Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Next time you come to London,’ he had said impulsively, ‘you must call on my father. I know he would be delighted to see you.’

  Mrs Rose had smiled gently. ‘Dear Sir Gabriel. It would be so good to renew my acquaintance with him. But alas I rarely travel to town. My last foray was simply to try and find you, Mr Rawlings. The place holds too many memories for me to be comfortable there.’

  ‘You really must try to shed the past, Mrs Rose. What is done is done. Cast it off as a snake does its skin.’

  ‘Easier said than accomplished, my fine young friend.’

  Looking at her face, the Apothecary had decided to let the matter drop. It was perfectly clear that the former actress was not yet ready, if indeed she ever would be, to forget all the terrible things that had gone before. Considering it to be a waste of breath even to try and persuade her, John Rawlings had risen from the table, thanked Elizabeth profusely, kissed her hand and departed.

  The evening had turned cold and John was glad to walk through the front door of The Salutation and feel the warmth of the fire in the parlour. Hurrying in, he took a seat in front of the flames and promptly fell asleep, only to dream he was once more travelling by coach with Henrietta, and that the sinister scarecrow, standing so still and so lifelike beside the lonely church, was making the horses rear in their traces with fright. At this, Miss Tireman started to scream and it was to the sound of her terrified cries that the Apothecary woke up.

  Somewhere outside in the street a child was weeping, its dismal wails the cause of his awakening. Yet the reassurance that there was a natural explanation to his dream did not come to John. Instead, he sat hunched, his brows drawn together, trying to chase a thought that was as elusive as a will o’ the wisp. There had been something wrong about the entire scene he had witnessed through the carriage window; the isolated church, the scarecrow in its lace-trimmed hat, the silently grazing flock, the ruthless moonlight bleaching the landscape. But what was it? What was it the Apothecary had seen that made no sense at all? And then it occurred to him and John let out a small cry, disturbing the man who sat in the chair opposite, a newspaper spread over his face.

  ‘No crops,’ the Apothecary said beneath his breath. ‘There were no crops.’

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’ asked the other, lowering his paper.

  ‘I said “There were no crops.”’ And without further explanation, John shot to his feet and made his way to the taproom, hoping that one of the locals would be able to tell him where that small silent church was located.

  Fortune favoured him. The very first man he spoke to responded at once to the Apothecary’s sketch of the oddly shaped building, with its long sloping roofs and its weather-boarded bell turret.

  ‘Why that’s St Thomas à Becket at Fairfield. Five hundred years old, that is.’

  ‘What can you tell me about it?’ asked John, motioning to the serving boy to refill the other man’s tankard. ‘Does anyone ever worship there? It seems very remote.’

  ‘Well, a few go, from time to time. But there’s only a curate to take the service, mind, the vicar being in charge of several parishes and not residing hereabouts, while the curate himself has no parsonage house and has to lodge where he can, poor soul.’

  ‘How do people get there?’ John persisted.

  ‘They walk or ride, or when the Marsh is flooded, they row.’

  The Apothecary smiled at this quaint mental picture, and his companion added, ‘You might laugh, my good Sir, but you can take it from one who knows, when the Romney Marsh goes under water there’s no other way. Now, you can answer a question for me. Why are you so interested in the old place?’

  ‘I arrived in Winchelsea from London last night and because of the storm, the post chaise crossed the Marsh instead of going its usual way. I saw the church in the moonlight and it caught my eye so acutely I have a mind to go and visit it. Partly because of its unusual shape.’ He did not mention that his real reason was to examine a scarecrow that had no crops to protect.

  ‘Well, they certainly are very quaint, these old Marsh churches. While you’re at it, you should go into St Augustine at Brookland; that’s about the same age as St Thomas à Becket.’

  ‘You have great local knowledge, if I might say so.’

  ‘The reason is, Sir, I used to be a shepherd on the Marshes many years ago. Know every nook and cranny of them. Well, as much as any man could in a lifetime.’

  ‘And now you’ve retired?’

  ‘No, not exactly, Sir. I watches sheep over Rye way now. Property of the Marquis. It’s not such tricky country as the marshland.’

  ‘I see.’ The Apothecary held out his hand. ‘I’m John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane, London, by the way.’

  ‘And I’m Roderick. If I can be of any service to you during your stay here, don’t hesitate to ask. I live in the third cottage along Back Lane.’

  John smiled his most friendly smile. ‘Well, there is something, as it happens. But first, would you like another drink? And do you know where I can hire a horse? I’ll ride out to Fairfield if it’s fine tomorrow.’

  Over a further pint of ale, the shepherd revealed that his brother was in the way of doing a little livery work and usually had a horse or two for charter. He also threw in the information that the best route to take was out through Rye, then to cross the Rother on the ferry and follow the road which led north-east.

  ‘There’s a sign to Appledore along the way. Stay on that track and you’ll see St Thomas on your right. You can’t miss it. It’ll look a bit more friendly by daylight.’

  ‘I hope so,’ John answered cheerfully, but deep inside he shivered at the memory of how very still, and how very lifelike, the dark shape of the scarecrow had been.

  Having retired early, the Apothecary rose as dawn tinged the sky with red, just before the sun sailed up effortlessly over the horizon. Then, his usual heroic breakfast consumed, he made his way to the inn yard where a dappled mare was just being led round by Roderick’s brother, Tom.

  It felt very good, cleansing almost, to be in the saddle again and riding full pelt across the mysterious countryside known as the Romney Marsh. In fact, so fine was it that John took off his hat, cramming it into his saddle bag, and let the wind do its worst with his hair, desperately in need of being shorn as it was. For this late February day heralded the arrival of spring and was as glittering as the one before. The Apothecary felt that he was journeying through a landscape filled with gold as the drainage ditches of the marshland caught the gleam of the sun and reflected it back.

  Everywhere he looked were the colours of the burgeoning season, enhanced by the pale blue sky. It was as if the morning had been created for pleasurable adventure and the Apothecary’s spirits rose with each passing mile. So much so, that when he saw a sign to the left which said Brookland, he took the track even though it was somewhat out of his way, anxious to look at the church which Roderick had said was so interesting. And as he drew nearer, the Apothecary could see that not only was it interesting but unique, for its belfry stood not on the church but beside it, on the ground. Never having come across such a thing in his life, John tied his horse to one of the rings provided in the church wall and walked round the octagonal wooden structure which, with its conical roof made in three separate parts, resembled three candle snuffers, one above the other. Imagining that the steeple was very old, the apothecary went through the door and stared upwards at the ancient bell cage, supported by beams, thinking of all the generations of bell ringers who had stood on the stages pulling with all their might so that the joyful carillon might ring out over the Romney Marsh.

  Having inspected the tower, John made his way into the church through a pair of wooden shutter gates surmounted with spikes, presumably to prevent horses leaping inside during divine service. Instantly, an atmosphere of five hundred years of prayer, of oft-repeated ritual, and of simple unquestioning faith struck him almost tangibly – and with it something else. Despite the fact that the church wa
s deserted – a rapid look round had told him that much – John had the strong impression that he was not alone. Cautiously, his eyes darting over the boxed pews to see if anyone was hiding inside, the Apothecary made his way down the central nave.

  And then his eye was drawn to something so mystic and wonderful that he exclaimed aloud and forgot everything else. On the wall of the chapel leading from the aisle to his right was a muted splash of colour, an ancient painting representing the murder of Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Cathedral.

  The picture showed the Archbishop kneeling before the altar, his skull already penetrated by the sword of one of the killers. Two others of the quartet of murderous knights could also be seen, their swords held aloft. To Becket’s left stood his chaplain, holding the archiepiscopal cross.

  His eyes firmly fixed on the mystical painting, John went down the single step into the chapel, then realised why he had felt a presence. A young man in the black clerical garb of a curate was there ahead of him, busily pouring something into the piscina, a bowl standing within a niche used for emptying water used for washing sacred vessels.

  It was difficult to say which was the more startled. The man of God leaped into the air, his hands flying to his waist as if he carried a weapon there. John, meanwhile, let out a sharp cry and took a step back, his heart thudding. He just had time to register that the curate had a mop of black curls on his head, even more unruly than the Apothecary’s own, before the young man snatched a sober wig out of a concealed pocket and thrust it on his head.

  ‘Bless you, my son,’ he intoned.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ John replied solemnly, wondering at the youthful appearance of clergy these days.

  ‘A stranger to this part of the world?’ continued the man of the cloth.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ the Apothecary answered enthusiastically, adopting his honest citizen face. ‘Doing a small tour of the marshland churches. So very historic.’

  ‘How true, indeed how true. Now, how may I help you? Would you care for a guided inspection of our church?’

  John shook his head. ‘I would not dream of putting you to the trouble. I can easily find my own way round. I do have one point of interest I would like to raise, though.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I have heard that the church at Fairfield is tended only by a Perpetual Curate and has no resident priest. So I would presume that it is not often frequented.’

  The Curate narrowed his eyes, which were, John noticed, a vivid shade of hyacinth blue. ‘The Perpetual Curate does his best, Sir, but he has a wide area to cover. He attempts to take divine service every Sunday despite certain difficulties. However, our priest is Mr Sopwith who is also Rector of Upper Hardres near Canterbury.’

  ‘A fair distance! How noble of him to sally forth.’

  The curate laughed. ‘I believe he has visited the parish – once or twice!’

  John laughed too, warming to this rather unusual young man. ‘So what happens to those who arrive to find the church empty?’

  ‘They ride the short distance here and join this congregation. Tell me, why are you so interested in Fairfield?’

  ‘Only because it seems so remote and lonely a little church. I saw it for the first time the other night and decided to investigate it more closely as soon as I had a chance.’

  The curate folded his hands together. ‘You will not be disappointed, my son. It is a building as old and historic as this. Strange as it may seem, St Thomas à Becket is water-bound from winter until spring. Indeed, the floods have only just receded, somewhat earlier than usual. Now, may I suggest that you look at our font? It is believed to be from the twelfth century and has carved on it the signs of the Zodiac together with the occupations of the month. Would you like me to accompany you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t consider taking you from your duties,’ John answered.

  ‘Well, in that case I shall continue.’ And the curate stepped over to the large tomb which dominated the chapel and proceeded to dust its marble top.

  John, glancing back once, only to discover that the man of the cloth was no longer visible, made his way to the font, dazzled by the artistry of the hands, Norman or even possibly Flemish, which had fashioned such a wonderful thing. Made out of lead, the figures stood out in relief, and the Apothecary found himself looking at Gemini, his own birth sign. Beneath the embracing sign of Castor and Pollux, the occupation was shown as a man on horseback with a hawk. John raised a brow. Was he, then, the hawk, as he strove to bring criminals to justice? Or did the twins represent the dual side of his personality, both lenient and ruthless combined? His eye fell on Janvier. Beneath the sign of a man bearing a pouring water-pot, the two-faced figure of Janus sat at a table feasting, a sceptre in one hand, a drinking horn in the other. As the god of gates and doors, which open both ways, Janus’s two faces looked in opposite directions, these representing the old and the new year.

  Just like me, the Apothecary thought. Wearing one face to obtain information, the other, secret face, storing it all away. Just for a moment he felt guilty about how often he had been forced to resort to deception, then he thought of the duplicity of a malefactor’s mind and conceded that the end justifies the means.

  Outside St Augustine’s he took a deep breath. Despite the age and holiness of the church, there had been something strange there which had left him feeling cold. So much so that the Apothecary relished the warm sun on his back. Leading his horse round to the mounting block on the right of the porch, he was just about to climb into the saddle when the curate reappeared, bobbing along in his black garb, a hat perched perilously atop his ill-fitting wig.

  ‘Ah, my good Sir, are you leaving?’ he called cheerily.

  ‘Yes. I must be on my way,’ John answered.

  ‘Allow me to hold your mare while you mount.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  For a man of God, more used to hymns than horseflesh, he took charge of the creature with great confidence, and also with a pair of very strong brown hands, the Apothecary noticed. In fact the curate himself was tanned, as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors.

  Seeing the direction of his companion’s eyes, the young man said, ‘I’m quite used to horses. I ride from parish to parish, you see. Alas, I have no parsonage of my own.’

  ‘So are you the Perpetual Curate?’

  ‘Sadly not. Though I do go where I am called, helping out in cases of illness and so on. A strolling player, in a sense.’ He laughed, and the vivid eyes disappeared into creases of amusement.

  Once more, John laughed too, liking the man, though at the same time feeling that the cloth was very far from a suitable calling for such a high-spirited individual.

  ‘Well, I’ll wish you good-day, Sir.’

  ‘And to you, Sir. Perhaps we shall meet again as we journey round the Marsh.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said John, and rode off.

  He left the hamlet of Brookland and turned westwards, picking his way through a maze of drainage ditches and passing little habitation other than the occasional farmhouse. Despite the warm February sunshine, the landscape seemed somehow a little menacing, nothing stirring except for flocks of bleating ewes, scattering as John rode amongst them. So it was, proceeding alone like this, that the Apothecary came to the church of St Thomas à Becket almost from behind, and reined in his horse that he might get his bearings and evaluate the scene by daylight.

  Strange and forlorn, the little building, curiously shaped like Noah’s Ark, stood lonely and unattended, cut off by floods and battered by storms in the winter, warmed by the sun in spring, the only creatures to visit it regularly the famous Romney Marsh sheep.

  St Thomas à Becket had been built on a mound by the craftsman who had created it five hundred years earlier, this, obviously, to raise the small and sacred place above the level of the floods. Walking round it now, John realised that from the church itself the scarecrow was completely invisible, obscured by the ruins of a shepherd’s stone hut built on another
raised bank. The illusion that the straw man stood close to St Thomas’s had been an optical one, created by the moonlight. Tying his horse to a ring in the wall at the back of the church, the Apothecary proceeded on foot.

  The ground was squelchy where he trod and it was with some difficulty that John made his way towards the ruined hut being forced at one point to wade through the ditch. Eventually, looking much the worse for wear and with mud to his knees, the Apothecary rounded the corner of the stone shelter and there got his first glimpse of the figure which had so startled him in the deceptive moonlight.

  Just as when he had first seen it, the very stillness of the scarecrow, looking for all the world like a man with his back turned towards him, gave John the most eerie sensation. In fact, it was too lifelike to be comfortable with, even in the bright light of day. The clothes it wore were of the finest velvet, superbly cut and fashionable, though by now the elements had drained their vivid colours.

  Approaching the scarecrow from behind as he was, the Apothecary was able to take in every detail of the torn and faded claret coat, the elegant tricorne, lace-trimmed and once very stylish. Whoever had created this thing, John thought, had not only found some wonderful garments to dress it in but had also gone to enormous trouble doing so. There were even the remains of ripped hose and breeches upon the short straw legs. Small wonder, then, that it had given him such a fright when he had originally seen it. Taking a deep breath, the Apothecary cautiously circled the straw man, and walked round to look at it from the front.

  As he had observed in the moonlight, there was no face, the hat being pulled too far forward to warrant the extra effort of making one. Yet it seemed to John as he stared at the scarecrow in the sunshine that there was a hint of something beneath the tricorne, a small glinting of some white substance like chalk.