Death on the Romney Marsh (10 page)

Strange and forlorn, the little building, curiously shaped like Noah's Ark, stood lonely and unattended, cut off by floods and battered by storms in the winter, warmed by the sun in spring, the only creatures to visit it regularly the famous Romney Marsh sheep.

St Thomas à Becket had been built on a mound by the craftsman who had created it five hundred years earlier, this, obviously, to raise the small and sacred place above the level of the floods. Walking round it now, John realised that from the church itself the scarecrow was completely invisible, obscured by the ruins of a shepherd's stone hut built on another raised bank. The illusion that the straw man stood close to St Thomas's had been an optical one, created by the moonlight. Tying his horse to a ring in the wall at the back of the church, the Apothecary proceeded on foot.

The ground was squelchy where he trod and it was with some difficulty that John made his way towards the ruined hut being forced at one point to wade through the ditch. Eventually, looking much the worse for wear and with mud to his knees, the Apothecary rounded the corner of the stone shelter and there got his first glimpse of the figure which had so startled him in the deceptive moonlight.

Just as when he had first seen it, the very stillness of the scarecrow, looking for all the world like a man with his back turned towards him, gave John the most eerie sensation. In fact, it was too lifelike to be comfortable with, even in the bright light of day. The clothes it wore were of the finest velvet, superbly cut and fashionable, though by now the elements had drained their vivid colours.

Approaching the scarecrow from behind as he was, the Apothecary was able to take in every detail of the torn and faded claret coat, the elegant tricorne, lace-trimmed and once very stylish. Whoever had created this thing, John thought, had not only found some wonderful garments to dress it in but had also gone to enormous trouble doing so. There were even the remains of ripped hose and breeches upon the short straw legs. Small wonder, then, that it had given him such a fright when he had originally seen it. Taking a deep breath, the Apothecary cautiously circled the straw man, and walked round to look at it from the front.

As he had observed in the moonlight, there was no face, the hat being pulled too far forward to warrant the extra effort of making one. Yet it seemed to John as he stared at the scarecrow in the sunshine that there was a hint of something beneath the tricorne, a small glinting of some white substance like chalk.

The Apothecary stretched out a hand towards the man of straw and even as he did so, a large crow appeared from nowhere and swooped downwards. ‘Be off!' John shouted, flapping his arms. The bird hovered for a moment, almost as if it were taking stock of an enemy, then circled and flew away.

Thoroughly unnerved, John repeated the action, gritting his teeth and swiftly plucking the hat from the scarecrow's head.

Hollow eyes stared into his and there was the brilliant gleam of bone beneath the sun. With a cry of pure terror the Apothecary took a step backwards, his gorge rising at the sight of what was revealed. For beneath the hat, still wearing a white wig that made it look utterly grotesque, lay a human skull, a skull which at that moment seemed to be grinning at John Rawlings as if it were greeting an old and long-lost friend.

The horrific discovery had left him breathless and panting, and it took several minutes of deep breathing and concentrated effort for John to get a grip on himself. As he had so often before, the Apothecary recalled the saying of his old Master that the dead can hurt no one, and fought away his panic by telling himself so repeatedly. Yet still his heart was pounding and his stomach felt as if it had descended to his knees. Fighting off an overwhelming desire to vomit, John sat down on the damp grass and steeled himself for the unpleasant task of examining the body.

The scarecrow had been put in place by, quite literally, being hung upon a crucifix. A humble wooden cross, which had presumably been taken from the church, had been impaled in the ground, the dead man attached to it by the simple means of pushing the cross piece through the sleeves of his full-skirted coat. The head had been held upright by a ribbon which had been attached to the cross, tied at its other end through a cut in the brim of the scarecrow's tricorne, now dislodged by John's tugging at it. With trembling fingers, the Apothecary lifted the white horsehair wig which, with the hat gone, ludicrously crowned the skull. A host of maggots swarmed below, churning and seething in what remained of a dark head of hair. Another wave of nausea swept the Apothecary and he dabbed at his upper lip with the sleeve of his coat.

The dead man's face itself had vanished, only the grinning skull intact after the attentions of the crows and flies. The victim had died with a full set of teeth, John noticed before he staggered away and was violently sick into one of the ditches. He then stood for a moment, mopping his brow with his handkerchief-and taking deep breaths, before he returned to his grisly task.

Tentatively, the Apothecary undid the silver buttons of the claret velvet coat, noticing as he did so that it had been sliced neatly through just over the heart and that there were traces of dried blood all around this cut. So the victim had been stabbed with a thin-bladed knife, a dagger most likely, and would have died almost instantaneously. Beneath the coat, a silver waistcoat revealed a similar cut and more blood, and below that a cambric shirt bore the most blood of all. Wishing he had gloves with him, John eased the shirt up and out of the breeches.

Beneath the shirt was a skeletal chest, only that, not an ounce of flesh left anywhere. Slightly relieved that he had not found the body in a state of putrefacation, John took careful note of the nick on the ribs which proved him right. A dagger had definitely entered this unfortunate man's heart and left its mark to prove it. Steeling himself, the Apothecary looked downwards.

Below the knee the legs were completely missing, carried away by the foxes. Above, John saw after delicately lowering the breeches and hose, there were only bones, everything eaten away including the genitals, a bizarre thought to say the least of it. Of the missing shoes there was absolutely no sign and John realised that the impression that the scarecrow had been standing on legs must have been created by the moonlight. The hands, too, had been leaped for and devoured, only the frilled cuff remaining to cover the stumps of the wrist. Wishing he had a hip flask with him, the Apothecary stood silently, taking stock of the situation.

There was no sign of a violent struggle marking the raised bank on which the scarecrow had been positioned, though after several months, to say nothing of the floods, the time John estimated the body must have stood there, it might long ago have disappeared. Yet, he thought, if the crucifix had come from the church, might the house of God yield up anything further? Suddenly certain that there lay the scene of the crime, the Apothecary, his legs still weak from shock, waded through the drainage ditch that separated the ancient building from the grassy knoll on which the scarecrow stood.

On closer inspection, the older John could see the church was. Indeed, the building was clearly medieval, the exterior half timbered, the spaces between the wooden construction filled with laths and plaster. A weather boarded bell turret reared above, while entry was through an oaken door set in the newly built porch in the north wall. Glad to get away from the scarecrow for a moment or two, the Apothecary made his way into the shadowy interior.

Exposed timbers and arches of wood immediately caught John's eye, lit by weak sunshine coming in through the plain timber framed windows. Though what little light there was was dimmed by a stud wall running across the whole width of the church in order to support the turret. In medieval times, rushes would have been strewn and the congregation would have either stood or sat on the floor. But to suit eighteenth-century demands, John noticed, a pulpit and pews had been recently installed, the pulpit being particularly interesting because it was of the three deck variety. The lower part of it consisting of a gated seat, was clearly meant for the parish clerk, a thin man, the Apothecary thought, for anybody stout would get wedged in in such a small space. Above it was another area from which the Perpetual Curate would conduct the main part of the service. Above this again was the third stage, to which the minister would ascend in order to deliver the sermon, usually of prodigious length and ending barely in time for the congregation to get home to dine at three. Because of the amazingly long time involved many families took chamber pots with them into their pews, which both ladies and gentlemen used discreetly while the service continued.

The pews themselves each had a locked door and were square in design, containing benches on which the occupants sat facing one another. Vaulting over the wall of one, John thankfully took a seat and rested quietly in the peaceful silence, letting his thoughts run on.

Could the murder have taken place here, within these very walls? Could there, perhaps, be a clue to the fatal stabbing in this old and holy building? And might there also be an indication as to the identity of the dead man? Much as John had disliked doing so, he had searched the scarecrow's coat pockets, only to find that they had all been bare. Even the waistcoat openings had been empty, the fob watch missing. Whoever had killed him had made sure that the victim's name would remain a mystery. Reluctantly, the Apothecary left the pew and began to search amongst the dim recesses of the little church.

An abandoned cloak lay in the parish clerk's stall, though this, too, had no papers in it, nor the name-of the tailor stitched within. There were signs that this last might have been ripped out, for a few loose threads remained near the collar. However, the search for a fight was far less successful, there being nothing other than a few drops of dried blood on the floor by the font, though these could have been caused by anything, John considered, even am innocent nosebleed. Logically he had to admit that if the scarecrow had been dead for some months, any sign of the fight in which he died would have been cleared up by now. Dreading what he had to do next, the Apothecary stepped out into the daylight and gazed around him.

From this angle by the porch, the body was invisible, totally screened by the shepherd's shelter. Small wonder, then, that nobody had seen it or, if they had, had not recognised it for what it actually was. Yet six months was a long time. Perhaps the scarecrow
had
been observed and simply allowed to remain where it was. But looking for the tailor's name in the cloak had given the Apothecary an idea and now he felt impelled to put it into practice. Hideous though the thought was, John approached the skeleton once more.

The maker's label had been ripped out of the coat, as had that in the horribly foreshortened breeches. But it was just as he was straightening from examining these that the Apothecary caught a glimpse of something protruding from what had once been a fine silk lining, and raised the hem of the coat to eye level. A paper had been stitched inside, there was no doubt of it. A paper that had only become visible as the elements and scavengers tore at the scarecrow's clothing. Taking his herb knife from his pocket, John cut through the remaining stitches and withdrew a sealed document. Breaking the seal, he spread the paper on to the ground in order to study it.

‘189 1504 598 2211 1905 500 665 2099,' he read, followed by the cryptic phrase, ‘la Grenouille et le Papillon de Nuit'. Then ensued another series of numbers, together with the word ‘Winchelsea'.

John stared in astonishment, his brain racing, only able to conclude that he had inadvertently stumbled across some sort of code and wondering how, with all the goodwill in the world, the village constable was going to deal with this extraordinary set of circumstances. And then as he looked at the paper again, the realisation that he had come across some altogether larger game than a straightforward killing for gain or revenge dawned on him. The document stitched into the lining of the scarecrow's coat could be nothing but sealed and coded orders.

The Apothecary stood silently for another few moments, deciding on the best course of action. Then, with great determination, he folded the paper and put it safely in his inner pocket, meanwhile ramming the scarecrow's hat back on its maggot-blown wig. Then having pulled the tricorne well down to hide the skull, John swiftly mounted his horse and went at the gallop back along the road he had come.

‘La Gren-oil eh le Pap-pill-yon de Newt', read Joe Jago in an atrocious French accent.

‘Extraordinary!' commented the Blind Beak, who sat leaning back in his chair, his black-bandaged eyes tilted towards the ceiling, his hands folded across his stomach, his feet upon a footstool. ‘Quite extraordinary.'

‘Then come another series of numbers, Sir.'

‘Obviously a cipher. Well done, Mr Rawlings. You did absolutely the right thing in bringing this document straight to me.'

‘Thank God,' said John. ‘My instinct told me so. Yet I kept thinking I ought to inform the constable about the body. Though how on earth he would have sorted it all out, I dread to think.'

‘I somehow feel it would have been beyond him. We are a nation at war, Mr Rawlings, and judging by the code the dead man was carrying and the fact that it was concealed in the lining of his coat, I can only presume the victim was a member of what is known as the Secret Service.'

‘You mean a spy?'

‘Yes, I do.'

The Apothecary gave a sudden laugh. ‘I seem to remember you advising me to find myself one, and not that long ago at that.'

Mr Fielding rumbled an answering chuckle. ‘Yes, so I did. Well, you appear to have succeeded. But more of espionage in a moment. First, tell me, my friend, how are you getting on with your mysterious visit to Winchelsea?'

‘You know about it?'

‘Sir Gabriel came here to dine the other evening.'