Death on the Romney Marsh (32 page)

‘1027 1991 1637 1695,' he said aloud.

‘Whatever does it mean?' asked Agnes.

‘God knows. Listen, my girl, you are to say nothing about what we've observed, not even to the mistress.'

‘Oh, I won't, Mr Rawlings,' the servant replied excitedly, and by the light of his lantern, John saw that plain, dumpy Agnes was more animated and alert than he had ever seen her.

It seemed to the Apothecary that no sooner had he laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes than he was awoken again by a violent knocking on the front door. Startled, he sat bolt upright, then ran downstairs in his nightshirt and wrestled with the locks. Dr Richard Hayman, fully dressed, stood in the doorway, the light of a fitful moon revealing that he was sweating profusely and seemed in a considerable state of agitation.

‘There's a ship aground at Pett Level,' he said, ‘caught on the sandbank. To make matters worse, it's French.'

‘What?'

‘There are men wounded. Somebody went to fetch the Riding Officers from Rye and there's been a pitched battle on the beach. It's total confusion and God alone knows what's going on. We need all available help. Can you come and tend the injured?'

‘Give me a moment to look at Aunt Elizabeth and get dressed, then I'll be with you.'

‘I've got my carriage outside. I thought it would save time.'

Ten minutes later they were seated in the doctor's trap and heading for the coast as quickly as the horse would go.

‘Tell me again what happened,' said John, who had barely got the gist of events.

‘I don't know exactly. All I can say is that this is nothing to do with the smuggling fraternity. A frigate with French troops aboard obviously came in too close to land and got stuck fast on the sandbank. What they were doing here nobody seems to understand.'

Remembering the flashing signals, John said, ‘I wonder.'

‘What's that?'

‘Whether they were to rendezvous with an English spy.'

‘It's possible, I suppose.'

‘Anyway, who sent for the Riding Officers?'

‘Someone with quick wits and an even quicker horse. He must have noticed French uniforms on an English beach and gone like the wind.'

‘Who could it possibly have been, do you suppose?'

‘We might learn more later.'

They were approaching the shore and John strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out signs of the fighting. This particular bit of the coast was well loved by smugglers, mostly because the beaches at Fairlight Glen and Cove were accessible to carts. Pett Level itself was also popular, a flat expanse of water meadows criss-crossed by drainage ditches, frequently flooded by the sea which lapped at the shingle beach just below it. And it was on this beach that the Apothecary first made out the signs of what had happened. Marooned on a sandbank from which, presumably, it would have floated away with the tide, was a French frigate. Its occupants, a troop of soldiers, had rather foolishly come ashore, perhaps tempted by the sheer devilment of making such a landing. Now several of them lay on the shingle, dying or dead, victims of the Revenue men, the Riding Officers, who must have come from Rye at speed after someone sounded the alarm.

The French, too, had scored some hits. Several of the English were being tended by those who had come to the beach to see for themselves what had been going on. And staring about him as he and Dr Hayman abandoned the trap and proceeded the rest of the way on foot, John saw to his total astonishment that the
beau monde
of Winchelsea, as he liked to think of it, had turned out in force, even the sickly Lady Ffloote feebly attempting to bind a cut head with a white cotton rag.

Crouched amongst the young Frenchmen, the Apothecary noticed with a wry smile, were Mrs Finch and her four dumpling daughters, all causing more problems than they were relieving. Mrs Tireman, on the other hand, was speaking to a French officer fluently in his own language, clearly acting as an interpreter. Her husband, meanwhile, was tending to the dying, trying to ease the passing of all, regardless of race or religion and obviously very moved by the whole experience. Needless to say, though Henrietta gallantly staunched wounds, the beautiful Rosalind was sitting on a camp stool, swaying with faintness. Her future husband, dark and morose as ever, was hefting into the air those unable to walk and carrying them to where they could be tended by the medical men, of whom there were two present, Marcel Gironde and surprisingly, Florence Hensey. The Squire, acting in an advisory capacity and bellowing incomprehensible instructions, had brought The Pup, which slithered over the shale with scrabbling claws, breathing noisily. Mrs Gironde, who had been nursing a wounded soldier, looked apologetic when she felt John's eyes on her. Captain Pegram, clearly harking back to his early training, was supervising the taking of prisoners, marching those who were still standing into the custody of the Dragoons.

‘Let's to it,' said Richard, and fell to his knees amongst the wounded, grabbing for his medical bag as he did so.

There was something immensely satisfying about the whole effort, and John knew that he was not alone in feeling it. There was an element of excitement in the air, created by the fact that the enemy had come so close and then turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of frightened boys. The leathery old officers who had charge of them chatted away together, obviously not caring a cuss about being captured, as long as they could smoke their pipes and take a pull from bottles of brandy.

‘War!' said John, with a cynical laugh.

‘The aftermath!' answered a voice at his side, and the Apothecary glanced over to see that Dr Hensey had come to work beside him, putting a sheep's gut stitch into a wounded Frenchman's arm.

‘How on earth did you get here, Sir? The last I saw of you was at that delightful meal in London.'

‘My patient in Hastings took a turn for the worse and I travelled down to the coast shortly after you. Strangely, I was spending the night at The Salutation, having dined long and late and rather too well with Mrs Finch and her girls, when the cry went up that a French ship had run aground and there were casualties. I hastened here in the dear lady's carriage.'

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

‘And what a strange affair it turns out to be. First, why should the frigate have come so close inshore? Second, who told the Riding Officers that the French had landed?'

The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I have no idea. It is all veiy odd.' He looked round for his next patient and saw that the line of bodies had been finally cleared; the dead put in a cart for disposal, the living into another for removal either to prison or hospital. Down by the shoreline, Dr Hayman was washing his hands in the sea, while Apothecary Gironde was putting away his collection of physicks and ointments. Noticing for the first time that he was covered in blood, John also made his way to the water.

A voice called out from the distance. ‘Good people, if you can undertake a journey of five miles or thereabouts, I invite you all to a late supper with me. I feel you need some reward after your labours of tonight.'

It was the Marquis of Rye, standing on a small round rock, his arms raised to draw attention to himself. Etched dark against the ocean, his black figure looked like that of a bird, or even an insect, the cloak hanging from his shoulders rippling in the manner of wings.

Richard Hayman turned to his colleague. ‘Will you go?'

‘Yes, I think so. It will be interesting to see the future home of the fair Rosalind.'

‘Exactly my reaction.' The doctor gave a bow which looked strangely out of place on the battle-scarred seashore. ‘I can't thank you enough, John, for your help. There has obviously been some savage fighting here.'

‘A sharp reminder of what might happen if the French tried to invade in earnest.' The Apothecary looked the physician squarely in the eye; ‘Richard, talking of enemies in our midst, something has been bothering me for quite some while and I feel I have to ask you about it.'

‘Yes?'

‘That night after my aunt was last taken ill …'

‘What of it?'

‘Shortly after you left the house, the smugglers made a drop of goods, serving practically every citizen of Winchelsea as far as I could make out. I looked out of the window and saw you and Mrs Tireman going off on a cart with them and have puzzled about it ever since.'

‘Oh, that! There was a sailor with fever aboard a French lugger. Dick Jarvis asked the rector's wife to translate his symptoms into English and I went along to tend the fellow.'

‘And neither you nor she minded that you were assisting an enemy?'

‘A suffering human being is simply that to me. I care not whether he be French, English, Eskimo. Do you?'

‘Certainly not. I was merely curious, that is all.'

‘I am not a traitor if that is what you're thinking.'

‘What is a traitor?' answered John reflectively. ‘To the side for which he fights he is a hero.'

And his thoughts flew to Gerard the Scarecrow, who had come to England to do his duty, and flirt with a few ladies besides, and had ended up stabbed through the heart by a murderer.

‘Come on,' said Marcel Gironde, hurrying up to join them at their ablutions in the sea. ‘The Marquis is leaving.'

With the strange feeling that this night would bring much that was unknown to the surface, John turned his back on the water and started to walk inland.

The Marquis of Rye's home, Ravenhurst Park, had been built in the reign of William and Mary, a warm red-bricked building of eleven bays and three storeys set in its own rolling parkland, with sheep grazing in the meadows surrounding the glorious gardens. They stood in the moonlight beneath the spreading trees, raising their heads as the convoy of carts and carriages wound up the drive. For it seemed that everyone had accepted Justin's invitation to supper. Indeed, John counted at least half a dozen conveyances in front of Dr Hay man's trap.

During the journey he had told the medical man the cause of Elizabeth Rose's mysterious bouts of poisoning.

‘And you say you are not going to report the Girondes for malpractice?'

The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I would prefer not to, dog eating dog and all that.'

Richard Hayman let out a neighing laugh. ‘Can you imagine eating that ghastly hound of Sir Ambrose's? Did you see it lumbering round the beach, getting in the way?'

‘Yes,' said John, and at that moment an odd idea was born.

The doctor, not noticing his companion's silence, continued to laugh, then became serious. ‘You are quite certain you have frightened Nan Gironde off? You don't think she'll start compounding again once your back is turned?'

‘To make doubly sure I'll tell her that you know everything. That should stop her for good and all.'

‘And what about him?'

‘He is innocent, of the poisoning at least.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘I'm not quite sure,' answered the Apothecary.

The carriage in front, in which travelled the five large Finches and an extremely squashed Dr Hensey, began to slow, and, peering out of the window, John saw that the head of the procession had drawn to a halt before an imposing front door. Instantly, even at this hour of the night, servants appeared as if by magic and began helping the visitors and leading the conveyances round to the stables. The Apothecary jumped down, balancing on the trap's high step, and Richard swung off the driving seat and handed the reins to an hostler. Then they both gazed in open admiration as they stepped through a fairly unpretentious entrance hall into a further larger hall. Here the feeling was Italianate, for a marble staircase, broad and gracious, curved upwards from a distinctive black and white flagged marble floor. Just ahead of him, John saw that Rosalind had revived and had taken up her position alongside her betrothed, charmingly welcoming the guests.

It was like some bizarre carnival, he thought, with all these different people, brought together by a potential disaster, going through the motions of a harlequinade. It occurred to him at that moment that the Frog and the Moth had to be present. If Joe Jago were right and the other members of Winchelsea's society could be ruled out as suspects for one reason or another, then the two French spies were in the midst of this company. John stared upwards as the visitors began to climb the stairs towards the first-floor saloon.

Captain Pegram led the way, gallantly escorting both Miss Sophie and Miss Sarah Finch. Behind them walked the two younger girls, giggling and casting the eye at an extremely handsome footman of eligible age. Following behind came their mother, her arm most determinedly thrust through that of Dr Hensey.

A few steps below them climbed Sir Ambrose and Faith Ffloote, she dragging her feet, much weakened by all that had gone before. As for her husband, he was much put out of countenance by the fact that the Marquis had refused The Pup house room and had insisted the dog went to the stables.

‘Just 'cause the feller's got wolfhounds,' the Squire was muttering beneath his breath.

Much subdued, Mrs Gironde, studiously avoiding the gaze of both the Apothecary and Dr Hayman, climbed the stairs beside her husband. Marcel, on the other hand, positively glowed with satisfaction, and John hazarded a guess that he had never set foot in Ravenhurst Park before and probably might never do again, and thus was relishing every moment.

The Reverend Tireman and his wife, however, walked with the kind of negligent gait that assured the world they were regular visitors to these exalted premises and were so used to them that they were now beyond noticing the splendour of the surroundings. At least, John considered, the wife gave this impression very strongly, though the rector still seemed to have the cloud of death hanging over him, having eased the passing of so many men on this extraordinary night.