis himself said no such man called on him, denied it emphatically indeed. He’s half French, you know.’
‘Yes, I do. And so is Mrs Tireman, while Captain Pegram had a French grandmother.’
‘Now there’s an odd fish.’
‘The Captain?’
‘Yes. Did you know that his father commanded the Revenue vessel based at Rye and was wounded by your friend Dick Jarvis’s blackguardly sire?’
‘No, I most certainly did not.’
‘Apparently the family was called Pigram in those days but later changed the name for reasons of good taste. Anyway, Captain Pigram the first did not dare leave Rye harbour without the protection of a man-of-war. Three large Calais sloops were constantly waiting to shoot him up if he did. Furthermore, the dastardly Kit together with his gang had the barefaced audacity to board his vessel. Naturally, there was a fight and several crew members were wounded, one of them being stripped of his wig and trousers and made to dance on deck, culls a-leaping with every step and his pizzle swaying in the ocean breeze, no doubt.’
‘Did the Captain say that?’ asked John, astonished.
It was Joe’s turn to laugh. ‘Nay, that’s just my coarseness. No, the present day Captain Pegram only told me how much he disliked the smuggling fraternity and would have nothing to do with them, though many of the public support them, and at all levels of society too.’
‘And what about the Scarecrow?’
‘He said that a Frenchman called on him, a very elegantly dressed fellow. He apologised profusely for coming to the wrong house when Captain Pegram received him, said he was looking for somebody else and would be on his way.’
‘Did he say who that someone was?’
‘Unfortunately no.’
‘Damnation! Anything else?’
Joe hesitated. ‘I believe the gallant Captain is an admirer of the naked female form.’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘You are in a very facetious mood, young Sir. I cannot think what Mr Fielding would say.’
The Apothecary composed himself. ‘I’m sorry. But even if Captain Pegram does have a lascivious side to his nature how can that have any bearing on the death of the Scarecrow?’
Joe’s blue eyes looked steely. ‘I am surprised at you, Mr Rawlings. I thought you knew by now that everything has significance when it comes to murder. Perhaps there is something the Captain wants hidden from the world and he was prepared to kill to keep it secret.’
Chastened, John looked down. ‘You’re right, tell me what you know.’
‘I was alone in his study for a moment or two and it was then that I observed, half hidden in the drawer of his writing desk, a pencil drawing of a beautiful girl, stark naked and with a very knowing expression on her face. I just thought it odd for a man in Captain Pegram’s position to have such a thing.’
‘Why? He is only human like the rest of us.’
‘Indeed he is. Yet there was something provocative about the female’s pose. For no reason I got the impression that I was looking at a portrait of his mistress.’
‘I still don’t see …’
Joe Jago played his trump card. ‘I believe, Mr Rawlings, that I was looking at a picture of one or other of the Misses Tireman.’
John felt stricken, imagining Henrietta and the Captain together. ‘What makes you say that? Have you met the rector’s daughters yet?’
‘I glimpsed them when they returned from their excursion.’
‘My God!’ said the Apothecary wretchedly.
‘However, when I go to interview them tomorrow I shall know for certain. Meanwhile, Mr Rawlings, nothing can be proved.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ John answered, trying to rally.
Joe plunged on cheerfully. ‘As for the rest, Sir Ambrose Ffloote stared at me as if I were crazed and said he knew nothing of any damned foreigner; his lady pleaded illness in order not to speak to me; Apothecary Gironde and his wife became extremely agitated and swore they hated all Frenchmen as he was a Huguenot. As for the doctor, he says he has so many sick people to deal with he can hardly remember one week from the next, let alone eight months ago.’
‘And were they telling the truth?’
‘Some of them, I expect.’
‘Are our spies amongst Winchelsea’s polite society?’
‘Definitely, I would say. Only they would have the time and sufficient knowledge of France and the French. I am well aware that working people can act as secret agents but somehow I don’t quite see that in a rural community. Anyway, as I told you earlier, somebody is continuing to signal. Tonight we must both watch and note down the number sequences.’
‘Shall I meet you?’
‘No, we are already being observed by the local gaffers who are not as silly as they look. Let us keep up the pretence of being strangers as long as we can.’
‘When shall I talk to you again?’
‘Come to The Salutation any evening and wait in the taproom. But if something s
hould go wrong I shall send a note to Mrs Harcross, or ought I to say Rose?’
‘Very good.’ John got to his feet. ‘It is indeed a small world, Sir,’ he said loudly. ‘I have enjoyed making your acquaintance. I am staying in Winchelsea with my aunt, Mrs Rose of Petronilla’s Platt. Do call on me there if you should feel so inclined.’
Joe stood also. ‘I am rather busy, Sir, but if I get a moment, I will.’ They bowed formally to one another. ‘Meanwhile, I bid you farewell.’
‘Farewell,’ said the Apothecary, and stepped out from the warmth of The Salutation into the cold March night.
It was bitterly cold close to the sea, a high wind lashing in over the waves that could almost freeze a man to death. John stood beside the dappled mare, which he had hired as soon as he had left the inn, shivering violently and hoping that he was not wasting his time and that the signals would be repeated tonight. Further, that he would be able to note them down, unhindered by the activities of smugglers. For it was the sort of night when they might well be active, thick inky cloud obscuring the moon and hiding their dark deeds from the eyes of the Riding Officers.
When in the fifteenth century the sea had receded from the ancient Cinque Port of Winchelsea amd the harbour had silted up, the town had become that extraordinary curiosity, a port without water. So now the Apothecary stood icy, deciding that he was not going to wait long on a night like this, on a deserted piece of terrain known as Pett Level, staring out into the blackness waiting for something to happen.
While he kept his freezing vigil his mind drifted as his thoughts ran free and he smiled, alone in the darkness, at the sheer audacity of Dick Jarvis and his not altogether convincing portrayal of am eager young curate. Then John frowned at the notion that Captain Nathaniel Pegram might have a drawing of Henrietta, naked, amd wondered, if the man had indeed got such a thing, what the meaning of it might be. For if truth be known, Coralie Clive or no Coralie Clive, John was deeply smitten with the girl he had made love to in the cherry orchard and hated to think of her with anyone else.
At this, the Marquis of Rye came into mind; dark, saturnine amd very slightly sinister. Why had the Scarecrow asked Mrs Finch if she knew of the nobleman’s whereabouts? And was it the Marquis whom the Frenchman had sought when he had arrived mistakenly at Grey Friars? Going deeply down this path, John hardly noticed when, quite close at hand, no more than a hundred yards away, a light began to flash, its beam directed out to sea.