by Deryn Lake
By the time the last dance was called, the Apothecary was in turmoil, wondering how he was going to track down two elusive spies, to say nothing of a killer, and pay court to the rector’s daughter simultaneously. Further, the trail leading to the Scarecrow’s murderer had gone cold after a delay of several months. It seemed to John, in a rather anxious moment, that he had taken on a task larger than he could handle.
‘I wonder if they’re here,’ whispered Mrs Rose as she and the Apothecary jigged in the centre of their set.
‘Who?’ John asked, not sure what she meant.
‘The poisoner, of course.’
His heart sank even further. He had temporarily forgotten all about the attempts on Elizabeth’s life, the reason that had brought him to Winchelsea in the first place. Without meaning to, the Apothecary let out an audible groan.
‘What’s the matter?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s just that there are so many games afoot at the moment. I don’t quite know how I am going to deal with them all.’
‘Perhaps you should send for help,’ Mrs Rose suggested sensibly.
‘Perhaps I should,’ answered John, and decided that the very next day he would write to Mr Fielding.
In the event, there was no need. Early the next morning, just as the Apothecary was struggling out of bed, a boy came up from The Salutation to redeliver a letter to Petronilla’s Platt.
‘There’s post for you,’ Mrs Rose called up the stairs.
‘I’ll be down in a moment,’ answered John, and hurriedly washed and shaved, then repeated the process all over again just in case he should meet Henrietta while he was out and about.
He studied the letter over breakfast. It was written in Joe Jago’s hand but signed by Mr Fielding, the usual practice for the Magistrate’s correspondence.
Dear Mr Rawlings,
I am Sending this out with the afternoon Post in order that you may receive it by Saturday morning, 10th March. If you do so Please proceed at Once to the Church of St Thomas à Becket, Fairfield, on the Romney Marsh, where two Brave Fellows with a Coach will be waiting to remove the Body of the Scarecrow. They will be accompanied by Joe Jago, who has much to Impart to You. If You have not arrived by Noon they will Proceed without You but in that Event you are to await a Further Message from my Clerk.
Signed, ever your friend,
J. Fielding.
The Apothecary snatched at the watch which his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday.
‘God’s life, it’s nine o’clock already. Aunt Elizabeth’ – this for the benefit of the serving maid who was hovering by the door – ‘I must run to Truncheons and hire a horse. I have an appointment to keep by twelve.’
The actress responded with great aplomb. ‘I’ll send the girl while you finish your food. Agnes, go directly to Truncheons and charter a mount for my nephew. Be quick about it.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ And the servant hurried through the front door, removing her apron as she went.
Twenty minutes later John was in the saddle, this time on a dark mettlesome mount with a rolling maddish eye.
‘I’ll have no trouble from you, my friend,’ the Apothecary stated as he put his foot in the stirrup. The horse responded by deliberately moving as John mounted, then proceeded to go like a greyhound with a gale behind it not stopping until they reached the ferry between Rye and East Guldeford, which crossed the wide tidal estuary of the River Rother, taking over men, horses and vehicles heading for the Romney Marsh.
Once across the water, Fairfield was no great distance away, and on this occasion, not stopping to visit Brookland church but half expecting to see the extraordinary young curate on his travels, John covered the miles in excellent time. But for all that the party from London had got there ahead of him. As the Apothecary rounded the bend in the track, he saw the conveyance used by Mr Fielding’s Flying Runners, two court officials with a coach ready to leave for any part of the kingdom at fifteen minutes’ notice, drawn up as near to the Scarecrow as it could get. He also saw the sun reflect on the foxy red hair of Joe Jago, who did not care for wigs and wore his as little as he could get away with.
‘Joe,’ called John, and the Clerk turned and waved his arm.
‘Mr Rawlings, Sir, how are you?’
‘Extremely glad to see you. There is a great deal going on.’
‘So I gather.’
‘All right, Mr Jago?’ called one of the Runners. ‘shall we get the body down?’
‘Yes. He needs some work on his head, I understand.’
‘He certainly does,’ John added with feeling.
‘Pass the bucket, George,’ came the reply.
‘Shall we step into the church, Sir, while they go about their task? The more we keep out of the way of prying eyes the better, I believe.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ John answered, not really relishing having to see the skeleton come down.
They entered the ancient quiet of St Thomas à Becket and sat in one of the boxed pews.
‘Now, Mr Rawlings, let’s exchange news. Yours first,’ said Joe.
‘You got my letter telling you what Dr Willes said?’
‘We certainly did.’ Joe produced a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘You are ordered to give secret instructions immediately to the British spies, the Frog and the Moth. You will find the pair in Winchelsea. Contact them as arranged.’
‘What does Mr Fielding think?’
‘He believes that either one or both of them murdered the Scarecrow. That they either individually or as a team resisted his attempts to awaken them, as the jargon goes, probably near the time of the outbreak of war, which would fit in with the pitiable state of the body.’
‘So we are not looking for an outside individual?’
‘Unless the Scarecrow fell foul of the smugglers, it doesn’t seem very likely to me. I think once we have identified the spies we have found our killer.’
‘Talking of that, somebody – though whether it were spy or smuggler I do not know – was signalling with a lantern from the clifftops the other night.’
‘How very interesting,’ said Joe. ‘Ah, well, acting as carelessly as that, he – or she – shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’
‘That’s what you think!’ exclaimed John. ‘I tell you, Joe, there are several people the spies could be. In fact, Winchelsea is simply swarming with them.’ And he went on to describe everyone he had met at the Assembly.
‘Are there any other likely candidates, anyone you didn’t meet?’ Jago asked, scratching his jaw.
‘Several people. Quite honestly, Joe, I don’t know quite how I’m going to sort it all out. What with that and Mrs Harcross’s idea that somebody is trying to poison her.’
‘You’re still not sure about that, are you?’
‘No, to be perfectly honest. The suspect wine was so very good.’
‘But perhaps it came from a different donor.’
‘That is certainly possible. The labels were not the same.’
‘As Mr Fielding said, it is a situation to be watched.’
‘Indeed,’ said John, not very happily.
‘Cheer up, Sir. The Beak has a plan.’
‘Which is?’
‘Simply put, I am to come to Winchelsea in the role of an official from the Secret Office. I am going to start asking questions about an unknown Frenchman who was here six months ago. This will no doubt provoke some sort of reaction and will, almost certainly, make our sleeping spies nervous. They might then well make a mistake. Meanwhile, you are to work covertly, continuing your pose as Mrs Rose’s nephew, an excellent ploy. As such, you may well worm your way into confidences and see more than I do. Between us, we’ll flush ’em out, never you fear.’
John was silent, then said, ‘So I presume we are to act as if we have never met?’
‘We most certainly must.’
‘But what about Mrs Rose? She will remember you.’
‘For better or worse we must take her into our c
onfidence. If by any chance she is the Moth – I do not exactly see her as a frog, do you? – it will only serve to make her fearful and then she will probably betray herself.’
‘But how could Elizabeth be the Moth?’ John burst out.
Jago’s foxy features looked sly as boots. ‘This is war, Mr Rawlings. You must not even trust your own shadow lest it betray you.’
‘That is becoming abundantly clear.’
There was a shout from outside the church door. ‘All done, Sir.’
‘Right you are,’ called Joe. He stood up. ‘Come along, Mr Rawlings. We’ll say goodbye here. The Runners will take the Scarecrow back to town, where his remains and his clothes will be examined. The cloak you found told us nothing, by the way. Meanwhile, I shall hire a man with a trap and appear in Winchelsea tonight, under cover of darkness. I shall go straight to The Salutation and book myself a room and in the morning I shall begin my investigations. My plan is that we meet from time to time – I shall get a message to you – to compare notes.’
‘And how do you suggest I go about asking questions?’
‘Your old ploy of the helpful apothecary, Sir. Now that you have met people it will be de rigueur’ – Jago pronounced it “dee rigor” – ‘for you to call on them.’
‘You’re right, of course.’ John got to his feet. ‘I’ll leave first.’
‘Tell the Brave Fellows I’ll be with them as soon as you’ve gone.’
‘Very well.’
He went out into the sunlight, then stopped short, his eyes drawn to the equipage which stood waiting to move off. Through the window, John could see that the Scarecrow sat propped on the seat of the coach like an ordinary passenger, his hat concealing his skull, the stumps of his legs sticking forward, shrouded now by a rug. Beside him sat one of the Runners, while the other was up on the coachman’s box. It was one of the most bizarre sights that the Apothecary had ever witnessed and one which was to haunt him for some considerable while to come. So, in this extraordinary manner, the French spymaster was off on his final journey to the grave, something that he had probably not even considered possible when he had left his homeland to come to the Romney Marsh.
‘Rest in peace,’ whispered John, as he turned the black horse back in the direction of Winchelsea.
As soon as he set foot in Petronilla’s Platt, admitted by a terrified Agnes, John knew that disaster had struck. A man’s cloak and hat lay on a chair in the small entrance hall and from the bedroom at the top of the stairs came the sounds of a woman in great distress. Without hesitation, the Apothecary threw off his riding coat and hurried up the narrow staircase.
Elizabeth Rose lay on her bed, whiter even than when she wore make-up. A bowl into which she had vomited stood on the floor beside her, and leaning over her anxiously, attempting to spoon some physick down her throat, was young Dr Hayman. He turned as the new arrival came in, quite ready to throw him out, but recognised John instantly.
‘What’s happened?’ asked the Apothecary.
‘I think she’s been poisoned,’ the physician answered shortly. ‘According to the girl, your aunt ate some rabbit pie and within about ten minutes was struck down with terrible pain and sickness.’
‘I see,’ John said grimly. He did not enquire whether the pie had been brought as an anonymous gift, deciding to keep his own counsel for the time being. Instead he put another question. ‘When you say Aunt Elizabeth has been poisoned, Dr Hayman, surely you don’t mean deliberately?’
The burned orange curls shook. ‘I don’t know what I mean, to be honest with you. Your aunt has been affected like this twice before.’
‘Could it simply be some chronic condition?’
‘It’s possible, yes. But not producing such violent symptoms, I wouldn’t have thought.’
‘I’d agree with that.’ The Apothecary fingered his chin. ‘I suppose it’s possible that she has got food poisoning.’
Dr Hayman stood up, his freckled skin flushing a little. ‘May I speak to you frankly?’
‘Please do.’
‘There is something about this that I do not quite like. Twice I have been called to this house to find Mrs Rose in dire straits. It is my opinion, Mr Rawlings, that someone is making an attempt on your aunt’s life.’
John hesitated, not quite sure how far to go in taking the doctor into his confidence. Eventually, he said, ‘I think she believes as much herself.’
Dr Hayman flushed scarlet. ‘So, I wasn’t wrong in my suspicions.’
‘It would appear not. Anyway, I am here now to keep a wary eye on her.’
There was a groan from Mrs Rose and both men turned back to look at her.
‘What have you given so far?’ John asked.
‘Just an emetic. I want all the poison out.’
‘Dr Hayman, she is your patient and it would be intolerable of me to interfere. But would you have any objection if I made my aunt an infusion of thyme? It can be beneficial to the poisoned stomach.’
‘Please go ahead. You’ll probably find some in her kitchen. If not, go to my surgery. I live in Bear Square, near The Salutation.’
Downstairs, a pale-faced servant looked up anxiously as John appeared. ‘What’s happening, Sir?’
‘Mrs Rose has food poisoning, Agnes. So I’m going to mix an infusion to help her. Have you any dried thyme left from last year?’
‘Hanging up there, Sir. Was it the rabbit pie, Sir?’
‘Almost certainly. Tell me how my aunt came by it. Was it left on the doorstep?’
‘Yes, Sir. Earlier this morning, after you’d gone out.’
‘More’s the pity. Why ever did she eat it?’
‘She said something about not being prey to imagination. Then she read the label and said, “Anyway it’s his writing,” and she laughed. I didn’t know what she was on about so I just gets her some preserve and she had the pie for her dinner.’
‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Agnes wildly, and burst into tears.
‘Heavens, girl, what is it?’ asked John, thoroughly alarmed.
She flung herself into his arms, weeping noisily and also extremely damply. The Apothecary extricated himself.
‘What have you done?’ he demanded, then guessed the answer in a flash. ‘You had some of it, didn’t you? You helped yourself to what was left over?’
‘Am I going to die, Sir?’
‘No, of course not. Come with me.’
He led her by the hand, grizzling and howling, to where Dr Hayman held the bowl for Elizabeth.
‘Another patient, I’m afraid.’
‘She ate some of it,’ stated the physician flatly.
‘Correct.’
‘Give her this.’ And Dr Hayman handed John a bottle.
‘What is it?’
‘A straightforward emetic.’
‘Root of Asarabacca?’
‘Yes. Get a good dose down her.’
‘Come along, Agnes,’ said John firmly, and dragged the wailing servant back down the stairs and into the kitchen.
An hour later it was all over. Mrs Rose had been declared out of danger and was now sipping John’s soothing infusion of thyme, while a pasty-faced Agnes had been sent home on a cart. Before the fire, their booted feet sticking out towards it, sat the doctor and the Apothecary, rapidly consuming brandy, which both of them declared was for medicinal purposes only. Peace had once more fallen over Petronilla’s Platt and with it came the opportunity to converse.
‘My aunt tells me that you have not been in Winchelsea long,’ John remarked, by way of opening gambit.
‘Ten months, though it seems like more. I read medicine at Cambridge before then.’
‘And how do you find the place?’
‘Not easy. The old physician had been much loved, for all that he was usually drunk. I was treated with the customary suspicion, though things are improving now.’
The Apothecary poured Dr Hayman another brandy. ‘I suppose like all small towns, the place abounds
with rumour and tittle-tattle.’
‘Indeed it does,’ answered the physician, clearly relishing having a contemporary and a fellow medical man with whom to relax and gossip. ‘As you can imagine, it caused a sensation when Rosalind Tireman stole the Marquis from under her sister’s nose.’
‘Tell me about that.’
Dr Hayman leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs before him. ‘Well, the story goes that Henrietta went to the Hall first, some eighteen months ago I’m told, to teach the Marquis’s young sister French. Apparently she, Henrietta that is, speaks it fluently. Anyway, Rye, a strange bird if ever there was one and the greatest rakehell in the county, seducing every virgin in a twenty-mile radius when he wasn’t gambling his life away, evidently came to his senses and fell madly in love with her. Then a few months later the governess left and Henrietta, some say very foolishly, suggested her sister for the post. And that was that. Poor Miss Tireman found herself cast aside as the Marquis, after taking one look at Rosalind, decided he would do better with her.’
‘What a cruel story.’
‘Isn’t it. Henrietta took it very badly, I can assure you.’
‘I’m hardly surprised. In fact I am astonished the two women are still speaking.’
‘Many people are. I think the rector played a big part in that, begging his elder girl not to make a public show.’
‘I see. So what else goes on?’
Dr Hayman winked an eye and his orange hair glowed in the firelight. ‘They say that Mrs Finch personally tests out any prospective suitors for her daughters’ hands.’
John’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’
The physician chuckled. ‘Yes, I do. I warn you, one takes one’s life in one’s hands when one goes calling there!’
‘Thank you for the caution. I’ll take the greatest care. Do you know anything about Lady Ffloote? I said I’d call on her about her headaches. Is she a complete hypochondriac?’
‘No, she genuinely suffers with migraine. But then who wouldn’t, married to him.’ Dr Hayman downed another mouthful of brandy. ‘He really is a dreadful man. I’m sure he has a mistress somewhere.’
