Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Henrietta answered snappishly. ‘Are you accusing me of lying now?’

  ‘No, of course not. Please don’t look so angry.’

  ‘Well, I am angry. First you infer that I’m Captain Pegram’s mistress, then that I’m an out and out falsifier.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ John said wretchedly. ‘It’s just that there was something odd about the way that hat was dropped. I can’t help wondering if somebody is trying to incriminate you.’

  ‘Incriminate? But who would do that? And why?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but, Henrietta, listen to me. There are a lot of odd things happening round here, things that don’t bode well. I beg you .to be on your guard.’

  ‘Against whom?’

  ‘Of that I have no idea. Just be careful, that’s all. And if you believe yourself to be in any kind of trouble, come to me at once.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this. What are you hinting, John?’

  ‘We are a nation at war, my dear. Just remember that.’

  Henrietta tightened her gaze once more. ‘Are you a spy by any chance?’

  The only really good answer the Apothecary could think of giving was, ‘You must believe what you want to.’ And after that he insisted that the matter was dropped so that they could walk home in some sort of harmony.

  All congenial feelings were instantly swept away as the Apothecary put his key in the door of Petronilla’s Platt. From where he stood he could hear Agnes shrieking, while above this racket rose the sound of Elizabeth groaning and heaving in the most terrifying fashion. Without waiting even to remove his cloak, John sprinted into the kitchen, the place from which all the rumpus was coming.

  The former actress lay sprawled supine across the kitchen table, her enamelled face like a death mask. But though she was retching, no vomit had come up, and she was slipping rapidly into unconsciousness as whatever had poisoned her took hold of her system. Agnes, meanwhile, eyes popping with fear, was rushing about wringing her hands, clearly incapable of doing anything to help.

  ‘Fetch a pail,’ ordered John, then rushed upstairs to snatch his bag of physicks and potions, hurriedly mixing up a compound of powdered root of Asarabacca with some crushed thyme, the whole contained in a concoction of the liquid achieved by boiling damask roses and sugar in water, of which the Apothecary always carried a supply.

  The serving girl appeared with a bucket, looking slightly less terrified now that John had returned and taken command of the situation. ‘Will this do, Sir?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Yes, yes. Hold it by Mrs Rose’s head. I am going to try and make her sick.’

  ‘Is she poisoned again, Sir?’

  ‘Yes. More anonymous gifts of food, I suppose.’

  ‘Not that I know of, Sir.’

  In the middle of spooning emetic down Elizabeth’s throat, John looked up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There ain’t been no food or drink left here, leastways while I’ve been about.’

  ‘So what has your mistress eaten today?’

  ‘Nothing, that’s just the point. She complained of feeling a little delicate this morning and had nought but a pot of tea. And there weren’t nothing wrong with that because I had a cup from the same brew and I’m all right. Anyway, Mrs Rose felt ill at dinner-time and so told me to eat it all up, which I done. That’s how I’m certain she can’t have had anything bad, do you see.’

  John nodded. ‘Unless she took something you know nothing about.’

  Agnes shook her head vigorously. ‘I don’t think so, Sir. When Mrs Rose is poorly she fasts.’

  A thought flashed through John’s mind. ‘So is your mistress ill very often? Other than for the bouts of poisoning, I mean.’

  ‘Quite a bit.’

  ‘And what form does the malaise take?’

  ‘Headaches and stomach cramps.’

  The Apothecary nodded but was unable to pursue his questioning, for at that precise moment Elizabeth heaved violently as the emetic began to work. Half an hour later, barely conscious and ghastly white, she was sufficiently recovered to be put to bed, where John left her in the charge of Agnes, who held grimly on to the bucket, just in case.

  It was then that the Apothecary began his search, starting with the actress’s dressing table, where lotion and potions jostled side by side. Pulling out corks and removing tops, John cautiously sniffed everything, then delicately tasted the pills, before moving on to the medicine chest where he repeated his actions. Finally, a smile spread over his face and he removed one particular bottle, tasted its contents, then placed it in his pocket.

  ‘Agnes, can you stay another hour?’ he called to the servant.

  ‘I can, Sir. Though I expect my mam will be worried.’

  ‘I’ll write her a note explaining why you are late.’

  ‘That’ll be no good. She can’t read.’

  ‘Then I promise to be as quick as I can. It’s just that I have to go out for a while and Mrs Rose is too frail to leave on her own.’

  ‘Don’t dilly dally whatever you do, Sir. I don’t want to get my father’s belt.’

  ‘I promise to run there and back.’

  And with that pledge, the Apothecary left the house at double quick time and rushed through the darkness towards his destination.

  Chapter Twenty

  By night the two bow-fronted windows of Mr Gironde’s apothecary’s shop were almost as attractive as they were by day. Using lantern light in an extremely subtle way, with cleverly placed mirrors reflecting their illumination, the attractive and exotic contents were clearly displayed to passers-by and even John, despite his hurry, paused momentarily to admire the prettily packaged goods before he pealed the bell.

  The Girondes lived over their shop in a three-storey house, the ground floor of which was completely taken up by their emporium. Consequently, it took some while for footsteps to descend the staircase, then come through the shop, but eventually the door was opened with a great deal of chain rattling. A small round-faced serving girl stood there, grander than Agnes by far by reason of the smart white apron and mob cap that she wore.

  ‘Good evening, Sir.’

  ‘Good evening. Are your master and mistress at home?’

  ‘Madam is within but Sir has gone out. Who shall I say is calling?’

  John handed over his card with a flourish.

  The girl peered at it, clearly having trouble with reading the print.

  ‘Is that Mr Rolling?’

  ‘Rawlings, actually.’

  ‘If you will wait, Sir, I’ll check whether Madam is receiving.’

  But she needn’t have worried. A series of light steps could be heard and the next second Mrs Gironde flew down the stairs greeting John like a long-lost friend.

  ‘My dear Sir, how pleasant indeed to see you. Mrs Rose’ – she emphasised the word almost with a wink, presumably indicating that she had kept the secret of Elizabeth’s true identity to herself – ‘told me that you had recently returned to town and I had no idea that you were back with us. What a pleasant surprise. Do, pray, come to our private rooms.’

  She turned to ascend the stairs but John said, ‘If I may I would rather linger in your shop a moment.’

  Mrs Gironde looked slightly surprised but made a little movement expressing flattered delight. ‘Why, of course. I remember how much you admired it the other day. Is there any particular product you wanted to look at?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered John silkily. ‘Would it be possible for me to examine your Elixir of Youth?’

  Nan giggled girlishly. ‘Not for yourself, surely?’

  The Apothecary twitched his brows. ‘In a way, yes.’ And he drew out the bottle which he had concealed in his pocket. ‘This belongs to Aunt Elizabeth,’ he went on. ‘I found it amongst her cosmetics. It’s my guess that she took some this morning and that it very nearly killed her.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Mrs Gironde furiousl
y.

  ‘That this mixture has not been properly compounded and, I would hazard a guess, neither was the one that Mrs Finch bought recently. The other night she could not attend Lady Ffloote’s dinner party because of sickness. It’s my contention, Madam, that you are slowly poisoning the older ladies of the town with this wretched concoction.’

  Nan’s face hardened. ‘That is a very serious accusation, Sir.’

  ‘It is indeed. Tell me, Mrs Gironde, is the preparation of the elixir your province? Do you, with no medical training at all, make up this noxious brew?’

  ‘Well, I … er. …’

  ‘I see. At least it’s as well that your husband is not responsible. Now, I believe you said the main ingredient was pennywort.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where do you gather your simples?’

  ‘In the marshlands. Pennywort thrives in watery places.’

  John’s voice was like the cut of a razor. ‘Water pennywort has another name, did you realise that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is also called sheep’s bane. And do you know why?’

  Mrs Gironde shook her head.

  ‘Because it kills any unfortunate enough to graze on it. Just as it kills human beings. The only pennywort safe to use is that which grows on walls. Through your ignorance and your husband’s laziness, you have embarked on a campaign of systematic destruction.’

  Nan looked at him with an expression of utter horror. ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘Of course it is. If I were to report this to the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries I believe that stern action would be taken against Marcel Gironde.’

  She clutched his arm beseechingly. ‘Oh, do not do so, I beg you. We have built up a good business here. I don’t know what he would do if it were jeopardised in any way.’

  John paused, considering the matter, then said, ‘If I agree to remain silent there will be certain conditions attached.’

  ‘I will fulfil them all. I could not bear our livelihood to be threatened.’

  ‘Very well. First I want you to destroy all the bottles of this elixir that you have left, and burn the water pennywort you use for compounding. Then go to your customers first thing tomorrow morning and tell them that you are no longer selling the product and somehow persuade them to part with their old supply. After that I want you to promise me you will never dispense again. You are not an apothecary, Mrs Gironde, and you must no longer act as if you are one. Then …’ John paused for effect.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to tell me all about your dealings with the mysterious Frenchman who came here last summer. I think you lied when you told me you never saw him again after he left this shop. Your hesitation gave you away. I suspect that you are concealing information which is vital to the national interest.’

  Mrs Gironde sat down rather hard on a chair kept for infirm customers and covered her face with her hands. Unimpressed, John watched her. ‘Well?’ he said eventually.

  ‘It shall be as you say,’ she muttered. ‘I shall destroy everything tonight and tomorrow I will go in search of all the elixirs already sold.’

  ‘Here is Mrs Rose’s.’ And John banged the bottle down on the counter, furious that this pretentious little woman should have endangered life by her arrant ignorance. ‘Now tell me about the Frenchman. And if you omit anything you leave me no option but to go to your husband with the entire story.’

  She looked up fearfully. ‘Oh, no, no! He is a good man and hardworking. I couldn’t bear him to learn the depths of my foolishness. What happened was this. The Frenchman murmured to me while Marcel was in the compounding room that he found me beautiful and chic. He asked me to meet him by the mill.’

  ‘And you went? Wasn’t that highly dangerous with a man you didn’t know?’

  Mrs Gironde gave a light laugh. ‘He was a man of honour, one could tell.’

  ‘So honourable that he also had a secret tryst with Miss Sarah Finch, bamboozling the poor girl with promises of love. In return for meeting her mother and thus gaining entrée to Winchelsea society, I might add.’

  Nan turned from a bird to a wasp. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  John shrugged. ‘Ask her for yourself. You’ll be seeing Mrs Finch tomorrow morning, no doubt.’

  ‘I can hardly believe that Gerard was like that.’

  ‘Gerard? Was that what he was called?’

  ‘So he told me.’

  The initials on the telescope were G.D.L.T., John thought. So at last the Scarecrow had a name.

  ‘Did he give you his surname?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what did you and he talk about.’

  Mrs Gironde had the good grace to blush crimson.

  ‘I see. So the amorous little beast didn’t waste much time on conversation I take it. Tell me, what did he want, other than the obvious, that is?’

  He was being unbelievably blunt, John knew, but he still felt furious with her and at that moment had no compunction about what he said.

  ‘He asked me about the ladies of society and whether I would introduce him into their circle.’

  ‘Did he mention any particular names?’

  ‘Lady Ffloote, Mrs Tireman and her girls, Mrs Rose.’

  ‘Did he now? How very interesting.’

  Nan Gironde looked at him with much distress. ‘You won’t breathe a word to Marcel, will you?’

  John shook his head. ‘No, provided you keep your side of the bargain.’

  ‘I swear to you.’

  ‘Did Gerard say anything else?’

  ‘Funnily enough, he asked me if I knew where the Marquis of Rye lived.’

  ‘He seemed quite preoccupied with that. I wonder why.’

  ‘Perhaps they are connected in some way. After all, the Marquis has French blood.’

  ‘There’s a link somewhere,’ John murmured to himself. ‘But what the devil is it?’ He turned to Mrs Gironde. ‘Is that all? Or is there something else you have to tell me?’

  ‘Not really. After we parted company that day I never saw him again.’

  ‘And the woman he bought the perfume for, you have no inkling who it was?’

  ‘None at all, but then neither did he.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he was buying it for a lady he had never met but whom he wanted to impress favourably. I asked him what age this woman might be, but he replied that he was not sure of that either. Eventually we decided on Evening in Araby as likely to appeal to all ages.’

  ‘How intriguing.’

  ‘Was Gerard a spy?’ Nan asked timidly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ John answered ruthlessly, rubbing a final bit of salt into her wounds. ‘You consorted with the enemy Mrs Gironde, remember that.’

  The redness drained from her cheeks. ‘Believe me, I will.’

  The Apothecary consulted his watch. ‘I must leave you. Mrs Rose is still very ill and the girl needs to get home but won’t leave until I return.’ He moved to the door.

  Nan whispered after him, ‘I will try to make amends. Thank you for treating me so fairly.’

  It was on the tip of John’s tongue to say that he would have far preferred to wring her neck but he maintained his calm exterior and strode out in dignified silence.

  Feeling very guilty about keeping Agnes waiting, the Apothecary ran all the way back to Petronilla’s Platt, only to discover that Elizabeth, paler than he had ever seen her, was fast asleep in bed, while Agnes slumbered in the chair beside her. Quietly waking the serving girl, John led her downstairs.

  ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

  Her pasty face looked up at him. ‘I’ll get the belt, I know it.’

  ‘No you won’t. I’ll walk back with you and explain.’

  ‘Oh, would you, Sir?’

  ‘Of course. Let me just check Mrs Rose again.’

  But Elizabeth was in a deep sleep that seemed set to go through to morning. Feeling that Agnes’s need was even greater than the invalid’s, John he
aded off with her through the darkness, their only light a pair of lanterns.

  Before he had gone even a quarter of a mile, the Apothecary found his thoughts turning to the extraordinary cipher he had delivered to Dr Willes, wondering what it could possibly mean and whether the King’s Decipherer had managed to crack it yet. Then, just as if John had conjured them up by some strange magic power, from the headland at Pett came a series of flashing lights.

  ‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Agnes, pointing.

  ‘Probably the smugglers,’ John answered tersely, grabbing his pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket, watching the number of flickers and making a mental note before he wrote them down.

  ‘1027 1991 1637 1695,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Whatever does it mean?’ asked Agnes.

  ‘God knows. Listen, my girl, you are to say nothing about what we’ve observed, not even to the mistress.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t, Mr Rawlings,’ the servant replied excitedly, and by the light of his lantern, John saw that plain, dumpy Agnes was more animated and alert than he had ever seen her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It seemed to the Apothecary that no sooner had he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes than he was awoken again by a violent knocking on the front door. Startled, he sat bolt upright, then ran downstairs in his nightshirt and wrestled with the locks. Dr Richard Hayman, fully dressed, stood in the doorway, the light of a fitful moon revealing that he was sweating profusely and seemed in a considerable state of agitation.

  ‘There’s a ship aground at Pett Level,’ he said, ‘caught on the sandbank. To make matters worse, it’s French.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are men wounded. Somebody went to fetch the Riding Officers from Rye and there’s been a pitched battle on the beach. It’s total confusion and God alone knows what’s going on. We need all available help. Can you come and tend the injured?’

  ‘Give me a moment to look at Aunt Elizabeth and get dressed, then I’ll be with you.’

  ‘I’ve got my carriage outside. I thought it would save time.’

  Ten minutes later they were seated in the doctor’s trap and heading for the coast as quickly as the horse would go.