Death on the Romney Marsh (7 page)

He felt fairly certain that he knew who it was, matching the description Miss Tireman had given him against people of his old acquaintance. Yet still there was an element of uncertainty and danger about the whole situation, and John felt a shiver of excitement as he left the inn by the front entrance and made his way down Castle Street to the High Street.

Before he left London, the Apothecary had consulted one of his father's many guide books, on the subject of the historic town of Winchelsea. He had read the following: ‘At some Unknown Date in our History, five Towns in South-East England banded together to form the Famous Cinque Ports. These Towns were Hastings, Romney, Hythe, Dover and Sandwich, and it is Believed by your Writer that the confederation could have begun as Early as the Reign of Edward the Confessor. By the Thirteenth Century, the Antient Towns of Winchelsea and Rye had been Added to Their Number.'

This information continued with a vivid description of how the fleet of the Cinque Ports had ruled the high seas, had given King John a navy, had indulged in piracy and private wars, all of which had struck the Apothecary as highly colourful. But these glories of the thirteenth century had been ended at a single stroke by an implacable enemy. In October 1250 the town had been partly submerged by an exceptionally high tide which ‘flowed Twice without Ebbing with a Horrible Roaring and a Glint as of Fire on the Waves.' Thirty-seven years later the town suffered a similar fate and was practically submerged. On that same occasion the whole of the Romney Marsh was flooded and the River Rother changed its course.

Edward I had come to the aid of Winchelsea and had designed a new town on Iham Hill, planned on the gridiron principle of the French
bastides
, which his royal majesty had also ordered built in his duchy of Aquitaine. Stones had been brought from Caen in Normandy and some, indeed, from the ruins of the submerged city, accessible at low tide. Marble for the church had come from West Sussex, timbers for both houses and other buildings from the great oaks of the forest of Anderida. Putting the guide book down, John had thought momentarily that romantic legends of church bells that ring beneath the sea might well have originated in the ‘antient' town of Winchelsea.

The story had continued, telling of repeated raids by the French, of rape and bloodshed, of pillage and arson, of how the great days of the town were over by the end of the fifteenth century when ‘the Last Merchant had left'. For the new harbour had silted up and trade had depended on there being a port. Even the support of the religious houses had gone when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. But there had been a ray of hope. Within the last year or so Huguenot émigrés had started a textile business, manufacturing lawns, cambrics and crepes, which it was hoped would bring renewed prosperity to Winchelsea. Though now, thought John as he turned into the High Street, with war declared, the town must be on its guard. For if ever there was a good spot for an invasion it was the flat coast between Fairlight and Hythe, placing Winchelsea right in the firing line.

Petronilla's Platt, the interestingly named cottage in which the enigmatic Mrs Rose had taken up residence, turned out to be a typical eighteenth-century dwelling, with no sign of its medieval origins. Knocking loudly on the front door, John stood in anticipation, his heart beating faster at the prospect of who would answer – only for his hopes to be dashed. There was nobody at home. Wondering what to do next, John decided on a tour of the town and set off to look at the Strand Gate, an age-old portcullis dating from the thirteenth century, which once had given access to the port. Having inspected this, he proceeded to Back Lane, from whence he had a view of the church's eastern end. And it was just as he was admiring the building's size and splendour that a figure came into sight in the far distance, slowly walking towards him. Instantly, John knew who it was and why he had been sent for above all other members of his profession. The thought of old dark secrets stirred within him and he briefly stepped into the shadow of the church wall, better to observe the creature who was coming his way.

Just as Henrietta Tireman had said, the woman still had that air of beauty about her which, with her inborn grace and charm, the passing years could never take away. Yet there was much sadness in the droop of the shoulders and the carriage of the head, the bearing of one who has seen too much of life and as a result withdrawn to a quiet backwater in which to pass the years left to her.

John, could see from where he stood the lovely shock of silver hair which he had always so much admired. This woman might be cowed by all that had happened to her, living in fear of her life from an unknown poisoner's hand, but for all that she was finely coiffed and elegantly presented. As always she wore enamel on her face, attempting to disguise her true age and yet, in a way, drawing attention to it. But the steadfast eyes, though full of despair, were none the less bright as crystal. John's heart went out to the Voice from the Past that she had still not found peace.

He stepped out from the shadows and bowed deeply. ‘Don't be afraid, Madam,' he said gently. ‘Your summons has been answered. I am John Rawlings, come to serve you as best I can.'

She was so startled that she drew in her breath on a rasp. ‘Is it really you?' she asked in a quivering voice.

‘Yes, Mrs Harcross, it really is.'

She seized his arm in alarm. ‘Oh, don't call me that, I beg you. She is dead, that evil woman. Her hour came long ago.'

This was hardly the place to ask the unhappy creature why she had tried to eradicate all evidence of her past, though it was not difficult for John to guess the reason. Instead he said, ‘Then would you prefer me to address you as Mrs Rose?'

She froze. ‘How did you know I used that alias?'

‘Because I made one or two discreet enquiries about the owner of Petronilla's Platt. You must understand that it is not every day one is delivered a note in the fog. You can hardly blame me for trying to find out a little more about the messenger.'

Mrs Rose relaxed a little. ‘No, of course not. I am being foolish. After all, if I can't trust you, Mr Rawlings, who can I depend on?'

‘Then shall we go back to your cottage so that you may tell me exactly what is troubling you?'

John's companion grew tense once more. ‘No, I cannot rely on the serving girl, Agnes. She comes from the town and, I feel certain, has been primed to find out all she can about me. Let us go into the church. At least it is quiet there.'

So saying, Mrs Rose took the Apothecary's arm and guided him to the gate, then down the path and through the entrance of St Thomas the Martyr, into the hushed and dim interior. Instantly, a sense of great antiquity consumed him – that and something else. There was an air of continuity, as if the medieval craftsmen who had built it had only stepped outside momentarily and would be back at any moment. Their handiwork seemed as fresh as the day it had been carved despite the acts of vandalism inflicted by the fanatical puritans who held sway during the Commonwealth. John, looking to his right, found his eye drawn to the face of the Green Man, that pagan figure of fertility and tree worship, thought by some scholars to be the basis for the legend of Robin Hood, his head planted centrally in the canopy above the tombs that lay beneath.

Taking the Apothecary's hand in her gloved one, Mrs Rose, after glancing all around, led him to the left and down the northernmost aisle, divided in half by a wall with a door in it. Going through this to a pew tucked close to the pulpit, a private place if ever there was one, she sat down. Then she turned her eyes on him, the look in their depths unfathomable.

‘One thing before we begin. Swear to me, Mr Rawlings, swear in this holy place, that you will never mention the reason why we are both here.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I cannot bear to hear the names that since … since Jasper's death … I now have come to dread. Swear to me by all that you hold dear that you will not talk about the past.'

‘But if I am to discuss your present situation, surely that will be inevitable.'

‘No, it will not,' she answered vehemently. ‘The facts are, as I told you in my letter, that I am sure I am being slowly poisoned. Yet whether by a friend of Jasper's killers or by a woman who once loved him, and there were so very many, I do not know.'

John sat silently, thinking about her request, wondering how he could possibly comply with it. Beside him, he was horribly aware, Mrs Rose sat trembling with stress, willing him to help her. Yet, if it came to a matter of asking questions how could he agree never to discuss the very situation that had brought the current position about? In the end, though, he could not bear her patent misery a moment longer.

‘I promise not to mention, to you at least, all that has gone before,' he said. ‘Now, tell me what it is that worries you. How do you know somebody is trying to kill you?'

She looked at him sorrowfully, her eyes full of tears. ‘If you will remember I left this country in order to nurse my cousin Ralph, and with him took up residence in Italy. He had gone there for his health, though by that stage no warm climate could help him. He was too eaten up with consumption to last more than a year or two and eventually the poor soul, may God rest him, died in my arms. I was related to Ralph through my mother, my father, if you recall, being a Huguenot weaver. Anyway, Ralph had been left Petronilla's Platt by his maiden sister and he, in turn, thinking to set me up in a modicum of comfort, bequeathed me a small legacy and her cottage. Thus I came to Winchelsea.'

‘And?'

‘All was well at first. I mingled amongst the people of the town who accepted me as best they could, though a widow on her own is not generally considered quite the thing in polite society.'

John raised a dark brow but said nothing.

‘Anyway, after I had been here a month or so, I was given a gift, a cake, which made me violently ill after I ate it.'

The Apothecary stared at her. ‘But who gave it to you? Surely you could have raised the matter with them?'

Mrs Rose stared into her lap, where her hands were abstractedly working a handkerchief. ‘That is just the point. I do not know where it came from.'

‘What on earth do you mean?' John exclaimed, his voice sounding harsher than he had intended.

‘I mean that it was left on my doorstep while I was out. Wrapped up very prettily and in a nice basket. Anyway, not suspecting anything, I took it in and had it for supper.'

‘And then?'

‘During the night I became ill and the physician had to be sent for. Anyway, he purged me and after a few days I recovered and put the matter down to mere coincidence, a chill or something of that sort. Then it happened again. This time a basket of fruit was left on my doorstep.'

‘And you ate some of it?'

Mrs Rose, born Elizabeth Tessier, who had once been a woman of importance, a leading actress of her day, for ever enshrined in theatrical history as the creator of Lucy Lockit in the original production of
The Beggar's Opera
, suddenly looked sad and vulnerable.

‘Times are hard, Mr Rawlings. I eke out my money as best I can but any gift is welcome, believe me.'

‘And did it not occur to you to wonder who your generous benefactor might be?'

‘I thought it was somebody connected with the church, which I attend regularly, to pray for Jasper's soul amongst other things, who had seen me and somehow guessed my situation. Someone who was too tactful to approach me openly and offer me charity.'

‘I see,' said the Apothecary, concealing his cynicism as the thought went rapidly through his mind that Elizabeth Rose's late husband, the murdered Jasper Harcross, could do with all the prayers for salvation that he could possibly get. ‘So the fruit poisoned you as well?' he asked.

‘I had a seizure in the middle of the night, just as before.'

‘And have any further gifts been left since then?'

‘One, a bottle of home-made wine.'

‘And what did you do with that?'

‘I have kept it untouched.'

John nodded. ‘Just as well. I'll be interested to have a look at it. By the way, did you tell the physician your suspicions?'

Elizabeth shook her head, locks of her silver hair rippling beneath her hat. ‘No, I am regarded as enough of an oddity as it is. I had no wish to draw even more attention to myself.'

The Apothecary shifted his position, the hard wooden pew uncomfortable beneath him. ‘Certainly what you say is very strange. But who could be doing such a thing? How could anyone trace you to this remote corner?'

‘Perhaps by pure chance. Perhaps there is somebody living in Winchelsea who knew Jasper, or …' – her voice wavered – ‘the others.'

‘It seems very unlikely.'

‘You do not doubt my word, surely, Mr Rawlings? These things happened to me just as I described to you.'

In her vehemence, Mrs Rose's voice had risen in intensity and now reverberated round the walls of the old church, the sound coming back as an echo from the ancient tombs of the long-sleeping dead. And mingling with that hollow noise, John became acutely aware of another. His hackles rose as he realised that he and his companion were not alone in the church of St Thomas the Martyr. Surreptitious footsteps were making their way up the aisle away from them.

He sprang to his feet, simultaneously whirling round to face the door which divided the aisle across. It was closing even as he looked at it. Instantly, John leaped over the back of the pew and plunged down the aisle towards the door, wrenching it open and staring all around him. There was no one in sight, but the Apothecary glimpsed movement in the main entrance. He raced the short distance from where he stood, thrusting his way through the great oak door. But again he was just too late. Whoever had gone out knew the place far better than he did and had instantly found a hiding place. There was nobody to be seen.