Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  A roar of laughter came from below and Lucius Delahunty, hair tied back in a bow and looking immensely smart in emerald green, bounded into the room accompanied by Richard Hayman. The Irishman bowed to the assembled company, then saw Dick.

  ‘Why, Reverend …’ he began, his tone startled.

  John cut across him. ‘Lucius, may I present Olivier de Vignolles. He is the cousin of a very old friend of mine.’

  The Irishman’s flaming blue eyes looked into his and there was the momentary hint of a wink. ‘My dear Sir,’ Lucius said promptly, ‘it really is an enormous pleasure.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Dick answered with dignity.

  The Apothecary turned away, then felt his heart beat faster at the sound of Mrs Tireman’s booming voice as its owner mounted the stairs with her party. The very thought that Henrietta was about to come into the room was enough to excite and exhilarate him, and John knew that leaving her was going to be almost an impossibility.

  With these latest arrivals the company was at full complement, only the puzzling Captain Pegram missing, and the Apothecary made a small speech of welcome in order that everyone could start dancing.

  ‘My Lord, ladies and gentlemen, do not stand on ceremony, I beg you. This assembly is by way of thanking you all for being so kind to me during my stay in Winchelsea. So please let us dance and take refreshment without further ado. Thank you.’ At this the guests formed themselves into two sets, each one of an even number, Faith Ffloote wistfully sitting out as she had no partner, and the musicians struck up The Dumps.

  ‘So this is goodbye?’ said Henrietta, her eyes suspiciously brilliant.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ answered John, as he led her into the centre. ‘Whatever happens, whatever lies ahead, I’ll come back for you.’

  ‘That sounds rather ominous.’

  ‘Does it? I’m sorry. It’s just that I want you to know that though my time in Winchelsea may be up, my time with you is most definitely not. In other words I am on the brink of falling in love with you.’

  ‘Only on the brink?’ she said, and laughed, all her old humour suddenly restored.

  The dance progressed, and though one or two people shot Dick Jarvis a curious glance no one queried that the graceful young man with the French accent was anyone other than who he said he was.

  The conjuror’s illusion, thought John. As Mr Fielding had said, people will see what they think they see.

  About halfway through the evening, just as most of the guests had taken a seat in order to have supper, Captain Pegram appeared, very pale but perfectly sober. He immediately sought out Mrs Rose and sat with her while they both took refreshments, making her laugh and look young and happy.

  I wonder, thought John.

  Dick, he noticed, was wandering round the room, meanwhile, chatting to every lady in turn, to each of them pitching the same yarn about owning and breeding horses, then asking their views on the equine species and whether they rode, and if so to what distance. Intrigued, John, in his role as host, went to join him.

  ‘No, I can’t pretend I ride at all,’ Mrs Finch was saying. ‘Of course I did as a gel but nowadays I prefer the comfort of a carriage. Now my daughters are fine horsewomen, every one of ’em. Sophie rides for miles, don’t you, Sophie?’

  ‘Yes, Mama,’ answered the hapless female.

  Looking at the girth of the four young Finches, John could only imagine they must mount Shires, and pitied any other breed that would have to carry them any distance at all.

  Good actor that he was, Dick was also smiling rather widely and the Apothecary guessed that he shared the same thought. ‘Charming,’ the smuggler said, his accent very broad. ‘One day you must come and see my stables, dear ladies.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ they chorused, and Mrs Finch made a moue and hid behind her fan.

  Mrs Tireman, immensely wigged this night, came to join the group and immediately addressed Dick in French. John’s heart sank, not having anticipated anything like this, but either the smuggler’s education had been first rate or he had picked up the language during his many years of trading with that country. Whatever the explanation, he answered her fluently, even cracking a joke which made her laugh.

  ‘Damme, but you do remind me of someone,’ she said, still in her mother’s tongue.

  ‘As you do me, Madam,’ Dick countered. ‘I believe it must be that famous actress Peg Woffington.’

  Mrs Tireman’s eyes almost vanished into the depths of her smile. Girlishly, she hit his arm with her closed fan. ‘Oh, you flatterer, you.’

  ‘That is who I must remind you of,’ Dick continued charmingly, ‘the Devil himself.’

  The rector’s wife laughed all the more.

  ‘Come, Olivier,’ said John, ‘allow me to present you to the rest of the ladies.’ He bowed to Mrs Tireman and Mrs Finch. ‘Mesdames, if you will excuse us.’

  Taking Dick by the elbow he propelled him firmly to where Mrs Rose sat, now joined by Faith Ffloote, who had gained colour during the course of the evening and actually appeared to be enjoying herself.

  ‘Lady Ffloote, Mrs Rose, Captain Pegram, may I present to you the cousin of my friend Louis, Olivier de Vignolles.’

  Mrs Rose held out her hand for a kiss and said, ‘We’ve already met but I remain charmed.’ Lady Ffloote, after peering somewhat suspiciously, suddenly became kittenish and giggled as Dick paid her the same courtesy. Captain Pegram, probably the only person in Winchelsea who did not deal with the smugglers, accepted Dick at face value and gave him a somewhat military bow.

  ‘Olivier breeds hundreds of horses,’ said John, elaborating.

  ‘I really must take up riding again,’ Faith said with a sigh. ‘I used to ride like the wind when I was young but of recent years my health has not been all that it should be. My husband rode well, of course, but he’s eloped. Gone off with a dolly-mop from Rye.’

  To his credit, Dick’s face did not move a muscle. ‘Really?’ he answered. ‘Then more fool him.’

  Lady Ffloote was clay in his hands. ‘What an amiable young person,’ she commented to the room in general. ‘You really must call on me.’

  ‘Alas, I return to London tomorrow,’ the smuggler answered with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, boo!’ said Faith, looking the most human John had ever seen her.

  ‘And now,’ the Apothecary put in, ‘I would like to introduce you to the Marquis of Rye, who has kindly graced my gathering with his presence.’

  ‘My Lord,’ said Dick, bowing till his wig scraped the Marquis’s shoe, ‘Olivier de Vignolles, at your service.’

  Justin smiled indulgently and indicated his beautiful future bride, who adorned his arm charmingly. ‘Rosalind, my dear, this is Mr Rawlings’ friend’s cousin Olivier de Vignolles.’

  ‘To be in your presence is a gift,’ Dick replied with a Gallic roll of his eyes.

  She laughed and held out her hand. ‘And what do you do, Monsieur?’

  ‘I breed horses on my estates in Warwickshire,’ he replied, his fingers waving to indicate enormous acreage. ‘Do you ride, at all?’

  The Marquis answered for her. ‘There is only one finer horsewoman in the county and that is Rosalind’s sister, Henrietta.’

  ‘Our mother is also very good,’ his betrothed added. ‘We all of us take after our French ancestress who was, if legend is to be believed, the greatest equestrienne in Normandy.’

  ‘Do you ride out over the marshlands?’ Dick asked.

  ‘Everyone does,’ Justin answered. ‘Don’t they, Mrs Gironde?’

  ‘I’ve had to learn to do so,’ she said tentatively. ‘I often carry out my husband’s deliveries for him, you see. And if he is using the carriage I have no alternative but to go on horseback when I visit the more remote houses and farms.’

  ‘My wife is a superb rider,’ put in her husband, joining the group.

  ‘So it would seem that every lady here has ridden at some time or another,’ Dick commented. ‘Excellent. All the better for my stud farms.’
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br />   ‘You have more than one?’ asked Rosalind.

  ‘Several,’ Dick replied exuberantly, and spread his arms wide.

  They had gone home, all of them. The musicians had been paid and had left, the chef and his assistants had cleared away the remains of the cold collation. Even Louis and Serafina, John’s special guests, had made their way back to The Salutation, leaving only the Apothecary and Dick Jarvis to walk back through the silent streets towards Petronilla’s Platt.

  ‘Was she there tonight?’ John said. ‘The woman who searched the pockets of the Scarecrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ the smuggler said solemnly.

  ‘And was it …?’ He mentioned a name.

  Dick looked at John in amazement. ‘How did you know?’ Then he saw how white his friend had gone in the moonlight. ‘This hurts you, doesn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘I am so sorry, but how did you know?’

  ‘There were various pointers along the way.’

  ‘All leading to her?’

  John sighed very heavily. ‘Yes, all leading to her.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The day of the Marquis of Rye’s wedding dawned merry as a marriage bell. March may have come in like a lion but now it had given way to April, with soft breezes taking the place of cutting winds and the air full of the scent of daffodils and sweet spring flowers still in bud.

  John, who had been back to London to consult with the Blind Beak, had returned with Joe Jago, now once again resident in The Salutation, and the promise of the Flying Runners, two Brave Fellows ready with a coach to go anywhere in the kingdom at fifteen minutes’ notice, should the occasion demand it. Yet even he, heavy with the import of all that must be done, did not get up as early as Elizabeth Rose, formerly both Egleton and Harcross, who rose at daybreak and put on a new gown of ice blue velvet and a hat brimming with flowers, especially made for the occasion. Later, while John was still putting the final touches to his toilette, Captain Pegram came to fetch her in his carriage and escort her to St Thomas’s in Winchelsea, where the wedding was to take place, telling her that she looked beautiful and making her smile more than she had done for a long time.

  The marriage of the Marquis was a great occasion and the entire county of Sussex had turned out. Not just those gentry folk fortunate enough to be on the list of guests, but also all the people who had worked for Lord Rye or his father and who owed them their livelihood. They came from miles away, pouring into Winchelsea, either on foot or horseback, and waited outside the church in a mood of ever increasing jollity, watching for the great moment when the bride and groom should appear.

  The Marquis came first, dressed from head to toe in lavender and pink, his witness, an old friend from school days whom nobody knew, sitting beside him as the Rye coach, rather an old-fashioned affair with the coat of arms emblazoned on the door, drew up at the church and allowed the bridegroom to alight. A great cheer was raised from all his workers who threw rose petals, saved and stored from the year before, along his path into the solemnity of the church.

  The guests were arriving in droves by now, and all those people with whom John had become so familiar, hurried into St Thomas’s shadowy interior, dressed within an inch of eternity. The Girondes were there, bearing bottles of salts lest anyone should faint; Lady Ffloote made a dignified entrance on the arm of Dr Richard Hayman and brought a small cheer from the onlookers; the Finches, all five of them, overflowing in gowns the various colours of a rainbow, arrived by carriage and made much of alighting and walking into church. Captain Pegram escorted Mrs Rose; John, resplendent in a damson coloured suit with a waistcoat of silver, walked in just behind them; Joe Jago, in sombre black, shadowed his footsteps then went to sit at the back of the church where anyone, invited or otherwise, was free to sit and observe the proceedings. Last in before the bridal party was that free spirit Lucius Delahunty, who also took his place at the rear, portrait painter to the Marquis but not yet established enough to have an invitation.

  Last of all to enter before the bridal party itself came Mrs Tireman, clad from head to foot in puce pink and gold, a hat upon her head fit to turn mortal man to stone should he gaze upon it. Then, as she took her seat in the front pew, a quiet fell over the whole congregation, waiting for that wonderful moment when the bride would enter the church. But even before she came they knew that Rosalind was drawing near. A great huzzah went up from all the retainers standing outside and there was the sound of a group of musicians. The bride was marrying in the old style, with fiddlers, trumpets and all.

  Everyone rose and every eye turned to the door. Then there was a great gasp as the golden beauty came into view. Rosalind wore white, with coloured ribbons tied as true lovers knots upon her sleeves, her glorious hair loose about her shoulders, a wreath of fresh flowers on her brow. Beside her walked her father, in full clerical regalia, behind, again in the old tradition, two boys bearing sprigs of rosemary and her sister, Henrietta, clad in tawny, carrying garlands of flowers and leaves.

  To a wild peal of bells, Rosalind walked down the aisle to where the Marquis of Rye awaited her, an expression of such adoration on his face that those sentimental members of the crowd wept to see it.

  At last she stood beside him at the altar and the Marquis’s chaplain, who was to conduct the ceremony that day, began with the familiar old words, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together today in the sight of God. …’ His voice flowed on, a soft, harmonious discourse with no discordant sounds, until at last it came to that most telling moment when a silence fell over the entire church and no one dared so much as cough.

  ‘… that if anyone knows of any just cause or impediment why these two may not be joined together in holy matrimony, let him speak now or for ever hold his peace.’

  There was the usual hush, during which John’s heart sank into his shoe, and then very slowly and deliberately Joe Jago rose from his place at the back.

  ‘I do,’ he said, and his voice seemed to ring down the corridors of time.

  The chaplain looked thoroughly flustered and goggled at Mr Fielding’s clerk, devoid of speech. Eventually, he managed to stutter, ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘It is, Sir, that a member of the wedding party is about to be placed under arrest on a charge of high treason and murder.’

  The Marquis whirled round, his dark face livid with fury. ‘Explain yourself, man.’

  Joe Jago cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, my Lord, I have here,’ he tapped his pocket – ‘a warrant for the arrest of …’

  But he got no further. Acutely aware that another figure had risen at the back, John, up to that moment too wretched to stare, turned to gape, as did every other member of the congregation.

  ‘I’ll save you the trouble,’ drawled Lucius Delahunty, his voice more Irish than it had ever sounded before. ‘Rosalind Tireman is a murdering bitch.’

  There was a gasp as the import of the words sank into the minds of the listeners, then following on like a wave of the sea came a loud explosion. A scream cut through the petrified silence which ensued and John, along with everybody else, watched in horror as Rosalind, a red patch appearing at the breast of her wedding gown, slumped to her knees before the altar and then fell sideways to the floor.

  ‘So die all traitors and enemies of France,’ said Lucius in perfect French, then he ran from the church without looking back.

  A spell was broken and as John rose to his feet, torn between helping the wounded and giving chase to her assailant, he saw that Dr Richard Hayman had already leaped several pews and was kneeling beside the bride, tending her where she lay in the Marquis’s arms. Without hesitation, he set off in pursuit of Lucius.

  The Irishman was just about to mount the fast dark horse from Truncheons but he paused, one foot in the stirrup as John hurled himself the distance between them. He bowed.

  ‘Lucien de la Tour at your service, Sir. Father, French; mother, Irish. The Scarecrow, as you call him, alias Gerard de
la Tour, was my cousin and a good man, albeit a little weak with the ladies. He came over to waken the Frog and the Moth, who had signed their allegiance to France in return for money many a year ago. As you now know, the Frog did his poor best. But the Moth, too enraptured with gaining even more money and a title into the bargain, killed my cousin rather than do her forsworn duty. That is why the evil bitch had to die.’

  ‘But Lucius …’ said John, lost for words.

  ‘Sorry, my friend,’ answered the other. ‘I really am very fond of you. Great God on a wedding day, I should be killing you but sure as hell I’m not going to do so.’ And with that he swung a gloved fist which crunched on to the Apothecary’s chin, hard as a flat iron, and the sunshine of that glorious April day turned black.

  The mists cleared slowly to reveal two anxious faces peering into his. One, the familiar craggy visage of Mr Fielding’s right-hand man, the much loved Joe Jago. The other, the neat little countenance of Dr Florence Hensey, applying cold compresses and salts as if his professional reputation depended on it.

  ‘Ah, my dear Mr Rawlings,’ he said, as John’s lids flickered. ‘Thank God you are coming back to us. That was a very nasty blow you received at the hands of that ruffian.’

  Despite all the horror he had witnessed, to say nothing of an extremely painful jaw, the Apothecary gave a brief crooked smile. ‘Lucius Delahunty, what an all-out rogue. What happened to him?’

  Joe’s light blue eyes twinkled. ‘He escaped. The Flying Runners arrived a little too late to apprehend any villains – they lost a wheel in Lamberhurst! – and he was clean out of sight by the time they came.’

  ‘Do you think he will get back to France?’

  Joe tapped the side of his nose. ‘Did you not tell me that he got on particularly well with the Reverend Tompkins?’

  The Apothecary smiled. ‘Well, if Dick’s somewhat dubious patriotism troubles his conscience I am certain Little Harry will have no such qualms.’

  The clerk looked at him quizzically. ‘You bear Lucius no grudge, do you?’

  ‘No. He was doing his duty as he saw it and avenging his cousin’s murder.’