Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Anyway, she tethered her horse at the church, then clambered over the ditch, went straight up to the poor devil and took something from his coat pocket. Then she turned on her heel and left as fast as she had come.’

  ‘Had you ever seen her before? Did you recognise who it was?’

  For the first time during their conversation, Dick frowned and looked uneasy. ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There was something about her I knew, but yet I couldn’t call it to mind. The feeling is she was in the wrong place, if you understand me.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘My only hope is that one day I’ll see her again and that I’ll know her for who she really is.’

  ‘Dick,’ said John, remembering the way the skeleton had been stripped of all its possessions, ‘please be honest with me. Had you or one of your gang been through his pockets already? Was what the woman took something one of you had left behind?’

  The smuggler gave a sheepish grin. ‘Aye, Little Harry robbed him, not being a man of scruples.’

  ‘So what didn’t interest him?’

  ‘It was a visiting card, that’s all. Something even he could make no use of.’

  ‘And whose was it? What did it say?’

  ‘Little Harry is no great reader, being a man of very limited education. But he swore to me that it bore the name of the great man himself.’

  ‘Do you mean the Marquis of Rye?’

  ‘No,’ said Dick with a laugh, ‘I am referring to that gallant soldier and hater of smugglers, Captain Nathaniel Pegram.’

  It would seem that Faith Ffloote had made a determined effort to surround herself with medical advisers, for not only were Dr Hensey and John invited to dine but Dr Richard Hayman had been thrown in for good measure. The female complement was to have been made up by Mrs Finch and her two elder daughters, Sophie and Sarah, who loomed enormous on one of Lady Ffloote’s more delicate sofas. However, the eldest Miss Finch had spent the first ten minutes of conversation apologising profusely for the absence of her mother, who was, apparently, laid low with a gastric disorder.

  ‘Perhaps I should go to her,’ said Dr Hayman, half rising from his chair.

  ‘No, no,’ said Sophie, ‘please don’t trouble yourself, Sir. Mama gave strict instructions that no one was to call. All she wants, so she says, is a little peace and quiet.’

  ‘There are some members of the female sex,’ commented Dr Hensey to nobody in particular, ‘who consider it very indelicate to be seen with a stomach disorder.’

  ‘Mother is one of them,’ Sophie answered, giving him a tentative smile. She nudged her sister who sat in sullen silence, looking exactly like a Floating Island, that over-sweet dessert made of cream, sack, bread and currant jelly, in a pale yellow hooped petticoat and red satin gown. ‘Isn’t she, Sarah?’ Sophie prompted.

  Her sister nodded slowly but said nothing, her eyes fixed on the floor. John, feeling sorry for her, attempted to engage her in conversation.

  ‘Your mother was telling me that she was recently visited by that extraordinary man from the Secret Office. I believe she was able to help him.’

  The girl reddened visibly. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.

  He turned to Sophie. ‘Did you meet Mr Jago, Miss Finch?’

  ‘Yes. I thought him most intrusive. He kept asking questions about last summer and a Frenchman.’

  Lady Ffloote chimed in. ‘I wouldn’t speak to the fellow. I left that to Sir Ambrose. He gave him short shrift I can tell you.’

  Knowing what he did, John persisted. ‘Your mother informed me that you were stopped in the street by the Frenchman concerned and asked the whereabouts of the Marquis of Rye.’

  Sarah went from pink to scarlet and shifted uncomfortably in her place.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie.

  ‘How fascinating. What did he look like?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ the eldest Miss Finch continued, with an expression that suggested she remembered very well indeed.

  Sarah spoke for the first time, raising her gaze from the floor to the Apothecary’s knees. ‘Oh, you do, Sophie. It’s naughty to tell fibs. You remarked how dashing and handsome he was. I particularly recall it.’

  Sophie appeared to be about to burst with chagrin and Dr Hayman, observing, hastily attempted to calm things down.

  ‘It’s strange how memory is different for all of us. I can’t remember one week from the next, and told Jago as much.’

  Miss Finch threw him a grateful glance but the situation was retrieved by the entrance of Sir Ambrose, who came into the room smelling of the outdoors, The Pup tottering at his heels.

  Lady Ffloote adopted her doting expression. ‘Has zoo been for a walk, Boo-Boo?’

  The dog farted noisily and collapsed in a corner.

  ‘I believe you’re over-exercising him, Ambrose. Why, the poor boy has no strength left.’

  ‘Nonsense, m’dear,’ answered her husband cheerily. ‘There’s no such thing as too much walking for a canine. Does ’em good. Keeps ’em fit.’ He glanced round the room with a jovial expression. ‘Good afternoon everyone. Sorry to keep you waiting. Unavoidably delayed, damme.’ Sir Ambrose advanced on Dr Hensey. ‘Hensey, how very good to see you. Glad you could be here. I take it you’re back in Hastings?’

  The physician rose and bowed. ‘Yes, indeed. My patient grows ever more exacting. I envisage spending quite some time there before the matter is resolved.’

  He was as neat and immaculate as ever, a tidy little man in every respect. Politely, he offered Lady Ffloote his assistance as she rose weakly from her chair.

  ‘Now that Ambrose is here, let us go in to dine. Dr Hayman, if you could escort Miss Sophie, and Mr Rawlings, Miss Sarah.’

  The Floating Island wobbled to her feet, clinging to John’s arm like a mariner to a rock.

  ‘The joys of youth,’ remarked Sir Ambrose inconsequentially as they all progressed towards the dining room.

  Much to John’s delight, the table had been laid with a great deal of foliage; indeed there was such a thicket of ivy in front of him that he could scarcely see Drs Hayman, Hensey, and Sophie, sitting opposite, let alone communicate with them. This delivered Miss Sarah straight into his clutches and with an empty space to his left, where Mrs Finch would have sat, the Apothecary had virtual freedom to ask her as many questions as he wished.

  He put on his most affable smile. ‘I’m so intrigued at the thought of a French spy in Winchelsea,’ he said artlessly. ‘Do tell me what you can about him, Miss Finch. I’ve always been interested in adventurous things like that.’

  She wriggled uncomfortably and kept her gaze on her plate, but at last she spoke. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything. Was he really very handsome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He wore lovely clothes and had big twinkling dark eyes.’ The girl suddenly looked up with an air of defiance. ‘It was Sophie who thought he was handsome but it was me he passed the note to.’

  The Apothecary struggled hard not to drop his knife and fork. ‘Passed you a note! What did it say?’

  ‘To meet him that evening by the ruins.’

  ‘What ruins?’

  ‘The old abbey, near Grey Friars.’

  ‘Did you go?’

  ‘Yes, I told Mama I was attending church and slipped out of the house.’

  ‘And was the Frenchman there?’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘And what did he want?’

  Sarah blushed and simpered. ‘To see me, of course. He asked if we could be sweethearts. When I said yes, he said it was essential that I introduced him to my mother and, through her, met the cream of Winchelsea society so that he could make a good impression.’

  The Apothecary stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘It was part of our pact, to do things for one another.’

  ‘And then?’

  The girl’s moon-like fe
atures took on a dreary expression. ‘I never saw him again. I went to our meeting place but he didn’t come.’ Her bottom lip trembled violently. ‘I was upset by that.’

  ‘I’m sure you were. Perhaps he had to go back to France suddenly.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I think some harm befell him. That is why the man with the craggy face is asking all those questions.’

  John looked sympathetic. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Did you tell him about this?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘So why choose me?’

  ‘Because I wanted you to know that men do like me. Sophie thinks they don’t but I know differently.’ She gave the Apothecary what he could only think of as an inviting glance. Terrified, he looked away.

  ‘I’m sure they do,’ he said through a fixed smile.

  Casting round wildly for help, John flattened the foliage with a slight surreptitious move of his hand. Dr Hensey’s jolly rodent eyes came into view.

  ‘I have to return to town tomorrow,’ the Apothecary said desperately. ‘No chance of you travelling with me, I suppose?’

  Much to his surprise, the physician answered, ‘There is every chance, my dear Sir. I must spend some time with my London patients lest they think I have deserted them completely, and the fact that you would be my travelling companion is excuse enough. I shall indeed accompany you and will book you a place on the ten o’clock chaise.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  Lady Ffloote, who clearly had the hearing of a bat, spoke from her place at the head of the table. ‘Not leaving us, gentlemen, surely?’

  ‘Only to return, I assure you, Madam.’

  ‘Then that’s as well. You have become quite a part of Winchelsea society, Mr Rawlings. How gratifying to think that our quiet little town is attracting such interesting visitors these days.’

  ‘Starting with the mysterious Frenchman,’ answered John, hoping to evoke a response from someone.

  ‘Damned upstart,’ said Sir Ambrose, quaffing a great glass of wine.

  ‘I didn’t realise you had met him,’ commented Dr Hayman, saving the Apothecary the trouble.

  ‘Oh, yes, he called here. No appointment. Said he was looking for the Marquis of Rye.’

  A veil lifted in John’s brain. So that was the excuse the Scarecrow had used in order to get access to people’s houses. But why pick on the Marquis? What had the nobleman done to attract the attention of a French spymaster? Or was it merely because he was a local landowner and known even across the Channel? John felt that once he had the answer to those questions, the whole enigmatic puzzle would start falling into place. Despite Miss Sarah Finch’s beady-eyed scrutiny, he spoke.

  ‘What did he say to you, Sir Ambrose?’

  Through fronds of fern, the Squire’s red-veined face suddenly loomed. ‘Not much. Asked a few questions about local people. Said he was thinking of settling in Winchelsea and who were the right folk to know, that sort of thing. Never guessed there was anything rum about the fellow.’

  ‘Did you direct him to the Marquis?’

  ‘Thought I ought to, seeing as he’d asked.’

  ‘Yet Lord Rye denies the man ever called on him.’

  Sir Ambrose’s tiny eye tensed. ‘How do you know that?’

  Desperately, John fought to retrieve his error. ‘He mentioned it at dinner the other day.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Squire, sounding as if he didn’t care.

  Sophie spoke up. ‘For a man who came here but once or twice the Frenchman certainly caused a considerable stir.’

  ‘I think we’d all have forgotten about him if it hadn’t been for the arrival of the man from the Secret Office.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Sarah in heartfelt tones.

  Florence Hensey asked a sensible question. ‘What happened to the Frenchman? Does anybody know?’

  There was silence. ‘Mr Jago didn’t say,’ Sir Ambrose answered eventually.

  ‘But is one to presume from all the interest shown that he is dead?

  Sarah let out a heaving sob, much to the embarrassment of the other guests.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said the Squire cheerfully. ‘Returned to France most likely. Probably come creeping back here one of these days.’

  There was another shocked stillness. ‘Do you really think so?’ asked a woman’s voice, John wasn’t quite sure whose.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ answered Sir Ambrose forcefully. ‘Bad pennies like that aren’t so easily got rid of, believe you me.’

  Recalling only too vividly the wretched skeleton keeping lonely vigil on the Romney Marsh, John said, ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ But then, fearing he might say something further to reveal his connection with the affair, relapsed into a studied silence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He hadn’t realised how much he had missed London; dirt, smells, lawlessness, poverty, all of it. All the terrible things that combined to give the capital a unique savage beauty that inexorably drew its children back. John felt his heart beat with an extraordinary excitement as the post chaise approached Southwark and drew into the inn yard where the passengers were to alight.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said to Florence Hensey, who slumbered at his side.

  ‘Good gracious,’ exclaimed the doctor, waking abruptly. ‘It seems no time since we stopped to dine.’

  In the dim light of the interior, the Apothecary looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly eleven. We’re running a little late.’

  ‘Never the less, I think I will return home. I have a great deal to do tomorrow morning.’

  ‘As have I. Shall we share a hackney coach?’

  ‘A good idea.’

  Having hailed a late carriage still plying for hire, the two men found themselves driven over London Bridge from Southwark, then down through the City to Holbourn where the doctor was dropped at his house in Liquorpond Road, a well set up establishment judging from the exterior. As he alighted, Dr Hensey wrung John warmly by the hand.

  ‘When do you plan to return to Winchelsea, my friend?’

  ‘In a few days’ time. And you to Hastings?’

  ‘I shall probably remain in town a week or so, unless I get an urgent communication from my patient. But no doubt we shall meet again while we are both in Sussex.’

  ‘Write to me on your return and then come to visit. I think you will find my Aunt Elizabeth interesting.’

  ‘I should enjoy meeting her.’ Dr Hensey paused, then said, ‘But you must come to dine while you are here. How about the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  ‘Sixteen, Liquorpond Road, shall we say at four o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ answered the Apothecary, and waved as the physician opened the door with a key and disappeared into his house.

  It was approaching midnight when John stepped quietly through the door of number two, Nassau Street and whispered to the servant on duty that he would like some tea in the library before he retired for the night.

  ‘But Sir Gabriel is still up,’ the footman answered.

  ‘Is he entertaining?’

  The man smiled broadly. ‘In a sense, Master John.’

  Mystified, the Apothecary crossed the hall, then stopped short, his hand on the knob of the library door as there was a sudden burst of song and music.

  ‘Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules,’ sang Sir Gabriel’s voice. ‘Of Hector and Lysander and such great— He stopped short as John walked in, his eyes widening in surprise. ‘My dear boy! But hush, listen!’ He held up a hand.

  The music continued, then with a great carillon of bells twelve was struck in a most harmonious and tuneful chime.

  ‘My new toy,’ said Sir Gabriel proudly. ‘Do you like it?’

  Looking round the room, the Apothecary’s eye alighted on an imposing longcase clock standing by the wall beside his father’s desk. Set in glowing walnut, its delightful dial, depicting a revolving sun and moon, proclaimed that it was made by Windmills of London.
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  ‘It plays a tune at every quarter.’ And Sir Gabriel raised the hood to show his son the inscription, which read ‘The Granadears March’.

  ‘It’s magnificent. When did you get it?’

  ‘Last week. I simply could not resist. Besides, I’d had a lucky hand or two at whist.’

  ‘My beloved father, you are incorrigible. But have I really been away that long?’

  ‘So long I can scarce recollect your features.’ Sir Gabriel motioned John to take a seat by the fire. ‘Now, tell me all your adventures. Have you found the villain who threatens Elizabeth Harcross? And what of the spy? Is he unmasked?’

  ‘The spy comes in the plural, I fear. Apparently there are two people.’ And the Apothecary proceeded to tell his father all that had taken place, doing it so thoroughly that The British Granadears played twice more as the clock struck quarter then half past the hour.

  Sir Gabriel steepled his fingers, tapping them together thoughtfully. ‘And you have no idea who any of these people might be?’

  ‘Not really. The fact that the Scarecrow bought perfume then tried to make poor suety Sarah introduce him to her mother raises many questions about Mrs Finch. But on the other hand Mrs Tireman was up to no good the night I saw her rush off with the doctor and the smugglers.’

  ‘Um. What of her two daughters?’

  ‘Rosalind is so self-centred, so utterly besotted with herself, that I can’t imagine her spending a moment’s thought on anything else. As for Henrietta, she’s far too lovely to be a spy.’ Seeing the cynical lift of Sir Gabriel’s eyebrow, John rushed on, ‘Yes, I know that is a foolish statement but if you met her you would know what I mean.’

  ‘I take it you find her attractive?’ asked his father, ill concealing a smile.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Then be careful, my son. You tend to lose judgment when your heart becomes involved.’

  ‘I know. I will try to be sensible.’

  ‘Not too sensible, I hope,’ Sir Gabriel murmured. In a louder voice, he said, ‘And what of the other women?’

  ‘Mrs Gironde I don’t altogether trust. I felt she was hiding something, that she knew more about the Scarecrow than she was prepared to admit. As for Faith Ffloote, I find her an enigma. She is one of those sad, dreary little women who are almost impossible to read, permanently hidden in a miasma of migraine.’