Death on the Romney Marsh (38 page)

The Marquis came first, dressed from head to toe in lavender and pink, his witness, an old friend from school days whom nobody knew, sitting beside him as the Rye coach, rather an old-fashioned affair with the coat of arms emblazoned on the door, drew up at the church and allowed the bridegroom to alight. A great cheer was raised from all his workers who threw rose petals, saved and stored from the year before, along his path into the solemnity of the church.

The guests were arriving in droves by now, and all those people with whom John had become so familiar, hurried into St Thomas's shadowy interior, dressed within an inch of eternity. The Girondes were there, bearing bottles of salts lest anyone should faint; Lady Ffloote made a dignified entrance on the arm of Dr Richard Hayman and brought a small cheer from the onlookers; the Finches, all five of them, overflowing in gowns the various colours of a rainbow, arrived by carriage and made much of alighting and walking into church. Captain Pegram escorted Mrs Rose; John, resplendent in a damson coloured suit with a waistcoat of silver, walked in just behind them; Joe Jago, in sombre black, shadowed his footsteps then went to sit at the back of the church where anyone, invited or otherwise, was free to sit and observe the proceedings. Last in before the bridal party was that free spirit Lucius Delahunty, who also took his place at the rear, portrait painter to the Marquis but not yet established enough to have an invitation.

Last of all to enter before the bridal party itself came Mrs Tireman, clad from head to foot in puce pink and gold, a hat upon her head fit to turn mortal man to stone should he gaze upon it. Then, as she took her seat in the front pew, a quiet fell over the whole congregation, waiting for that wonderful moment when the bride would enter the church. But even before she came they knew that Rosalind was drawing near. A great huzzah went up from all the retainers standing outside and there was the sound of a group of musicians. The bride was marrying in the old style, with fiddlers, trumpets and all.

Everyone rose and every eye turned to the door. Then there was a great gasp as the golden beauty came into view. Rosalind wore white, with coloured ribbons tied as true lovers knots upon her sleeves, her glorious hair loose about her shoulders, a wreath of fresh flowers on her brow. Beside her walked her father, in full clerical regalia, behind, again in the old tradition, two boys bearing sprigs of rosemary and her sister, Henrietta, clad in tawny, carrying garlands of flowers and leaves.

To a wild peal of bells, Rosalind walked down the aisle to where the Marquis of Rye awaited her, an expression of such adoration on his face that those sentimental members of the crowd wept to see it.

At last she stood beside him at the altar and the Marquis's chaplain, who was to conduct the ceremony that day, began with the familiar old words, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together today in the sight of God. …' His voice flowed on, a soft, harmonious discourse with no discordant sounds, until at last it came to that most telling moment when a silence fell over the entire church and no one dared so much as cough.

‘… that if anyone knows of any just cause or impediment why these two may not be joined together in holy matrimony, let him speak now or for ever hold his peace.'

There was the usual hush, during which John's heart sank into his shoe, and then very slowly and deliberately Joe Jago rose from his place at the back.

‘I do,' he said, and his voice seemed to ring down the corridors of time.

The chaplain looked thoroughly flustered and goggled at Mr Fielding's clerk, devoid of speech. Eventually, he managed to stutter, ‘And what might that be?'

‘It is, Sir, that a member of the wedding party is about to be placed under arrest on a charge of high treason and murder.'

The Marquis whirled round, his dark face livid with fury. ‘Explain yourself, man.'

Joe Jago cleared his throat. ‘I'm sorry, my Lord, I have here,' he tapped his pocket – ‘a warrant for the arrest of …'

But he got no further. Acutely aware that another figure had risen at the back, John, up to that moment too wretched to stare, turned to gape, as did every other member of the congregation.

‘I'll save you the trouble,' drawled Lucius Delahunty, his voice more Irish than it had ever sounded before. ‘Rosalind Tireman is a murdering bitch.'

There was a gasp as the import of the words sank into the minds of the listeners, then following on like a wave of the sea came a loud explosion. A scream cut through the petrified silence which ensued and John, along with everybody else, watched in horror as Rosalind, a red patch appearing at the breast of her wedding gown, slumped to her knees before the altar and then fell sideways to the floor.

‘So die all traitors and enemies of France,' said Lucius in perfect French, then he ran from the church without looking back.

A spell was broken and as John rose to his feet, torn between helping the wounded and giving chase to her assailant, he saw that Dr Richard Hayman had already leaped several pews and was kneeling beside the bride, tending her where she lay in the Marquis's arms. Without hesitation, he set off in pursuit of Lucius.

The Irishman was just about to mount the fast dark horse from Truncheons but he paused, one foot in the stirrup as John hurled himself the distance between them. He bowed.

‘Lucien de la Tour at your service, Sir. Father, French; mother, Irish. The Scarecrow, as you call him, alias Gerard de la Tour, was my cousin and a good man, albeit a little weak with the ladies. He came over to waken the Frog and the Moth, who had signed their allegiance to France in return for money many a year ago. As you now know, the Frog did his poor best. But the Moth, too enraptured with gaining even more money and a title into the bargain, killed my cousin rather than do her forsworn duty. That is why the evil bitch had to die.'

‘But Lucius …' said John, lost for words.

‘Sorry, my friend,' answered the other. ‘I really am very fond of you. Great God on a wedding day, I should be killing you but sure as hell I'm not going to do so.' And with that he swung a gloved fist which crunched on to the Apothecary's chin, hard as a flat iron, and the sunshine of that glorious April day turned black.

The mists cleared slowly to reveal two anxious faces peering into his. One, the familiar craggy visage of Mr Fielding's right-hand man, the much loved Joe Jago. The other, the neat little countenance of Dr Florence Hensey, applying cold compresses and salts as if his professional reputation depended on it.

‘Ah, my dear Mr Rawlings,' he said, as John's lids flickered. ‘Thank God you are coming back to us. That was a very nasty blow you received at the hands of that ruffian.'

Despite all the horror he had witnessed, to say nothing of an extremely painful jaw, the Apothecary gave a brief crooked smile. ‘Lucius Delahunty, what an all-out rogue. What happened to him?'

Joe's light blue eyes twinkled. ‘He escaped. The Flying Runners arrived a little too late to apprehend any villains – they lost a wheel in Lamberhurst! – and he was clean out of sight by the time they came.'

‘Do you think he will get back to France?'

Joe tapped the side of his nose. ‘Did you not tell me that he got on particularly well with the Reverend Tompkins?'

The Apothecary smiled. ‘Well, if Dick's somewhat dubious patriotism troubles his conscience I am certain Little Harry will have no such qualms.'

The clerk looked at him quizzically. ‘You bear Lucius no grudge, do you?'

‘No. He was doing his duty as he saw it and avenging his cousin's murder.'

‘Quite so,' said Dr Hensey. ‘We must all act as our sense of decency dictates.'

John looked at the doctor properly as the dark shadows finally retreated. ‘I didn't realise you were in the church today, Sir.'

‘I did not have an invitation, of course, but being in the area I was determined to see the ceremony. However, my patient in Hastings was more querulous than ever and I arrived somewhat late. I stole into the back to watch and found myself sitting almost behind Mr Delahunty.'

‘What happened exactly?'

‘He simply stood up, drew a gun, and shot the unfortunate Miss Tireman dead.'

The Apothecary went very white. ‘So he killed her? I wasn't sure.'

Florence Hensey looked oddly matter-of-fact. ‘She died within seconds. He hit her clean through the heart.'

‘Just as she stabbed the Scarecrow. A dark revenge indeed.'

Joe broke the mood. ‘Most of the wedding guests have gone to Grey Friars where Captain Pegram is acting as host. Just before she departed, Mrs Rose told me to look after you. Can I fetch you anything, Mr Rawlings?'

‘Brandy for shock,' suggested the doctor. ‘I think I might join you. It has been a most terrible day for us all.'

‘It certainly has,' said Joe with feeling.

John collected himself. ‘But what of Henrietta? Is she safe? Where did she go?'

The two older men exchanged a glance. ‘She is comforting the Marquis,' said Joe quietly, and not so much from the words themselves but in the way that they were said to him, John knew that all between him and the beautiful girl with whom he had so nearly fallen in love, was lost.

One week after the dramatic shooting of a lovely bride standing at the altar, ready to take her vows with the Marquis of Rye, seven people, two of whom had known her and two more who had spent an evening in her company, sat down to dine in the exquisite first-floor salon of Sir Gabriel Kent. Present were the host himself, his son, the Comte and Comtesse de Vignolles, Elizabeth and John Fielding and Joe Jago. Yet this was not an occasion for frivolity and hearty laughter, in fact the conversation was subdued throughout the meal itself. And when it was over, the Blind Beak, who sat at the head of the table while Sir Gabriel occupied the foot, cleared his throat and said, ‘I believe the time has come when we must ask you to tell us the whole story, Mr Rawlings.'

The Apothecary nodded. ‘As you wish, Sir, though I may ask for Joe's help in the muddle.'

‘By all means,' said the clerk, his light eyes somewhat sad, knowing how wretched his young friend had been when he had said his final farewell to Miss Tireman.

‘Well, as you all know by now,' John began, ‘I was summoned to the Romney Marsh by a mysterious woman who begged me to help her. Much intrigued, I arrived in Winchelsea only to discover that the lady was the former Mrs Jasper Harcross, now living under the assumed name of Rose. She declared that someone was making attempts on her life and that the poison was being administered by means of gifts of food and wine left on her doorstep. It is apparently quite the custom for the more prosperous to donate anonymous presents for the needy of the parish.'

‘A charming idea,' said Serafina, while Elizabeth Fielding chorused, ‘How kind.'

‘Indeed, yes. Though it presented me with many worries at the time. However, to go back a little, on the journey to Winchelsea, which was diverted through the marshlands because of storms, we passed a remote and tiny church, close to which, quite incongruously, stood a scarecrow. A most realistic one, for it gave me a great sense of fear when first I saw it. Eventually I went to investigate why a scarecrow should be standing in a place with no crops. Then I discovered the skeleton, now at rest in a churchyard in London. Inside his coat was stitched a coded message which, when deciphered, revealed that the dead man was a French spymaster who had come to England to awaken two sleeping spies, the Frog and the Moth.'

Mr Fielding came in. ‘It was then that I asked Joe Jago to go to Winchelsea in an official capacity and assist Mr Rawlings in his hunt for the two French agents. For it seemed certain, particularly when we discovered through the Secret Office that no English spy was involved, that one or other of them was also a killer. Joe.'

The clerk took up the tale. ‘Posing as an agent of that Office I obtained statements from one and all, realising as I did so that Mr Rawlings's task was well nigh impossible. Many of the residents lied, some embroidered the truth, others seemed to know nothing. However, many interesting facts did emerge. First and foremost, that the Scarecrow, as we had nicknamed the dead man, seemed fixated with contacting the Marquis of Rye and also with meeting the
beau monde
of Winchelsea. I concluded from this that the Marquis might well be personally implicated and, possibly, a lady of quality as well. Second, Mr Rawlings discovered that two ladies of the town, one young, the other not so fresh, had indulged in flirtations with our lecherous spying friend. Third, while visiting Captain Pegram I saw, partly concealed in a half open drawer, a sketch of Miss Rosalind Tireman in the nude.'

‘And what conclusion did you draw from that?' asked Sir Gabriel, his deep sapphire ring flashing splendidly as he moved his hand.

‘Either that she and he were somehow involved together, or simply that he lusted after her,' Joe answered.

John spoke up. ‘That fact made me suspect the Captain at once. His behaviour was extremely strange to say the least of it. However, we progress too rapidly. Other equally odd facts were emerging. Some of which seemed quite inexplicable.'

‘Such as?'

‘A contact who frequents the Romney Marsh …'

Mr Fielding rumbled his tuneful laugh. ‘Come now, Mr Rawlings, don't mince words. It was Dick Jarvis the smuggler, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, Sir. I'm afraid it was. The man declares he is a patriot and I suppose, according to his lights, he is. Anyway, he provided the very interesting piece of information that in the dead of night the skeleton was visited by a woman who removed Captain Pegram's visiting card from the corpse's pocket.'

There was a silence, then ‘Why?' asked Serafina.

‘To obliterate evidence of a link between the Captain and the dead man, which might inadvertently reveal her identity, I presume.'