Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Oh?’ said the captain, clearly surprised.

  ‘To come straight to the point, Sir, she was taken dangerously ill after eating the rabbit pie you gave her.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She suffered poisoning yesterday, and the only thing she had eaten was the pie that you left on her doorstep. You did take her a gift of food, didn’t you, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, I sent a servant round with a fresh-baked delicacy. But I can hardly credit what you are saying. I had some of the same with my own dinner and suffered no ill effects. How can this be?’

  ‘The meat must have gone off.’

  ‘Off be hanged!’ Captain Pegram shouted angrily. ‘My cook comes from France, Sir, and would not stoop to using mouldy ingredients. I find you too free with your accusations, Mr Rawlings. How do you know that was all that Mrs Rose ate yesterday? Were you with her every minute?’

  Put like that, the Captain’s argument had a horrible ring of reason about it. Because of what had happened previously, John had instantly jumped to the conclusion that the pie had been the cause of the trouble. But supposing there had been something else, something that he had absolutely no idea about?

  ‘You may well be right, Sir,’ he said, his voice contrite. ‘I readily agree that I leaped to that inference, namely that it was your gift that was at fault, far too hastily. But there is a reason for that.’

  And John told him about the two other occasions on which Mrs Rose had been taken ill.

  Nathaniel Pegram stared at him. ‘What? Are you trying to tell me that someone is deliberately trying to poison your aunt?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir,’ John answered honestly. ‘She is certainly very worried about it.’

  ‘I am not at all surprised! But, seriously, who could do such a thing? For you may rest assured that it is not me.’

  This time the Apothecary told a lie, remembering his promise to reveal nothing of Mrs Harcross’s past. ‘I have no idea,’ he said.

  The Captain looked at him acutely. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you? There’s something you haven’t told me.’

  John nodded his head. ‘Yes, there is something, but I am pledged not to reveal it.’

  Nathaniel Pegram stood up as a servant entered the room with a tray and decanter. ‘Put it over there would you, Ridgway. I’ll pour.’ He turned back to John. ‘And this something concerns Elizabeth’s past?’

  ‘It does.’

  The Captain’s voice took on a distant note. ‘How strange it is that what has gone before can control us still. To me the events of yesteryear are like a web. Once you are trapped in their cruel mesh the only way out is to cut oneself free.’

  ‘I think she tried to.’

  ‘But the past has caught up with her never the less?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  Captain Pegram stared out of the window, his thoughts obviously going off at a tangent. ‘Did you know that I was a soldier who hated fighting?’

  John nodded. ‘Yes. I had heard.’

  ‘I would go to any lengths to prevent war, or to bring it to a rapid conclusion once it had begun. I abhor the cruel wastage of life that it involves. I loathe the maiming, the destruction, the laying bare of land, the disease and pestilence that follow.’ The Captain gestured with his arm towards the Channel. ‘Across that strip of ocean, the gallant sailors of France and England are fighting to the death. Yet how many of us can claim not to have the blood of both nations in our veins? My grandmother was French, Mr Rawlings, and there are many in Winchelsea who are of mixed nationality. These are difficult times for such as I.’

  The Apothecary did not say a word, a dozen different thoughts presenting themselves simultaneously. Finally he said, ‘So what of the current situation, with most of Europe involved? Do you wish this war over quickly?’

  ‘I would see any conflict finished before it had even begun.’

  John nodded. ‘As would all right-minded men.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘I hope I am forgiven for what passed earlier between us. In no manner did I wish to accuse you, Sir. It was merely worry for my aunt that made me speak as I did.’

  Captain Pegram appeared to recollect himself from a daydream. ‘Think nothing of it, Mr Rawlings.’ He shook John’s hand. ‘I trust you will keep vigilant, Sir. Your aunt and I have much in common and I would not like to think she might be in danger.’

  ‘I will do my best, be assured of that,’ the Apothecary answered, and politely bowed his way out.

  The sun was even warmer as he left Grey Friars, cutting through the cherry orchards in order to vary his route home, but John hardly noticed the beauty of that early spring day, his mind was moving so fast.

  Of the fact that Captain Pegram was not a poisoner he was absolutely certain. No one could react quite so angrily quite so convincingly had they had anything to conceal. But what other hidden message had Nathaniel been giving him? Were certain people in Winchelsea French sympathisers, was that it? Or was he simply referring to himself? In some oblique manner, had the ex-soldier been trying to tell him that he was prepared to act against national interests in order to stop the war?

  John’s thoughts turned to other things. What had Mrs Tireman been doing consorting with smugglers and speaking to one of them in fluent French? And where in the name of Heaven did Richard Hayman fit in? Surely the pair could not be caught up in the clandestine world of contraband? Or espionage?

  The Apothecary stopped in his tracks, staring at the trees but not really seeing them. There were two, no three, strands to this quest. Hidden away in this small and respectable town were not only the freebooters with their nefarious midnight activities, but also a couple of dangerous people, agents for France. And the third skein was that one of them, if not both, was a ruthless killer.

  Slowing his pace slightly, he walked on, determined to get some enjoyment out of the delicate day. And it was then that he saw her. Sitting with her back to a cherry tree was the delightful Henrietta Tireman, her face in her hands, crying bitterly.

  John hesitated, wanting to go to her but nervous of intruding on her privacy. Yet she must have sensed his presence, for Henrietta lowered her hands and stared at him out of brimming eyes.

  ‘Go away,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, a perfectly sensible question.

  ‘Because I don’t want to talk to anyone.’

  ‘Then may I stay if I promise to keep quiet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘These are not your orchards,’ said the Apothecary, and calmly sat down at the foot of the tree adjacent to hers.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ wailed Henrietta.

  ‘I haven’t touched you.’

  ‘Oh, just be off.’ And she wept with renewed vigour.

  John sat quietly, longing to take her in his arms but studiously not moving a muscle, and after a few moments, as he stared about him and whistled a tune, became aware that she was darting swift glances in his direction. Nonchalantly he produced an apple from his pocket and started to eat it.

  ‘Mr Rawlings,’ said a tremulous voice.

  ‘John.’

  ‘John. May I borrow your handkerchief? I forgot to bring mine.’

  ‘Very foolish when one is going into the woods to cry. Here.’

  He got up and crossed the short distance between them, sitting down beside her and applying the handkerchief as if she were a little girl.

  ‘Oh, don’t be kind to me,’ said Henrietta, and turning towards him wept against his chest, holding on to him tightly as she did so.

  Finally she raised a tear-streaked face and looked at him, and John applied the oldest medicine in the world and kissed her, gently, yet with enough fire to show her that a man desired her and thought her lovely.

  Henrietta drew away. ‘You don’t have to do that just because you’re sorry for me.’

  He took her chin in his hand, his eyes very blue as he looked at her. ‘My dear girl, I am not in the least sorry for you. I am deeply attracted to you should
the truth be known. But you, if I might hazard a guess, are still pining for his lordship, the Marquis of Rye, wishing you might put back the clock and never let your sister anywhere near him. Am I right?’

  A glimmer of a smile appeared. ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘There are other things on your mind?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘Might I be one of them?’

  ‘You could be.’

  ‘Don’t tease me,’ said John, and kissed her in earnest.

  They had entered the cherry orchard separately. Two hours later, they left it together, hand in hand, somewhat dishevelled – and lovers. This last occurrence had taken them both by surprise but had been most definitely by mutual desire and accompanied by a great deal of unabashed affection, if not enacted in the throes of passionate love. Though since the unplanned act of intimacy, both felt even more strongly drawn to the other.

  ‘Can I call on you tomorrow?’ John whispered as they stepped from the protection of the trees.

  Henrietta’s clear eyes gazed into his. ‘As a matter of fact Mama has written you a note inviting you to dine. I think she thinks it high time I had another suitor and is in hot pursuit of eligible men on my behalf.’

  ‘She’s perfectly right. But will I do?’

  Henrietta laughed. ‘You will do very well indeed.’

  The Apothecary held her at arm’s length, gazing at her seriously. ‘You don’t think I took advantage of you, do you?’

  Henrietta looked at him sideways, her old spirit clearly returning. ‘I was just about to ask the same of you.’

  ‘Oh, but you did,’ said John, lowering his lashes. ‘You wicked charmer. My maidenly modesty is all undone.’

  ‘Mine went to the Marquis,’ Henrietta retorted.

  ‘How very alliterative,’ answered John, and they fell into paroxysms of laughter which seemed to last until they parted company and went their separate ways.

  Having returned to Petronilla’s Platt to check on Elizabeth Rose and to tidy himself up, John decided to spend the few hours he had to spare before his meeting with Joe Jago in continuing to call on people, the next being Faith Ffloote. Staring at himself in the mirror, noticing the jaunty look in his eye and hoping it would not be visible to the world at large, the Apothecary packed his medical bag with various cures for headache and set forth up the road to visit Paradise House. Much as he had hoped, Lady Ffloote was at home and after just a few moments he was ushered into her presence.

  Faith looked up wearily, her eyes dark and dull. ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, how nice of you to call. You have caught me at the very height of an attack, but as it was you I decided to admit you. I am afraid Sir Ambrose is not here. He has business to attend to in Rye.’

  Remembering Dr Hayman’s theory that the Squire had a fancy woman somewhere, John, who was in a silly mood, suppressed a grin.

  ‘Well, it was you I came to see, Madam. As promised, I have brought some remedies for migraine.’

  ‘Is that what I have, do you think?’

  ‘It would appear so. As your headaches recur so frequently I believe that would be a fair diagnosis. What does Dr Hayman say?’

  ‘He holds that nervous tension may have a great deal to do with it.’

  ‘Are you unduly tense?’

  Faith gave a hollow laugh. ‘No, of course not. I have everything a woman could wish for. A good home, a loving husband, an adorable dog. He is a good physician but wrong in that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I think it is an illness like any other and that the doctor’s theories are too modern for anyone’s good.’

  ‘None the less,’ said John, ‘state of mind does have a role to play with regard to one’s physical condition.’

  Lady Ffloote, who had been reclining on a couch, sat upright and showed the first sign of spirit the Apothecary had seen since he met her. ‘My state of mind is good, I assure you. How could it be otherwise?’

  She was very defensive, remarkably so, and John wondered why. Was she trying to give the impression that her marriage was made in heaven? Or was she putting on an act for some other, totally unrelated, reason?

  ‘If you say so, Madam,’ he answered primly, and turned to open his bag. At that moment, however, he was interrupted by a loud scratching at the door, at the sound of which Lady Ffloote fairly leaped up and opened it.

  ‘It’s The Pup,’ she said, her voice dripping sentiment.

  John stared towards the opening as an ancient and decrepit dog waddled in on legs stiff and bowed with arthritis, its stomach and privy parts swinging low as it moved. As it proceeded into the room, it huffed, its breath extremely dubious to say the least. It was, without doubt, the most unattractive animal the Apothecary had ever seen.

  ‘Puppy!’ cooed Faith. ‘Come and greet your Mama.’

  The Pup trundled forward, glaring at John with a glazed and rheumy eye as it did so. In no mood to be put upon, he glared back. At this it growled low in its throat.

  ‘Oh, listen,’ trilled Lady Ffloote lovingly, ‘he’s saying how do. Isn’t that sweet.’

  ‘Sweet,’ echoed John, with feeling.

  ‘There, there, baby,’ continued its owner, patting the dog on its flat reptilian head. ‘Did I leave you yester night? Did naughty Mama go out then?’

  Thinking of the smugglers and their activities, John raised a mental brow but said nothing.

  ‘Now, Boo-Boo,’ Faith continued, ‘just you sit there at Mama’s feet. This nice man has brought Mama some medicine to make her well.’

  The Pup bared its teeth and the Apothecary fought off an overwhelming urge to kick it.

  ‘He seems very protective,’ he remarked mildly.

  ‘He wouldn’t let anyone hurt his mother, would he, precious?’

  ‘Perhaps, then, it might be better if we had the consultation in another room. I would like to examine your head and neck if I may and wouldn’t want the dog to think I was attacking you.’

  Lady Ffloote looked positively tearful. ‘It seems I must leave you, Boo. We’ll go to the salon, Mr Rawlings. The Pup has come into the parlour to take a nap and I couldn’t possibly turn him out.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ answered John and picking up his bag followed his hostess out of the room to the accompaniment of the horrid animal’s rumbles of disapproval.

  An examination of Lady Ffloote’s cranium and shoulders, something which she very much enjoyed, John could not help but notice, showed that she was indeed very tense. Accordingly, the Apothecary gave her a bottle of compounded juice of mixed daisy flower roots and leaves to sniff up into her nostrils, a great aid to migraine. He also prescribed a lotion of prunel bruised with otto of roses and vinegar with which to bathe her temples. Finally he presented Faith with a potion to remove melancholy: feverfew dried and made into a powder, a well known cure for depression and giddiness.

  ‘Take two drams of this with honey or sweet wine when you get up in the morning, Lady Ffloote. And I will come back and see you in a week’s time and find out how you are progressing.’

  ‘Not going so soon, Mr Rawlings, surely. I was about to take a little supper, just soup and a cold collation. Will you not join me?’

  ‘I really ought to return to my aunt.’

  Faith laid her hand on his arm. ‘Oh don’t say no,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Excellent,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I will go and inform the cook.’

  It was an ordeal that John could well have done without. Just for his benefit the table was laid in the dining room, under which The Pup hovered constantly, its muzzle an inch from the Apothecary’s knee, its eyes horribly beady. Every time he raised the fork to his mouth it followed what he was doing with a greedy gaze and when he steadfastly refused to give it anything, it growled deep.

  In the end he could stand it no longer and said, ‘I think your dog is hungry. Lady Ffloote.’

  ‘Oh, is he there? Is he begging? It’s all Sir Ambrose’s fault. He treats The Pup like a
child and feeds him at table. Dear little Boo-Boo, it’s difficult to refuse him I must admit.’

  John had a strange mental picture of a real child lying on the floor being given scraps by Sir Ambrose. ‘Ah,’ was all he could bring himself to say.

  ‘Will you not stay till my husband gets home?’ Lady Ffloote continued ‘I know he would like to see you.’

  ‘No, no,’ John said, determinedly putting down his napkin. ‘I really must go. Aunt Elizabeth will be worrying about me.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, a handsome young creature like yourself. Why, since the Assembly you are the talk of the town. I’m sure Mrs Finch and Mrs Tireman have both picked you out for their daughters.’

  On the point of rising, John sat down again. ‘How very flattering, though of course I am not in the same league as the Marquis of Rye. Tell me, is he very rich?’

  ‘Well, he is now, though it was a much different story when he was younger.’ Faith clearly adored to gossip and launched into her tale with relish. ‘At the age of eighteen the Marquis was a profligate gambler and womaniser, money poured through his hands like water. His father, a very different character I can tell you, was forced to rescue him from ruin on more than one occasion. I believe stern words were spoken. Anyway, after the final confrontation between them the young man seemed to pull himself together; indeed I believe he must have taken some form of employment, for money came in on a regular basis. Then his father died, leaving him to bring up his younger half-sister on his own, and this finally forced the Marquis to face reality. And when he met Henrietta, the transformation was complete. He became a reformed character and has been a pillar of rectitude ever since, other than for jilting the poor creature, of course.’

  The mention of Henrietta’s name brought back memories of the afternoon, and the Apothecary blushed.

  ‘I’m sure she is over it now,’ he said with feeling.

  Lady Ffloote looked at him sharply. ‘I thought you hardly knew the young lady.’

  ‘I don’t really. It’s just an impression I have.’ John stood up and The Pup emitted a low rumble. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me. I really must go now.’

  ‘What a shame,’ said Faith, her eyes the brightest he had ever seen them.