Death on the Romney Marsh (21 page)

‘I thought I was not mistaken. I never forget a face. Correct me if I am wrong but do you not own a shop in Shug Lane off Piccadilly?'

‘What a phenomenal memory,' the Apothecary replied overloudly. ‘My dear Sir I congratulate you on it.' He wrung Joe Jago heartily by the hand.

‘Not quite so good as you might think,' the clerk replied, grinning a great display of teeth. ‘I have an aged mama who lives close by. I have to pass your place every time I go and visit her. Small wonder that you were familiar to me.'

He said it so convincingly that John looked at him twice, wondering if it might be true. It had never occurred to him that Joe had parents or any other kind of family, being the type of man who just seemed to be there, permanently arrested in the middle years of his life. Yet this extraordinary individual who spoke cant, the language of the streets, as fluently as standard English, must have come from somewhere.

‘Have you really?' John asked, meaning it.

‘London is scattered with my relations,' Joe answered, and laughed. ‘And now, young gentleman,' he continued, his eyes full of amusement, ‘will you allow me to buy you some ale? It is so pleasant to see an acquaintance from town.'

‘By all means,' the Apothecary replied, and secured a place for them at a table which stood rather distant from the others, taking his seat on the high-backed settle close by.

‘Now,' said Joe in an undertone, putting down the two foaming tankards, ‘tell me what happened to you? I waited at the Roundle till late but though much occurred, for that damned foolish fellow's still out there signalling to the Frenchies for all he's worth, you did not appear.'

‘I was taken prisoner by the smugglers who clouted me over the head thinking I was an excise man,' John answered, equally quietly. ‘In the end I was dragged off to Brookland on the Romney Marsh in order to be interrogated by the head man himself, Dick Jarvis, infamous son of a notorious father. He's little older than I am but has the cheek of the very Devil. He strolls the Marsh dressed as a curate, if you please. What a rogue.' He laughed and removed his wig, delicately feeling the cut that lay concealed beneath.

‘You like him,' said Joe, and it was a statement not a question.

‘It's difficult not to.'

‘Even when he knocks you unconscious?'

‘That was one of his henchmen.'

‘But his order.'

‘Joe, I think he has befriended me,' said John, just above a whisper. ‘I believe that he will leave me alone in future. Now, tell me what has been happening to you.'

‘I managed to call on most of Winchelsea's worthies, other than for the rector and his family, all of whom were out for the day. Most of them denied seeing a Frenchman or said they couldn't remember that far back, with two exceptions that is.'

‘And who were they?'

‘Mrs Finch and Captain Pegram.'

The Apothecary chuckled. ‘So you braved the lady, did you?'

Joe Jago, man of the people, actually coloured the ripe rich shade of ruby port. ‘Yes,' he said non-committally.

John laughed uncontrollably. ‘Oh dear me, did she have her wicked way?'

Mr Fielding's clerk put on a dignified countenance, a look that did not sit at all easily on his rugged features.

‘I conducted my business formally, Sir.'

‘Ha ha,' bellowed John, ‘but how did she conduct hers?'

‘I thought the lady very amiable.'

‘I'll wager she was too,' the Apothecary answered, wiping his streaming eyes.

Joe looked severe. ‘Mrs Finch informed me that when out walking with her daughters she was asked the way by am elegant man with a French accent. He told her that he was staying in town at this very inn and also enquired whether she knew where the Marquis of Rye resided.'

John stopped laughing and leant forward. ‘Really? How very interesting.'

‘Just as I thought. However, the Marquis himself said no such man called on him, denied it emphatically indeed. He's half French, you know.'

‘Yes, I do. And so is Mrs Tireman, while Captain Pegram had a French grandmother.'

‘Now there's an odd fish.'

‘The Captain?'

‘Yes. Did you know that his father commanded the Revenue vessel based at Rye and was wounded by your friend Dick Jarvis's blackguardly sire?'

‘No, I most certainly did not.'

‘Apparently the family was called Pigram in those days but later changed the name for reasons of good taste. Anyway, Captain Pigram the first did not dare leave Rye harbour without the protection of a man-of-war. Three large Calais sloops were constantly waiting to shoot him up if he did. Furthermore, the dastardly Kit together with his gang had the barefaced audacity to board his vessel. Naturally, there was a fight and several crew members were wounded, one of them being stripped of his wig and trousers and made to dance on deck, culls a-leaping with every step and his pizzle swaying in the ocean breeze, no doubt.'

‘Did the Captain say that?' asked John, astonished.

It was Joe's turn to laugh. ‘Nay, that's just my coarseness. No, the present day Captain Pegram only told me how much he disliked the smuggling fraternity and would have nothing to do with them, though many of the public support them, and at all levels of society too.'

‘And what about the Scarecrow?'

‘He said that a Frenchman called on him, a very elegantly dressed fellow. He apologised profusely for coming to the wrong house when Captain Pegram received him, said he was looking for somebody else and would be on his way.'

‘Did he say who that someone was?'

‘Unfortunately no.'

‘Damnation! Anything else?'

Joe hesitated. ‘I believe the gallant Captain is an admirer of the naked female form.'

‘Aren't we all?'

‘You are in a very facetious mood, young Sir. I cannot think what Mr Fielding would say.'

The Apothecary composed himself. ‘I'm sorry. But even if Captain Pegram does have a lascivious side to his nature how can that have any bearing on the death of the Scarecrow?'

Joe's blue eyes looked steely. ‘I am surprised at you, Mr Rawlings. I thought you knew by now that everything has significance when it comes to murder. Perhaps there is something the Captain wants hidden from the world and he was prepared to kill to keep it secret.'

Chastened, John looked down. ‘You're right, tell me what you know.'

‘I was alone in his study for a moment or two and it was then that I observed, half hidden in the drawer of his writing desk, a pencil drawing of a beautiful girl, stark naked and with a very knowing expression on her face. I just thought it odd for a man in Captain Pegram's position to have such a thing.'

‘Why? He is only human like the rest of us.'

‘Indeed he is. Yet there was something provocative about the female's pose. For no reason I got the impression that I was looking at a portrait of his mistress.'

‘I still don't see …'

Joe Jago played his trump card. ‘I believe, Mr Rawlings, that I was looking at a picture of one or other of the Misses Tireman.'

John felt stricken, imagining Henrietta and the Captain together. ‘What makes you say that? Have you met the rector's daughters yet?'

‘I glimpsed them when they returned from their excursion.'

‘My God!' said the Apothecary wretchedly.

‘However, when I go to interview them tomorrow I shall know for certain. Meanwhile, Mr Rawlings, nothing can be proved.'

‘No, I suppose not,' John answered, trying to rally.

Joe plunged on cheerfully. ‘As for the rest, Sir Ambrose Ffloote stared at me as if I were crazed and said he knew nothing of any damned foreigner; his lady pleaded illness in order not to speak to me; Apothecary Gironde and his wife became extremely agitated and swore they hated all Frenchmen as he was a Huguenot. As for the doctor, he says he has so many sick people to deal with he can hardly remember one week from the next, let alone eight months ago.'

‘And were they telling the truth?'

‘Some of them, I expect.'

‘Are our spies amongst Winchelsea's polite society?'

‘Definitely, I would say. Only they would have the time and sufficient knowledge of France and the French. I am well aware that working people can act as secret agents but somehow I don't quite see that in a rural community. Anyway, as I told you earlier, somebody is continuing to signal. Tonight we must both watch and note down the number sequences.'

‘Shall I meet you?'

‘No, we are already being observed by the local gaffers who are not as silly as they look. Let us keep up the pretence of being strangers as long as we can.'

‘When shall I talk to you again?'

‘Come to The Salutation any evening and wait in the taproom. But if something should go wrong I shall send a note to Mrs Harcross, or ought I to say Rose?'

‘Very good.' John got to his feet. ‘It is indeed a small world, Sir,' he said loudly. ‘I have enjoyed making your acquaintance. I am staying in Winchelsea with my aunt, Mrs Rose of Petronilla's Platt. Do call on me there if you should feel so inclined.'

Joe stood also. ‘I am rather busy, Sir, but if I get a moment, I will.' They bowed formally to one another. ‘Meanwhile, I bid you farewell.'

‘Farewell,' said the Apothecary, and stepped out from the warmth of The Salutation into the cold March night.

It was bitterly cold close to the sea, a high wind lashing in over the waves that could almost freeze a man to death. John stood beside the dappled mare, which he had hired as soon as he had left the inn, shivering violently and hoping that he was not wasting his time and that the signals would be repeated tonight. Further, that he would be able to note them down, unhindered by the activities of smugglers. For it was the sort of night when they might well be active, thick inky cloud obscuring the moon and hiding their dark deeds from the eyes of the Riding Officers.

When in the fifteenth century the sea had receded from the ancient Cinque Port of Winchelsea amd the harbour had silted up, the town had become that extraordinary curiosity, a port without water. So now the Apothecary stood icy, deciding that he was not going to wait long on a night like this, on a deserted piece of terrain known as Pett Level, staring out into the blackness waiting for something to happen.

While he kept his freezing vigil his mind drifted as his thoughts ran free and he smiled, alone in the darkness, at the sheer audacity of Dick Jarvis and his not altogether convincing portrayal of am eager young curate. Then John frowned at the notion that Captain Nathaniel Pegram might have a drawing of Henrietta, naked, amd wondered, if the man had indeed got such a thing, what the meaning of it might be. For if truth be known, Coralie Clive or no Coralie Clive, John was deeply smitten with the girl he had made love to in the cherry orchard and hated to think of her with anyone else.

At this, the Marquis of Rye came into mind; dark, saturnine amd very slightly sinister. Why had the Scarecrow asked Mrs Finch if she knew of the nobleman's whereabouts? And was it the Marquis whom the Frenchman had sought when he had arrived mistakenly at Grey Friars? Going deeply down this path, John hardly noticed when, quite close at hand, no more than a hundred yards away, a light began to flash, its beam directed out to sea.

Hastily dragging his attention back to the moment, the Apothecary drew out the paper and pencil which he had placed in the pocket of his great coat, amd started to write.

‘2918 386 841,' the sequence ran, the lantern flashing twice, then pausing, then flashing nine times and so on. It meant nothing of course but he painstakingly copied the numbers down. Eventually, with no reply, the sequence was laboriously repeated. Then came an answering flash from a ship close to the shore. ‘2245 1615 2697,' John wrote, before the lights were abruptly doused.

Nothing stirred in the icy blackness, then suddenly the Apothecary froze as the sound of a horse's hooves drew close. And with that sound, slightly masked by the noise of the trotting horse, there was something else that he could not identify, a strange amd rather frightening scrabbling, as if some creature were dragging itself painfully over the sandy terrain. Inexplicably nervous, John waited in the darkness until all had gone quiet, then thankfully headed for home.

It was with a great deal of curiosity and a strong streak of professional jealousy that John Rawlings drew to a halt outside Marcel Gironde's apothecary's shop amd surveyed the premises with an admiring eye, somewhat dazzled by all there was on offer. For not one but two bow fronted windows met his envious gaze, the first packed with a thrilling array of exotic containers and jars, all filled with vivid blue liquid, the second with perfume, attractively presented in porcelain bottles, some of which had been painted by hand. Together with the scents were cosmetics, bearing signs showing their country of origin. ‘Carmine from the Indies' lay beside a pot of red lip salve, though pride of place in the window display had been given to a dentifrice, described thus: ‘Made on the premises from a mixture of coral, Armenia bole, Portugal snuff, Havana snuff, ashes of good tobacco and gum myrrh. All ingredients well pulverised, mixed, and sifted twice. Rub on the teeth with the fingers.'

Very impressed, John went through the door between the two windows, to the accompaniment of a ringing bell. As he did so Nan Gironde bobbed up from behind the counter.

‘Oh good morning,' she gushed. ‘Mr Rawlings, isn't it?'

John bowed. ‘Yes, Madam. We were introduced at the Assembly the other night. I am staying in Winchelsea with my aunt, Elizabeth Rose.'

The bird-bright eyes regarded him with interest. ‘Did she not say that you are an apothecary, Sir?'

‘I am indeed. Allow me to present you with my card.'

Mrs Gironde took it, scanning the wording with interest. ‘Oh! Shug Lane, eh? A good area indeed.'