Death on the Romney Marsh (29 page)

The Captain loosened his cravat. ‘Yes, indeed.' He looked around him uncomfortably, as if hoping for divine intervention, then said, ‘If you would excuse me, Mr Rawlings. I apologise for cutting short your visit but I have just recalled some urgent business I must attend to. Please forgive me.'

And with that the poor man was off.

John stared after him, his face sad. He had never enjoyed snooping into people's private affairs in order to get at the truth, yet was very aware that it was a necessary evil. Furthermore, there was something pathetic about the military man's obvious obsession with Rosalind Tireman, besotted with her as he quite clearly was. Dwelling on the misery of unrequited love, the Apothecary put on his hat and walked off slowly in the direction of the cherry orchard, an idea that had crept into his mind beginning to take shape as he did so.

Strangely, Lucius Delahunty did not appear at the arranged meeting place in the parlour of The Salutation, nor was he anywhere in the town, at least as far as John could see when he strolled about looking for him. Presuming from this conspicuous absence that the Irishman must have discovered the whereabouts of the missing Molly Malone, John went back to Petronilla's Platt, changed into black clothes, said goodbye to Elizabeth, and went out under cover of darkness, quietly heading off towards Grey Friars.

Tonight there was a moon, lighting the old Abbey from behind, so that its black silhouette was etched starkly against the deep indigo sky. Like this, the house looked even bigger, almost palatial, and John felt dwarfed and intrusive, and also somewhat nervous, as he took up his hiding place beneath one of the trees that gave protective shade to the lawn in summer. In doing so, the Apothecary was well aware that he left the front door unobserved, yet he was counting on the fact that if the Captain went out of the house, as John had a strong suspicion he might well do, it would be secretly, using one of the entrances that led into the garden.

As he waited in the stillness, disturbed only by the rustling of nocturnal animals and the hoot of a distant owl, John considered his idea. Had Nathaniel Pegram's passion for the rector's daughter led him down a more sinister path, causing him to spy for a foreign power in order to shower her with the gifts the girl so clearly craved? Had a longing to compete with the Marquis, a desire to be seen to be as wealthy and as influential as the nobleman, persuaded the Captain to enhance his not inconsiderable fortune and spy for France? Or did the Frog lie elsewhere, in some less obvious guise? Could the Rector, or Mr Gironde, Sir Ambrose, or even the Doctor be responsible for wiping out the Scarecrow? And what of the Moth? Was she the mysterious woman who had removed Captain Pegram's card from the dead man's pocket. Or was that merely a blind? Was the Moth not female at all? Could it be a man who, like his name, was a creature of the night, moving stealthily through the darkness to achieve his wicked objectives?

Lost in thought like this, it took John several seconds to realise that a door at the back of the house had opened, very furtively and slowly, and that a dark shape, just recognisable as the Captain, was coming into the garden, his only light a lantern held high in his hand.

John shrank against the trunk of the tree as Nathaniel turned, looked round carefully, then strode off in the direction of the stables. Praying that his quarry was not intending to ride to his rendezvous, the Apothecary hurried after him, flitting from shadow to shadow to maintain cover. Fortunately, luck favoured John, and the Captain passed to the left of the stabling block, then disappeared into the leafy arches of the cherry orchards. Now pursuit became hard as twigs snapped beneath the Apothecary's feet and his vision was impaired by burgeoning foliage. Several times, Nathaniel stopped and listened, as if aware that somebody trailed him, each occasion forcing John to freeze where he stood, his heart thudding madly. But somehow he managed to escape detection and follow Captain Pegram through the grove where the Apothecary and Henrietta had made love, then on again, still protected by the trees, till at last he came out close to St Thomas's, hardly having gone along the lanes at all. With one final burst of speed, the Captain made for the campanile which stood near to the church, and hurried inside. As closely as he dared, John hovered by the oak door of the entrance, thankfully left ajar, listening.

The person he had arranged to meet had obviously got there first because a woman hissed in a voice that the Apothecary did not recognise, ‘I told you I never wanted to see you again.'

‘But sweetheart …'

‘Don't call me that!'

‘Very well. Anyway, it's about the picture of …' Captain Pegram lowered his tone and even though John could guess what he must be saying, the rest of the sentence was lost to him.

‘Then destroy it,' the woman said clearly.

‘I can't bring myself to.'

‘You must, for all our sakes.'

The Captain's voice dropped again and John took a step forward in order to try and catch what was said next. Unfortunately, as he did so he must have brushed against the wall, dislodging a rotting brick which crashed to the ground and disintegrated into several fragments. From inside the campanile came a profound silence.

‘What was that?' whispered the woman, her voice sibilant.

‘Shush,' Nathaniel answered, and John heard him creep towards the door, his feet echoing slightly on the stone floor.

Slithering round the wall, the Apothecary hovered in the shadows, listening as the Captain came out of the tower and looked round. ‘Who's there?' he called.

John remained motionless, then a second later heard Nathaniel's quiet breathing as he, too started to walk round the square shaped campanile. There was nothing for it but to run, which he did, taking off at considerable speed in the direction of The Salutation where he could lose himself in the crowd.

Behind him, the Apothecary was aware of the woman screaming as she realised that something had gone wrong, then he heard her hurry through the churchyard and away. Tempted though he was to turn and stare, John did not dare risk a second's pause but plunged on through the darkness, aware that the Captain was almost upon him. Then came another moment of sheer luck. There was a shout, followed by a heavy thud, and Nathaniel went sprawling over a low gravestone, gasping for air, clearly winded.

Despite all his training to go to the aid of those in difficulties John continued his headlong flight and did not stop until he reached the end of the street in which the inn was situated where, seeing one or two people strolling about, he slowed his pace and joined the throng, proceeding in a slow and deliberate fashion towards The Salutation.

‘Great God in the evening, if you aren't out of breath,' said a familiar voice.

‘Lucius, for the love of heaven, walk with me as if nothing has happened,' John muttered.

The Irishman looked down the length of the street. ‘So who is it you're trying to avoid? Would it be a tall fellow, red in the face and gasping like a goldfish?'

‘Yes.'

‘And would he be having a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other?'

‘If you say so.'

‘He's staring in our direction.'

‘Well, don't stare back.'

‘Who is he, for the love of the Lord?'

‘One Captain Nathaniel Pegram.'

Lucius whistled through his teeth. ‘Well, well. I see.'

‘Why do you say it like that? Do you know the name?'

‘I've heard it somewhere,' the Irishman answered thoughtfully. ‘Though I'm damned if for the life of me I can remember where.' He brightened up. ‘Bumpers, my rogue. Bumpers all round.'

‘Yes,' answered John, thankful to be going inside. ‘Bumpers it is.'

The papers left by Joe Jago made fascinating reading. Long before Elizabeth Rose had stirred, John got out of bed, dressed, and took the packet of correspondence down to the kitchen, where he sat warming himself by the stove, drinking tea and absorbing the documents that Mr Fielding's Clerk had prepared for him. A letter from Joe in a flowing hand that seemed completely out of character with such a rugged individual, accompanied copies of the statements.

My dear Mr Rawlings, Your Servant, Sir.

Allow me to draw to your attention, Sir, the fact that the other Members of Winchelsea's Polite Society to whom I have Spoke can, for Reasons that will soon be Obvious, be excluded from Suspicion of causing the Death of the Scarecrow. Two were Abroad at the Time, the Others too Infirm for Reasons of Health or, in one Case, Fatness, to be Suspected. I pray you, Sir, in the other Regard, to cast your Eye upon the Statements of the Tiremans in Particular.

I remain, Sir, your most Humble and Obedient Servant,

J. Jago

John read all the statements, noticing the differing way in which people told their tale. Whereas Mrs Finch positively gloated over the fact that the Frenchman had asked her for directions, her daughter lied most blatantly about her liaison with the man, claiming that she had hardly been aware of him. In contrast, the Marquis of Rye's statement was curt to the point of rudeness, as was Sir Ambrose's, who ranted on about ‘damned foreigners' and very little else. The two Girondes' account was a falsehood from start to finish, Lady Ffloote's declaration was conspicuous by its absence, and Dr Hayman's story of events was vague to the edge of evasiveness. Captain Pegram, on the other hand, admitted quite freely that the Frenchman had called on him and repeated their conversation almost word for word. But it was most certainly the Tiremans' statements that stood out, having such an air of negativity about them that John instantly became suspicious. According to the Rector and his family they had seen nothing, met nobody, and appeared to be unable to understand why they were being questioned at all. Which, as John knew, was at odds with Rosalind's admission of having noticed the Frenchman because of his beautiful clothes. Henrietta's description of incidents appeared to have been dictated by an empty-headed flap with a pea where her brain should have been. In fact it was all too guileless to be real.

Sighing heavily, the Apothecary put the papers down, wishing that he had parted with the elder Miss Tireman on better terms, that the days when he had not seen her had not weighed so heavily on him, that she had replied to the letter he had written before he left for London. Giving in to a severe bout of depression, the Apothecary picked at his breakfast, for once leaving most of it, then went quietly out of the house without waking Elizabeth Rose.

It was still early and there were few people about. Determined to try and retrieve something from the wreckage of the previous night's fiasco, John beat a determined path to the campanile and went inside, hoping that Captain Pegram's unseen companion might have left some clue to her identity. But there was nothing to be seen. The flagstone floor was bare of everything but bird droppings. Scowling, the Apothecary set out to retrace the route that the scurrying footsteps had taken.

If his hearing had been correct, the woman had run up the path that came out close to Paradise House. Moving swiftly, John started to walk the same way, and it was then that he saw it, lying on the ground like a dead bird. Stooping, the Apothecary picked the object up, then his heart sank as he recognised it. With its bobbing feathers and sweet little furbelows, it was the hat that Henrietta Tireman had worn on the day that he first met her.

‘Oh no!' John groaned aloud.

But wish to deny it as he might, it was quite clear from its general state of dampness that the hat had been lying on the path all night. Thrusting it into his pocket, the Apothecary turned his steps back towards Petronilla's Platt, more to give himself somewhere to sit and think quietly for a while than for any real need to return.

Yet it was as well that he did go back, for as he came through the door Elizabeth called out, ‘John, is that you?'

‘It is.'

‘A letter has arrived. It is on the dining room table.'

‘Thank you. The post boy's very early today.'

‘It was delivered by a rough looking individual driving a cart.' One of Dick's henchmen, thought John, and broke the seal with interest.

The writing was clear and neat for the bastard son of a notorious smuggler, and John was seized by the idea that the rascally Kit Jarvis had seen to it that his progeny had been given a good education. In fact the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed, particularly in view of Dick's ability to pass himself off as a curate when he so desired.

My Friend

I have found a Spyglass near Fairfield Church with a French Maker's Name on It. I believe It to be the Property of the Scarecrow. If you want to take Possession of It meet me at St Augustine's, Brookland, this Day at Two O'Clock.

Signed by a Patriot, R. Jarvis, who has the Honour to remain

Your Loyal Servant

Glad to have something to do other than ask perpetual questions, John was just heading out of the front door for Truncheons livery stable, when the post boy arrived at a fast trot and thrust more correspondence into his hand. Seeing yet another letter for him, the Apothecary opened it where he stood and realised with a great rush of pleasure that it was from Henrietta.

Dear Mr Rawlings,

I received your Recent Communication and have Consequently decided to accept Your Apology. There is Much that I would Say to You. Please meet Me in the Cherry Orchard after Dinner at Five O'Clock.

John was filled with an enormous sense of joy, then he remembered the bedraggled hat in his pocket and his spirits slumped again. Further, there was the delicate matter of timing his appointments. To get from Dick to Henrietta in two hours flat was not going to be easy. Putting Elizabeth's letters on the table, the Apothecary called out that he was off and hurried to the stables to hire the fast dark horse with the untrustworthy eye.

One breathless hour later, John Rawlings arrived in Brookland, feeling in need of rest and refreshment. His evil mount had, once again, thundered to a halt on the very banks of the river, threatening to tip his rider into the water, had fidgeted throughout the ferry ride, then had gone off like a tempest and had only been persuaded to stop by the sight of a horse trough, where it had put its head down so low to drink that it was all John could do not to slither the length of its equine neck. Fearing the worst, the Apothecary had dismounted at this stage and led the creature the rest of the way to The Woolpack.