Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Never better, Sir. Recovered from the difficulties of his early years and completely restored to the full vigour of youth. Though he will always be thin, in my view.’

  ‘And his work?’

  ‘Excellent. He has a natural feel for the use of herbs. You did me a service on the day you introduced him to me.’

  The Blind Beak nodded. ‘I am very glad to hear it.’ He sipped his punch and then relapsed into silence, sitting so still that he looked almost as if he had fallen asleep. But this was an old trick of his and John, observing his host closely, was certain that behind the calm facade one of the most active brains in the kingdom was working hard. Eventually the Magistrate spoke again. ‘We must all keep vigilant, Mr Rawlings.’

  ‘What do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘I speak of the political situation. Britain has entered this war ostensibly because our Hanoverian monarchs have been linked to the Hohenzollerns of Brandenberg – the Prussians, in short – by more than one generation of dynastic ties. However, that is not the real reason at all.’

  ‘No?’ John knew better than to voice any opinion of his own at this stage of the discussion.

  ‘No. The true motive of the British government was to go to war to stop the growing imperialism of their old enemies across the Channel. Both the French and British navies have long been vying for control of the seas, while higher powers struggle for mastery of the newly discovered territories in the East and West. In short, both sides have been spoiling for a fight and now the opportunity has been given to them.’

  ‘I understand that. But why should that make us go on our guard?’

  ‘Beware of spies,’ answered the Magistrate succinctly. ‘They’ll be swarming across that small stretch of water which divides us by the boatload, mark my words. Adding to the number already here, of course.’

  ‘Already here?’ repeated the Apothecary, his incredulity obvious.

  The Magistrate lowered his voice and leaned forward, gesturing to John to do likewise. ‘I am perfectly serious, Mr Rawlings. I have recently had private communication with Mr Todd of the Secret Department, whose contention it is that a powerful spy is even now working out of London.’

  The Apothecary’s lively eyebrows shot upwards.

  ‘It is his belief that the man has been in town for some time, before hostilities even, and that his activities are masked by a most respectable position in society,’ the Blind Beak went on.

  ‘But why should a French spy – he is French I presume?’ – Mr Fielding nodded – ‘be active in peacetime?’

  ‘Because there is much that takes place. Deployment of troops, designs of government, to name but two. It would be a spy’s duty to discover as much as he could about such things and report his findings back to his masters. Of course, in contrast, there are some foreign agents residing here who do little other than take their money. Mr Todd referred to them as “the sleepers”.’

  ‘Are you saying, then, that there is a network of spies in this country?’ John asked in astonishment.

  The Blind Beak refilled both punch glasses as adeptly as if he could see. ‘Perhaps a network would be stating the case too strongly. Shall we simply say a skein of people, probably unaware of each other’s existence, who for some reason or another, maybe a straightforward lack of funds, have agreed to act as lookouts for our enemies across the Channel.’

  The Apothecary drank deeply. ‘I am amazed. I had no idea.’

  Mr Fielding laughed his melodic laugh. ‘You hinted earlier that you were bored, my friend. So here’s a task for you. Find a spy and tell the Secret Department of it. But be warned, don’t make a fool of yourself in the process.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘During the time of the Jacobite rising, a cousin of my father’s believed everyone he met to be a traitor and spent his entire life reporting his friends for Jacobite activities. In the end, they got so angry with him – for these people were all quite innocent, let me hasten to assure you – they bundled him off in a hackney coach, threw a hood over his head, stripped him naked, and left him tied to the railings in Hyde Park for all the world to see.’

  The Apothecary pulled a wry face. ‘What a terrible fate! I have taken due warning.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said the Blind Beak, and stood up to escort his guest into dinner, led by the servant who had come to announce that the meal was served.

  It wasn’t until he was in the confined space of a sedan chair, one of the few playing for hire on such a foggy night in town, that John felt the object in the pocket of his cloak. It had not been there earlier when he had walked from his shop to Bow Street, of that he was certain. But now, drawing it out in the dimness, he saw that it was a letter and could just make out the words ‘Mr John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane’, written in a fine flowing hand on its exterior. Wondering when it could possibly have been thrust into its hiding place, and whether Mr Fielding knew anything about it, John closed his eyes, aware that he would make nothing of it in the dark interior of the chair and that he must wait until he got home.

  He lived in Nassau Street, in the parish of St Ann’s, Soho, sharing a home with his adopted father, Sir Gabriel Kent and, in the custom of the time, his apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins, a boy of exciting ancestry who claimed descent from a member of the court of Tsar Peter the Great, and who had consequently earned himself the nickname of the Muscovite. This entirely male household was strengthened even further by a complement of male servants.

  ‘A maid could never protect her virtue in such surroundings,’ Sir Gabriel had announced firmly, though from whom he had not specified.

  However, there was nothing austere or staid about either the house or its occupants, Sir Gabriel himself being considered one of the finest-looking men in town and his son a positive bird of paradise in his love of high fashion. Indeed, clothes were the Apothecary’s weakness, his tailor’s bills accounting for nearly all his spending money. Yet, other than for this foible, he was an industrious young man who worked as hard as any at his chosen profession, and accusations of being empty-headed were never made against John Rawlings by those who knew him well.

  Picking his way through the fog, the linkman, carrying his torch of pitch and tow and walking just ahead of the chair and its two sturdy porters, turned into Gerrard Street and from there into Nassau Street itself, where the chairmen set down their burden outside number two.

  Paying all three of them off, John hurried within, anxious to see the letter and learn, perhaps, how it had so mysteriously arrived in his pocket. But he was forestalled on his way to the small salon. The door to Sir Gabriel’s library opened and Nicholas Dawkins, his thin face animated, appeared in the entrance.

  ‘Ah, I thought I heard your footsteps, Sir. I have something of interest to impart to you.’

  ‘It would seem you have a secret admirer, John,’ called Sir Gabriel’s voice from inside the room.

  Drawing the letter from his cloak, which he handed to the waiting footman, the Apothecary resigned himself to reading it later, and followed Nicholas into the library.

  A bright fire, its flames leaping into the chimney, glowed hot in the grate and before it, on a card table, stood a chessboard. The Master’s father and the young apprentice had obviously been locked in a battle of wits when they had been interrupted by John’s return.

  ‘Indeed, my dear,’ his father continued, ‘it appears you have made such an impact on the poor woman that she called at your shop, incognito of course, in order to speak with you.’

  ‘That’s right, Sir,’ added Nicholas enthusiastically. ‘She did do so.’

  John stood looking at them, smiling at their little caprice, glad, as always, to be home with the man who had brought him up since he had been a child begging on the streets of London, and with the apprentice whom John had rescued from a similar fate.

  Sir Gabriel waved a long, thin hand, a dark, almost black, sapphire ring glittering as he did so. ‘Help yourself to some port, my boy. I find it a v
ery fine vintage and would like your opinion of it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Apothecary, and, having poured some of the deep red liquid into a crystal glass, took a seat by the fire.

  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.

  Chapter Two

  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.