Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  A man, presumably Mr Stokes, stepped up on to the platform and cleared his throat to make an announcement.

  ‘Your lordships, ladies amd gentlemen, before the display of feminine fisticuffs which you have all come here to see, allow me to introduce a wrestling match between two well known champions: the Fighting Quaker and the Welsh Boy.’ There was a desultory cheer. ‘This will be preceded by a display given by Le Cirque Chinois.’ There were several catcalls and boos from those whose only interest lay in prizefighting, but when the curtains parted to reveal six small yellow men with black pigtails, dressed in red trousers and shoes and nothing else, there was a cheer.

  Coloured balls flew in the air, tightropes were stretched taut, poles appeared as if by magic and the little men clambered up them, all the while maintaining set serious expressions that never altered. Finally a host of children cartwheeled on to the stage, turning like tiny stars in their tinsel costumes. They ran forward and formed a pyramid up which a dark-eyed tot, no older than three, scrambled and stood like a miniature statue, arms spread wide. Then came the finale as all somersaulted off, whirling faster amd faster as the crowd cheered and applauded.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sir Gabriel, clapping his bony hands.

  ‘Bravo,’ shouted Samuel, and threw his hat in the air in an enthusiastic manner. John, meanwhile, was relishing London and thinking that despite his love of the open countryside he could never really leave town. His ambition one day to own a house by the river, within striking distance of the capital, perhaps somewhere in Chelsea, took one further step along the path to becoming reality.

  The Chinese Circus took a bow and were followed by two enormous men, naked but for loincloths, who ferociously strode on to the platform and glared at one another. John’s quirkish sense of humour was much amused by the fact that the Fighting Quaker, nude though he might be, wore the tall hat of the Puritans on his head. The Welsh Boy, however, seemed to resent the fact that he had anything on at all and tugged at his covering as if it were in his way, meanwhile pointing at the Quaker’s headgear with howls of derision. A second later this mockery proved too much to bear and the Fighting Quaker flew through the air and knocked the Welsh Boy to the ground, then jumped on him with both feet, his hat staying in place throughout this vigorous performance. With a great deal of groaning, the Welsh Boy recovered his equilibrium and proceeded to knock the daylights out of the Fighting Quaker who, despite the punishment he was taking, miraculously still retained his headwear. However, all was resolved when the Quaker seized his opponent round the waist and dashed him to the groumd, at which both hat and hair, clearly glued, flew together from his head, revealing a bald man beneath. Amidst a mixture of hisses and laughter, the two wrestlers left the stage.

  It was time for the interval and where John and Samuel had to content themselves with oranges, Sir Gabriel, ordering a glass of good canary from a passing trader, actually received one and sipped it with relish.

  ‘Do you think we should wear black and white?’ Samuel whispered to his friend.

  ‘It would make no difference,’ John answered. ‘It’s all to do with his manner of conducting himself.’

  ‘I wish I knew the secret,’ Samuel replied, his tone a fraction morose. ‘I would love to break hearts.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t!’ said John with feeling.

  ‘Ah! Trouble with Miss Clive I take it?’

  ‘With her and another.’

  ‘Oh! A fair virgin of Winchelsea?’

  ‘Well, fair anyway,’ John answered, at which the friends roared with unruly laughter just like the ‘prentice lads they had both once been. Sir Gabriel in the meantime raised a high, thin brow but said nothing.

  Mr Stokes appeared on the platform once more. ‘Your lordships, ladies and gentlemen, the highlight of the evening. The contest between Mrs Stokes, championess of Europe and also my lady wife, and Mrs Field, the ass driver. And first into the ring is the challenger. Please welcome Mrs Field.’

  ‘Good God, poor wretched asses,’ murmured Sir Gabriel, as a veritable Amazon of a woman strode down one of the aisles and climbed on to the stage. Six feet if she was an inch and with a mass of wild black hair which sprouted round her head like a demonic halo, Mrs Field also had a formidable moustache and darting black eyes. To frighten further any unfortunate enough to put her out of countenance, she wore black tights and a strange glittering red garment like that adopted by an acrobat.

  ‘Boo,’ shouted the audience and Mrs Field raised her clenched fist and shook it at them, strutting about the platform in a highly menacing manner.

  ‘And now,’ said Mr Stokes, ‘for the defender. I give you Elizabeth Stokes, first-rate fighter of Europe.’

  There was a great roar of appreciation as down the aisle tripped a dainty little parcel of womanhood, so delicately made that she resembled a porcelain figurine, complete with long blonde curls and large, angelic china blue eyes.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ shouted Samuel, loud enough for all the world to hear. ‘She won’t last five minutes, indeed she won’t.’

  ‘Don’t be so certain,’ answered Sir Gabriel sagaciously.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked his son.

  ‘Remember David and Goliath, my child. Even the prettiest are capable of delivering a savage punch.’

  ‘Um,’ said John, reflecting.

  Mrs Stokes, who was clad in pink tights and powder blue costume, a colour combination which made her appear more fragile than ever, stepped tidily into the ring and curtseyed to the audience, who bellowed their approval with one voice. Mrs Field approached to sneer audibly, towering over her opponent in the most unnerving manner, a fact which Mrs Stokes chose to ignore as she removed her cloak and handed it to an assistant.

  ‘At the sound of the bell you will commence,’ ordered her husband. ‘Ladies, you fight for the sum often pounds, fair rise and fall.’

  He stepped aside and hit a brass bell with a hammer, at the sound of which Mrs Field flew at her opponent like a tornado, her vast bare knuckles clenched into fists resembling sides of bee£ Nimble as a fairy, Elizabeth Stokes stepped to one side so that her antagonist, unable to slow her momentum, crashed into the ropes, clearly knocking the breath from herself. As she stood for a moment, panting, Mrs Stokes stepped forward and delivered a series of short sharp blows to Mrs Field’s lumbar region. Furious, the ass woman spun round and swung a fist at the European championess which sent her crashing to the floor, where she sat, momentarily stunned, before scrambling to her feet, agile as a monkey.

  So the fight went on, brute force versus speed and dexterity, while those members of the audience fortunate enough to own a watch, glanced at them anxiously, most of them aware that the longest any female boxing bout ever lasted was fifteen minutes.

  The tide of fortune changed and it became clear to all that Ann Field’s sheer size and stamina were starting to win the day. Fast as Mrs Stokes ducked, then disappeared out of harm’s way, she seemed unable to land the punch that would knock her antagonist to her knees, and it was beginning to look as if sheer exhaustion would finally force her to cede victory.

  Very disappointed, Samuel leaned across to Sir Gabriel. ‘Do you still think Mrs Stokes can win, Sir?’

  ‘One never knows. The battle is not over till it’s lost.’

  As if echoing this sentiment, the championess of Europe, having just bounded back to her feet again after another felling blow, made a sudden sprint for Ann Field, dived beneath her armpit, and hit the ass woman really hard on the kidneys, a move which caused her eyes to water so much that Ann temporarily lowered her guard and wiped them. At that, Mrs Stokes leaped into the air like a small, determined cannon ball and somehow managed to deposit both her bare fists on to the point of the ass woman’s chin. Mrs Field swayed and Elizabeth, displaying a ruthlessness that belied her angelic appearance, promptly smacked her in the solar plexis and, as Ann doubled up, added a clout over the head which brought her crashing down like a felled oak. As one man, the audience
rose and cheered and threw money into the ring which Mrs Stokes, with much kissing of her hand and graceful acknowledgment scooped up and dropped down the front of her costume. The prostrate ass woman, meanwhile, was dragged off the platform by two burly assistants and Mr Stokes raised his wife’s hand on high to shouts of ‘The winner’. Then, to thunderous applause, the triumphant championess left the ring, waving and smiling as she did so.

  Sir Gabriel stood up. ‘Most enjoyable. And there’s a moral in it, is there not?’

  ‘That David always brings Goliath down?’ John asked, not quite certain.

  ‘More likely, never trust a determined little female,’ put in Samuel, and they all laughed.

  Having once more fallen into company with his enthusiastic childhood companion, John found himself conversing with and enjoying Samuel’s society right up to the time of his departure for Winchelsea. Accordingly, the two friends shared a hackney coach to Liquorpond Road, from where the Apothecary, after dining with Dr Hensey, intended to make his way to The White Hart and on to Hastings, and Samuel to his lodgings in Little Carter Lane. But as chance would have it the physician answered the door himself and seeing Samuel about to depart, insisted that he come in and join the dinner party. Thus the three men sat down to a meal in an atmosphere of spontaneous conviviality.

  John was more than surprised to find that the doctor lived alone, having formed the opinion, based on no particular evidence, that he was a married man. But a tactful question elicited the fact that Dr Hensey’s wife, a beautiful woman to judge by her portrait, who had borne the elegant name of Veronique, had died of fever in her early twenties.

  ‘And you never thought to remarry, Sir?’ asked Samuel, who liked to get to the heart of things and was not known for an abundance of tact.

  ‘No, no,’ the physician answered sadly. ‘At the time I decided to devote myself to my patients and my other interests. And now I am far too busy, life being what it is.’

  ‘What do you make of the man Jago and all his questions about a mysterious Frenchman?’ asked John, changing the subject and treading hard on Samuel’s foot under the table.

  ‘Well, I heard you ask about him the other night at Sir Ambrose’s,’ Dr Hensey answered cautiously, ‘but to be honest with you that was the first I knew of such a thing. What is it all about? And why are you so interested? Surely the fellow has nothing to do with you?’

  Realising he had made the most enormous error and was throwing suspicion on his own role, the Apothecary tried desperately to think of something clever to say, but while he sat swallowing hard, Samuel rose magnificently to the occasion.

  ‘Oh, that’s typical of John,’ he replied merrily. ‘Loves a mystery, does my friend. Has done ever since he was a boy. He’ll go on and on until someone comes up with a good theory. So humour him, Dr Hensey, do.’

  The dapper little man’s eyes twinkled and suddenly he was all smiles. ‘Oh, I see. Well, Mr Rawlings, I thought that some present on that occasion knew more than they were going to tell.’

  Mentally wiping his brow, John brightened. ‘Really? Who for example?’

  ‘Miss Sophie and Miss Sarah to name but two.’

  ‘What about the Squire?’

  Dr Hensey shook his head. ‘Too stupid, if you’ll forgive my frankness. If he had been in secret contact with the Frenchman he would have said so, straight out. As it is, I believed his story that the man called on him without an appointment.’

  Samuel guffawed. ‘Real silly arse, is he?’

  The Doctor laughed and nodded. ‘Very much so.’

  ‘So who do you think this Frenchman could have been?’ asked John, plucking up courage to return to the fray once more.

  ‘As the Secret Office are investigating him, I presume a spy,’ Florence answered drily.

  ‘But why choose Winchelsea?’

  ‘Because that was where his contact was, I imagine.’

  ‘I wonder who it is,’ said John, with just the right note of ingenuous fervour in his voice.

  ‘That,’ answered the doctor pessimistically, ‘we shall probably never know.’

  The friends left the house in Liquorpond Road far later than they had intended, having sampled some excellent French brandy and drunk rather more of it than they should. Having bowed several times and thanked Dr Hensey profusely for his hospitality, John and Samuel stepped out into the street to hire a hackney coach only to find that the weather had changed and it was now pouring with rain. There was not a soul in sight, nor a conveyance for that matter, and the Apothecary shivered at the bare discomfort of the unfriendly evening.

  ‘Let’s run to the corner,’ said Samuel. ‘There might be a hackney up there.’

  So they set off, sprinting over the slippery cobbles, splashing into puddles which wet them to the knees. It was at that moment that they heard another pair of feet behind them and a second later were overtaken by a dark young man, running like a racehorse, and bellowing ‘Hackney, hackney,’ at the top of his lungs. Much to John’s annoyance, a carriage promptly appeared and slithered to a halt right beside the runner who deftly leaped inside, his feet barely touching the step.

  ‘Oy!’ bellowed Samuel, and, ‘Stop that!’ yelled the Apothecary.

  The stranger stuck his head out of the window and said in one of the broadest Irish accents John had ever heard, ‘Sure, and wasn’t I securing it for you as well. Would you care to share, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes, we would,’ Samuel replied truculently.

  ‘Thank you,’ added his friend in a more conciliatory tone.

  ‘Then jump in.’ And the door was opened by a small, quite neat hand, allowing them to climb aboard.

  The rich voice continued in the darkness. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Lucius Delahunty of Dublin, at your service, gentlemen.’

  ‘John Rawlings.’

  ‘Samuel Swann.’

  ‘And where might you good people be heading?’

  ‘To The White Hart in Southwark. I’m catching the morning post chaise to Hastings,’ John answered.

  ‘Well glory be to God on high!’ exclaimed Mr Delahunty. ‘If that isn’t the king of all coincidences. That’s where I’m heading m’self’. He chuckled infectiously. ‘I may as well cut through all formality as we’re destined to be in each other’s company for so many hours. Just call me Lucius, all of Dublin does.’

  Shaking his head in bewilderment at the number of people heading for the Sussex coast these days, the Apothecary replied, ‘Then you must use my first name too.’

  ‘Oh, be assured I will, John. You may wager your very life on it.’

  And with that rather odd turn of phrase, Mr Delahunty burst into song as they headed off in the direction of London Bridge.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Even the miserable old woman with a face like a fig was laughing by the time the four occupants of the post chaise disembarked at their journey’s end, such was the effect of the sparkling company of Lucius Delahunty. John, whose acquaintance with the fellow had started somewhat inauspiciously, to say the least, found himself warming with each passing mile to the sheer charm of this inhabitant of the Emerald Isle, and by the time they reached The Swan coaching inn at Hastings was inviting Lucius to visit him in Winchelsea.

  The Irishman stared, thunderstruck. ‘Well, now, if that isn’t an even greater coincidence. Winchelsea is my destination, saints bless us all.’

  It was the Apothecary’s turn to stare. ‘But why are you going there? It’s such a dull little town. Nothing ever happens.’

  Which would be true if it weren’t for the spies, the smugglers, and the poisoner, John thought.

  Lucius grinned. ‘You might well ask such a question. But the fact is, my friend, I’m an artist. Yes, seriously. I’ve even sold a painting or two in my time. So I’m going to set up my easel and daub away, then hope I can sell a few of the finished products to the local inhabitants.’

  ‘Rather a strange choice of location, if I might say. Rye is far more picturesque
.’

  ‘Ah, but I met a girl from Winchelsea once, name of Molly Malone. Irish as they come but living in England with some old relative or other. You wouldn’t happen to know her by any chance?’ John shook his head. ‘Oh, that’s a terrible shame. Maybe she’s moved on. After all, it was four years ago.’

  ‘So you’re going there to look for her?’

  ‘Well, hardly that. Let’s just say I had hoped to combine a bit of pleasure with business.’

  Lucius stretched, clearly glad to be out of the confines of the carriage, and John thought that he was very much the Celtic type of Irishman with his long black hair and deep blue eyes. It was believed by many people that those particular looks came from the shipwrecked sailors of the Spanish Armada, driven ashore on to Ireland’s West coast, though others again said that that theory was only folklore, that none of the Spaniards had survived the ordeal. The Apothecary kept an open mind on the subject, finding it hard to believe that not one of the mariners had lived on, spirited into the community by a willing local girl, there to vanish from prying eyes. And Lucius for sure had a certain exotic style which seemed to speak of an interesting ancestry.

  The Irishman looked at his watch. ‘Great God in the evening, if it isn’t ten o’clock. The rain must have delayed us. Well, I’m booking in here. What about you, John? Shall we have a few drinks before we retire?’

  It was too tempting, particularly as the downpour, widespread throughout the south of England, had only just stopped and the night was damp and unappetising.

  ‘Yes, I’m your man. We can travel on to Winchelsea early in the morning.’

  Handing their luggage to a lad, the two men proceeded inside, warming their hands at a welcoming log fire which burned in an inglenook in the ancient hostelry’s hallway, then making their way into the guests’ parlour, crowded with people at this particular moment, a confusion caused by the fact that the stage coach and another chaise had all arrived at the inn at roughly the same time. With not a seat to be had, John and Lucius leaned against the bar and quaffed ale, looking about them at the varied but cheerful company. And then the Apothecary’s eye was caught by a familiar figure, sitting quietly in a dark corner, slightly hunched in his cloak, his hat pulled well down in a clear attempt not to be recognised.