Death on the Romney Marsh (3 page)

Tonight his father was déshabillé, clad in a black velvet nightrail and a white satin turban, a black brooch completing the somewhat awesome ensemble. For Sir Gabriel was famed throughout town for his individual taste in clothing, always wearing that particular colour combination, except on festive occasions when he changed the theme to black and silver. Even his jewellery reflected Sir Gabriel's taste for the stark, though lately he had been seen sporting a dark purple amethyst on his fob chain, the furthest he had ever gone to introducing colour into his attire. Though this evening he wore no wig, John's father usually stepped forth in an old-fashioned high storey, with long curls flowing over his shoulders. Indeed, if one mentioned the words bag wig in Sir Gabriel's presence, he would visibly pale and talk of modern monstrosities. Yet despite his individual and decidedly eccentric style, Sir Gabriel Kent was considered one of the most fashionable men alive, and there was many a younger man who regarded him with a jealous eye.

In contrast, Nicholas Dawkins wore the sensible garb of an apprentice, even though John, his Master, would have allowed him some leeway in this matter when it came to the hours of relaxation. But the young man would have none of it, still grateful that the Apothecary had granted him indentures when once Nicholas had stolen m order to feed himself. When he had signed his agreement with John Rawlings, in which Nicholas had promised not to fornicate, marry or run away, to behave with propriety at all times and never visit a brothel, he had taken the matter very seriously. As far as the Muscovite was concerned, even though he was a zestful nineteen, he had to discipline himself into accepting the rules of his position, despite the fact that as he walked around London on his Master's business, young maidens cast warm glances at his black hair and handsome russet eyes. Indeed, sometimes Nicholas felt more than inclined to wink back at one of them and take the consequences of breaking his vow. Now, though, he stood respectfully behind his chair, waiting to be spoken to, those kind of thoughts a million miles away.

John turned to him. ‘So what's all this about a woman visiting my shop?'

Nicholas's eyes glistened with the joy of telling his story. ‘Well, Sir, she came in about half an hour after you had left for Bow Street. She asked for you but I told her that you were dining with Mr Fielding and—'

‘Did you know her?' the Apothecary interrupted.

‘She wore a mask,' put in Sir Gabriel, steepling his fingers and smiling meaningfully.

‘Serafina!' John exclaimed. ‘Playing a game with me, no doubt.'

‘But, Sir, it wasn't the Comtesse de Vignolles,' Nicholas put in. ‘I would know her anywhere. This was a stranger, no one I had ever clapped eyes on before.'

‘I see. So what did she do when you told her I had gone?'

‘Hurried away and said she would catch you up. I had already informed her that you intended to go to the court first, so she said she might join you there.'

‘And then?'

‘That was the last I saw of her.'

Sir Gabriel interjected, ‘What age was this woman, Nicholas? Could you tell?'

The Muscovite's light brown eyes gleamed once more. ‘Oh, yes. I observed her as closely as I could, Sir Gabriel. Beneath the hood of her cloak I would say that the lady's hair glistened silver, whilst on that part of her face visible beneath her domino, I observed white enamel. Therefore, unless she was wearing a wig, I would say she was in her fifties, possibly more.'

‘An older admirer then,' commented John dryly. He sat silently for a moment, deep in thought, then he said, ‘By God, I do believe that she did catch up with me after all.'

Sir Gabriel raised a fine eyebrow. ‘What do you mean, my son?'

‘Simply, that I found this letter in my cloak whilst travelling back from Bow Street.' He raised the paper aloft from the arm of his chair. ‘I thought at first it was a jest of Mr Fielding's but I remember now that a woman bumped against me in the fog. She must have slipped the letter into my pocket as she did so.'

‘There's only one way to find out for sure, Sir,' answered Nicholas, brimming with excitement.

John broke the seal and read aloud.

My dear Mr Rawlings,

Forgive me for this Unorthodox way of contacting You. I had Hoped to see you in your Shop but none the less had prepared this Note lest you be unavailable. I have Travelled to London in the Hope that we could talk, but now that you must Read my Words I hardly know what to Say to you. But yet I am Compelled to come to the Point. The Fact of the matter is, my very dear Sir, that I Fear my Life to be under Threat. Somebody is trying to Poison me, I feel sure of it. Yet, when I look Back on my Past I can quite Understand why in view of the Hatred I have Engendered. Oh, my dear Friend, I beg you, if you value an old Acquaintanceship, to help me. In short, I Implore you to come here and Advise me what to do. I sign Myself only as One to whom you once were more than Kind.

A Voice from the Past, Petronilla's Platt, Winchelsea, Sussex. (A few miles west of the ancient Town of Rye.)

There was silence in Sir Gabriel's library, broken only by the distant murmur of the servants' voices from below stairs.

‘Well, well,' said John's father thoughtfully. ‘What an intriguing situation. Will you go?'

The Apothecary smiled crookedly. ‘Only this evening I was complaining to Mr Fielding that I had had no excitement since that unfortunate affair in The Devil's Tavern. It would seem that fate overheard me.'

‘Do you want me to take a letter to Master Gerard tonight?' asked Nicholas eagerly, quite enjoying those times in the shop when his master was absent and he, in company with an elderly apothecary who helped out when John was not present, ran the place.

John's smile broadened. ‘Can't wait to see the back of me, is that it?'

The Muscovite, who did not truly relish being teased, flushed. ‘No, Sir. I like having added responsibility, it's true. But I miss your company when you are away.'

‘A grand compliment,' remarked Sir Gabriel, sipping his port.

The Apothecary nodded. ‘Which I much appreciate. Anyway, don't let us disturb the old fellow now. If I leave the day after tomorrow we can contact him in the morning.'

‘I suppose it doesn't occur to you,' asked his father, only half joking, ‘that you might be walking straight into a trap?'

John looked at him sharply. ‘What makes you say that?'

‘If it was somebody's aim to lure you to Winchelsea for a purpose best known to themselves, they couldn't have succeeded better. After all, who is this Voice from the Past? And what guarantee do you have that it is a woman? The female who delivered the letter might merely have been a decoy.'

‘Would you like me to go with you, Sir?' asked Nicholas keenly.

‘Not you, nor anyone else either,' the Apothecary answered, giving his father a meaningful look.

Sir Gabriel inclined his head. ‘I bow to your bravado, John. I am sure that you know what you are doing.'

‘I most certainly do,' the Apothecary answered firmly, and poured himself another glass of port, wishing that he actually felt as assured as he appeared.

Having received an immediate reply from Master Gerard that he would willingly assist his fellow apothecary while he took leave of absence, John sent one of his father's footmen to The Borough by hackney coach to enquire as to the best way to travel to Winchelsea, that ancient town founded in 1288, one of the famous Cinque Ports. It was from The Borough that stagecoaches and post chaises, commonly known as Flying Coaches because of their ability to travel sixty miles in one day, set out for Kent, Sussex, Surrey and Hampshire, plying for hire from the old inns of Southwark. Other destinations were catered for from various hostelries situated throughout town, the famously regular York service leaving from The Black Swan on Holbourn Hill. Winchelsea itself was not directly served, however, the nearest point of disembarkation being Hastings.

‘The carrier said to go there and hire another vehicle, Sir,' John was informed.

‘I see. So at what time do the Hastings coaches depart?'

‘The stage leaves at midnight and sounds mighty uncomfortable, Master John, travelling most of the hours of darkness as it does. Though there's another service that leaves at midday and puts up at Lamberhurst overnight. However, the flying coaches leave at six in the morning and guarantee to get you to Hastings that same day, stopping at Sevenoaks for comfort and a horse change and at Lamberhurst for dinner. They mostly leave from The White Hart.'

‘Then I'll spend the night there. I would prefer that to rising at some ungodly hour and making my way across London.'

Having so decided, the Apothecary dined early with Sir Gabriel, leaving his apprentice to close the shop for the night, packed a large valise with a goodly selection of clothes, travelling light being quite foreign to his nature, then put some herbs specifically for use in the treatment of poisons into his medicine bag. This done, John kissed his father on the cheek and stepped into the hackney coach that had been hailed from Gerrard Street, to set off with a certain amount of nervous excitement on his journey to meet the Voice from the Past.

Like many of the other old inns of the seventeenth century that still stood intact, The White Hart was a galleried building constructed round a cobbled courtyard in which coaches gathered whilst awaiting or discharging their passengers. Below the galleries were stables for the horses, troughs and bales of straw, and even a few chickens scratching about, half-heartedly pecking for seeds. There was also dung, around which John picked his way carefully in the poor illumination thrown by the flickering lanterns hung round the quadrangle. Inside, however, The White Hart was resplendent with light, bustle and noise, typical of a place at which journeys begin and end.

Having booked a room on the first floor with a window overlooking the courtyard, John, who had intended to retire early, found himself unable to resist the jolly hubbub coming from the parlour and put his head round the door to see what was going on. Instantly, smoke from both pipes and fireplace assailed his nostrils, while his eyes were dazzled by the sparkle of flames and the glow of candles, to say nothing of the brilliant emerald green of the coat worn by the man who was at the very centre of the commotion. For, with a raised glass in his hand and a broad grin on his rubicund features, a great lummox of a fellow, affability flowing from his every pore, was holding forth.

‘So I says to this woman, “Ma'am, t'was not I who farted thus but mine horse …”'

There was a howl of hysterical laughter, much encouraged by the fact that a great pitcher of wine was being passed round.

‘So then she says to me, neat as you please, “Nay, Sir, t'was neither of you – and I should know for sure.” I should know for sure! Have you ever heard the like?'

He drained his glass, slapped his thigh, and wiped his eyes with a spotted handkerchief in what appeared to be one continuous movement. John found himself laughing with the rest, not at the joke, which seemed both meaningless and crude, unless he had missed some salient point, but at the sheer joviality of this heavy hulk. Seeing the Apothecary smiling, the other man walked forward, hand outstretched.

‘Ffloote, Sir,' he announced. ‘Two Fs.'

‘Rawlings,' John replied. ‘One R.'

Ffloote stared at him blankly for a second, then appeared to have a seizure. ‘One R! Oh, I like that, so I do. You're a wit, Sir. A regular wit.' He bent double, guffawing.

The Apothecary, grinning broadly by now, despite the stupidity of the conversation, shook the offered fingers, the smallest of which was the size of a full-grown carrot. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, Sir.'

‘All mine, all mine,' Ffloote answered, recovering a little. ‘Come, let me buy you a bottle of wine.'

‘I think perhaps just a glass will do. I'm travelling early tomorrow so must try to avoid a thick head.'

‘Nonsense,' replied the other. ‘I'm off at first light myself. But I've never let that deter me from my pleasures. We only live once, you know. Women and wine, my life employ.' He sang a snatch from
The Beggar's Opera
.

John laughed despite his misgivings. ‘I can't promise you that I will finish it.'

‘That's of no consequence, my friend. I am here to help you,' Ffloote answered, and winked a little dark eye, much obscured by the many bags and pouches in which it lay concealed.

Despite the general awfulness of the fellow, the Apothecary found it impossible to do anything but warm to him. He was so vulgar, such an archetype of the sort always to be met in coaching inns or places of assembly, particularly when one had thought of spending a quiet evening alone, that Ffloote seemed almost unreal, a caricature of himself. As a serving girl came through the door, the Apothecary silently wagered that his new companion would slap her heartily on the rear and, sure enough, Ffloote, with a great bawl of laughter, did just that. The girl, to her credit, did no more than pout and walk away, resisting the temptation to empty the pitcher of wine she was carrying clean over her assailant's head.

‘Sweetmeat,' Ffloote called after her jocundly, but the girl had moved out of earshot and John was able to distract his attention by asking a question.

‘Are you journeying far, Sir?'

‘Not really. The Sussex coast, you know. I live in Winchelsea. I'm known locally as the Squire. Ha ha!'

He erupted into pointless laughter once more, his wine-laden breath puffing directly into John's face. But the Apothecary was too astonished to notice, staring at his companion open-mouthed.

‘Winchelsea did you say?'

‘Yes. Why so surprised?'

John recovered himself. ‘Because, as chance would have it, I am travelling there myself. To a house called Petronilla's Platt. Do you know it?'