Death on the Romney Marsh (19 page)

It was an ordeal that John could well have done without. Just for his benefit the table was laid in the dining room, under which The Pup hovered constantly, its muzzle an inch from the Apothecary's knee, its eyes horribly beady. Every time he raised the fork to his mouth it followed what he was doing with a greedy gaze and when he steadfastly refused to give it anything, it growled deep.

In the end he could stand it no longer and said, ‘I think your dog is hungry. Lady Ffloote.'

‘Oh, is he there? Is he begging? It's all Sir Ambrose's fault. He treats The Pup like a child and feeds him at table. Dear little Boo-Boo, it's difficult to refuse him I must admit.'

John had a strange mental picture of a real child lying on the floor being given scraps by Sir Ambrose. ‘Ah,' was all he could bring himself to say.

‘Will you not stay till my husband gets home?' Lady Ffloote continued ‘I know he would like to see you.'

‘No, no,' John said, determinedly putting down his napkin. ‘I really must go. Aunt Elizabeth will be worrying about me.'

‘I'm not surprised, a handsome young creature like yourself. Why, since the Assembly you are the talk of the town. I'm sure Mrs Finch and Mrs Tireman have both picked you out for their daughters.'

On the point of rising, John sat down again. ‘How very flattering, though of course I am not in the same league as the Marquis of Rye. Tell me, is he very rich?'

‘Well, he is now, though it was a much different story when he was younger.' Faith clearly adored to gossip and launched into her tale with relish. ‘At the age of eighteen the Marquis was a profligate gambler and womaniser, money poured through his hands like water. His father, a very different character I can tell you, was forced to rescue him from ruin on more than one occasion. I believe stern words were spoken. Anyway, after the final confrontation between them the young man seemed to pull himself together; indeed I believe he must have taken some form of employment, for money came in on a regular basis. Then his father died, leaving him to bring up his younger half-sister on his own, and this finally forced the Marquis to face reality. And when he met Henrietta, the transformation was complete. He became a reformed character and has been a pillar of rectitude ever since, other than for jilting the poor creature, of course.'

The mention of Henrietta's name brought back memories of the afternoon, and the Apothecary blushed.

‘I'm sure she is over it now,' he said with feeling.

Lady Ffloote looked at him sharply. ‘I thought you hardly knew the young lady.'

‘I don't really. It's just an impression I have.' John stood up and The Pup emitted a low rumble. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me. I really must go now.'

‘What a shame,' said Faith, her eyes the brightest he had ever seen them.

A quarter of an hour later the Apothecary had managed to extricate himself and was heading briskly for Petronilla's Platt, only to find when he got there that Agnes had returned home and Elizabeth, who had remained in bed, had gone back to sleep.

Putting on a warm topcoat, for the evening had turned chilly, John set off to walk to the Roundle.

It was as dark as pitch outside but he had had the good sense to bring a lantern, the light from which dimly illuminated the way. Stumbling and tripping, the Apothecary set off down the lane lying behind Paradise House, wishing that there could be even one glimpse of moon and stars. Passing the last house on the path, he left civilisation behind him and turned off towards the fields, the lane deteriorating into the roughest track. Bearing right by Joseph's Tree, a local landmark, John headed down the path leading to the windmill, then crossed a stile, dropping the lantern as he did so and extinguishing its flame.

Now he was in the wildest territory of all for the Round Tower, as some called it, stood in a field, these days quite deserted and alone, no longer used for the purpose for which it had been built. Yet Joe must have arrived there before him, for there was a light on in the Roundle, the Apothecary could see it quite distinctly.

With a greeting on his lips, John hurried forward, only to stop dead as a sensation of great danger swept over him. Then a shape loomed up out of the shadows. There was a click as a pistol cocked in the darkness and the Apothecary felt the coldness of the muzzle against his temple.

‘One move, you little bastard, and you're a corpse,' said a rough voice.

‘Who are you?' asked John, but there was no reply, only a mighty blow to the Apothecary's head which sent him spinning into oblivion, spiralling downwards amongst the whirling stars.

Regaining consciousness was painful, horribly so. With a mighty effort, John opened his eyes, only to close them again rapidly. His head throbbed with such indescribable savagery that even the movement of raising his lids had sent a wave of agony through his entire body. Wondering where he could possibly be and what terrible fate had befallen him, the Apothecary lay very still, willing the hurt to go away.

Beneath him was a hard narrow bed, its mattress sharp with horsehair, its pillow rank with the smell of sweat. In fact so revolting was its stink that if John had had one ounce of energy left he would have thrown it to the floor. But as it was he just lay there, too weak to do anything, his body helpless but his brain slowly beginning to function again.

The last thing he could remember was the sound of the cock of a pistol in the darkness, the blow, then oblivion. That had all happened in the open but now he was inside, most likely the prisoner of whoever had struck him. Bracing himself against the pain, John opened his eyes once more.

He was in a narrow room beneath the eaves, a shaft of moonlight coming through one small window its only illumination. In the dim light, John could make out a broken table with an unlit candle on it, a grimy chamber pot standing beneath. These, other than the bed on which he lay sprawled, were the only furnishings. Very slowly, moving with extreme care, the Apothecary got to his feet, staggering as he did so.

Holding on tightly, he peered out of the window. What view the meagre casement gave revealed nothing but moorland, with no sign of any other form of habitation Grimly wondering why he was being held captive, John was just about to try the door when he heard voices in the distance and the sound of feet ascending the wooden staircase. Moving as quickly as he could, he lay back on the bed. Beneath the door, the light of a candle was drawing nearer, and the Apothecary could make out the sound of two men speaking in undertones.

‘I shall deal with it in my own manner,' one was saying.

‘To hell with that,' answered the other contemptuously. ‘I know what I'd do with him.'

‘Shut your mouth,' the first speaker replied tersely as the door opened. At which John closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

‘Merciful God!' the first voice continued, using a noticeably different timbre. ‘This poor fellow's wounded. Fetch some warm water and a bandage. He's bleeding from the head.'

‘Yes, Your Reverence.' And there was the sound of retreating footsteps.

The candle was set down and the Apothecary felt himself being gently raised as a pair of probing fingers investigated the spot where he had been struck. Groaning theatrically, John lifted his lids.

‘He's regaining consciousness, may the Lord be praised,' said the voice, close to his ear.

Squinting into the dimness, John could just make out the dark cloth of clerical habit. ‘Who are you?' he asked faintly.

‘The Reverend Tompkins,' replied the other, and as he moved into the light the Apothecary saw to his amazement that it was the extraordinary young curate he had encountered in St Augustine's at Brookland.

‘I believe we've met before,' John said. ‘A few days ago. I was looking around your church.'

‘Were you?' The curate peered more closely. ‘Why, yes, I do remember. You were on your way to Fairfield, were you not?'

The Apothecary nodded weakly. ‘Indeed I was. But, Father, where am I now? The last thing I recall was being in Winchelsea. Then someone struck me, with a pistol butt I think. The next I knew I was lying on this bed.'

‘My dear man, you're but a mile or so from where we first met. You are in The Woolpack, an inn situated within a stone's throw of Brookland Church.'

‘But how in Heaven's name did I get here?'

The curate shook his head. ‘That I do not know. The landlord found you lying on the Marsh when he went out in his cart about an hour ago. There was no clue as to who put you there. Someone who bears you a grudge, I suppose.'

‘But who could have a grudge against me in this part of the world? I am merely staying in Winchelsea and hardly know a soul there.'

Unless, John thought, Mrs Rose's would-be killer believes me to be nearer the truth than I actually am.

There was a knock on the door and the landlord came in with a chipped bowl, a soiled towel and some grubby-looking rags. The Apothecary shuddered.

‘Does the wound need a stitch?' he asked the curate, who had started on the business of washing the blood from it.

‘I hardly know. I am no expert.'

John looked at the landlord. ‘Do you have such a thing as a couple of mirrors?'

The man exchanged a glance with the Reverend Tompkins. ‘I might have. Why?'

‘Because then I can see for myself just how bad the gash is.'

‘And what would you know about such things?'

‘Quite a lot. I'm an apothecary.'

The two stared at each other, clearly amazed. ‘An apothecary!' exclaimed the curate.

‘Yes. Why so surprised?'

‘Because you don't really look the part, Sir.'

‘Neither do you,' John responded, grinning, then wincing.

The other chuckled, eyes twinkling. ‘Well said. Fetch him the mirrors, Will.'

He seemed very much in command, John thought, for the landlord ambled off to do the curate's bidding without hesitation.

‘So you're a man of medicine,' the Reverend Tompkins said, starting to pat the wound dry.

‘Yes.' John felt in his inner pocket. ‘Unfortunately I have no cards on me but I am John Rawlings, Apothecary, of Shug Lane, Piccadilly, London.'

‘And that is all?'

John looked at him in astonishment. ‘Yes, of course. Why?'

‘Because whoever did this to you obviously thought you were engaged in some other form of business.'

‘What do you mean?'

The curate leaned close to him, his wild blue eyes serious. ‘My friend, this is smuggling country. It is a fact that free-traders work the Marsh, always have and always will. And Winchelsea, with its wonderful old cellars for storage, provides excellent customers for those who bring goods across the Channel. So my reading of the situation is that one of the fraternity, seeing a stranger in town, made a few enquiries and came to the conclusion that you were an excise man, working under cover as it were.'

Despite his pain, John laughed. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth.'

The Reverend Tompkins's vivid gaze grew narrow. ‘But you aren't all that you seem, are you? Because if you're here simply to look at churches and visit your aunt, then my intuition ain't worth a tuppenny cuss.'

The Apothecary's eyes tightened in return. ‘I don't remember mentioning my aunt to you.'

‘Then somebody else must have done. But stick to the point, Sir, do. What have you really come to the marshland for?'

John stared at the Reverend Tompkins, several curious ideas about the man vying for supremacy in his mind. Eventually, the Apothecary grinned as he came to a decision. Lowering his voice dramatically, he whispered, ‘To find a spy.'

‘A spy!' exclaimed the curate, almost dropping the towel.

‘Well two, to be precise. Don't ask me how I know because I have no intention of telling you. Simply trust me that there are two agents of France even now working out of Winchelsea. But I enjoin you to keep that information to yourself if you love your country.'

The curate's startled face grew serious. ‘I am a patriot, Sir. Of that I can assure you. But may I ask one question?'

‘Certainly.'

‘If what you tell me is true would I be correct in believing you work for the Secret Office?'

‘In a manner I do. For a branch of it.'

‘And you are not connected with the Riding Officers, the excise men, in any way?'

‘Absolutely not.'

‘Then word shall be put about the Marsh that you must be left in peace to conduct your affairs as you wish.'

‘And who will do this, Reverend Tompkins?'

The curate sparkled with intrigue. ‘As a man of the cloth I naturally have connections.'

‘Oh, I'm absolutely sure you do,' the Apothecary answered, smiling once more.

An hour later, driven by a man in a trap, John was heading for Winchelsea beneath the dawn sky, his head neatly bandaged by the local physician who had been roused from his bed and brought to The Woolpack, clearly under protest. No stitch had been necessary but an ointment to stop wounds from becoming infected had been liberally applied to the gash, much to the Apothecary's relief.

‘So you think I will be safe to pursue my inquiries?' he had asked of the curate as they parted company.

‘I feel confident the freebooters will leave you alone when they discover you are not a Riding Officer.'

‘Then let it be hoped that word gets round quickly.'

‘It will,' the Reverend Tompkins had answered, nodding and smiling.

John had looked thoughtful. ‘About your name, Father.'

‘Yes?'

‘Am I right in thinking it is quite famous round these parts?'

The curate had become vague, his blue eyes veiled. ‘Is it? How so?'

‘I thought you might have known. It was one of the aliases, or maybe even the real name, of Kit Jarvis, a notorious smuggler, highwayman, and God knows what else, who worked the marshland as an owler in his early days. He was hanged in 1750 for robbing the Chester mail.'