Death on the Romney Marsh (12 page)

‘The mystery will remain,' Serafina answered with a smile.

Having been waved off by Sir Gabriel, who had announced his intention of going out to play whist, Serafina slipped her arm through John's in the warmth of the coach's padded interior, while the child sitting on her lap fell straight into a deep sleep.

‘My dear, I have something to ask you,' the Comtesse said.

‘What is it?'

‘Do you think your father still has a
tendresse
for Elizabeth Harcross?'

The Apothecary thought in silence. ‘If he has, he gives no sign of it. He is a remarkable man, you know. I think when she disappeared abroad after Jasper was murdered, he positively forced himself to forget her.'

‘Oh, that we could all have such self-control.'

Wondering exactly what she meant, John tensed, remembering only too clearly the state of Serafina's marriage when he had first met her. ‘There's nothing wrong between you and Louis, is there?' he asked hesitantly.

She sighed. ‘Not exactly, no.'

Not satisfied, John added, ‘Answer me straightly, Serafina. Has he gone back to his old philandering ways?'

She turned to look at him, her eyes shining. ‘No, I am sure that he has not. He has become an excellent father and husband. It is just that he has seemed so preoccupied recently. There is something on his mind, I feel certain of it.'

‘Would it help if I had a word with him this evening? I could catch the same early morning coach to Hastings that I did last time.'

Serafina squeezed his arm. ‘I would be most grateful if you did. Louis trusts and likes you. If there is anything worrying him I feel certain that you will find it out.'

‘If I can be of service,' said John.

The Comtesse kissed him soundly. ‘You are so good. I simply can't imagine why I didn't take you for a lover all those years ago.'

If only you had, thought John, as he gazed out of the window and watched the light begin to fade from that eventful day.

Having dropped Serafina and her sleeping child at their home at number twelve, Hanover Square, the Comte de Vignolles's coachman, after clipclopping smartly round the quadrangle, turned out of the precinct into Little Brook Street, then went left into New Bond Street, making his way towards that highly fashionable area, still in the final throes of its development, situated behind Berkeley Square. Greatly favoured by the wealthy and powerful, moving out of the city towards the open spaces of Hyde Park, the locality bore the name Mayfair, taking its title from a somewhat rowdy fair which always began on May Day, held annually on a plot of land situated to the east side of the park. Like all events of this nature, the May Fair was a great attraction to the rowdy and the drunk, and John, having visited it the year previously, thought he had never seen such a collection of evil villains and dirty whores amongst those present, and wondered whether the fair could continue much longer, particularly with the influx of such influential people into the area. Indeed, so fine a neighbourhood was this becoming, that the Earl of Chesterfield himself was campaigning to have the public executions which took place at Tyburn, a mere stone's throw away at the corner of Hyde Park, removed elsewhere, and the name of Tyburn Road changed.

Slowing the coach, for Mayfair was not yet familiar to drivers, Louis's coachman drove around Berkeley Square and out into the smart streets of newly-built houses lying at the back of it.

‘What address did you say, Sir?' the man called from his box.

The Apothecary looked at the piece of paper John Fielding had given him. ‘Twenty-four Hill Street,' he answered out of the window.

‘That must be it over there,' and the driver pointed with his whip.

John looked in the direction indicated and his eyes grew wide. A most elegant new mansion, far grander than anything he had imagined would be occupied by a spy, stood imposingly in this street of highly desirable residences. The Apothecary glanced at the paper again but the address was correct.

‘Yes, that's it,' he replied.

A footman answered the door and on hearing that the visitor was calling on behalf of John Fielding, showed the Apothecary into a somewhat austere anteroom, hung with pictures of ecclesiastical buildings, including a rather fine painting of St David's Cathedral in Wales. John had just got to his feet to examine this more closely when the servant reappeared.

‘My lord will see you now,' he announced.

The Apothecary stared at him. ‘My lord … ?' he repeated.

‘Follow me, please,' the footman answered, ignoring the visitor's startled expression.

They proceeded across an elegant hall into a stunningly beautiful room.

‘Mr Rawlings, my lord,' intoned the footman expressionlessly, and bowed his way out.

John looked around him, amazed by what he saw. Three huge windows, each with a padded seat, draped in gold to match the long and magnificent curtains, looked on to the attractive garden beyond. Above his head, the cornice was picked out in a matching gold, while below it the frieze, though of different design, complemented the colour exactly. But the most exciting element of the room was its shape. For the window wall curved gently outwards, meeting the adjoining walls in a pillar-like configuration which added a pleasing symmetry to the whole effect. This, together with the angled setting of the windows, gave an impression of delicacy and lightness, unequalled by anything John had ever seen.

Modern architecture at its best, the Apothecary thought, and before he could stop himself exclaimed, ‘What a wonderful house. Who designed it, if I might ask?'

The man seated behind the desk placed in front of a window, his back to the light so that he appeared in silhouette, looked up from his papers. ‘A new young man, a Scotsman, name of Robert Adam. I'm glad you like it. Now, my dear Sir, I believe you have been sent here by Mr Fielding. How may I help you?'

‘It's about this document,' said John, fishing in his pocket. And then he stopped speaking and gazed in frank astonishment as the man got to his feet, etched dark against the spring sky behind him, and came round the desk towards his visitor. For a clergyman stood there, a clergyman in black leather gaiters, full-skirted formal coat and waistcoat, both black, and stark white cravat. A very tall clergyman of large build, with a big horse-like face and small observant eyes.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Sir,' John stammered, totally flustered. ‘I've obviously made a stupid mistake. I was looking for the King's Decipherer. I've come to the wrong house.'

‘Did you want to see Dr Willes?' replied a booming voice.

‘Yes, my lord.'

‘Then you've found him. I am he whom you seek.'

‘You!' exclaimed the Apothecary. ‘But Dr Willes is a master spy, Sir.'

‘Dr Willes is a decoder,' replied the other severely. ‘He cracks ciphers, reduces them to the simplicity of a child's primer. But if that, in your view, is being a spy, then indeed I am one. I am also, but that is merely by the by, Bishop of Bath and Wells. I combine the two callings.'

‘Good God!' exclaimed John, wholly astounded.

‘Amen to that,' said Dr Willes piously. He extended his hand. ‘And you, Sir, who are you? Other than an associate of Mr Fielding's, that is.'

John, still reeling with shock, gave a somewhat jerky bow. ‘John Rawlings, my lord, Apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly. It has been my privilege to work with the Principal Magistrate in the past. And now he has sent me here to ask if you might decipher this.' And he handed Dr Willes the document which had been concealed in the lining of the scarecrow's coat.

‘Let me see now, let me see,' answered the Bishop, producing some spectacles from an inside pocket. Putting them on, he carried the paper to the light, studying it silently for a moment or two. Then he looked up. ‘Where did you get this?'

As best he could, John explained, leaving out no detail.

Dr Willes listened in silence, then said, ‘189 1504 598 2211 1905 500 665 2099, la Grenouille et le Papillon de Nuit. Well that's fairly straightforward. It's the new French code, only about two months old. They started working on it as soon as war broke out. But we began to decipher it almost as quickly as they invented it, if you know what I mean.'

Stunned, John answered, ‘What does it say?'

Dr Willes looked faintly surprised. ‘Oh, yes, you'd want to know that, of course. Well, it's direct and to the point.'

‘Yes?'

‘It reads, “You are ordered to give secret instructions immediately to the British spies, the Frog and the Moth.” Then it says, “You will find the pair in Winchelsea. Contact them as arranged.”'

‘So the dead man was French?'

‘Either that or carrying French papers on him. But I would imagine that the former is the case. The Scarecrow, as you call him, was sent over here to awaken two sleepers.'

‘By that you mean spies who do little in peacetime except take their money.'

The Bishop's eyes peeped over his glasses at John. ‘Precisely, Sir. There are, in my reading of the situation, two of them, both in Winchelsea, perhaps working together, perhaps not even knowing of each other's existence. In any event, the Scarecrow had come over here to give them their orders.'

The Apothecary nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And perhaps one of them objected to that, violently.'

Dr Willes grimaced. ‘And did away with the spy master in order not to obey? Yes, very probably you are right. You will be returning to the Romney Marsh to try to unmask them, I take it?'

‘Yes, my lord.'

‘Then tread carefully, my friend. Spies are a curious breed.' He laughed suddenly, his big face splitting into a toothy smile. ‘I should know, after all.'

‘Indeed, you should, my lord,' the Apothecary answered, thinking that the saying about God working in mysterious ways had never been more true than in the case of Dr Edward Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Decipherer to the King, head of the Secret Department and British master spy.

Before they parted company, John and Serafina had arranged that he should call at Hanover Square at seven o'clock that evening in order to visit Louis de Vignolles. So, with an hour or so to spare, the Apothecary hurried to Shug Lane to check that all was well with his shop which, much to his surprise, he found full of customers.

‘… a perfume of passion,' Nicholas Dawkins was saying to an excited audience of female customers. ‘My Master, as fine a scent maker as you'll find in London, albeit he is an apothecary and not a perfumer, mixed it personally from a secret recipe smuggled into this country from Muscovy, while I, his humble apprentice, named it for my Russian ancestors. Ladies, I give you Snow Violets, the fragrance of the Tsars.'

‘I'll take a bottle,' called John from the back, and Nicholas had the good grace to blush, while Master Gerard, watching benignly from the doorway of the compounding room, laughed heartily.

There was a slight fluttering as the shop's owner made his way through the throng towards the back room, into which, having patted Nicholas on the back to indicate that he wasn't going to admonish him on the spot, John quietly vanished.

‘Well, well,' he said as he went inside.

Master Gerard, who had closed the door to give them privacy, laughed again. ‘What a splendid young man that is. Why, in my day, Mr Rawlings, we apothecaries were dry as dust. But now, with people like you and young Nick about, the whole profession is becoming more accessible. And so it should. For if the ladies come in for cosmetics or scents, then they will buy something else and thus our fame will spread.'

John rolled an eye towards the shop. ‘What was all that about a secret recipe? Did he compound it himself?'

Old Master Gerard looked flustered. ‘I assisted, I assure you. But please don't be angry, Mr Rawlings, not with either of us. It is his enthusiasm that makes Nicholas bend the rules a little.'

‘Bend?' John said with a laugh. ‘More like buckle! I must have words with him, you know.'

‘You won't beat him, will you? It will be punishment enough that you caught him in the act. He so wanted to show you the profit he had made and suggest that you might continue his experiment.'

‘My old Master would have beaten me.'

‘But you are not the beating kind, Mr Rawlings. You do not have that look about you.'

John shook his head. ‘Between the two of you I just don't stand a chance. Just as well that I'm off again tonight. I only get some peace when I am hunting down spies and murderers.' He laughed again to show he spoke in jest. ‘And now, Master Gerard, I would much appreciate a brew of tea. I must write to Mr Fielding and tell him the latest turn of events so I'll seize a few quiet moments here.'

He sat down at the scrubbed wooden table and, taking some paper and a pen, copied out the coded message as Dr Willes had dictated it to him before he left Hill Street. This done, John waited for the noise from the shop to subside, then went through the dividing door. Nicholas stood beyond, flushed with a strange mixture of triumph and fear.

‘Well?' said John, keeping a card player's face.

‘I know I did wrong, Sir. I know I shouldn't have mixed anything in your absence …'

‘And claimed that it was made by me.'

‘And claimed that it was made by you. But I did so want to try this recipe. My grandmother used to make it, you see. It really is Russian …'

‘Nicholas, stop,' said John, fractionally irritated. ‘It was wrong of you and I really ought to punish you but this time I am content to leave it at a warning. Namely, do not do such a thing again! I assure you I will not be so lenient if there is another occasion. I am quite happy to compound things with you when I have time, so be content with that. Now, to make up for your transgression, I want you to go round to Bow Street and deliver this note. Then go home and tell Sir Gabriel that I won't be coming back tonight but will go straight to Southwark, then to Hastings early.'