Death on the Romney Marsh (20 page)

‘May God rest his soul,' the man of the cloth had said quietly.

‘Indeed, Father, indeed. A strange coincidence is it not, though? And now I really must be on my way.'

John had given a bow which wobbled slightly as his head throbbed with sudden pain.

‘Here, let me help you.'

And before he could protest, the curate, with amazing strength, had half lifted the Apothecary into the trap.

‘Until we meet again,' he called as the vehicle set off.

‘Until next time, Dick,' John had answered, and watched as the curate's look of astonishment turned into a broad grin before he was lost to the Apothecary's view.

At close quarters, John observed with a slight sense of shock, Mrs Tireman was even more redoubtable than she appeared at a distance. Large-framed and broad of hip, her feet and hands matched the rest of her so closely that in some ways she resembled a man, an impression enhanced by her extremely odd make-up. For this afternoon Mrs Tireman was in full enamel, yet with very pink cheeks and heavily rouged lips, while her eyes and brows had been over-darkened with a substance which the apothecary recognised as being imported from China. On her head, much boosted up with false curls, not to mention a mass of frills, furbelows and flowers, Mrs Tireman wore a good sprinkling of Cypress Hair Powder, thus attempting to create an impression of being at the very height of fashion. But all this, combined with her big build, simply served to make her look like a transvestite or, more kindly, a country parson's wife with desperate pretensions to being seen as a member of the
beau monde
.

Also present in the salon of the Rectory, where John, having slept all the morning, was duly keeping his appointment to dine, were Mrs Tireman's two daughters, their beauty almost unreal in comparison with their mother's extraordinary appearance. The company was completed by the saturnine figure of the Marquis of Rye, who sat stretched full length in a chair before the fire. Of the Reverend Tireman himself there was no sign, and John could not help but wonder whether the poor man had taken himself off in order to escape the rigours of pre-dinner conversation.

Having given Henrietta the warmest glance he dared in view of her mother's presence, the Apothecary had let his gaze wander over to her younger sister, the cause of so much grief and distress. That the girl was arrogant beyond belief was clearly evident, every trick of someone totally conceited being played. Rosalind had long since learned to move her head so that her glorious hair picked up and reflected the light with each tiny toss, while her green-blue eyes, the lashes dark around them, gazed on the world serenely, confident that every man living was her adoring slave, and her lips curving into a smile because of it.

Feeling John's scrutiny, finely tuned as she was to every nuance of male attention, Rosalind looked up and directly at him. The smile deepened and the eyes widened guilelessly, a little gleam in their depths that was meant for him to see and him alone. The fact that the Apothecary thought her lovely clearly pleased Rosalind enormously. She was without doubt, John thought, one of the most dangerous young women alive.

A very small sound drew his attention away from his study of this most ravishing of beauties and he realised that Henrietta had observed all that was happening and was biting her lip with consequent anguish. Well aware that Rosalind was still smiling at him, John turned his head to her sister and gave Henrietta a glance, the meaning of which could simply not be mistaken. She gave him a deep unreadable look in return, then smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, the Apothecary saw Rosalind's expression become petulant. However, the vain girl did not let the matter rest there. Rising from her seat, she came to sit next to John on the sofa.

‘Where do you live in London, Mr Rawlings?'

‘In Nassau Street in Soho, Miss Tireman.'

Rosalind examined her crescent shaped nails. ‘Justin has a house in Pall Mall. I hope very much to spend a good deal of time there when we are married, particularly in the winter. I find the cold months so dreary in the country.'

‘I am sure that town life will be all the brighter for your presence,' the Apothecary answered blandly.

Rosalind adored the compliment and gave the Apothecary a look aimed at leaving him helpless. It did not succeed.

Meanwhile, the Marquis sat at ease, sipping a dry sherry and staring into the fire. He was, John considered, with his dark looks, black clothes and long, elegant frame, rather like some exquisite insect, a beautiful creature of the night drawn to the brightness of the flames.

‘Justin,' Rosalind said, addressing her future bridegroom, her voice rich and sweet as honey, ‘when are we going to London? You did promise that it would be very shortly.'

The Marquis ceased his contemplation of the fire. ‘I have some business to attend to here, my dear. That should take a week or so. We'll go after that.'

Her lower lip drooped a little. ‘I had hoped somewhat sooner.'

Mrs Tireman entered the conversation. ‘Now, now, Rosie. You are lucky to have such a beautiful house to stay in when you are in town. Be content I pray you.'

The Marquis smiled fleetingly and deliberately changed the topic. Looking at John, he said, ‘Tell me, Mr Rawlings, has your aunt been visited by a certain Mr Jago claiming he is from the Secret Office and asking the whereabouts of a Frenchman, supposed to have visited Winchelsea some eight months ago?'

‘Not that I know of, my Lord,' the Apothecary answered truthfully.

‘Well he came to see me and I thought it damned impertinent. I hardly knew what he was talking about. No one answering that description called on me, I can assure you. However, he seemed much interested in the fact that my mother was French.'

‘A thing that the Marquis and I share in common,' said Mrs Tireman unexpectedly. ‘My mama was Claude Vallier from Normandy.'

‘Which would explain why you speak the language so well,' the Apothecary replied, his expression innocent.

She shot him a penetrating look from beneath her darkened brows. ‘How did you know that, pray?'

‘Oh I heard you,' John said vaguely.

‘Anyway,' the Marquis continued, ‘it seems that we must all be careful. The man is here to snoop, there's no doubt of it.'

‘But surely if one has nothing to hide, one has nothing to fear,' said Henrietta, a note of defiance in her voice.

‘I wouldn't be too certain,' answered her former lover, not looking at her. ‘Men of Jago's type can twist facts very easily.'

‘Was there a Frenchman here some months ago, then?' John asked ingenuously.

‘Yes there was, as a matter of fact,' answered Rosalind. ‘He stayed at The Salutation. Only for a few days. Then he left and did not return.'

Killed on the Romney Marsh, John thought. Aloud, he said, ‘Surely that was strange, with war declared.'

‘It was just before hostilities began.'

The Marquis laughed. ‘You seem to recall events very distinctly, my dear.'

‘I noticed the fellow because he was so beautifully dressed.'

Or, more likely, because he ogled you and you loved every moment, John reflected cynically.

‘Then perhaps you should seek this Jago out and tell him what you remember.'

‘That won't be necessary,' said a voice from the doorway. ‘He came into church this evening. He will be calling at the Rectory tomorrow.'

Every head turned and words of greeting were exchanged. The Reverend Tireman had arrived home.

He was a sandy sort of man, John observed, his wispy hair, or all that remained of it about the rector's balding pate, a soft ginger shade, as were his bushy brows. Beneath those protuberances, as untamed and sprawling as a nest of spiders, the rector's eyes were the colour of syrup, while his skin was almost dun in tone. Once again, the extraordinary beauty of his daughters seemed inexplicable until the Apothecary remembered their French grandmother and wondered if that might be whom they took after.

‘Well, well,' said the reverend gentleman, advancing on John with a beaming smile, ‘I don't think I've had the pleasure, Sir.'

His guest, who had risen to his feet, bowed politely. ‘John Rawlings, apothecary of London.'

‘An apothecary, eh? How interesting. Have you met our local chap, Gironde?'

‘Briefly, Sir.'

‘You must chat with him. He's very knowledgeable I believe.'

Mrs Tireman rose to her feet. ‘Shall we go in to dine? Mr Rawlings, will you take in Henrietta?'

‘It will be my pleasure,' John answered, and offered the young lady his arm.

It was not easy to concentrate during that meal, sitting close to the elder Miss Tireman as he was, and consequently beset by passionate feelings every time he looked at her. And yet the Apothecary was acutely aware that there was a pressing need to be alert. With Rosalind's assertion that the Scarecrow had been in Winchelsea on the very eve of war, it was clearer than ever that contact with the Moth and the Frog, or at least one of them, had been made, with disastrous consequences for the spy master. Even now, John was aware, one or both of the secret agents could be sitting at this very table.

He looked round covertly. Mrs Tireman with her awful maquillage and overbearing manner seemed too stupid for a spy, yet she spoke French fluently and her mother had come from that country. Could her connection with the smugglers mean that she was also associated with other equally sinister figures from across the Channel? Equally, the sable-toned rector seemed impossible to suspect, yet the Apothecary had learned long since that the least likely person was often the most guilty. The Tireman women were particularly well turned out for the family of a simple country parson. Had the man of God sold his soul in order to clothe his wife and daughters in style? Or could he be being blackmailed into spying by someone who knew of Mrs Tireman's connection with Dick Jarvis?

Almost unwillingly, John looked at the girl beside him and, as always with his particular personality, shuddered away from the idea that Henrietta could be involved. But had she not gone to the Marquis's household to teach French to his young sister? Did her knowledge of the language stem simply from the fact of having a French grandmother? Or had there been a liaison with a Frenchman at some time in her past? A liaison that had led to her becoming a spy?

Slowly, John turned his eyes to Rosalind, who glowed in the candlelight like a nymph of dawning. She was so totally perfect and so very aware of it that he doubted she had room in her head for another single thought. As far as he could tell, her entire life revolved around her glorious hair, her wonderful eyes, her enticing body, and the art of enslaving men. And even now, feeling him look at her, Rosalind gave him a glance of sublime assurance, her pupils green as the ocean in the dim light. But beauty often masked an ugly heart, the Apothecary knew that well. With looks such as hers there was little doubt that Rosalind had been attracting men since puberty. Had she agreed to become a spy in order that the secret of a past indiscretion should never come to light? Or could avarice alone have been her motive?

Beside her the Marquis fluttered darkly, his hawk face shadowed and closed. Could he, John wondered, peer of the realm though the man might be, have betrayed his country for some reason? And then he remembered Lady Ffloote telling him of the Marquis's early debts and wondered whether Justin had sold out for money at a very different stage of his life and was now too deeply in the abyss to turn back.

The Scarecrow almost certainly had been killed in the church then dragged outside and hung upon the wooden cross, a task that would have taken a certain amount of strength. Staring at the women, John considered Mrs Tireman well up to the task. And Henrietta and Rosalind, gorgeous though they looked, were strong young women with the fresh complexions of those who both rode and walked. The Scarecrow had not been a big man, his tattered clothes gave evidence to that. Though it would have required effort, the Apothecary felt certain that either of them could have disguised their crime in the macabre way that was chosen.

Making as if she had dropped something, Henrietta leaned towards him. ‘When can we meet?' she whispered close to John's ear.

‘Tomorrow,' he murmured, pretending to search the floor.

‘In the same place?'

‘Yes. At noon.'

‘Henrietta, what are you doing?' enquired Mrs Tireman, staring down the length of the table.

‘I lost an earring, Mama, but Mr Rawlings has found it for me.'

‘I'm sure Mr Rawlings is excellent at discovering things,' Rosalind commented, but though John shot her an enquiring glance she gave him her usual infinite gaze into which he could read absolutely nothing at all.

As before, to risk exposing Joe Jago as an associate was a terrible prospect, but even more terrible was the thought of not catching up with him at all. Therefore, when dinner had ended and John had sat through the usual hour of musical entertainment, he walked out into the dusk and hurried through the back lanes to The Salutation, there to put his head round the door of the various public rooms to see if he could locate Mr Fielding's clerk. Yet again, luck was running with him, for Joe was standing in the taproom, his wig at a rakish angle, his ragged face creased into a smile, consuming ale with the locals and undoubtedly coming by as much gossip as he possibly could. Not quite sure how to handle the situation, the Apothecary went up to the bar and a few moments later felt Joe come and stand beside him.

‘Good evening, Sir. Forgive me for intruding but I've been racking my brains ever since you were kind enough to give me directions the other day. You see, I can't help feeling that I know you from somewhere. You don't by any chance come from London, do you?'

John turned to look at him and saw a light eye winking. ‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact,' he answered.