Death on the Romney Marsh (25 page)

Casting round wildly for help, John flattened the foliage with a slight surreptitious move of his hand. Dr Hensey's jolly rodent eyes came into view.

‘I have to return to town tomorrow,' the Apothecary said desperately. ‘No chance of you travelling with me, I suppose?'

Much to his surprise, the physician answered, ‘There is every chance, my dear Sir. I must spend some time with my London patients lest they think I have deserted them completely, and the fact that you would be my travelling companion is excuse enough. I shall indeed accompany you and will book you a place on the ten o'clock chaise.'

‘Splendid.'

Lady Ffloote, who clearly had the hearing of a bat, spoke from her place at the head of the table. ‘Not leaving us, gentlemen, surely?'

‘Only to return, I assure you, Madam.'

‘Then that's as well. You have become quite a part of Winchelsea society, Mr Rawlings. How gratifying to think that our quiet little town is attracting such interesting visitors these days.'

‘Starting with the mysterious Frenchman,' answered John, hoping to evoke a response from someone.

‘Damned upstart,' said Sir Ambrose, quaffing a great glass of wine.

‘I didn't realise you had met him,' commented Dr Hayman, saving the Apothecary the trouble.

‘Oh, yes, he called here. No appointment. Said he was looking for the Marquis of Rye.'

A veil lifted in John's brain. So that was the excuse the Scarecrow had used in order to get access to people's houses. But why pick on the Marquis? What had the nobleman done to attract the attention of a French spymaster? Or was it merely because he was a local landowner and known even across the Channel? John felt that once he had the answer to those questions, the whole enigmatic puzzle would start falling into place. Despite Miss Sarah Finch's beady-eyed scrutiny, he spoke.

‘What did he say to you, Sir Ambrose?'

Through fronds of fern, the Squire's red-veined face suddenly loomed. ‘Not much. Asked a few questions about local people. Said he was thinking of settling in Winchelsea and who were the right folk to know, that sort of thing. Never guessed there was anything rum about the fellow.'

‘Did you direct him to the Marquis?'

‘Thought I ought to, seeing as he'd asked.'

‘Yet Lord Rye denies the man ever called on him.'

Sir Ambrose's tiny eye tensed. ‘How do you know that?'

Desperately, John fought to retrieve his error. ‘He mentioned it at dinner the other day.'

‘I see,' said the Squire, sounding as if he didn't care.

Sophie spoke up. ‘For a man who came here but once or twice the Frenchman certainly caused a considerable stir.'

‘I think we'd all have forgotten about him if it hadn't been for the arrival of the man from the Secret Office.'

‘I wouldn't,' said Sarah in heartfelt tones.

Florence Hensey asked a sensible question. ‘What happened to the Frenchman? Does anybody know?'

There was silence. ‘Mr Jago didn't say,' Sir Ambrose answered eventually.

‘But is one to presume from all the interest shown that he is dead?

Sarah let out a heaving sob, much to the embarrassment of the other guests.

‘Shouldn't think so,' said the Squire cheerfully. ‘Returned to France most likely. Probably come creeping back here one of these days.'

There was another shocked stillness. ‘Do you really think so?' asked a woman's voice, John wasn't quite sure whose.

‘Yes, I do,' answered Sir Ambrose forcefully. ‘Bad pennies like that aren't so easily got rid of, believe you me.'

Recalling only too vividly the wretched skeleton keeping lonely vigil on the Romney Marsh, John said, ‘I wouldn't count on it.' But then, fearing he might say something further to reveal his connection with the affair, relapsed into a studied silence.

He hadn't realised how much he had missed London; dirt, smells, lawlessness, poverty, all of it. All the terrible things that combined to give the capital a unique savage beauty that inexorably drew its children back. John felt his heart beat with an extraordinary excitement as the post chaise approached Southwark and drew into the inn yard where the passengers were to alight.

‘We're here,' he said to Florence Hensey, who slumbered at his side.

‘Good gracious,' exclaimed the doctor, waking abruptly. ‘It seems no time since we stopped to dine.'

In the dim light of the interior, the Apothecary looked at his watch. ‘It's nearly eleven. We're running a little late.'

‘Never the less, I think I will return home. I have a great deal to do tomorrow morning.'

‘As have I. Shall we share a hackney coach?'

‘A good idea.'

Having hailed a late carriage still plying for hire, the two men found themselves driven over London Bridge from Southwark, then down through the City to Holbourn where the doctor was dropped at his house in Liquorpond Road, a well set up establishment judging from the exterior. As he alighted, Dr Hensey wrung John warmly by the hand.

‘When do you plan to return to Winchelsea, my friend?'

‘In a few days' time. And you to Hastings?'

‘I shall probably remain in town a week or so, unless I get an urgent communication from my patient. But no doubt we shall meet again while we are both in Sussex.'

‘Write to me on your return and then come to visit. I think you will find my Aunt Elizabeth interesting.'

‘I should enjoy meeting her.' Dr Hensey paused, then said, ‘But you must come to dine while you are here. How about the day after tomorrow?'

‘It will be my pleasure.'

‘Sixteen, Liquorpond Road, shall we say at four o'clock?'

‘I'll be there,' answered the Apothecary, and waved as the physician opened the door with a key and disappeared into his house.

It was approaching midnight when John stepped quietly through the door of number two, Nassau Street and whispered to the servant on duty that he would like some tea in the library before he retired for the night.

‘But Sir Gabriel is still up,' the footman answered.

‘Is he entertaining?'

The man smiled broadly. ‘In a sense, Master John.'

Mystified, the Apothecary crossed the hall, then stopped short, his hand on the knob of the library door as there was a sudden burst of song and music.

‘Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules,' sang Sir Gabriel's voice. ‘Of Hector and Lysander and such great— He stopped short as John walked in, his eyes widening in surprise. ‘My dear boy! But hush, listen!' He held up a hand.

The music continued, then with a great carillon of bells twelve was struck in a most harmonious and tuneful chime.

‘My new toy,' said Sir Gabriel proudly. ‘Do you like it?'

Looking round the room, the Apothecary's eye alighted on an imposing longcase clock standing by the wall beside his father's desk. Set in glowing walnut, its delightful dial, depicting a revolving sun and moon, proclaimed that it was made by Windmills of London.

‘It plays a tune at every quarter.' And Sir Gabriel raised the hood to show his son the inscription, which read ‘The Granadears March'.

‘It's magnificent. When did you get it?'

‘Last week. I simply could not resist. Besides, I'd had a lucky hand or two at whist.'

‘My beloved father, you are incorrigible. But have I really been away that long?'

‘So long I can scarce recollect your features.' Sir Gabriel motioned John to take a seat by the fire. ‘Now, tell me all your adventures. Have you found the villain who threatens Elizabeth Harcross? And what of the spy? Is he unmasked?'

‘The spy comes in the plural, I fear. Apparently there are two people.' And the Apothecary proceeded to tell his father all that had taken place, doing it so thoroughly that The British Granadears played twice more as the clock struck quarter then half past the hour.

Sir Gabriel steepled his fingers, tapping them together thoughtfully. ‘And you have no idea who any of these people might be?'

‘Not really. The fact that the Scarecrow bought perfume then tried to make poor suety Sarah introduce him to her mother raises many questions about Mrs Finch. But on the other hand Mrs Tireman was up to no good the night I saw her rush off with the doctor and the smugglers.'

‘Um. What of her two daughters?'

‘Rosalind is so self-centred, so utterly besotted with herself, that I can't imagine her spending a moment's thought on anything else. As for Henrietta, she's far too lovely to be a spy.' Seeing the cynical lift of Sir Gabriel's eyebrow, John rushed on, ‘Yes, I know that is a foolish statement but if you met her you would know what I mean.'

‘I take it you find her attractive?' asked his father, ill concealing a smile.

‘Very.'

‘Then be careful, my son. You tend to lose judgment when your heart becomes involved.'

‘I know. I will try to be sensible.'

‘Not too sensible, I hope,' Sir Gabriel murmured. In a louder voice, he said, ‘And what of the other women?'

‘Mrs Gironde I don't altogether trust. I felt she was hiding something, that she knew more about the Scarecrow than she was prepared to admit. As for Faith Ffloote, I find her an enigma. She is one of those sad, dreary little women who are almost impossible to read, permanently hidden in a miasma of migraine.'

‘Could either of them be a spy – or a poisoner?'

‘Very easily.'

‘So who is the Frog?'

‘Or indeed the Moth. I don't know. Captain Nathaniel Pegram poses certain questions, one of which involves a nude drawing of Miss Rosalind Tireman.'

‘Not a crime in itself.'

‘No, but it suggests a certain weakness which might lay him open to blackmail. As regards the Marquis, I'm not sure. There's something odd about the man, and his past is none too savoury, or so I hear. Then, of course, we have the Squire and the rector, two figures from Henry Fielding.'

‘In what way?'

‘Larger than life, caricatures. Particularly Sir Ambrose.'

‘Could all that bonhomie be hiding something more sinister?'

‘Certainly it could. While the Reverend Tireman is the epitome of a country parson – or so he would have you believe.'

‘And what of the doctor and Apothecary Gironde?'

Johm frowned, framing his answer carefully. ‘I rather like them, both of them, particularly Richard Hayman. Yet I observed him dealing with the smugglers in a manner that was not unfriendly. As for Mr Gironde, he has a very thriving business and he knows it. However, he above all has the knowledge to poison Elizabeth.'

‘Have you no evidence regarding any of them?'

‘Not really. All I can hope for is that soon somebody will make a mistake.'

Sir Gabriel appeared very thoughtful. ‘Do you think the poisoning and the spying might be tied in somehow?'

John looked speculative. ‘I suppose they could be, if somebody thinks Elizabeth knows more than she does.'

‘That might be an idea worth pursuing.'

‘It might indeed.'

There was a momentary silence before the clock played its tinkling tune once more.

John stood up, yawning. ‘I must get to bed. I've been travelling all day.'

‘We'll talk more in the morning,' said Sir Gabriel, and kissed his son fondly on the cheek before he went upstairs.

Like all good apprentices, Nicholas Dawkins rose early and usually had breakfasted and gone from the house before Sir Gabriel had so much as opened his eyes. But this morning, eating steadily through a hearty mound of food, a habit he had caught from his Master, he was amazed to see that very Master walk through the door and join him at table.

‘Nicholas, my fnend,' said John, shaking him by the hand. ‘How are you? And how is the shop?'

The Muscovite shot to his feet, covered in confusion. ‘We are both well, Sir. That is, Master Gerard and I. The shop is well, too. I mean business is good.'

‘Excellent. Now sit down and finish your meal, and I will join you. Then we'll walk to Shug Lane together and you can acquaint me with all the news – and the gossip.'

Half an hour later, having written a hasty note to Sir Gabriel to say that he would be back that evening, John left the house with Nicholas, both striding out towards Piccadilly, enjoying the morning air.

‘Have you seen anything of the Comtesse de Vignolles?' the Apothecary asked as they walked.

‘Indeed we have, Sir. She has been to the shop and also to Nassau Street enquiring about you.'

The Apothecary gave his apprentice a penetrating look. ‘I presume that the Comte was not with her.'

‘You presume correctly.'

‘Any news of him?'

The Muscovite's russet eyes narrowed. ‘I believe, Sir, judging by the lady's manner, that he is still frequently absent.'

‘I see. I must make a point of calling on her.'

‘I am sure she would welcome it.'

But as things transpired, that was one item on John Rawlings's list of tasks that accomplished itself, for within half an hour of opening the shop in Shug Lane the door was flung wide, the bell pealed loudly, and Serafina de Vignolles, clad from head to foot in a gown the colour of wild orchids, stood in the entrance.

John hurried out from the compounding room where he had been conferring with Master Gerard.

‘My dear Comtesse, how wonderful to see you. I was intending to visit.'

‘I need to speak to you,' she answered beneath her breath, then said in conversational tones, ‘How are you, John? You seem to have been away a long time.'

‘A long time indeed. I have missed my friends. Please, Comtesse, step into the back of the shop. I was just about to brew some tea and hope you might join me in a cup.'

Master Gerard came bumbling out, his jocund features one large smile. ‘Madam,' he said, bowing. ‘Have you a list of requirements?'