Death on the Romney Marsh

by Deryn Lake

  ‘How very cruel. But why should he spy for France?’

  ‘When he was young he was an inveterate gambler and spendthrift. He could have signed up with the enemy then in return for money and now be too far enmeshed to get out. And he also has French blood.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Then there’s Captain Nathaniel Pegram, a most extraordinary chap. He, too, is in love with Rosalind who, by the way, is a ravishing beauty, but whether this passion was ever consummated I am not certain. However, the Captain has probably had a mistress recently because one night I heard him arguing with a woman about a picture he drew of Rosalind in the nude.’

  ‘Did she pose for it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He says not.’

  ‘What kind of woman is this Rosalind?’

  ‘Unbelievably vain, and also unbelievably self-seeking. Like an ambitious butterfly.’

  Serafina pealed with laughter. ‘What a wonderful description. Tell me about the rest.’

  ‘Next on the social scale comes Sir Ambrose Ffloote, who likes to be known as the Squire.’ And John gave a rather brilliant word portrait of the man, which he rounded off by saying, ‘He is so awful that he is almost likeable, if you understand me.’

  ‘I have heard a saying that people grow like their dogs. Does the Squire resemble The Pup?’

  ‘In a way, yes. They both huff and fart about the place.’

  Serafina laughed once more. ‘His wife is magnificently long-suffering, I take it?’

  ‘Very, but interestingly she let slip that she was out one night when the smugglers were abroad in Winchelsea. I have never had the chance to ask her about it but it certainly means that she does not live as sheltered a life as she likes to make out. It also indicates that she is not as feeble as she would like to pretend.’

  The Comtesse nodded. ‘I don’t like the sound of her at all. Nor of her husband. They seem highly suspicious to me, both of them. As for Rosalind, she is clearly a social climber of the very worst kind. Now tell me about the rest.’

  ‘There are three professional men, the doctor, the rector and Apothecary Gironde.’

  ‘Are they beyond reproach?’

  ‘Most certainly not. Dr Hayman admits quite freely to consorting with smugglers, while the rector is the father of the fair Rosalind, and for a country clergyman manages to keep his family in quite some style.’

  ‘Perhaps the Marquis gives him money to help out.’

  ‘And there again, perhaps not. Do the funds to keep his wife and daughters in the latest fashions come from France I wonder?’

  Serafina spread her hands. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mr Gironde is also very odd. He lied to Joe Jago about meeting the Scarecrow but confessed to it quite openly to me. Furthermore, his wife is a bundle of trouble.’

  And John told the Comtesse about the poison in the Elixir of Youth, and about Nan Gironde’s indiscretion with the French spymaster.

  ‘Did it go to the ultimate?’ Serafina asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘Heaven alone knows. The profligate swine seems to have made very free with his pendulum whilst in Winchelsea. He tried to seduce the fattest girl in town in return for meeting her mother.’

  ‘Her mother? Why?’

  ‘Because Mrs Finch is very wealthy and knows everybody. She also delights in young men, or so rumour has it.’

  ‘Might she spy for France in return for a regular supply?’

  ‘Of boys do you mean?’ Serafina nodded. ‘Indeed she might.’

  ‘They all sound highly dubious to me. Who have you left out?’

  ‘Mrs Finch’s other daughters, two of whom are rather young, though extremely forward for their age.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘The eldest sister, Sophie. Another large girl longing for attention. And Sarah, whom the Frenchman tried to seduce.’

  ‘They both sound extremely vulnerable and ripe for any kind of adventure, even spying. Is there anybody else?’

  ‘Mrs Tireman, the Rector’s wife. She is a femme formidable. Very masculine in a way. She had a French mother and is bilingual. How she could have given birth to two such exquisite girls is difficult to imagine.’

  ‘You are referring to Henrietta and Rosalind?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Tell me about the jilted one.’

  ‘She, too, is very beautiful, yet not considered as lovely as her sister, though I prefer her looks,’ John answered gallantly.

  Serafina stared at him acutely but said nothing.

  ‘She is also something of a mystery. There have been two odd incidents in the churchyard and even though she denies it I still feel she might have been involved in one of them.’

  And John described the conversation in the campanile, together with the incident of the argument between the unseen couple, the argument which had ended in a slap and tears.

  Serafina sat up very straight. ‘And the man said he was prepared to kill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the words “our secret” were mentioned?

  ‘They were.’

  ‘Then those two people are probably the spies,’ Serafina said with a flourish, echoing Mr Fielding.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ answered John, as he went over the words again and put them into another context.

  ‘Anyway, tell me why you suspect Henrietta.’

  ‘It was to do with her hat – and her perfume.’

  ‘You smelt her perfume. You must have been very close to her,’ said Serafina, her fine eyes gleaming.

  ‘I was close enough,’ John replied, and smiled at the memory.

  Two hours later he had got as far as Bow Street, and was sitting in Mr Fielding’s cosy salon on the first floor, having very much the same sort of conversation as the one he had just had with the Comtesse de Vignolles.

  ‘So,’ said the Blind Beak. ‘You think you know who one of the spies might be?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered John, and told him who and why.

  ‘I agree. It is often an apparently inconsequential memory that gives the game away. So there’s one identified. But who is the other?’

  ‘I’m still not sure, though I believe the choice is narrowed down to three people.’

  The Magistrate nodded, then sat in silence, quite motionless, his old ploy. Finally he said, ‘Mr Rawlings, you must bring Dick Jarvis and Winchelsea’s beau monde together. Though he may not be aware of it, he knows who the other spy is.’

  ‘I think you’re right But how do I do it?’

  ‘Announce that you are leaving the town, then give a party to say farewell. Ask everyone to it and somehow infiltrate Dick.’

  ‘But most of them know him. They are all his customers.’

  Mr Fielding rumbled his melodious chuckle. ‘People see what they want to see. Let me make a suggestion.’

  John listened, his smile growing broader as he did so. ‘What an excellent plan. I will do exactly as you say,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Splendid,’ answered the Magistrate, and raised his voice to call down the stairs. ‘Joe, come up, will you? Mr Rawlings is here and I think a toast is in order. Can you bring some champagne and glasses?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir,’ came the shouted reply.

  A moment later the Clerk appeared, bearing what was required.

  ‘A toast,’ announced Mr Fielding. ‘To the unmasking of the Frog and the Moth.’

  ‘Indeed,’ chorused John and Joe, and clinked their glasses together.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Having dined early with the Blind Beak and his family, John Rawlings made his way back to Hill Street by hackney coach and this time found that the Bishop of Bath and Wells had returned from preaching in Bath Abbey and was once more in his London residence. Working, too, for as John was shown into Dr Willes’s beautiful study he saw the master spy seated at his desk with reams of paper spread out in front of him. The Bishop looked up as his visitor came into the room, pushing his spectacles down his nose and peering at John over
the top of them.

  ‘Ah, Mr Rawlings,’ he said, ‘how kind of you to respond to my call. There is much that I would say to you.’

  He got up and sat down in a chair by the fire, motioning the Apothecary to do the same.

  ‘Pray take a seat. Let us not stand upon ceremony.’ The Bishop cleared his throat. ‘Please do not take offence at what I am about to say next.’

  ‘I assure you I won’t,’ answered John, thoroughly puzzled and wondering what was coming.

  ‘You see, the fact of the matter is that I found the code you brought me last time impossible to decipher. I tried every variation with it but its meaning still remains a mystery. Therefore I am bound to ask, did you copy it down correctly? Is it possible that you could have made a mistake?’

  God’s life, thought John, instantly doubting himself. ‘At the time I believed it to be accurate,’ he said cautiously. ‘Though like the rest of mankind, I am fallible, of course.’

  Dr Willes steepled his fingers. ‘To err is human.’

  ‘But,’ the Apothecary added, ‘there was a second set of signals, given only the other night. I saw those in the presence of a witness. I am absolutely convinced that I put those down properly.’

  The Bishop’s horse face grew longer. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘May I see them?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. It was my intention to send them to you in a letter but your summons forestalled me.’

  He handed the rather crumpled piece of paper to Dr Willes, who readjusted his spectacles and stared at it intently. There was silence and then the Bishop let out a quiet sigh.

  ‘Another piece of nonsense?’ asked John tentatively.

  ‘Not quite so bad, indeed good sense all but for the last word. Listen to this. Frigate Approach Coast Dance.’

  John stared askance; ‘Well, that is strange indeed. For a French frigate ran aground on a sandbank at Pett Level the night those signals were flashed. Are we dealing with someone so cunning that he is luring the enemy into danger?’

  The Bishop echoed the words of Captain Grant. ‘Or someone so silly that he had not properly learned the cipher?’

  ‘What do you mean, my lord? Don’t secret agents carry the ciphers on them?’

  Dr Willes let out a neighing laugh. ‘Bless you, no. It would be far too dangerous. The code might so easily fall into enemy hands should they be apprehended. No, the rule for French and English spies alike, and for any other nationality come to that, is to learn the ciphers by heart.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather difficult?’

  ‘It takes a very clever mind.’ The Bishop hesitated. ‘My son, are you prepared to take an oath of secrecy?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I am.’

  ‘Then I am going to take the unusual step of showing you some of the ciphers. Then you will see their complexity for yourself.’

  So saying, Dr Willes went to a panel in one of that lovely room’s curving walls amd pressed a hidden switch which slid back to reveal a shelved cupboard. From one of the shelves, the Bishop took a sturdy iron box with a magnificent lock. Taking a key from his watch chain, Dr Willes undid it and John’s astonished stare took in a mass of parchments.

  ‘Now you must swear .on the Bible that you will tell no one what you see tonight, and that includes even Mr John Fielding himself.’

  Saying this, the Bishop snatched an important looking, red-bound copy of the scriptures from his desk and in a voice sufficiently solemn to quell a restive congregation in Bath Abbey, swore John to secrecy. Then he unrolled the parchments and let the Apothecary look. He gazed astonished. Under the heading Cipher – 1757 was written alphabetically practically every word in the English language, together with alternative endings, to say nothing of the names of all the countries in Europe complete with their heads of state and other important personages. Beside each word was a number code, showing how it could be transmitted or written by figures alone. It was the most comprehensive thing John had ever seen and even he, used to study as he was, blanched at the thought of having to learn it all.

  ‘Why is it in English if this is the French cipher?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Because, in company with most lazy Englishmen, the majority of secret agents employed by France cannot speak French.’

  ‘How typical!’

  Putting the parchment on the desk and drawing it close, the Apothecary looked up ‘frigate’ and saw 1027. Running his finger down the column, he came to ‘approach’, which was 1991. Close to it, however, lay the word ‘apprise’. Suddenly ceased by an idea, John looked up ‘dance’, 1695, then saw that the word ‘danger’ was not far away.

  ‘My Lord,’ he said excitedly, ‘is it possible that this inept spy of ours was trying to say “Frigate Apprise Coast Danger’?’

  The Bishop leant over his shoulder. ‘Um. Yes, it might be so. If he’d half learned what he was supposed to know by heart there could be a strong possibility that he’s been sending out the wrong messages.’

  John grinned. ‘Perhaps we should let him go on. He’s doing so much good for our side.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ asked Dr Willes sharply.

  ‘I think I do, but one can never be certain until the challenge is made.’

  ‘And you are going to do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then be careful. He or she will probably be armed.’

  ‘I’ll choose my moment, I promise you.’

  The Bishop said unexpectedly, ‘You are a very bright young man, Mr Rawlings. It really has been a pleasure to know you.’ He made a small stiff bow whilst still maintaining his dignity.

  ‘The delight has been entirely mine, my lord,’ the Apothecary answered, and went away still pondering the unlikely fact that one of God’s most highly anointed should also have felt himself called into that most clandestine of posts, the King’s Secret Decipherer.

  Paying only the briefest of visits to his shop and Sir Gabriel, John risked the exhaustion that comes with too much travelling and journeyed back to Hastings that very night, taking a fast chaise that only stopped to change horses and to allow its passengers to relieve themselves, which they had to do at the roadside, including the ladies. Fortunately, the Apothecary’s travelling companions were both male and, like him, slept most of the way, so any embarrassment caused by matters of delicacy simply did not occur. Arriving in Hastings in the early light, John immediately hired a man and trap and thus appeared at Petronilla’s Platt, unshaven and bleary eyed, just as Elizabeth Rose was finishing her breakfast.

  She looked startled. ‘My dear John, I hadn’t expected to see you back so soon.’

  ‘It really was just a flying visit. Yet much good has come out of it.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Fielding?’

  ‘I certainly did. Which reminds me. I am thinking of giving an assembly to return various amounts of hospitality I have received here in Winchelsea.’

  Mrs Rose looked slightly surprised. ‘Why? Are you going to leave us?’

  ‘Soon, yes.’

  ‘But what about the Frog and the Moth?’

  ‘I hope to conclude my business with them fairly swiftly.’

  Elizabeth’s arched eyebrows rose. ‘I did not know you had made such rapid strides.’

  ‘I haven’t, not completely that is.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the former actress replied, ‘you can’t go just yet. You have received an invitation to the Marquis’s wedding.’

  ‘Have I? How surprising.’

  ‘Not at all. He added your name to mine believing you to be my nephew. Will you come?’

  ‘I most certainly will. So in that case, time clearly being of the essence, I had better proceed with arranging my soirée.’

  Mrs Rose looked about her doubtfully. ‘I think Petronilla’s Platt might prove somewhat small if you want to have several guests.’

  ‘I shall hire the saloon in the Town Hall,’ the Apothecary answered grandly. ‘And the services of a chef to prepare the collation.’

  ‘La, la,’ answe
red Elizabeth, laughing. ‘And will you be inviting all the young ladies of the town?’

  ‘Of course I shall,’ John answered, and suddenly realised how hard it would be to leave Winchelsea while Henrietta Tireman still lived there.

  The sound of Lucius Delahunty’s voice was audible in the street outside The Salutation. ‘Let every man’s glass be filled,’ he was bellowing. ‘I’ve got a splendid commission, not only to paint Lord Rye’s home but also his lovely bride.’ There was a cheer and a somewhat obscene drunken shout.

  ‘That’ll be enough of that,’ Lucius continued. ‘I’ll propose her health, so I will. Gentlemen, I ask you to raise your glasses to that great beauty, Miss Rosalind Tireman.’

  The same drunken voice called out, ‘One guinea, that’s what I’d pay, just to spend one hour in her bed.’ At which an affray broke out, John could hear it distinctly, together with Lucius shouting, ‘A mill, by God! How I love a good mill!’ Hurrying into the taproom, the Apothecary saw Captain Pegram down on the floor, punching the guts out of a farm labourer, while Lucius was swinging his fists at someone else.

  ‘Captain, please,’ shouted John, attempting to drag the struggling Nathaniel from his adversary. ‘Let me be,’ the military man answered brokenly, and the Apothecary saw to his dismay that the Captain was fighting drunk.

  ‘Great God at nightfall,’ the Irishman roared at John, ‘it’s yourself. Now what a moment to come into a hostelry. Do you have a sense for a mill?’

  ‘I have a sense that these two will kill each other if we don’t stop them,’ John answered implacably. ‘Give me a hand, will you.’

  Lucius promptly stopped punching what appeared to be a perfectly innocent bystander and flung himself bodily on to the Captain, who groaned as all the air was knocked from him.

  ‘Carry him outside. Now.’ John ordered, and between them the two men picked Captain Pegram up by his wrists and ankles and hoisted him into the cold afternoon air.

  ‘Would you look at that,’ Lucius said, fingering his jaw and laughing. ‘Anyone would think the poor bastard’s in love with the girl.’