Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  Hastily dragging his attention back to the moment, the Apothecary drew out the paper and pencil which he had placed in the pocket of his great coat, amd started to write.

  ‘2918 386 841,’ the sequence ran, the lantern flashing twice, then pausing, then flashing nine times and so on. It meant nothing of course but he painstakingly copied the numbers down. Eventually, with no reply, the sequence was laboriously repeated. Then came an answering flash from a ship close to the shore. ‘2245 1615 2697,’ John wrote, before the lights were abruptly doused.

  Nothing stirred in the icy blackness, then suddenly the Apothecary froze as the sound of a horse’s hooves drew close. And with that sound, slightly masked by the noise of the trotting horse, there was something else that he could not identify, a strange amd rather frightening scrabbling, as if some creature were dragging itself painfully over the sandy terrain. Inexplicably nervous, John waited in the darkness until all had gone quiet, then thankfully headed for home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was with a great deal of curiosity and a strong streak of professional jealousy that John Rawlings drew to a halt outside Marcel Gironde’s apothecary’s shop amd surveyed the premises with an admiring eye, somewhat dazzled by all there was on offer. For not one but two bow fronted windows met his envious gaze, the first packed with a thrilling array of exotic containers and jars, all filled with vivid blue liquid, the second with perfume, attractively presented in porcelain bottles, some of which had been painted by hand. Together with the scents were cosmetics, bearing signs showing their country of origin. ‘Carmine from the Indies’ lay beside a pot of red lip salve, though pride of place in the window display had been given to a dentifrice, described thus: ‘Made on the premises from a mixture of coral, Armenia bole, Portugal snuff, Havana snuff, ashes of good tobacco and gum myrrh. All ingredients well pulverised, mixed, and sifted twice. Rub on the teeth with the fingers.’

  Very impressed, John went through the door between the two windows, to the accompaniment of a ringing bell. As he did so Nan Gironde bobbed up from behind the counter.

  ‘Oh good morning,’ she gushed. ‘Mr Rawlings, isn’t it?’

  John bowed. ‘Yes, Madam. We were introduced at the Assembly the other night. I am staying in Winchelsea with my aunt, Elizabeth Rose.’

  The bird-bright eyes regarded him with interest. ‘Did she not say that you are an apothecary, Sir?’

  ‘I am indeed. Allow me to present you with my card.’

  Mrs Gironde took it, scanning the wording with interest. ‘Oh! Shug Lane, eh? A good area indeed.’

  ‘You are familiar with London, Madam?’

  ‘Most certainly. I lived there prior to my marriage. Born and brought up in town, in fact.’ She looked wistful. ‘I miss the hustle and bustle.’ Nan brightened again. ‘But there. We have made a thriving business in Winchelsea. People come from as far as Hastings, even beyond, to buy our products. We have the reputation of making the finest cosmetics and scents in the country.’

  ‘Really?’ asked John, thoroughly struck by what he was hearing. ‘I indulge in perfume blending as well, even though it is frowned upon by other apothecaries who believe I am straying out of my province.’

  ‘Of course, there are attitudes wherever one goes,’ answered Mrs Gironde, promptly rising in John’s estimation. ‘That is partly why Marcel lets me compound the scents and cosmetics – under his supervision I might add.’

  Thinking of Nicholas Dawkins and Snow Violets, John smiled. ‘A very wise move on your husband’s part.’

  ‘I heard myself mentioned,’ stated a voice from an archway at the back, and Marcel Gironde stepped into the shop from his compounding room.

  ‘My dear Sir,’ said John, bowing deep, ‘may I say with all sincerity how very much I admire your shop and its range of products.’

  ‘How kind of you. Please let us show you round. Do you have a spare hour?’

  John looked at his watch which told him that the time was ten o’clock. ‘Yes, I most certainly do. My next appointment is not until noon.’

  ‘Then allow me the pleasure.’

  They went along the shelves, looking at bottles and discussing ingredients, then spent a delightful thirty minutes in the back room, examining various simples and talking of their merits and failings. Completely absorbed in his conversation with a fellow practitioner amd enthusiast, John almost forgot that he was there to gather information, and it wasn’t until Nan announced that it was her turn to show their visitor the perfumery, that the Apothecary recalled the task in hand.

  He turned to Marcel. ‘I believe you are of Huguenot descent, Sir.’

  ‘Yes, both sets of grandparents fled to London in 1687, after the Edict of Nantes was revoked. My parents were children at the time, of course, but, moving in the same circle, they were introduced, married, and raised a family. I was apprenticed to a town apothecary, also with Huguenot origins, and that is how I met my future wife. She was his niece.’

  ‘And how did you come to live in Winchelsea?’

  Nan interrupted. ‘My mother moved to Hastings, feeling she needed the sea air for her lungs. We followed to be close by. As I told you, it was a wrench to leave the excitement of London, but I do believe we have made the best of it.’

  ‘You certainly have.’

  Nan’s beaky face looked animated. ‘It is so very nice to speak to another of like mind. Do come and see my section of the shop, Mr Rawlings.’

  The way in which the place was set out was clever indeed. A long counter ran almost the entire length of the premises, divided neatly by a wooden partition at its centre. On one side lay Marcel’s domain, the shelves behind bearing nothing but physick and pills. On the other were the beauty preparations, the shelves and drawers stacked with perfumes and scents, dyestuffs for the complexion, rouges for the lips and cheeks, blackening for the eyes and brows. Piled amongst these were wash balls and soaps, to say nothing of extraordinary mixtures for cleaning the teeth. Awestruck, John found his eye drawn to a bottle, claiming on its label, ‘Elixir of Youth. A Potion for the More Mature’.

  ‘Gracious me,’ he said, picking it up. ‘What’s in it?’

  Nan had the good grace to look uncomfortable but Marcel laughed. ‘Harmless Pennywort and a few good tasting placebos.’

  ‘I see. Do you sell a lot of the stuff?’

  ‘We have one or two regular customers, mostly from outside. I don’t think the ladies of Winchelsea are that concerned about ageing.’

  ‘Some are,’ said Mrs Gironde with a knowing smile.

  ‘Yes, a few.’

  ‘But it can’t work surely?’

  Marcel laughed. ‘Oh come now, Mr Rawlings, you know as well as I do that half the cure lies in the belief.’

  ‘Anyway,’ chipped in Nan, avine in the extreme at that moment, ‘I sell them a complementary paste that smoothes out wrinkles, temporarily if nothing more.’

  John had to smile despite a certain dislike of what the Girondes were doing, forced to agree that much of what they said was true. ‘I suppose as long as the ladies are happy …’

  ‘That is precisely how we feel.’ Mrs Gironde attempted to look artless. ‘And talking of ladies reminds me. I would swear that I know your aunt from somewhere. You see, I was a great theatregoer before I left town. As were all my family. My grandfather went to the first night of all the new plays, never missed one.’

  The Apothecary’s heart sank. ‘Oh yes?’ he said politely.

  ‘Well, he was very much taken with the great Mrs Egleton, the one who created the role of Lucy Lockit, and even when he was quite an old man kept a print of her in his bedroom. I grew up with that print, Mr Rawlings. And do you know when I first saw Mrs Rose, I thought the portrait had come to life.’

  There was more to be gained by telling the truth, John knew it. ‘What a remarkable child you must have been. How very observant,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘Aunt Elizabeth was indeed the actress of whom you speak.’

  ‘Well
fancy that!’ She turned to her husband. ‘Just imagine, Marcel, we live in the same town as one of the most famous actresses of all time.’ The bright eyes tightened. ‘Was she not married to Jasper Harcross, the man who was killed on stage during a performance of The Beggar’s Opera?’

  ‘Yes, poor lady,’ said John sorrowfully. ‘The loss of such a devoted husband was very hard for her to bear. That is why she lives here quietly and alone. Here, in the solitude of Winchelsea, she feels she can escape her memories. Therefore, Madam, I would beg you to keep what I have just told you to yourself. My aunt could not tolerate knowing that someone was aware of her hidden sorrow.’

  He looked at her shrewdly and saw a momentary flicker of guilt, clearly indicating that she had already started to spread the rumour about Mrs Rose’s true identity. Meanwhile, Nan mouthed platitudes. ‘No, of course not. Her secret is safe with me. I am the soul of discretion.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said John, but his thoughts were racing. Elizabeth might well be right in thinking that her past had caught up with her. Had someone in sleepy Winchelsea once been in love with the beautiful Jasper? Or with the cruel source of his death? It all seemed so improbable that the Apothecary almost abandoned the idea before it had taken hold, and then he remembered that Nan had come from town and there might well be another who had done the same.

  Marcel Gironde broke in on his train of thought. ‘May I make you some tea, Mr Rawlings?’

  John looked at his watch. He had forty-five minutes before he was due to meet Henrietta in the cherry orchard. ‘That would be delightful,’ he said.

  They moved into the compounding room where Nan busied herself with a kettle and a Worcester teapot.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the Apothecary, sitting down, ‘have you been visited recently by a man called Jago purporting to be from the Secret Office. Apparently he is asking the whereabouts of a certain Frenchman who came to Winchelsea just before the outbreak of war. My aunt was much put out by his questions.’

  Marcel rolled his eyes in an extremely Gallic gesture. ‘It was terrible. The man seemed fixated with the idea that because of my ancestry I might sympathise with the cause of France. I tried to tell him that I was born here but he seemed unconvinced.’

  Mrs Gironde came to the table with the cups. ‘He made me so angry that I forbore to tell him there was a man here answering perfectly the description he gave us.’

  ‘Was there?’ exclaimed John, amazed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ put in Marcel, ‘he came into the shop and spoke to me in French, a language in which I am fluent because my parents conversed in it at home.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing of any interest. In fact most of his conversation was about perfume.’

  ‘Perfume?’ John repeated loudly.

  ‘Yes, he wanted to buy a bottle for a friend and asked my advice.’

  ‘And what did you sell him?’

  ‘A blend of my own which I call Evening in Araby.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He thanked me, paid, and left. We never saw him again, did we, Nan?’

  There was a fraction of a second’s pause before she answered, ‘Never.’

  ‘May I smell what he bought?’

  Marcel stared at the Apothecary narrowly. ‘You seem very interested.’

  ‘Well, I am, to be honest. I got the strong impression from my aunt that the man was a French spy, which I find quite fascinating. Did Jago give you the same idea?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why I kept quiet. I have absolutely no wish to be involved with the Secret Office and their doings. Anyway, this is it.’

  He unstoppered a painted bottle and handed it to John, who inhaled deeply. As he had half suspected it was the same exotic mixture that he had smelled in the churchyard on the night when the unseen couple had so bitterly argued with one another. In that case, had she who had administered the stinging blow been known to the Scarecrow? Or was it mere coincidence? Attempting to pursue this line of reasoning, the Apothecary was rudely interrupted by a cooing voice from the shop doorway.

  ‘Bless me, if it isn’t Mr Rawlings. Oh, my dear man, I’ve been trying to find you to invite you to dine with me and my gels. There is so much I have to tell you.’ Mrs Finch waved a finger waggishly. ‘These are exciting times in Winchelsea indeed.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘There’s a man here from the Secret Office. Quite a charming individual, considering. He took sherry with me yesterday and I was able to help him with his quest.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Finch raised her voice so that the Girondes could hear. ‘He is seeking a mysterious Frenchman who was in town some eight months ago and, do you know, when I was out with my daughters I was actually asked the way by a man answering the description he gave. Can you credit such a thing? Of all the people to stop, the stranger chose me.’ She laughed archly.

  ‘My, my!’ said Nan.

  Mrs Finch turned back to John. ‘So, Mr Rawlings, when will you grace our humble home with your presence? Would tomorrow be of any use?’

  ‘Alas, no. I am engaged to dine with Sir Ambrose and Lady Ffloote.’

  ‘Then the following day. Oh, do say you will.’ She slipped her arm familiarly through his.

  John politely but firmly disengaged himself. ‘1 will have to consult my aunt first. She has arranged all kinds of entertainments for me.’

  ‘Has she? I always thought Mrs Rose such a quiet person.’

  Nan Gironde let out an audible snigger, at which Marcel shot her a reproving look.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Mrs Finch continued severely, ‘you will be a most welcome guest at any time you care to mention.’

  John bowed. ‘How very hospitable. I will send word as soon as I have spoken to Aunt Elizabeth.’

  Mrs Gironde piped up. ‘Have you come for your usual, Molly?’

  Mrs Finch looked slightly put out and huffed a little. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Nan dived beneath the counter and reappeared clutching a bottle wrapped in tissue. ‘Here we are then.’

  Molly Finch snatched it, quite pink in the cheeks, and John guessed at once that the bottle contained the famous Elixir of Youth. ‘Put it on my account,’ she said grandly.

  ‘I will certainly.’

  ‘Then I’ll say good-day.’

  She swept out, obviously irritated that the Apothecary had witnessed the transaction. He let her get ahead of him by a few minutes, then with a great deal of bowing and thanking, followed in her wake, hurrying along Friars Walk in order not to be late for his meeting with Henrietta.

  They were in each other’s arms at once, kissing and hugging with a great deal of enthusiasm. Yet even while he made love to her – or at least almost immediately afterwards – the image of Henrietta posing naked for Captain Nathaniel Pegram came to taunt John, who by now was more than a little in love with her and prepared to be desperately hurt at the very thought of such a thing.

  Determined to be mature amd not mention a word about it, the Apothecary fell straight into the trap when Henrietta said, ‘1 do hope the Captain doesn’t decide to walk through his orchards today.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, immediately defensive.

  She stared at him. ‘I thought the reason would have been obvious. We are both in a state of disarray.’

  Foolishly, John persisted. ‘But why him? Why Captain Pegram?’

  Henrietta stared all the harder. ‘Because these are his grounds. He is more likely to come across us than anyone else.’

  ‘But would that matter to you?’

  Miss Tireman drew away from him. ‘Of course it would. If I were caught in flagrante delicto my reputation would be gone for ever.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  Henrietta stood up and began to fasten her stays. ‘Really, John what is the matter with you? Wouldn’t that be enough?’

  The Apothecary pulled on his breeches. ‘What I am trying to say is, does it matter if Captain Pegram in particular w
ere to find us?’

  She looked at him icily. ‘No. Why should it? What are you inferring?’

  Realising that he had gone too far, John attempted to retrieve the situation.

  ‘Oh, take no notice of me. I am turning into a jealous lover, that is all. Ignore me and blame the foolishness of youth.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Rising twenty-six.’

  ‘Then you should know better. You lead me by three years, yet behave as if you were still at school.’

  She winched the laces of her stays viciously tight and gasped with shock. Despite everything, the Apothecary smiled unevenly.

  ‘I apologise. I hold you in the highest regard, believe me.’

  Henrietta loosened the laces a little. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And somehow I have managed to get it into my mind that you once meant something to the Captain.’

  Miss Tireman looked scornful. ‘My dear, he is old’

  It was out of John’s mouth before he could check himself. ‘So is the Marquis.’

  The stays were pulled so firmly that John’s eyes watered at the mere sight of it. Then the hooped petticoat and gown were thrown into position at a speed that defied the human eye. Not stopping to put on her shoes, Henrietta snatched them up, tossed her head in the air, and without a backward glance sped off through the orchards towards the lane, leaving John Rawlings standing in his breeches, mouth open, expression gloomy, daunted yet again by the extraordinarily varied moods of the female sex.

  He had returned to Winchelsea with bowed head and slow walk, extremely depressed that he had upset the girl who was beginning to mean so much to him. For now John found it hard to think of Coralie Clive at all, so full of sweet memories of his passionate interludes in the cherry orchards. Yet he was well aware that the time he spent dwelling on Henrietta was time when he was not bending his mind to discovering the identities of the Moth and the Frog, a thought which made him more downcast than ever.