Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  Table of Contents

  By Deryn Lake

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Historical Note

  By Deryn Lake

  The John Rawlings Mysteries

  DEATH IN THE DARK WALK

  DEATH AT THE BEGGAR’S OPERA

  DEATH AT THE DEVIL’S TAVERN

  DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH

  DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL

  DEATH AT THE APOTHECARIES’ HALL

  DEATH IN THE WEST WIND

  DEATH AT ST JAMES’ PALACE

  DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS

  DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN

  DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER

  DEATH IN HELLFIRE

  DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID

  DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST

  DEATH ON THE

  ROMNEY MARSH

  A John Rawlings Mystery

  Deryn Lake

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain by

  Hodder and Stoughton 1998

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 1998 by Deryn Lake

  The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-44830-095-2 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by Palimpsest Book Production Limited

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For LINDSEY DAVIS

  with affection.

  Olé.

  Acknowledgments

  As ever, people have been so kind and willingly given their time to assist me with this book. First, I must thank Mark Dunton of the Public Record Office who, on his day off, helped me go into the archives and find the Cipher of 1757, used by the secret agents of that time. Not only that, he also unearthed the facts behind the workings of the Secret Department and the Secret Office, to say nothing of discovering the legendary Dr Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells and Decipherer to the King. Next I would like to thank Lt Colonel Henry Dormer, former mayor of Winchelsea, who opened up the town’s museum especially for me and also loaned me a precious book on Winchelsea’s history. I am most grateful, too, to the Reverend Lindsay John Hammond, Vicar of Appledore and also of the remote churches of the Romney Marsh, who helped me so much with the background to St Thomas à Becket, Fairfield, and St Augustine, Brookland. As always I am in the debt of P.C. Keith Gotch of the Metropolitan Police Thames Division for discussing the state of the victim’s body with me. Keith is a mine of information and I am very lucky to be able to call on his expertise. Finally let me thank Maureen Lyle and John Kerr, who stoically tramped the Romney Marsh with me, even through the snow. Last but not least my gratitude to fellow writer Keith Miles, always ready to help and advise.

  Chapter One

  As soon as the Magistrate had taken his seat, those who crowded the public benches did likewise. ‘Bring up the prisoner,’ called Joe Jago, the clerk of the court, and there was a general drawing in of breath as a handsome lad with straw coloured hair, well set-up in his person, and with nothing to condemn him except the dirtiness of his face, was brought to stand at the bar facing the clerk and, on a higher level, the Magistrate, John Fielding himself.

  ‘Read the charge,’ ordered the Beak.

  ‘That the prisoner, Nathanial Hicks, did on Epiphany Day, throw at a cockerel at a fair, thus breaking the directive of the Justices of the Peace as given last 1st March, 1756.’

  ‘How plead you?’ the Magistrate asked crisply.

  Hicks looked round the court and gave what John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane, present at this hearing, could only think of as a small snigger of satisfaction. ‘Guilty,’ he said, and from certain quarters there came a murmur of amused admiration at his bravado.

  The Apothecary shuddered. He lived in an age of horrible cruelty which sickened him, and he could only be glad that people like William Hogarth, the artist, were making a positive stand against the monstrous treatment meted out to defenceless animals by so-called humans. To him, the good-looking young man standing at the bar now wore an evil leer.

  Mr Fielding’s words ripped into the ensuing silence. ‘Orders have been given to prevent that barbarous and inhuman custom, for I should blush to call it a diversion, of throwing at cocks on Shrove Tuesday and other festive days. What cowardice in a brave nation, to see a fellow of six foot high throwing a monstrous stick at a poor inoffensive animal, tied to a stake to prevent its escape from the wanton cruelty of its unequal adversary! How inhumane the devices of the boys to whom these creatures belong, who have been seen to put them into hats, after the poor animals’ legs, thighs, etc. have been broke, to have their brains knocked out. Surely this is highly inconsistent with that charity, compassion and benevolence, which foreigners observe to be the characteristics of our country. Query, would not these tall young fellows before mentioned make a more comely figure with a musket on their shoulders? For we are now a nation at war and let that not be forgotten. I sentence you to three months in Newgate, Nathanial Hicks, and may the press gang be waiting at the door when you come out.’

  ‘Huzzah!’ shouted the Duke of Richmond patriotically, and there was a further murmur, this time of approval. The mood of the court had swung. What right had able-bodied young men to be hurling missiles at cockerels when they should be doing so at the French? Amidst hisses, the glowering Hicks was led away, and the afternoon’s work continued.

  The Apothecary ceased to concentrate, thinking instead about the extraordinary fact that Britain was once more engaged in hostilities, not only with its neighbours across the Channel but also with Austria and Russia, banded together in a formidable alliance with Sweden and Saxony. The whole sorry business had started the previous August, 1756, when Prussia had resisted Austria’s attempts to regain Silesia, lost to the Austrians eleven years before. After that opening defensive action there had been a rush to join one side or the other, each country entering for its own hidden reasons. Yet here in London, other than for more visibl
e signs of the press gangs round the riff-raff hostelries, the public at large were hardly affected by the outbreak of war and life went on very much as it had before.

  On this particular day, however, it being a vaporous February, the streets of London dank with fog and the squares and crescents hushed and silent, lying beneath shrouds of ghostly mist, the beau monde, those butterflies of society whose pleasure it was to parade forth in bright colours to see and be seen, were for once quite noticeably absent from the walkways of the capital. Normally, people of rank and quality sallied abroad before the hour to dine, observed loosely at any time between two and five, to visit shops, auction rooms, coffee houses, or to call one upon the other. But this specific afternoon, the risk of exposing their fine garments to the damp spirals of clinging haze had clearly sent them into mutual alarm, and they had consequently sought to waste their vapid time elsewhere. Thus when John Rawlings had set foot in the Magistrate’s court, located next door to the Public Office in Bow Street, he had found it packed with sightseers. For watching justice meted out by a blind man was considered good sport by those with little else to do with their lives. Shaking his head with a certain wry amusement, John had squeezed his way along the back of the three wooden benches which ran on either side of the courtroom on the ground floor and found himself a very small perching place.

  Above his head, the gallery was crammed, and the Apothecary had recognised several faces, particularly that of the Duke of Richmond, who had grinned and waved his tricorne hat. John waved back, but no further exchange of greeting had been possible for it was at that moment that the Principal Magistrate, Mr John Fielding, known to the masses as the Blind Beak, the switch that he always carried into court to help him find his way twitching before him, made his entrance. Everybody rose as with the aid of his clerk, Joe Jago, the Magistrate had walked to his high chair and sat down.

  From his uncomfortable vantage point, John had gazed with affection at the man who over the last three years he had grown to respect and admire almost more than any other. It had been a death that had brought them together in the early summer of 1754, the death of a young woman whose body John had found in the pleasure gardens at Vaux Hall. He had been briefly suspected of the crime but had gone on to become John Fielding’s friend and confidant, and help him bring the real killer to light. Since then he had assisted the Blind Beak twice more, and was now fondly regarded as an unofficial Beak Runner, that name given to those officers of the court whose duty it was to apprehend criminals. Yet by calling, John was a herbalist who practised his trade from his shop just off London’s Piccadilly.

  The Apothecary shifted in his cramped position, then realised that Mr Fielding was speaking again.

  ‘As there are so many members of the public gathered here today, may I take this opportunity to remind you of the situation regarding the joining of His Majesty’s forces and marines. Volunteers are given £3. However, the press gang’s quarry are all able-bodied, idle’ – the Magistrate paused and let his sightless eyes, hidden from view as always by a black bandage, turn in the direction of the gallery and benches – ‘and disorderly persons who cannot, upon examination, prove themselves to exercise and industriously follow some lawful trade or employment, or to have substance sufficient for their support and maintenance. Those sought for impressment are males aged between seventeen and forty-five, who are fit and stand not less than five feet four inches in their stockinged feet.’ The Blind Beak rose to reveal that he himself stood well over six feet tall. ‘I thank you for your attention,’ he said by way of dismissal. ‘The court is adjourned until tomorrow.’

  As he proceeded out, so too did the onlookers, jostling in the entrance that led them to Bow Street. John went with the throng, his intention to walk the few steps back to the Public Office and from there climb the stairs that led to Mr Fielding’s private apartments. For tonight he had been invited to dine with the Fielding family; a small one consisting of the Magistrate, his wife Elizabeth, and their adopted daughter Mary Ann, who was in reality the couple’s niece. Quite how this adoption had come about John had never been certain, though he had a suspicion that the child might have been born out of wedlock to one of Mrs Fielding’s sisters.

  He was thinking about this when he felt a hearty clap on his shoulder, and saw that Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond, was waiting in the fog to have a word with him.

  ‘Rawlings, my dear soul, how are you?’ Not bothering to wait for a reply, the nobleman rattled on, ‘This war business is mighty upsetting, ain’t it? Quite put me out of countenance, so it has. I’ve been asked to volunteer some of my manservants for the army. Damned inconvenient, in view of my plans.’

  ‘What plans?’ asked the Apothecary with a sudden lurch of his heart.

  The Duke winked a dark, saturnine eye and for a moment looked exactly like his ancestor, Charles II. ‘Marriage,’ he whispered loudly.

  John Rawlings quite literally felt sick, having nursed for some considerable time a passion for the beautiful actress Coralie Clive, a passion never consummated but for all that strong enough to make him feel ill at the thought that she might be about to marry Richmond, another of her many admirers.

  ‘Who is the fortunate woman?’ he managed to ask, his voice a croak, at least to his own ears.

  Charles Lennox winked again. ‘I’d best not say, as yet. The fact is that I still haven’t proposed to her and I think she should be the first to know, don’t you?’

  The Apothecary fought an overwhelming desire to hit him. ‘Then let me try to guess,’ he said, forcing a laugh.

  ‘I shan’t tell you, even if you’re right.’

  ‘Do I know her?’ John persisted.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ the Duke teased, clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘Oh, come now, surely you can trust me to keep your secret.’

  ‘I judge everyone by my own standards, my friend, and consequently rely on none. Anyway, why is it so important to you?’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the Apothecary suspiciously.

  John could feel himself growing wretchedly uncomfortable beneath Charles’s perceptive gaze and was positively relieved when somebody bumped against him, clearly not seeing him in the haze.

  ‘Beg pardon, Sir,’ said a woman’s voice.

  ‘Not at all,’ he called after her retreating figure.

  The Duke, seizing his opportunity to end a conversation which had clearly become tedious to him, said, ‘Well, I must be on my way. Dining with Marlborough, y’know.’

  John, still gazing after the female, who had by now vanished in the mist, wondering whether she looked vaguely familiar, turned back to his companion and stared him straight in the eye. ‘Is Coralie Clive your intended, Sir?’

  Charles Lennox guffawed. ‘Oh, so that’s the way of it, is it? I suspected as much. No, she ain’t. But you’re a brave man to chance your arm there, my friend. Miss Clive thinks more of her acting than she does of any chap alive.’

  ‘I know,’ said the Apothecary ruefully.

  The Duke threw an arm round his shoulders. ‘But I wish you well of her. One of these days she’ll come round to realising what she’s missing.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  ‘But until she does, may I give you a word of advice?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Play the field, my friend. It can be a very exciting pastime.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ John answered as he gave a polite bow of farewell and made his way into the Public Office.

  As always, John Fielding received his guest in his spacious salon, its curtains closing out the February fog, a fire of both coal and wood driving away any bodily chills. The Apothecary gladly took the seat opposite that of his host and accepted the glass of hot punch which Mary Ann, sitting on the floor by her uncle’s feet, poured out for him. She was a pretty little thing, very composed and self-sufficient, and at the age of almost thirteen starting to lose the roundness of childhood, exhibiting clear signs of the beautiful woman she would
one day become. John, who had always liked her, considering her well behaved and unspoiled, gave her a warm smile.

  ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, I do like the way you do that,’ said Mary Ann, impulsively rising to give him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Do what?’ asked the Apothecary, puzzled.

  ‘Smile. Your mouth goes quite irregular when you do so. Up at one side only. It is most amusing.’

  ‘I’m glad that I please you.’ He made a small bow from where he sat.

  ‘You are quite the prettiest man alive,’ Mary Ann continued, laughing.

  ‘Enough!’ said John Fielding, though his voice was not angry. ‘You are an impudent imp. Begone, before you feel the palm of my hand.’

  The child laughed all the more, obviously not in the least afraid of her uncle or his empty threats. ‘Very well. Good evening, gentlemen,’ she said saucily, and left the room, staring at John over her retreating shoulder.

  ‘She’s growing up,’ commented the Apothecary.

  ‘A mite too quickly.’ The Blind Beak sighed. ‘Elizabeth says that the child is turning into a fine beauty. Is that so, or is it just an aunt’s fond wish?’

  ‘No, it’s true enough. Another few years and you’ll have every suitor in London knocking on your door.’

  ‘Perish the thought. But enough of the girl. How are you, Mr Rawlings? How do you fare?’

  ‘Well enough. Though I declare that I long for a little excitement. Do you realise, sir, that it is almost two years since that sad business at The Devil’s Tavern?’

  ‘Is it really? Good gracious!’

  John nodded, even though his companion could not see him, once again endorsing the fact that everyone who knew him treated the Blind Beak exactly as if he were sighted.

  ‘I realise that much has been happening at the Public Office, what with your many reforms, to say nothing of the criminal cases. But meanwhile I have been living quietly, compounding my simples, instructing my apprentice—’

  ‘How is young Nicholas?’ Mr Fielding interrupted.