Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘An English secret agent trying to trap them, perhaps, or else somebody very foolish.’

  ‘I hadn’t considered that,’ John replied truthfully. He turned both ideas over in his mind, then asked, ‘Who rode to Rye and aroused the Riding Officers?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see the chap personally but I was told that it was a dark, youngish man with a strong accent of some kind.’

  Lucius, thought the Apothecary.

  ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘He went to the Customs House and told them there had been a French landing on the beach at Pett Level. Fortunately they believed him. The Riding Officers called out the Dragoons and we went off in force.’

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘Went without giving his name.’

  Henrietta joined in. ‘What an odd thing to do.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he didn’t have something to hide,’ answered Captain Grant, gazing at her in what John could only think of as an extremely forward manner.

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘That he was an English secret agent wishing to remain anonymous.’

  ‘How very exciting!’ Henrietta answered, clasping her hands together.

  The Apothecary sat in silence, thinking that the Captain was probably right, that no honest citizen would vanish into the night having delivered a message of such great importance. And this train of ideas reminded him of the French master spy supposedly in their midst, and the extraordinary appearance of Louis de Vignolles in Hastings. Making a decision that after a few hours’ sleep he would return there to try and seek out the Comte, the Apothecary concentrated instead on preventing the dashing Captain of Dragoons from monopolising the entire conversation, to say nothing of Miss Henrietta Tireman and her beautiful eyes.

  The party did not break up until long after dawn, indeed the younger, more resilient people stayed on and had breakfast, somewhat to the annoyance of the exquisite Rosalind, John thought. Her beauty looked as fresh and flawless after a night without sleep as it did at any other time but there was a kind of irritation about her, as if she could no longer be bothered to entertain those members of the lower orders who were filling her intended bridegroom’s house. Like many who had risen higher than the social strata in which they had been born, the younger Miss Tireman had developed into an arrant little snob.

  Finally, though, the guests congregated in the half moon of the carriage sweep, waiting while the conveyances were brought round from the stables. And it was just at that moment, as he was preparing to mount the high step into the trap, that John saw a familiar figure making its way up the drive on horseback.

  ‘Good morning, Lord Rye,’ called a cheery voice.

  ‘Good morning,’ the Marquis called back, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

  The figure drew closer and dismounted, leaving his easel and paints attached to the saddlebag. Then he bowed.

  ‘I’m a painter, my Lord. In the area to execute whatever commissions I am given. I thought you might like a picture of your house …’

  Then he stopped dead as Rosalind stepped forward and took her betrothed by the hand.

  ‘… or of this beautiful woman, here. Great God in the dawning, but isn’t she perfection.’

  ‘Lucius,’ said John, aware that the Marquis was starting to frown.

  The Irishman’s head swivelled. ‘Holy Mary, but if it isn’t yourself.’ He gazed round the group, all of whom stood staring at him as if he were a freak at a fair. ‘Lucius Delahunty, ladies and gentlemen, artist to the gentry and nobility. Well, Sirs, which of you would like your portrait painted?’

  ‘I think, Mr Delahunty.’ said Justin, regaining his humour, ‘that you should leave these good people alone for the moment. They have endured rather a long and difficult night. But if you would be so kind as to step inside, I most certainly would like to see some samples of your work.’

  ‘Gladly, my Lord,’ Lucius answered promptly. He bowed low. ‘What the devil have you been up to?’ he whispered to the Apothecary as he straightened up.

  ‘I think perhaps you know,’ John muttered back.

  An angelic expression of innocence crossed the Irishman’s face. ‘Now how, my friend,’ he answered with a broad wink, ‘could I possibly do that?’

  So saying and with another sweeping bow and a wave to the assembled onlookers, Lucius Delahunty followed the Marquis and Rosalind into the gracious confines of Ravenhurst Park.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  All John could think of was going to bed for a few hours and sleeping off the effects of such a remarkable night, but this was not to be. Just as Richard Hayman dropped him at the door of Petronilla’s Platt, the post boy came trotting down the empty street, handing the Apothecary a letter bearing the seal of the Public Office in Bow Street. John broke it, unrolled the paper on which the letter was written, and surveyed the contents.

  Sir, I write to You on a Matter of some Urgency and under the Instruction of the King’s Decipherer. That Learned Gentleman requests Your Presence in London as soon as it is Convenient for You to Travel. In the Profound Hope that You will be Able to Comply, I remain, Sir, Your Obedient Servant,

  J. Fielding

  ‘Oh no!’ John groaned aloud.

  But there was no escaping the fact. He had been summoned and that was that. Feeling decidedly the worse for wear, John quietly let himself into the house only to find that Agnes was bustling and banging about, singing very loudly as she did.

  ‘Agnes!’ he remonstrated.

  She jumped. ‘Oh, Sir, you startled me. Don’t worry, the mistress is awake. I’ve just taken her a mess of eggs and a cup of chocolate.’

  The Apothecary thought it sounded an unappetising combination but gave the simple soul a grateful smile none the less. ‘That was very thoughtful. Perhaps you might enquire if I could see her before I go.’

  Agnes’s plain face fell. ‘Are you off again, Sir?’

  John sighed. ‘Yes, alas.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘In the next thirty minutes or so. There’s a post chaise departing from Hastings at noon but I want to get there early and have a look round.’

  And see if there’s any sign of Louis de Vignolles, he thought.

  ‘I’ll tell Mrs Rose, Sir.’

  In her days as a great actress, the former Mrs Egleton had no doubt received many an admirer déshabillé, but now she pulled a shawl round her shoulders as John went into her bedroom.

  ‘Well” he said, without preface, ‘I’ve found the poisoner.’

  She sat erect, biting her lip with sudden strain. ‘Who was it? Not Cap—?’

  ‘No, not Captain Pegram. He may be up to all sorts of things but poisoning is not one of them.’

  ‘Then who—?’

  John shook his head. ‘Not who, my dear, but what.’

  Mrs Rose looked thoroughly perplexed. ‘Could you explain that?’

  ‘The poison was contained in the Elixir of Youth, Mrs Gironde’s special brew. She’s no apothecary and was using an ingredient dangerous to human life. So, Elizabeth, every time you tried to make yourself look younger you succeeded instead in making yourself ill. Anyway, I think all’s well that ends well. Silly Nan is by now thoroughly nervous and is sworn to retrieve all existing bottles and make no more. I think I’ll have to do the ladies of Winchelsea a service and bring them some of my wrinkle cream, a perfectly harmless substance that might even work.’

  Elizabeth frowned, ‘Then who left those gifts on my doorstep?’

  ‘Probably people who genuinely wanted to help you, Nathaniel Pegram for one. It was all a terrible coincidence.’

  ‘Then I fetched you down from London for nothing.’

  ‘On the contrary. Had I not come the Scarecrow might still be keeping his lonely vigil and the activities of the Frog and the Moth would have continued unchecked.’

  ‘Are you any nearer knowing who they are?’

  ‘I have a notion about one of them but th
e other remains as big a mystery as ever.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me who it is?’ Elizabeth asked, her eyes brightening.

  ‘No,’ John answered firmly. ‘I most certainly am not.’

  One hour later he was in Hastings, alighting at The Swan, the coaching inn at which he would pick up his conveyance to town. Having time to spare, the Apothecary strode into the parlour in which he had first seen Louis, only to find that it was almost empty, only a few travellers sitting there, waiting to journey on as he was. Having ordered a drink, John sat down to consume it and also to think.

  Despite the fact that he was completely exhausted, his brain seemed to be working sharply. If Louis were staying in Hastings, John considered, and knew that he had been recognised, the chances were high that he would have moved on to another hostelry in order to escape further attention. And an enquiry from the serving girl confirmed that there were two other large coaching inns, serving differing destinations, in the town.

  ‘I should try The Maiden’s Head and The Lamb and Flag, if I was you,’ she said, giving John an impudent look.

  ‘Thank you,’ he answered, tipping her, then went on his way, having left his bag in the girl’s care.

  The Lamb and Flag was indeed large and splendid, and also full of a great many noisy children, all of whom seemed to be travelling to Deal. Making a mental note never to go there, the Apothecary proceeded on, only to discover that The Maiden’s Head was situated a fair distance from the town, overlooking the sea. By now he felt utterly exhausted and was glad to go into the travellers’ parlour and take a seat.

  One thing he had not been prepared for was the fact that the Comte was sitting on a settle directly opposite him, reading a newspaper. Collecting himself, John took a mouthful of brandy, then said in a quiet voice, ‘Don’t run away Louis, please. I haven’t come here to harm you in any way. I just want to find out what is going on. Serafina believes that you are having an affaire. Is that true?’

  The Comte de Vignolles’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the newspaper and looked to see who was addressing him. Then he scowled.

  ‘John, damn you! Why are you such an interfering busybody? I could hardly believe it when you came into The Swan the other night. You, of all people, in Serafina’s thrall as you once were.’

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘Only the fact that for her sake you’d worry the matter like a dog a bone. Anyone else might have accepted the fact that I was visiting the sea for a few days. But not you, my friend. Not you.’

  ‘In that case, why not tell me what you are doing here? I shall not breathe a word, not to your wife or anyone else, I can assure you of that.’

  Louis’s scowl deepened. ‘It’s not another woman, that much I will swear to.’

  ‘No, I never thought it was.’ John leaned forward. ‘Shall I tell you what I believe?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I think you’re engaged on work concerning the national security of the country to which you owe allegiance.’

  The Comte gaped and the Apothecary knew that he had gone to the heart of the matter. ‘You cunning little bastard,’ Louis gasped.

  John looked grim. ‘My friend, I beg you to cease this folly. The authorities know all about you. It is only a matter of time before they come to arrest you.’

  De Vignolles stared uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Listen, they could hang me for a traitor for telling you this, but I heard it from Mr Fielding himself. Louis, for the love of God, stop now, or you leave me no alternative but to inform.’

  The Comte’s gaze constricted. ‘What exactly did the Blind Beak say to you?’

  ‘That there is a known French spy, someone acceptable to London society, working in our very midst, and that he has been doing so for some while.’

  De Vignolles’s dark eyes suddenly glinted. ‘And you say they have no idea who the man is?’

  ‘It is only a matter of time before they find out. Oh, Louis, I’m begging you. For the sake of Serafina and your child, stop now, before it is too late.’

  ‘And if I do, you would agree not to betray me?’

  ‘It may be treacherous but you and I have known each other a very long time.’

  Louis suddenly burst out laughing and, leaning across, ruffled John’s hair with his hand. ‘What a peculiar creature you are! Listen you clever little apothecary, you’ve worked it out but come to the wrong conclusion. I’m on your side. I was approached by the Secretary of State – Serafina has gambled with him in the past – and asked if I would help track down the French spy of whom you’ve just spoken. Naturally, I had to give a Bible oath of secrecy, which I have just broken in order to tell you this.’ The Comte de Vignolles crossed himself.

  John stared, then drank his brandy in a gulp. ‘You are …’ He lowered his voice. ‘You are a secret agent on the British side?’

  ‘Of course I am. I was born here, remember. I adore visiting France, but I owe it no fidelity whatsoever.’

  ‘So how can we reassure your wife that you are not keeping a mistress somewhere?’

  ‘You did not swear a pledge, did you?’ asked Louis, still laughing.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I thought the answer would have been obvious.’

  The Apothecary recovered his equilibrium. ‘But why are you here? In Hastings?’

  The Comte inclined forward. ‘Because he’s in this area,’ he whispered.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Signals are going out from the hill above the town. Once I nearly caught the fellow in action but he just managed to elude me.’

  ‘Someone is signalling from Winchelsea as well, using a most extraordinary code. So extraordinary, indeed, that a French frigate ran aground the other night.’

  ‘Perhaps the signaller is a British agent in disguise.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ said John, and grinned.

  The next hour passed splendidly, with a great deal of brandy being consumed. In such quantities, in fact, that the Apothecary hired a man with a trap to take him the short distance to The Swan. Then, having booked a place on the post chaise to London and got aboard, he promptly fell asleep, woke to dine; then slept again and did not wake till the carriage’s midnight arrival in the city. There, with no hackney coaches to be seen and the hour being late, John booked a room at The White Hart, went to bed and slept till morning, waking much invigorated and ready for the day.

  His first call was to Bow Street where Mr Fielding was just preparing to go into court. Having arranged to come back at a later hour, the Apothecary proceeded to Dr Willes’s house in Hill Street, only to find that the Bishop was still in Bath and would not be back until evening. This left him with three choices; to go home, to go to his shop, or to see Serafina. And she, being the nearest and also in great need of reassurance, was John’s first choice.

  Cutting across to Berkeley Square, the Apothecary made his way down Bruton Street, then into Conduit Street, and finally up Great George Street and into Hanover Square, where the de Vignolles resided at number twelve.

  It being one of those strange mornings, John rang the bell only to discover that the Comtesse and her daughter were out taking the air. But as he turned to go he saw them coming out of the garden that stood in the centre of the square and hurried across to join them. Each adult taking one of Italia’s hands, they walked back and sat on a stone seat beneath a budding tree.

  ‘My dear, this is such a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you were back in town,’ Serafina said with a smile, watching as Italia wandered off to play battledore and shuttlecock by herself.

  ‘I returned from Hastings late last night. Listen, my friend, I saw Louis there.’

  The Comtesse’s smile vanished. ‘I wondered where he was. Oh, John, he’s been missing for a week, making some ridiculous excuse about visiting an aunt. It’s all too terrible. My heart is breaking.’

  ‘Then mend it,’ said the Apothecary crisply. ‘There is no other w
oman I assure you.’

  ‘Really?’ John nodded and Serafina burst into sobs of relief, saying in a muffled voice, ‘Then what the devil is he doing?’

  The Apothecary wiped her tears with his handkerchief. ‘Sweetheart, be calm, for what I am about to tell you is a great secret which you must never divulge.’

  She stared at him moistly. ‘He’s not a spy, is he?’

  ‘Yes, of course he is. But for England not France. He has been sent to Hastings to track down the French master spy who has infiltrated London society.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Every word, I swear it.’

  Serafina flung herself into John’s arms, weeping harder than ever. ‘Oh Louis, Louis,’ she sobbed. ‘How could I ever have mistrusted you?’

  John felt his patience stretch itself a little thin. ‘Come now Serafina, it is pointless wasting your energy on self-recrimination. Better by far to invite me to your home and let me talk over my hunt for the two spies with you. I need your fine brain, I really do.’

  As always with a woman of such powerful character, the Comtesse instantly responded, straightening her back and wiping away her remaining tears.

  ‘Of course, I will do all that I can to help. If Louis is contributing his all, then so must I. Come Italia, we are going indoors now. Your nursemaid will bring you out later.’

  So saying, the three of them crossed the road and entered number twelve. John making his way to the spacious upstairs drawing room while Serafina saw to her child. He was staring out of the window at the gardens when the Comtesse came back in, and turned to smile at her.

  ‘Did you know you are still beautiful, even when you weep?’

  ‘No, I did not. You are an idle flatterer,’ Serafina answered severely. ‘Now, how may I help you?’

  ‘If I describe all the people who could possibly be the Frog and the Moth, will you pick them out for me?’

  ‘I don’t know that I can do that, but I will certainly try.’

  ‘Very well.’ They sat down in opposite chairs and the Comtesse rang the bell for refreshments. ‘Do begin,’ she said.

  ‘Well, to start with the highest, there is the Marquis of Rye. A strange dark fellow, who has decided to marry beneath him. He was betrothed to his sister’s teacher, Henrietta, but fell in love with her sister, Rosalind, instead.’