Death on the Romney Marsh (26 page)

‘I certainly have, Sir.' And Serafina handed the old fellow a piece of paper with enough items written on it to keep him busy for at least half an hour.

‘Well done,' murmured John, and bowed as the Comtesse preceded him into the compounding room.

The moment they were alone the Apothecary held her at arm's length to look at her and was disturbed by what he saw. Where other women would have been dark-ringed and watery-eyed, Serafina gleamed molten, and he, knowing her so well, realised that this meant she was at the height of distress. For so strong a female was this elegant racehorse of an individual that only at her lowest moments did she assume such a brilliant and impenetrable veneer.

John cut straight to the heart of the affair. ‘I take it this is about Louis?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is he still disappearing?'

‘For days on end. 1 am beginning to believe that there must be another woman. Either that, or …'

‘Or?'

‘He is involved in something so dark and terrible that he cannot even speak of it. John …'

‘Yes?'

‘Swear to me that you will find out one way or the other and tell me the truth when you do so.'

The Apothecary raised her hand to his lips. ‘I swear it,' he said.

Leaving the shop within a half-hour of Serafina's departure, John, seizing a battered umbrella of which he was particularly fond, strode out into the elements. Hurrying down the length of Piccadilly, past the magnificence of Burlington House, the Apothecary turned right into Berkeley Street, then made his way through the splendid surroundings of Berkeley Square. There he turned left and picked his way through the new development to Hill Street, arriving just before the rain started.

Today, the King's Decipherer received his visitor in the Spanish library, another fine example of young Mr Adam's architectural skill, which gained its rather grand name from the Spanish leather wallcovering situated between the bookcases and the fancifully decorated ceiling, or so John was informed as he gaped about him with patent admiration. Yet again, the Apothecary was struck by the harmonious feel to the room, mostly created by its delightful and flowing design. On this occasion a fire had been lit, in front of which Dr Willes sat in a comfortable chair, his gaitered legs resting upon a footstool. He gestured John to take a seat opposite.

‘And what do you have for me today, Mr Rawlings?'

‘This was a message flashed out to sea to a French vessel, my lord. It was the work of either the Frog or the Moth, I believe.'

The Bishop held out his hand. ‘Let me see: 2918 386 841.' He stared at the paper in silence for a while, then crossed to his desk, muttering to himself, and opened a drawer with a key which hung round his neck next to the episcopalian cross. From the drawer he took a leather bound book with handwritten pages, at which he stared intently. Eventually he said, ‘This makes no sense at all.'

‘What does it say?'

Dr Willes peered at the Apothecary over his spectacles. ‘Quite literally, the French King on foot Admiral Watson.'

John stared. ‘What?'

‘Precisely. This is either a new code or a cipher within a cipher, if you see what I mean. How very irritating – and how very clever.'

The Apothecary attempted to look intelligent. ‘I'm afraid you've left me behind, my lord. What exactly do you mean?'

‘That the French have either changed the number sequences so that this means something else entirely, or, more probably, are using a double code, so that French King now stands for something else, and so on. I'm afraid you will have to leave this with me, young man. A new cipher always means many hours of work.'

John rose, looking apologetic. ‘I'm very sorry, my lord.'

Dr Willes grunted, his small, close-set eyes glinting at the challenge. ‘What a puzzle, eh? Damned Frenchies! Always one step ahead if you give 'em half a chance.'

It was hardly clerical language but John ignored it. ‘I'll see myself out,' he said.

But the Bishop merely flapped his fingers at him in dismissal, completely preoccupied with the task in hand and quite clearly already in a world of his own.

‘A new code?' said Mr Fielding incredulously.

‘Yes, Sir.'

The Magistrate looked solemn, his strong features settling into hard lines. ‘Then we are dealing with two extremely clever people, not only capable of killing but also of highly intelligent espionage. You still have no idea who they are, Mr Rawlings?'

‘I think it possible that one is a woman. The fact that a female was seen removing Captain Pegram's calling card from the Scarecrow's pocket could well be significant.'

‘And what about the Captain himself?'

‘A curious character as I told you.'

‘Which doesn't necessarily make him a spy. But could he be the poisoner?'

‘I think not. He was highly indignant at the suggestion that his pie was the cause of such severe illness, realistically so in my opinion, and as he pointed out, Mrs Rose could well have taken something else that day. He himself suffered no ill effects from eating it.'

‘But she denied that?'

‘When I put it to her, yes she did.'

‘So you are no further forward with that line of inquiry either.'

John sighed. ‘I am sorry. I'm not doing very well, am I?'

‘As I have so often said to you in the past, my friend, all the time that you are in Winchelsea, mingling with the inhabitants, listening to their conversation, you are learning. Soon fragments of fact will come together and begin to form themselves into a pattern.'

‘I hope they start to do so soon.'

Mr Fielding chuckled and eased the black bandage that covered his eyes. ‘By the way, I think you'll be on your own from now on. Jago has decided to return.'

John's heart sank. ‘Oh, 'zounds. Why is that?'

‘He says in the letter which arrived this morning that he has done all he can. He has interviewed everyone amd written down their statements, so now feels there is nothing left to achieve. By the way he has put copies of those statements in a sealed package which he has deposited at your lodging. Joe says to look particularly at those of the Tireman family.'

John's heart sank even further. ‘I will.'

‘So, Mr Rawlings, it is up to you now.'

The Apothecary felt himself plunged into total gloom. ‘I realise that.'

Though the Blind Beak could not see his visitor's face, he obviously read the situation from the sound of John's voice. ‘Be of stout heart, my friend,' he said encouragingly. ‘Even now I am sure you are aware of something, at the moment just lurking in the back of your mind, that will eventually lead you to the solution.'

John smiled half-heartedly. ‘I'll do my best to track whatever it is down. But there is still a question, Sir.'

‘And what is that?'

‘It was suggested to me by one of the people I talked to' – the Apothecary did not feel it appropriate to inform the principal upholder of the law that he was on amicable terms with the head of a smuggling gang – ‘that the Scarecrow might have been killed by a British secret agent. I suppose that is not possible, or is it?'

‘I would have thought that if such were the case, word of it would have reached my ears by now. However, an enquiry to the Secretary of State will soon provide the answer.'

‘Then, Mr Fielding, there is nothing left for me to do but return to Winchelsea.'

The Blind Beak sat motionless for a while, an old ploy of his. John, who knew this was a sign that the Magistrate was lost in thought, remained silent. Finally, Mr Fielding spoke.

‘The couple who argued in the churchyard.'

‘Yes?'

‘Find them, Mr Rawlings.'

‘Were they the Frog and the Moth in your opinion?'

‘If not, they will lead you to them, mark my words.' The Magistrate's tone changed completely. ‘Now, Mr Rawlings, may I extend you an invitation to dine?'

The Apothecary stood up. ‘No, Sir, though I thank you for it. I must get back to my shop amd have a brief word with Master Gerard before returning home.'

‘And when will you go back to Winchelsea?'

‘In a day or two. I feel I ought to spend some time with my father.'

‘Quite right. You should indeed.'

John bowed to the Magistrate, even though he could not see his gesture of respect. ‘Then I'll take my leave,' he said.

Mr Fielding rose also and patted John Rawlings on the shoulder. ‘Good hunting, my friend,' was his reply.

The streets of London were already becoming quiet as the dining hour drew closer and John, hiring a chair for speed alone, reached Shug Lane within twenty minutes. There he found Master Gerard just about to go out to a sick patient, but by delaying him a further quarter of an hour the two apothecaries were able to discuss all the business that was necessary and to exchange cordial greetings, not possible earlier that day. So it was that John was alone as another sedan came to a halt before the shop, out of which stepped his old friend and childhood companion, the Goldsmith Samuel Swann.

‘My dear friend,' Samuel greeted him as he loomed into the shop, dwarfing the place with his large and somewhat uncontrolled frame. ‘I called at Nassau Street and Sir Gabriel told me you might possibly be here. How fortuitous to find you! I hear that you have been much taken up with a case in Winchelsea. I do hope you will forgive me for not offering my help by going with you but I have been so busy recently with orders.'

The Apothecary smiled to himself, reflecting that his friend's attempts at assistance had sometimes proved more of a hindrance than otherwise, though certainly no one in the world could match Samuel for enthusiasm.

‘Of course I forgive you. Indeed, I am pleased that you have so much to do. Are you growing rich?'

Samuel smiled, his jolly face almost split by the size of his grin. ‘My situation is improving slowly.'

‘You underestimate,' answered John. ‘I reckon you'll soon be able to compete with Midas himself.'

Mr Swann guffawed, immensely cheered by this assumption. ‘Enough of your jests. I have come to see if you are free to go out this evening.'

‘To where?'

‘To Stokes's Amphitheatre in Islington Road. There's to be a boxing match. Here.' And Samuel thrust a copy of
The London Journal
into his friend's hand.

John read with interest. ‘This present Thursday, being the 23rd of March, will be a complete boxing match by the two following championesses:-Whereas I, Ann Field, of Stoke Newington, ass driver, well-known for my abilities in boxing in my own defence, having been affronted by Mrs Stokes, styled the European championess, do fairly invite her to a trial of her best skill in boxing for ten pounds, fair rise and fall.' To which challenge was printed the following reply: ‘I, Elizabeth Stokes, of the City of London, having fought the famous boxing woman of Billingsgate in nine minutes, and gained a complete victory, assure the Stoke Newington ass woman that I will not fail meeting her, and doubt not that the blows which I shall present her with will be more difficult for her to digest than any she ever gave her asses.'

John lowered the paper. ‘Do you really want to see this?'

‘Yes, indeed I do. Women are such tough little creatures. Always ready for a good mill.'

Remembering the blow which had ended the argument in the churchyard, then thinking of Henrietta's angry exit from the cherry orchard, the Apothecary nodded glumly. ‘You're quite right about that. What time does it start?'

‘Eight o'clock. We can go by hackney coach.'

‘Then come home and dine. My father will enjoy seeing you.'

‘And I him.'

In the event, though, Sir Gabriel Kent did more than just eat with his son and his friend, deciding that the occasion bode so well for some lively entertainment that he would accompany them. So it was that Sir Gabriel's carriage drove the three towards the outskirts of London, passing through the turnpike that lay just beyond the Skin Market amd the Mad House, which denoted the end of St John's Road and the start of Islington Road. Beyond the tollgate the coachman stopped at The Angel coaching inn in order to join up with other carriages and pass across the fields in a convoy, thus avoiding the unwelcome attentions of the many highwaymen who haunted the open spaces.

To the right of Mr Sadler's Wells, Pleasure Garden and Theatre, and separated from their delightful groves by a thicket of trees, stood Mr Stokes's Amphitheatre. Having paid his shilling entry fee, Sir Gabriel strode in, leaning on his great stick, and immediately the crowd parted before him as in the story of Moses and the Red Sea. John and Samuel, following behind, grinned at one another as the Apothecary's father was shown to a raised seat and offered a cushion for extra comfort. Scrambling into a place beside him, having had to push every step of the way, the two younger men reflected on what it was about Sir Gabriel, other than his commanding height, which always seemed to find him the best spot in the house. However, once seated, the general excitement of the place consumed them amd they stopped worrying about the scant respect which they commanded and concentrated on what was going on.

In the centre of the amphitheatre, which had been constructed on the old Roman lines with raised seats all around, stood a wooden platform surrounded by ropes, at the moment totally concealed by bright red curtains, adding an air of anticipation to the proceedings. Meanwhile, the presence of the crowd, which was both noisy and noisome, was becoming more noticeable by the minute. Their sound rose in shrill shrieks, while the stink of sweat, snuff and scent was overpowering. Yet there was a raw excitement to it all, and Johm felt a surge of love for his fellow creatures, terrible though so very many of them were.

A man, presumably Mr Stokes, stepped up on to the platform and cleared his throat to make an announcement.