Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  Indeed it was with a long face and sad heart that the Apothecary walked through the front door of Petronilla’s Platt, only to discover Elizabeth Rose, clearly recovered from her recent ordeal, up and about and baking in the kitchen.

  ‘I never realised you cooked,’ he said involuntarily, then took himself to task for yet again being tactless with a member of the opposite sex. Mrs Rose, however, did not seem to mind.

  ‘I don’t very often,’ she admitted, ‘but today I felt like preparing some food that I knew to be free of poison.’ Her expression grew serious. ‘John, are you any closer to finding out who is doing this to me?’

  ‘Not really, except that I am very certain it isn’t Captain Pegram.’

  Elizabeth bridled. ‘How could it be? The very idea. Nathaniel is a thoroughly decent man.’

  The Apothecary made placatory noises, then said; ‘But I did discover today that at least one person in Winchelsea is aware of your real identity.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Nan Gironde.’

  ‘I might have guessed,’ said Mrs Rose in a bitter voice, and sat down suddenly at the kitchen table.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because, as I told you, she is an interfering busybody.’

  John nodded slowly. ‘None the less, she found out by chance. Her grandfather was a great admirer of yours and kept a print of you in his bedroom. She discovered the truth by the simple means of seeing the resemblance.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Elizabeth answered with an air of resignation, ‘if Nan knows, the entire town knows.’

  ‘I don’t think they do – yet. And I may have been able to stop the gossip spreading any further.’

  And John brought his hostess up to date with events. She did not look the slightest bit convinced but at least had the good grace to change the subject.

  ‘How is Joe Jago? You told me that he was in town but I must confess I haven’t set eyes on him. And what of the spy? Is there really such a person in Winchelsea?’

  John shook his head. ‘No. There’s not one but two of the bastards.’

  ‘Two! But how do you know?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you, just trust what I say.’

  ‘But who could they possibly be?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘But is it a man and a woman? Two men? What?’

  Into John’s graphic memory flashed a picture of himself concealed in the churchyard, listening to the cruel argument between the unseen couple. ‘My instinct tells me they are male and female, though I have no proof,’ he said.

  ‘Am I under suspicion?’

  ‘Along with everybody else, yes.’

  ‘Then let me hasten to assure you that I am innocent. Though I may have lived abroad for several years my loyalties lie with this country.’

  ‘I believe you, but I am not the ultimate authority.’

  ‘So who is? Mr Fielding?’

  ‘No, it is a higher command still. The Earl of Holdernesse, who is Secretary of State, is in charge of the Secret Office. While Mr Anthony Todd is head of the Secret Department at the Post Office. Between them the spying activities of this country are co-ordinated and organised.’

  ‘It all sounds rather frightening.’

  ‘It is. Don’t let us forget that to spy for the enemy is an act of high treason, and the punishment for that crime is death.’

  ‘And if you catch them that fate will be meted out to two residents of Winchelsea I presume.’

  John gave a humourless smile. ‘Don’t distress yourself, Elizabeth. One of them, possibly both, has already taken a man’s life.’

  There was silence, broken only by the chirrup of the kettle and the crackle of coal in the stove, then both of them jumped as there came a knock at the front door. From where they sat they heard Agnes plod down the stairs to open it, then Joe Jago’s voice rang out loud and clear.

  ‘Is your mistress at home?’

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ answered the servant and a moment later her plain face appeared round the kitchen door.

  ‘That man’s here,’ she whispered. ‘The one that’s going round asking questions.’

  ‘Then show him into the parlour.’

  ‘Yes, Mam,’ answered Agnes, round-eyed.

  Mrs Rose’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘John, is it Joe?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here.’

  ‘Oh, bless his good heart. It will be delightful to renew our acquaintanceship.’

  They proceeded into the front room to find Mr Fielding’s clerk standing with his back to the fire, his light blue eyes full of humour, his red hair glowing in the afternoon sunshine, his lean frame shown to its best advantage in a suit of sombre black. Signalling him to be silent, John stole to the kitchen to make quite sure that Agnes was not loitering in the passageway, then, having instructed her to continue with the cooking, closed both doors. When he returned he winked at Joe, who promptly bowed over Mrs Rose’s hand.

  ‘Madam, what a pleasure it is to see you again.’

  ‘A feeling greatly reciprocated even though we first met in such strange circumstances.’

  ‘You will forgive me, I trust, if I ask you one or two formal questions before we socialise?’

  ‘Of course I will. John tells me there is evil work abroad in this town.’

  ‘There is indeed. Now, Mrs Harcross, can you cast your mind back eight months? To the summer, just before war was declared?’

  ‘Indeed I can. I helped Captain Pegram harvest his cherries. It was such fun. Several people came along and we all had jolly picnics together.’

  ‘I wonder if you can recall a stranger who came to Winchelsea round about that time. He was a Frenchman, very elegantly dressed. Apparently he stayed at The Salutation for a day or two.’

  ‘He also visited the apothecary’s shop,’ John put in.

  Joe shot him a surprised look. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid the Girondes did not tell you all that took place. Apparently he called there and bought some perfume.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Then he must have had a female friend in the town,’ commented Elizabeth. ‘That, or one of the spies is a woman.’

  The three sat silent for a moment or two, thinking this over, then John said, ‘I’d always thought that possible.’

  ‘But who is she? answered Joe.

  ‘Well, it is not me,’ Mrs Rose stated clearly. ‘I think John believes that but I want you to do so as well, Mr Jago.’

  ‘I shall do my best, Madam,’ the clerk answered solemnly.

  ‘Then that’s settled. Now, how may I help you in your search?’

  John and Joe Jago spoke together, the Apothecary to say, ‘There is a way …’ the clerk to refuse politely.

  ‘So which of you am I to believe?’ Elizabeth asked, acting the innocent for all she was worth. Then not waiting for either to reply, she continued, ‘I think I should make it my business to call on all the ladies of my acquaintance and try to find out what perfume they wear. I am quite sure that Mr Rawlings discovered what the Frenchman bought before he was done.’

  ‘I most certainly did. It was Evening in Araby.’

  Joe chuckled. ‘An exotic scent for a traitorous lady, eh? Yes, Mrs Harcross, er, Rose, do carry out your plan. With your stage abilities it should be easy enough.’

  There was the sound of Agnes clomping across from the kitchen, then the door was flung open and her voice called, ‘Dinner is ready, Mam.’

  Elizabeth turned to Joe Jago. ‘Sir, would you care to join us?’

  ‘Gladly, Ma’am,’ he replied, and offered her his arm.

  In the end, Mr Fielding’s right hand man stayed late, warmed by the good company and Mrs Rose’s port. But when she had withdrawn to the parlour, leaving the gentlemen to drink and smoke pipes, he leaned across the table to the Apothecary, his eyes suddenly alert.

  ‘As I said to you before, there is nothing to stop her being the Moth, you know. She
could easily have been recruited while she lived abroad.’

  ‘I realise that, but one has to take a chance sometimes. Anyway, I trust her. She seems utterly sincere to me.’

  Joe smiled his craggy smile. ‘Mrs Rose is an actress remember.’

  ‘Then you don’t believe her?’

  Joe’s eyes were suddenly warm. ‘On the contrary. I do.’ He lit a pipe and looked at John through the curls of blue smoke, his pupils the same hazy colour. ‘By the way, Captain Pegram’s naked woman is Miss Tireman.’

  The Apothecary felt physically ill. ‘Oh?’ he said, his voice a croak.

  ‘Miss Rosalind Tireman. I went to interview the rector and his family this morning. Miss Henrietta, alas, was not available. She had apparently gone for a walk in the orchards. However, that is beside the point. One look at the beautiful younger sister and all was clear. At some time or other the gallant Captain has had her picture drawn – or did it himself!’

  “Zounds! What a scandal,’ John stuttered, breathless with relief.

  ‘Indeed it is. Now, Mr Rawlings, there is much for you to do. As soon as possible I think you should return to London and show the coded message that was flashed out to sea last night to Dr Willes. Did you get the numbers down?’

  ‘I certainly did.’ John delved in his pocket. ‘Here. 2918 386 841.’

  Joe drew a piece of paper from inside his black coat. ‘Yes, the same. It is essential that we get those deciphered fast.’

  ‘I can’t go tomorrow,’ the Apothecary replied firmly. ‘I am engaged to dine with Sir Ambrose Ffloote and feel there is much to be gained from that meeting.’

  The clerk rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. But the very next day it must be. We are still no nearer a solution. The Moth and the Frog are as far away as ever.’

  John looked thoughtful. ‘You know, there is one person who still might be able to help us. Someone who roams the Marsh at will and probably sees everything that goes on.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Dick Jarvis himself. I think tomorrow morning early I’ll ride out to Brookland and leave him a message.’

  Joe nodded. ‘A very good idea, so long as you’re careful and don’t fall foul of his henchmen. But don’t delay your journey to London too long, Mr Rawlings, whatever the attractions of Winchelsea.’ He winked.

  Well aware of the clerk’s uncanny ability to guess things correctly, the Apothecary gave him an innocent stare. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ he said as he refilled both glasses of port, smiling at Agnes as she came in to light the candles.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For once forgoing the pleasure of a large and wholesome breakfast, John Rawlings rose at daybreak, walked briskly through the churchyard to Truncheons, there hired the services of the mild-mannered mare, then set off through the rose pink morning towards Brookland.

  As he crossed the River Rother, full of currents and wavelets whipped up by the brisk breeze, the smell of the sea filled his nostrils and John’s over-long hair rippled on the wind. Suddenly he felt very alert and alive and ready to meet Dick Jarvis on equal terms. Standing beside his horse, holding her reins, the Apothecary patted Strawberry’s flank and she neighed him a greeting, as if she too had caught something of the excitement of that windy early morning.

  Once off the ferry, John rode hard and arrived at that most curious of churches with its steeple standing beside it on the ground, while the day was still young. Tying Strawberry to a hitching ring, he went inside, only to find St Augustine’s deserted. Undaunted, John strode to the chapel where he had first encountered the curate and left a letter, which he had had the foresight to write the previous evening, lying on the tomb which Dick had been so carefully dusting on the day they first met. Then he set out for St Thomas à Becket at Fairfield, sat down on the mounting block outside, his back to the warmth of the wall, and awaited developments. Sure enough just under an hour later the Apothecary heard the thud of hooves, and, shielding his eyes against the piercing Spring sunlight, saw a horseman approach.

  John stood up and made a bow. ‘Good morning, Mr Jarvis,’ he called.

  ‘Good morning,’ came the answering shout, and a second later the unruly son of an even wilder father slithered out of the saddle and stood grinning before him.

  This morning, Dick Jarvis had abandoned his clerical gear and was dressed for sea-going in breeches, boots and a belted jerkin. On his head a scarf tied at the back attempted to constrain the mop of undisciplined black curls without a great deal of success. John thought that the phrase ‘a handsome devil’ could have been coined for this smiling wind-tanned creature who looked at him as innocently as if he had never broken a law in his entire life.

  ‘I trust I find you completely recovered from your ordeal at the hands of the smugglers,’ Dick said, sweeping a low bow.

  ‘Almost,’ answered John, fingering the cut on his head.

  Dick made a tutting sound. ‘One can’t be too careful these days. There are so many lawless people about.’ He moved his eyes in the direction of the church. ‘And talking of that, shall we sit inside for a while? Even in a remote spot like this, one is still within the range of a spyglass.’

  John stared round the acres of deserted marshland. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very,’ answered the smuggler grimly, and taking the Apothecary’s elbow resolutely propelled him through the door of the ancient church.

  They sat one below the other in the three-tier pulpit, John on the higher level. ‘Now,’ Dick said briskly, ‘I believe you wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Yes, I most certainly do. I am quite sure that through your network you have heard that a skeleton was discovered here recently, disguised as a scarecrow, and that the remains were subsequently removed to London.’

  ‘Aye, I did hear.’

  John looked over the side of the pulpit, his expression earnest. ‘Dick, those bones belonged to a French spymaster who was in Winchelsea late last summer, just before war was declared. I told you I was looking for two spies …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it is the consensus that one or both of them murdered the man, making them killers as well as traitors.’

  Dick looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose he was not done away with on the orders of the Secret Office?’

  John stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That a British agent might have come down to the Marsh and finished him off.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘It would be worth checking.’

  ‘You’re quite right, it would. But whatever the case, it is my task to find those two spies, code-named the Frog and the Moth, and put an end to their villainous game. That was what I was doing when one of your henchmen crashed a blow to my head. I was watching for the signals that are regularly being flashed from the shore to a watching French vessel. You must have noticed them.’

  ‘I’ve seen the lights all right. They’re coming from a spout lantern. We use them ourselves to alert the French luggers that we’re ready.’

  ‘Do you know who’s sending the messages?’

  ‘I fear not. Twice I’ve gone after the bastard and twice he’s eluded me.’

  ‘It’s a man, then?’

  ‘That I can’t swear to. The figure is swathed in a black cloak big as a tent. It could be anyone in there. All I know is that he or she rides a powerful horse and can move like the wind when they have to.’

  ‘I see.’ John looked even more earnest. ‘Dick, I have to go back to London tomorrow. Can you keep watch for the signals in my absence?’

  ‘I certainly can. I told you, Mr Rawlings, I am a patriot, as was my late father, may he rest in peace. When he first went to Mayfield, a small and somewhat self-important village in Sussex, in the year 1715, Kit Jarvis openly drank in the public inns to Jamie the Rover, the Old Pretender, who had landed in Scotland to try and regain his crown. His very smuggling was a protest against the tax system brought in by the Hanover
ian kings.’

  The Apothecary’s face remained impassive but mentally he grinned.

  ‘Then he became one of the most famous men of his time – smuggler, Riding Officer, highwayman, Bailiff to the Sheriff – there was no end to his talents. And now I intend to emulate him. I will gladly help you in your search for these betrayers of national secrets.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it. But tell me what you know of the Scarecrow, as we call the dead Frenchman.’

  Dick asked one more question. ‘How did you discover he was French?’

  ‘He had coded orders stitched into the lining of his coat. Deciphered, they instructed him to contact the two Winchelsea spies, la Grenouille and le Papillon de Nuit, immediately.’

  ‘I see. Well, I first saw him go up about August time. I can’t remember exactly when it was. I thought one of the church people must have put the Scarecrow there. It never occurred to me that it was a body.’

  ‘But didn’t it strike you as odd that he had no crops to protect?’

  ‘Not for a while. Then, of course, I went to look.’

  ‘You examined him?’ John exclaimed.

  ‘What was left of the poor bastard. The predators had taken most of him. They left his shoes though. Beautiful, they were. The softest leather amd the brightest buckles you ever saw. Fitted me like a glove.’

  The Apothecary gazed at him in horror, thinking of the old saying about dead men’s footwear. ‘And you didn’t report your find to the constable?’

  Dick pealed with laughter. ‘Oh, come now, Mr Rawlings. I would have thought to have heard more sense talked by you.’

  John gave a rueful smile. ‘So you kept quiet and took the Frenchman’s shoes. Then what?’

  ‘I kept a weather eye on him whenever I was round this way. Watched to see if he had any visitors, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes, late one night a woman came.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes, she had her nerve too, for it was an eerie sight by moonlight.’

  ‘I know,’ John answered with feeling.