Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Tell me again what happened,’ said John, who had barely got the gist of events.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. All I can say is that this is nothing to do with the smuggling fraternity. A frigate with French troops aboard obviously came in too close to land and got stuck fast on the sandbank. What they were doing here nobody seems to understand.’

  Remembering the flashing signals, John said, ‘I wonder.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Whether they were to rendezvous with an English spy.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘Anyway, who sent for the Riding Officers?’

  ‘Someone with quick wits and an even quicker horse. He must have noticed French uniforms on an English beach and gone like the wind.’

  ‘Who could it possibly have been, do you suppose?’

  ‘We might learn more later.’

  They were approaching the shore and John strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out signs of the fighting. This particular bit of the coast was well loved by smugglers, mostly because the beaches at Fairlight Glen and Cove were accessible to carts. Pett Level itself was also popular, a flat expanse of water meadows criss-crossed by drainage ditches, frequently flooded by the sea which lapped at the shingle beach just below it. And it was on this beach that the Apothecary first made out the signs of what had happened. Marooned on a sandbank from which, presumably, it would have floated away with the tide, was a French frigate. Its occupants, a troop of soldiers, had rather foolishly come ashore, perhaps tempted by the sheer devilment of making such a landing. Now several of them lay on the shingle, dying or dead, victims of the Revenue men, the Riding Officers, who must have come from Rye at speed after someone sounded the alarm.

  The French, too, had scored some hits. Several of the English were being tended by those who had come to the beach to see for themselves what had been going on. And staring about him as he and Dr Hayman abandoned the trap and proceeded the rest of the way on foot, John saw to his total astonishment that the beau monde of Winchelsea, as he liked to think of it, had turned out in force, even the sickly Lady Ffloote feebly attempting to bind a cut head with a white cotton rag.

  Crouched amongst the young Frenchmen, the Apothecary noticed with a wry smile, were Mrs Finch and her four dumpling daughters, all causing more problems than they were relieving. Mrs Tireman, on the other hand, was speaking to a French officer fluently in his own language, clearly acting as an interpreter. Her husband, meanwhile, was tending to the dying, trying to ease the passing of all, regardless of race or religion and obviously very moved by the whole experience. Needless to say, though Henrietta gallantly staunched wounds, the beautiful Rosalind was sitting on a camp stool, swaying with faintness. Her future husband, dark and morose as ever, was hefting into the air those unable to walk and carrying them to where they could be tended by the medical men, of whom there were two present, Marcel Gironde and surprisingly, Florence Hensey. The Squire, acting in an advisory capacity and bellowing incomprehensible instructions, had brought The Pup, which slithered over the shale with scrabbling claws, breathing noisily. Mrs Gironde, who had been nursing a wounded soldier, looked apologetic when she felt John’s eyes on her. Captain Pegram, clearly harking back to his early training, was supervising the taking of prisoners, marching those who were still standing into the custody of the Dragoons.

  ‘Let’s to it,’ said Richard, and fell to his knees amongst the wounded, grabbing for his medical bag as he did so.

  There was something immensely satisfying about the whole effort, and John knew that he was not alone in feeling it. There was an element of excitement in the air, created by the fact that the enemy had come so close and then turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of frightened boys. The leathery old officers who had charge of them chatted away together, obviously not caring a cuss about being captured, as long as they could smoke their pipes and take a pull from bottles of brandy.

  ‘War!’ said John, with a cynical laugh.

  ‘The aftermath!’ answered a voice at his side, and the Apothecary glanced over to see that Dr Hensey had come to work beside him, putting a sheep’s gut stitch into a wounded Frenchman’s arm.

  ‘How on earth did you get here, Sir? The last I saw of you was at that delightful meal in London.’

  ‘My patient in Hastings took a turn for the worse and I travelled down to the coast shortly after you. Strangely, I was spending the night at The Salutation, having dined long and late and rather too well with Mrs Finch and her girls, when the cry went up that a French ship had run aground and there were casualties. I hastened here in the dear lady’s carriage.’

  John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  ‘And what a strange affair it turns out to be. First, why should the frigate have come so close inshore? Second, who told the Riding Officers that the French had landed?’

  The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I have no idea. It is all veiy odd.’ He looked round for his next patient and saw that the line of bodies had been finally cleared; the dead put in a cart for disposal, the living into another for removal either to prison or hospital. Down by the shoreline, Dr Hayman was washing his hands in the sea, while Apothecary Gironde was putting away his collection of physicks and ointments. Noticing for the first time that he was covered in blood, John also made his way to the water.

  A voice called out from the distance. ‘Good people, if you can undertake a journey of five miles or thereabouts, I invite you all to a late supper with me. I feel you need some reward after your labours of tonight.’

  It was the Marquis of Rye, standing on a small round rock, his arms raised to draw attention to himself. Etched dark against the ocean, his black figure looked like that of a bird, or even an insect, the cloak hanging from his shoulders rippling in the manner of wings.

  Richard Hayman turned to his colleague. ‘Will you go?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It will be interesting to see the future home of the fair Rosalind.’

  ‘Exactly my reaction.’ The doctor gave a bow which looked strangely out of place on the battle-scarred seashore. ‘I can’t thank you enough, John, for your help. There has obviously been some savage fighting here.’

  ‘A sharp reminder of what might happen if the French tried to invade in earnest.’ The Apothecary looked the physician squarely in the eye; ‘Richard, talking of enemies in our midst, something has been bothering me for quite some while and I feel I have to ask you about it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That night after my aunt was last taken ill …’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Shortly after you left the house, the smugglers made a drop of goods, serving practically every citizen of Winchelsea as far as I could make out. I looked out of the window and saw you and Mrs Tireman going off on a cart with them and have puzzled about it ever since.’

  ‘Oh, that! There was a sailor with fever aboard a French lugger. Dick Jarvis asked the rector’s wife to translate his symptoms into English and I went along to tend the fellow.’

  ‘And neither you nor she minded that you were assisting an enemy?’

  ‘A suffering human being is simply that to me. I care not whether he be French, English, Eskimo. Do you?’

  ‘Certainly not. I was merely curious, that is all.’

  ‘I am not a traitor if that is what you’re thinking.’

  ‘What is a traitor?’ answered John reflectively. ‘To the side for which he fights he is a hero.’

  And his thoughts flew to Gerard the Scarecrow, who had come to England to do his duty, and flirt with a few ladies besides, and had ended up stabbed through the heart by a murderer.

  ‘Come on,’ said Marcel Gironde, hurrying up to join them at their ablutions in the sea. ‘The Marquis is leaving.’

  With the strange feeling that this night would bring much that was unknown to the surface, John turned his back on the water and started to walk inland.

  The Marquis of Rye’s home, Ravenhurst P
ark, had been built in the reign of William and Mary, a warm red-bricked building of eleven bays and three storeys set in its own rolling parkland, with sheep grazing in the meadows surrounding the glorious gardens. They stood in the moonlight beneath the spreading trees, raising their heads as the convoy of carts and carriages wound up the drive. For it seemed that everyone had accepted Justin’s invitation to supper. Indeed, John counted at least half a dozen conveyances in front of Dr Hay man’s trap.

  During the journey he had told the medical man the cause of Elizabeth Rose’s mysterious bouts of poisoning.

  ‘And you say you are not going to report the Girondes for malpractice?’

  The Apothecary shook his head. ‘I would prefer not to, dog eating dog and all that.’

  Richard Hayman let out a neighing laugh. ‘Can you imagine eating that ghastly hound of Sir Ambrose’s? Did you see it lumbering round the beach, getting in the way?’

  ‘Yes,’ said John, and at that moment an odd idea was born.

  The doctor, not noticing his companion’s silence, continued to laugh, then became serious. ‘You are quite certain you have frightened Nan Gironde off? You don’t think she’ll start compounding again once your back is turned?’

  ‘To make doubly sure I’ll tell her that you know everything. That should stop her for good and all.’

  ‘And what about him?’

  ‘He is innocent, of the poisoning at least.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ answered the Apothecary.

  The carriage in front, in which travelled the five large Finches and an extremely squashed Dr Hensey, began to slow, and, peering out of the window, John saw that the head of the procession had drawn to a halt before an imposing front door. Instantly, even at this hour of the night, servants appeared as if by magic and began helping the visitors and leading the conveyances round to the stables. The Apothecary jumped down, balancing on the trap’s high step, and Richard swung off the driving seat and handed the reins to an hostler. Then they both gazed in open admiration as they stepped through a fairly unpretentious entrance hall into a further larger hall. Here the feeling was Italianate, for a marble staircase, broad and gracious, curved upwards from a distinctive black and white flagged marble floor. Just ahead of him, John saw that Rosalind had revived and had taken up her position alongside her betrothed, charmingly welcoming the guests.

  It was like some bizarre carnival, he thought, with all these different people, brought together by a potential disaster, going through the motions of a harlequinade. It occurred to him at that moment that the Frog and the Moth had to be present. If Joe Jago were right and the other members of Winchelsea’s society could be ruled out as suspects for one reason or another, then the two French spies were in the midst of this company. John stared upwards as the visitors began to climb the stairs towards the first-floor saloon.

  Captain Pegram led the way, gallantly escorting both Miss Sophie and Miss Sarah Finch. Behind them walked the two younger girls, giggling and casting the eye at an extremely handsome footman of eligible age. Following behind came their mother, her arm most determinedly thrust through that of Dr Hensey.

  A few steps below them climbed Sir Ambrose and Faith Ffloote, she dragging her feet, much weakened by all that had gone before. As for her husband, he was much put out of countenance by the fact that the Marquis had refused The Pup house room and had insisted the dog went to the stables.

  ‘Just ’cause the feller’s got wolfhounds,’ the Squire was muttering beneath his breath.

  Much subdued, Mrs Gironde, studiously avoiding the gaze of both the Apothecary and Dr Hayman, climbed the stairs beside her husband. Marcel, on the other hand, positively glowed with satisfaction, and John hazarded a guess that he had never set foot in Ravenhurst Park before and probably might never do again, and thus was relishing every moment.

  The Reverend Tireman and his wife, however, walked with the kind of negligent gait that assured the world they were regular visitors to these exalted premises and were so used to them that they were now beyond noticing the splendour of the surroundings. At least, John considered, the wife gave this impression very strongly, though the rector still seemed to have the cloud of death hanging over him, having eased the passing of so many men on this extraordinary night.

  There was a sound at John’s elbow and he turned to see Henrietta, looking rather pale, her clear eyes distinctly cloudy. The Apothecary bowed low. ‘Madam,’ he said, and offered her his arm, which she swiftly took.

  ‘I can hardly believe this invitation,’ she said in a low voice as they ascended the stairs together, Richard Hayman immediately behind.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It seems such an extraordinary thing to do, to give a supper party following such a harrowing event. I wonder if Justin has taken leave of his senses.’

  ‘I doubt that. More probably he felt the spirit of camaraderie which we all experienced, working as a team on that beach. By the way, do you know who went for the Riding Officers?’ he added casually.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘How can I find out?’

  ‘By asking the Captain of Dragoons. Look, he’s just coming in.’

  And John stared down into the marble hall to see a tall man in military uniform making his way inside. The Dragoon saluted smartly when he saw Henrietta and called out, ‘Good evening, Miss Tireman.’ She curtseyed in response and the Apothecary felt a pang of jealousy.

  They had reached the top of the stairs and followed the throng into a stately saloon dominated by a fully lit chandelier which gleamed with a thousand candles, their reflection in the huge gilt-framed mirrors enhancing the crimson wallpaper and the wonderful windows looking out over the sleeping park.

  ‘Magnificent,’ said John.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ answered a voice at his ear, and there was the Marquis, dressed in black and scarlet, looking over his guests with an enigmatic eye.

  Servants must have toiled up another, invisible, staircase while the company was assembling, for elegant silver-topped jugs of wine and glasses of gleaming crystal had been laid out, and there were clear signs of activity in the dining room which led off the saloon. Taking a glass from a liveried footman, the Rye coat of arms emblazoned on his coat, John drank deep, thinking he had earned his reward. Then he saw that Captain Pegram was approaching, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face. Remembering the scene in the campanile, the Apothecary adjusted his features into a mask of inscrutability.

  ‘Mr Rawlings,’ said Nathaniel, hopping from one foot to the other in obvious embarrassment.

  ‘Sir.’ John bowed civilly.

  ‘I am sorry I had to leave you so abruptly when you called the other day. A pressing engagement.’

  The Apothecary adopted a puzzled expression, as if he could not quite recall the incident. ‘Now, let me see … Ah, yes. We were discussing the merits of Miss Rosalind’s portrait at the time, were we not?’

  The Captain frowned. ‘Yes. I told you then and I tell you now, I drew that picture from my imagination. But, damme, it’s none of your damnable business anyway. I can have portraits of whomsoever I like in my own house.’

  ‘As long as they don’t lay you open to blackmail,’ John answered quietly.

  ‘And what do you mean by that, Sir?’

  ‘Merely that some unscrupulous person, knowing that you possessed such a thing, might threaten to reveal you to the Marquis. My advice to you would be to destroy it,’ the Apothecary added, echoing the words he had heard spoken in the campanile.

  But who had uttered them? Had the formidable Mrs Tireman, desperate to protect her daughter’s honour in view of her forthcoming marriage, resorted to threatening the Captain? Or had Henrietta lied about losing her hat? Had she, perhaps to protect the Marquis rather than her sister, begged him to destroy the picture? Or could the beautiful bride, terrified of losing her great match, have been the woman in the bell tower? Or, John thought, could
another female, perhaps a new and jealous mistress, have insisted that Nathaniel get rid of the revealing drawing?

  The Apothecary looked round the room. Mrs Gironde, who had willingly gone to flirt with a total stranger, the Scarecrow, might well be having an adulterous affair. And he supposed, though without much conviction, that even Faith Ffloote could possibly do likewise. The only person he could safely discount, even though John believed he had detected a certain penchant for the Captain in her, was Elizabeth Rose, who had been fast asleep in her cottage at the time. Or had she? Just because she had retired for the night by the time the Apothecary returned from The Salutation didn’t actually prove a thing.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, supper is served,’ intoned a voice, and the Marquis, Rosalind shimmering on his arm, led the way into the dining room where a cold collation had been prepared and a seat had been laid at the enormous table for all those present.

  Justin sat at the head with Mrs Tireman on his right and Lady Ffloote on his left, obviously showing his respect to the older ladies. Rosalind meanwhile took her place at the table’s foot, flanked by her father and Sir Ambrose. John found himself seated halfway down, Mrs Finch on one side, Henrietta on the other, the Captain of Dragoons beyond her.

  John, rather familiarly, leaned across his lady love, bowing his head and extending a hand. ‘Sir, may I take the liberty of introducing myself? John Rawlings, an apothecary from London. I was present on the beach tonight. Tell me, what do you think of such a remarkable happening?’

  The Captain of Dragoons bowed and shook the offered fingers. ‘Grant, Sir. Matthew Grant. A most extraordinary occurrence, I agree.’

  ‘Is it your belief that the French frigate got on to the sandbank accidentally? Or do you think she was signalled in?’

  Captain Grant shook his head. ‘It seems very unlikely that a crew of experienced sailors would run aground accidentally. I rather think they responded to a signal.’

  ‘But who could possibly give such a thing?’