Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘It can’t be,’ John whispered to himself

  ‘What?’ asked the Irishman, overhearing.

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that I think I’ve seen someone I know.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  But the Apothecary did not answer, craning his neck to check that the fellow really was who he thought. Then the man moved, pouring himself another glass of wine from the bottle before him, and there could be no further doubt. Louis de Vignolles, of all the unlikely people in the world, was also in The Swan at Hastings that night.

  John stood silently, wondering what to do next. If his suspicions were correct and the Comte truly was the mysterious French spy who had cleverly managed to conceal himself amongst London society, would it be better to challenge him with the fact, or to await developments? Then the Apothecary thought of Serafina, of his future relationship with her and of all the trouble and heartache it would cause if he were falsely to accuse her husband. Knowing that he must add observing Louis’s movements to all the other tasks he had to fulfil, John grimaced.

  He must have sighed as he did so, for Lucius said, ‘I assume it is. Who are you looking at?’

  ‘That man over there, the one with the hat over his eyes. His wife thinks he’s up to no good and now I discover him in a place where he shouldn’t be.’

  ‘Could he not have come to Hastings on business?’

  ‘It’s possible I suppose, but not very likely.’

  ‘What does she suspect him of, infidelity?’

  ‘That, or something more sinister.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Lucius, his blue eyes widening.

  ‘We’re a nation at war, remember,’ hinted John.

  Lucius reacted like a hound sniffing a scent. ‘Jesus and Joseph, you’re not talking spies are you?’

  Regretting that he had even uttered, the Apothecary said, ‘I don’t know, possibly I suppose. But it is more likely a case of cherchez la femme.’

  ‘Do you want me to get talking to him and find out? I’ve the gift of the gab, you know.’

  John smiled. ‘You certainly have at that …’

  But he got no further. Behind him came the sound of a chair scraping back on the flagstones and footsteps rapidly making for the door. The Apothecary wheeled round just in time to see Louis vanish into the hall.

  ‘He must have noticed me. Wait here,’ John ordered, and went off in hot pursuit, only to find that the Comte had broken into a run and was already through the entrance leading on to the street. Taking to his heels, the Apothecary ran after him.

  Once away from the lights of the inn, all was darkness. A thick pall of cloud obscured the moon, and the inhabitants of Hastings obviously cared little about illuminating their walkways. A flickering torch stuck in a bracket above a row of shops was all that threw a feeble glow over the cobbles. Wondering in which direction to go, John stood still for a moment, listening, and above the sound of his own panting breath came the noise of footsteps retreating up an alley. Without hesitation, the Apothecary set off in pursuit.

  The lane climbed steeply upwards, not an easy ascent, and then split into two mean twittens. Gasping, John paused at the fork, then rushed along the right-hand one, but the only sign of life was a large cat which stared at him with glittering green eyes. Even as he retraced his steps, the Apothecary knew that it was too late, that the slight delay would have given Louis de Vignolles the time he needed to make his escape. Cursing under his breath, John set off back to The Swan, only to jump with fear as a man’s shape materialised out of the darkness.

  ‘Louis?’ the Apothecary gasped.

  ‘No, no, ’tis Lucius,’ answered a reassuring voice. ‘I thought you might like a bit of a hand if it comes to a mill. I’m quite useful with m’fists, you know.’

  The Apothecary laughed with relief ‘So I can imagine. No, there’ll be no fighting. I lost him in the darkness.’

  ‘Well in that case there’s only one thing to do,’ replied the Irishman.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Go back to the inn and down a few bumpers.’

  So saying, Lucius Delahunty threw his arm round John’s shoulders and together they made their way back to The Swan.

  Despite the copious amounts of wine and spirits they had consumed the night before, the two young men were up early the next morning to hire a man with a trap to take them on the last leg of their journey. John, as ever, had eaten a trencherman’s breakfast, but to his astonishment had witnessed the Irishman eating even more.

  Reading his look of admiration, Lucius had said, ‘I usually don’t have any more till m’dinner, except for a few snacks while I’m out painting.’

  ‘A man after my own heart. I’m a great believer in a good start,’ John had answered.

  And now, stomachs comfortably full, they sat in the back of the trap with their belongings, including the Irishman’s painting equipment, jogging along the road leading them to Winchelsea.

  An hour later they had not only arrived but Lucius had obtained Joe Jago’s old room at The Salutation, even though he was blissfully unaware of the fact. Having arranged to meet his new friend later that evening, John proceeded to Petronilla’s Platt, there to deposit his bag and check on the health of Elizabeth Rose, who was much cheered by a bottle of Snow Violets which the Apothecary had brought her as a gift from his shop.

  ‘Has anything of excitement happened in my absence?’

  ‘Yes, two things. I have discovered that the following ladies own a bottle of Evening in Araby: Mrs Finch, Miss Rosalind Tireman, though not Henrietta …’

  ‘No, I’ve never smelled it on her,’ John answered reflectively.

  Mrs Rose shot him an astonished stare but made no comment. ‘Together with Lady Ffloote,’ she added.

  John was silent, remembering the whispered conversation in the churchyard and the strong scent of perfume that had filled his nostrils at the time.

  Mrs Rose, misunderstanding his lack of response, emphasised the point. ‘The Frenchman, the Scarecrow, bought a bottle for an unknown woman. Therefore the Moth must be among the three I have just mentioned.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Perhaps there is someone who keeps a bottle concealed.’

  Elizabeth looked extremely puzzled. ‘Then how are you going to find out?’

  ‘By sniffing all and sundry,’ said John, and laughed. ‘Tell me the other news.’

  ‘The Marquis and Rosalind have announced the date of their wedding. It is to be next month, in the middle of April.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather quick?’

  ‘Well, they had always said it would be in the spring, but it seems that Rosalind is anxious to move to London, declaring loudly that she is bored to sobs with this dreary little town.’

  ‘That girl needs a good talking to.’ John thought a moment, ‘Is she enceinte do you think?’

  ‘I wondered, but I truly believe not. I don’t see her allowing her figure not to look its absolute best on her wedding day.’

  ‘But what about the preparations?’

  ‘The Marquis has a horde of servants, my dear. A few weeks more or less will make little difference to them.’

  John fingered his chin thoughtfully. ‘Very interesting. Thank you for the information. And now, Elizabeth, if you have no objection, I must be on my way. I have some calls to make.’

  She nodded. ‘I am sure you do.’

  ‘And your health? Has it held up while I’ve been away?’

  ‘Perfectly. You need not worry on that score.’ Mrs Rose laughed. ‘But then I have taken to throwing away any gifts that have been left for me.’

  ‘A wise precaution,’ John answered seriously. ‘A very wise precaution indeed.’

  Captain Pegram today received his visitor in the beautiful gardens that stretched out behind Grey Friars, rolling on until they too, disappeared into yet another cherry orchard. Seated on a stone bench, enjoying the late March sunshine, though having taken the precaution of dressing warmly against the wind
, the military man read a newspaper, his sight enhanced by a pair of spectacles which he wore perched on the end of his nose. This gave him rather a sweet, endearing look which John found hard to equate with a man who kept a sketch of Rosalind Tireman, stark naked, in his desk drawer. However, knowing that appearances were the most deceptive thing in the world, the Apothecary soon steered the usual pleasantries round to the subject he actually wanted to discuss.

  ‘I hear that the Marquis of Rye and his betrothed are to be married next month,’ he said, beaming a smile at his host.

  ‘Yes, so I believe,’ answered the Captain, stony faced.

  ‘I must confess that secretly I rather envy the bridegroom. Rosalind really is one of the most beautiful women alive. Don’t you think so, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ came the unhelpful reply.

  ‘Oh, I had thought you were an admirer of Miss Tireman’s, in a purely aesthetic way, of course.’

  ‘What gave you that impression?’ asked Nathaniel, colouring up.

  The Apothecary decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I thought I glimpsed a drawing of her when I was in your study the other day,’ he answered.

  The Captain’s complexion became livid. ‘Do you visit people just to pry, Sir?’

  ‘Oh I wasn’t prying,’ John answered, assuming the most innocent expression from his range of suitable faces. ‘Your desk drawer happened to be open. I could not help but see.’

  Captain Pegram clearly wrestled with two alternatives, denial or an excuse. He decided on the latter. ‘It was drawn from my imagination,’ he said falteringly. ‘I’ve always prided myself on being something of an artist.’

  ‘And what more lovely a subject! The naked female form can be most inspiring.’

  The Captain loosened his cravat. ‘Yes, indeed.’ He looked around him uncomfortably, as if hoping for divine intervention, then said, ‘If you would excuse me, Mr Rawlings. I apologise for cutting short your visit but I have just recalled some urgent business I must attend to. Please forgive me.’

  And with that the poor man was off.

  John stared after him, his face sad. He had never enjoyed snooping into people’s private affairs in order to get at the truth, yet was very aware that it was a necessary evil. Furthermore, there was something pathetic about the military man’s obvious obsession with Rosalind Tireman, besotted with her as he quite clearly was. Dwelling on the misery of unrequited love, the Apothecary put on his hat and walked off slowly in the direction of the cherry orchard, an idea that had crept into his mind beginning to take shape as he did so.

  Strangely, Lucius Delahunty did not appear at the arranged meeting place in the parlour of The Salutation, nor was he anywhere in the town, at least as far as John could see when he strolled about looking for him. Presuming from this conspicuous absence that the Irishman must have discovered the whereabouts of the missing Molly Malone, John went back to Petronilla’s Platt, changed into black clothes, said goodbye to Elizabeth, and went out under cover of darkness, quietly heading off towards Grey Friars.

  Tonight there was a moon, lighting the old Abbey from behind, so that its black silhouette was etched starkly against the deep indigo sky. Like this, the house looked even bigger, almost palatial, and John felt dwarfed and intrusive, and also somewhat nervous, as he took up his hiding place beneath one of the trees that gave protective shade to the lawn in summer. In doing so, the Apothecary was well aware that he left the front door unobserved, yet he was counting on the fact that if the Captain went out of the house, as John had a strong suspicion he might well do, it would be secretly, using one of the entrances that led into the garden.

  As he waited in the stillness, disturbed only by the rustling of nocturnal animals and the hoot of a distant owl, John considered his idea. Had Nathaniel Pegram’s passion for the rector’s daughter led him down a more sinister path, causing him to spy for a foreign power in order to shower her with the gifts the girl so clearly craved? Had a longing to compete with the Marquis, a desire to be seen to be as wealthy and as influential as the nobleman, persuaded the Captain to enhance his not inconsiderable fortune and spy for France? Or did the Frog lie elsewhere, in some less obvious guise? Could the Rector, or Mr Gironde, Sir Ambrose, or even the Doctor be responsible for wiping out the Scarecrow? And what of the Moth? Was she the mysterious woman who had removed Captain Pegram’s card from the dead man’s pocket. Or was that merely a blind? Was the Moth not female at all? Could it be a man who, like his name, was a creature of the night, moving stealthily through the darkness to achieve his wicked objectives?

  Lost in thought like this, it took John several seconds to realise that a door at the back of the house had opened, very furtively and slowly, and that a dark shape, just recognisable as the Captain, was coming into the garden, his only light a lantern held high in his hand.

  John shrank against the trunk of the tree as Nathaniel turned, looked round carefully, then strode off in the direction of the stables. Praying that his quarry was not intending to ride to his rendezvous, the Apothecary hurried after him, flitting from shadow to shadow to maintain cover. Fortunately, luck favoured John, and the Captain passed to the left of the stabling block, then disappeared into the leafy arches of the cherry orchards. Now pursuit became hard as twigs snapped beneath the Apothecary’s feet and his vision was impaired by burgeoning foliage. Several times, Nathaniel stopped and listened, as if aware that somebody trailed him, each occasion forcing John to freeze where he stood, his heart thudding madly. But somehow he managed to escape detection and follow Captain Pegram through the grove where the Apothecary and Henrietta had made love, then on again, still protected by the trees, till at last he came out close to St Thomas’s, hardly having gone along the lanes at all. With one final burst of speed, the Captain made for the campanile which stood near to the church, and hurried inside. As closely as he dared, John hovered by the oak door of the entrance, thankfully left ajar, listening.

  The person he had arranged to meet had obviously got there first because a woman hissed in a voice that the Apothecary did not recognise, ‘I told you I never wanted to see you again.’

  ‘But sweetheart …’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’

  ‘Very well. Anyway, it’s about the picture of …’ Captain Pegram lowered his tone and even though John could guess what he must be saying, the rest of the sentence was lost to him.

  ‘Then destroy it,’ the woman said clearly.

  ‘I can’t bring myself to.’

  ‘You must, for all our sakes.’

  The Captain’s voice dropped again and John took a step forward in order to try and catch what was said next. Unfortunately, as he did so he must have brushed against the wall, dislodging a rotting brick which crashed to the ground and disintegrated into several fragments. From inside the campanile came a profound silence.

  ‘What was that?’ whispered the woman, her voice sibilant.

  ‘Shush,’ Nathaniel answered, and John heard him creep towards the door, his feet echoing slightly on the stone floor.

  Slithering round the wall, the Apothecary hovered in the shadows, listening as the Captain came out of the tower and looked round. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  John remained motionless, then a second later heard Nathaniel’s quiet breathing as he, too started to walk round the square shaped campanile. There was nothing for it but to run, which he did, taking off at considerable speed in the direction of The Salutation where he could lose himself in the crowd.

  Behind him, the Apothecary was aware of the woman screaming as she realised that something had gone wrong, then he heard her hurry through the churchyard and away. Tempted though he was to turn and stare, John did not dare risk a second’s pause but plunged on through the darkness, aware that the Captain was almost upon him. Then came another moment of sheer luck. There was a shout, followed by a heavy thud, and Nathaniel went sprawling over a low gravestone, gasping for air, clearly winded.

  Despite all his tra
ining to go to the aid of those in difficulties John continued his headlong flight and did not stop until he reached the end of the street in which the inn was situated where, seeing one or two people strolling about, he slowed his pace and joined the throng, proceeding in a slow and deliberate fashion towards The Salutation.

  ‘Great God in the evening, if you aren’t out of breath,’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘Lucius, for the love of heaven, walk with me as if nothing has happened,’ John muttered.

  The Irishman looked down the length of the street. ‘So who is it you’re trying to avoid? Would it be a tall fellow, red in the face and gasping like a goldfish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And would he be having a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘He’s staring in our direction.’

  ‘Well, don’t stare back.’

  ‘Who is he, for the love of the Lord?’

  ‘One Captain Nathaniel Pegram.’

  Lucius whistled through his teeth. ‘Well, well. I see.’

  ‘Why do you say it like that? Do you know the name?’

  ‘I’ve heard it somewhere,’ the Irishman answered thoughtfully. ‘Though I’m damned if for the life of me I can remember where.’ He brightened up. ‘Bumpers, my rogue. Bumpers all round.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered John, thankful to be going inside. ‘Bumpers it is.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The papers left by Joe Jago made fascinating reading. Long before Elizabeth Rose had stirred, John got out of bed, dressed, and took the packet of correspondence down to the kitchen, where he sat warming himself by the stove, drinking tea and absorbing the documents that Mr Fielding’s Clerk had prepared for him. A letter from Joe in a flowing hand that seemed completely out of character with such a rugged individual, accompanied copies of the statements.