Death on the Romney Marsh (13 page)

‘But who will close the shop? Do you wish to, Sir?'

‘Yes, then I'm going to Hanover Square to see the Comte de Vignolles.'

Nicholas frowned. ‘Oh, I thought he had gone away.'

‘Did you? Why?'

‘Because I saw him this morning, catching the York post chaise from the George and Blue Boar Inn in Holbourn.'

‘Are you certain of that?'

‘Positive, Sir. I was delivering some physick to a lady living in Bloomsbury Square, and I came back to the shop via High Holbourn. And there was the Comte de Vignolles, large as life, setting off for York. I'd swear it was him.'

John looked extremely thoughtful. ‘How very interesting. Well, he could hardly get there and back in a day. So presumably all will be clear this evening.'

‘I hope nothing is wrong,' said Nicholas, and his very sincerity would have been enough to have made John forgive him, that is if he hadn't already done so.

Having hired a linkboy and walked with Master Gerard, somewhat infirm of step these days, as far as his house in Hay Hill, John hurtled the rest of the way to Hanover Square, his mind already turning over the idea that Louis de Vignolles was not going to be there. Once, long ago, when the Apothecary had first met him, the Frenchman's marriage had been on the verge of collapse. The Comte had had a mistress while Serafina, bored and unhappy, had become the most notorious gambler in London. But since they had been reconciled, the couple had seemed idyllically content, their happiness crowned by the birth of a daughter. Now, though, depressing thoughts assailed the Apothecary and his heart sank low when the footman who answered the door informed him that the Comte was not at home, though the Comtesse awaited her guest in the upstairs salon. Fearing the worst, John climbed the curving stairs and went to join his hostess, who stood before the fire, staring into the flames.

‘My dear,' she said, hearing his step and turning round. ‘Our plans are thwarted. Louis is not here.'

Deciding to keep Nicholas's story to himself, at least for the time being, the Apothecary answered, ‘What a pity. I wonder where he can have got to?'

‘I have no idea. He left the house early this morning and did not say what time he would be home. I presumed that he would abide by his usual habit and be here by now.'

‘How very strange. You assure me that there is nothing wrong between you?'

‘As best anyone can, yes I do. If anything we have fallen more in love than out of it.'

‘I'm delighted to hear it. Serafina, forgive me for being personal but I am only trying to help. Does Louis have any financial worries at all?'

‘None that I am aware of. His father left him a great deal of money, all of which has been invested wisely. He visits the Royal Exchange quite often, of course, but there is nothing to suggest things go badly for him there.'

John smiled at the Comtesse and slipped his arm round her shoulders. ‘Then perhaps you are imagining that he is behaving strangely.'

She shook her head. ‘No, I am not. He is abstracted, preoccupied. There is something on his mind, I know it.'

‘Have you asked him what it is?'

Serafina sipped from her wine glass. ‘Yes. He denied anything. That is why I am starting to get anxious.'

‘But, my dear, if it is not another woman and Louis has no money problems, what can be bothering him?'

‘It just occurs to me,' the Comtesse answered slowly, ‘that it could be something to do with this wretched war. After all, my husband is French.'

‘But his parents were Huguenots and consequently would have no love for their mother country.'

‘Louis has never been like-minded. He visited France regularly until hostilities broke out.'

‘I see,' said John, accepting the glass his hostess handed him. He chose his next words carefully. ‘Perhaps you are right, Serafina. Perhaps he is upset to see two countries, both of which he considers his homeland, in a state of hostility.'

Her eyes glistened in the firelight. ‘I think that must be it.'

‘Yes,' answered the Apothecary, ‘yes, I'm sure you're right.'

But his pictorial memory had already flashed up a picture of himself and the Blind Beak, sitting by another fire, this one in Bow Street, as John Fielding informed him that it was already known that a French spy was working out of London, having successfully infiltrated the ranks of the
beau monde
, amongst whom he dwelled in the guise of a man of substance.

This time John avoided temptation and did not visit the parlour of The White Hart, instead going straight to bed and getting a good night's sleep. In fact, with the weather staying fine, the whole journey would have passed off without incident had it not been for the extraordinary coincidence of seeing Dr Florence Hensey at breakfast the following morning.

‘My very dear Sir,' said John as he entered the dining room. ‘What a surprise to see you here.'

‘Likewise, Mr Rawlings. Are you returning from Winchelsea?'

‘No. I had to come back on urgent business but now I am making my way there once more. And you?'

‘I have one or two affairs to attend to in town, then I too will revisit the coast. Alas the querulous invalid I treat there grows ever more demanding. By the way, I had a letter from Sir Ambrose inviting me to dine. Should you see him could you say that next Friday would be convenient. I have dropped him a note to that effect but never trust the posts.'

‘I'll be glad to.'

They breakfasted together in good heart, the doctor explaining that he had arrived in London late and therefore decided to stay at the inn before travelling further. Ever friendly and courteous, he waved John off in the courtyard, shouting to him that he would see him next week. The other passengers, very elderly and dull, glared at the commotion then fell asleep as soon as they left town and woke only for comfort and dining stops. In fact it was a journey of monumental boredom, during which the Apothecary, who normally enjoyed travelling, stared out of the window or read a book.

With nothing to impede its momentum, the flying coach arrived in Hastings twelve hours later, just as the sky began to redden on that early March day. Wondering whether to risk the final push to Winchelsea in the dark, John's better nature overcame him. He had hired Strawberry, the dappled mare, from Roderick's brother Tom, and then must have appeared to have absconded with her.

Though he had stabled the horse in Hastings and written a brief note of explanation there was always the possibility that the letter might not have arrived, leaving the owner frantic with worry about his missing animal. Hoping he would not get lost in the darkness, John saddled Strawberry up and set out.

He headed slightly inland, the sea to his right, and had travelled a fair distance when the mare, normally a very placid animal, suddenly shied at nothing and put her ears forward. With a sixth sense alerting him to danger, the Apothecary reined in and listened. At first all he could hear was his quickened breathing, but then, rumbling like distant thunder, came the sound of cartwheels, many sets of them, making their way down to the coast. Without hesitation, John leaped from the saddle and led the mare into the shelter of a spinney of wind-blown trees. If he was right he was somewhere in the region of the village of Fairlight, with its neighbouring cove. And it was from that cove, so he had heard in The Salutation, that the smugglers loaded contraband from darkened French vessels, lying as close inshore as they dared. Knowing that if he was caught he was as good as dead, the Apothecary stood close to the horse, willing her not to make a sound.

Then something very odd happened. In the distance, presumably from the cliff top, a lantern began to flash on and off in sporadic bursts which John could only imagine must be number sequences. Cursing that it was so dark and that he had no pencil with which to write the numbers down, the Apothecary could do nothing but watch, intrigued that the smugglers were being quite so blatant. If, indeed, smugglers they were, for the sound of cartwheels had abruptly stopped and John imagined the convoy drawing to a rapid halt and watching the lantern, just as he was. Then came another intriguing development. Somebody on horseback passed very close to where he lay hidden, so close that John could have reached out and touched him. But the noise of the plunging hooves had obviously also alerted the signaller, for the flashes of light suddenly ceased, to be swiftly followed by the sound of a horse cantering away before the other rider could reach him. After this came a long period of tense silence, then eventually the carts started up again and continued their journey to the sea.

Trembling with relief, John emerged from the shelter of the spinney and set out for Winchelsea as fast as the dappled mare could take him.

He had never been more relieved in his life to gain the warmth and welcome of The Salutation. But having downed two excellent French brandies very fast, the Apothecary still had one further task to fulfil. Feeling slightly light-headed after his narrow escape, to say nothing of the alcohol he had just consumed, John returned to the stables and led out Strawberry, intent on returning her to her owner that very night.

Truncheons, Tom's home and stable yard, lay within easy walking distance, a mere stone's throw from St Thomas's Church. So, having returned the horse to where she belonged, much to the delight of Roderick's brother, John cut back through the churchyard, only to stop short and draw behind a tree for the second time that night. In hushed but bitter tones, a man and a woman were arguing.

‘How could you do this to me?' whispered the male voice. ‘After all I have given you and done for you. Why, I was prepared to kill the …'

‘Shut your mouth,' hissed his companion. ‘You are never to mention that. Never, do you hear?'

‘You evil bitch,' replied the other. ‘You are governed by greed and self …'

But he got no further. There was the sound of a stinging blow, followed by a gasp of pain.

‘Not one word more of your insults,' said the woman's voice, its tone horribly menacing. ‘You have as little wish to betray our secret as I. But betray it I will if ever you speak to me like that again.'

She swept off up the path, passing close to where the Apothecary was hidden. Of average height, her build concealed by an enveloping cloak, the woman's face was almost entirely hidden by a sweeping hat, a hat reminiscent of those worn by Henrietta, John thought with a sinking heart. Yet her perfume was different, that much he was sure of. With his interest in creating scents, the Apothecary had long passed the stage where one perfume smelt very much like another. Henrietta wore a heady blend of hyacinth; this woman a more exotic spicy mixture. Knowing that it was the only clue he would have to her identity, John inhaled again deeply before she passed out of the kissing gate and from his line of vision.

Then he looked round, only to see that the man, too, had gone, though the sound of his footsteps still echoed behind him. As did the sound of the quiet sobs of the spurned lover, as the Apothecary presumed the poor fellow must be.

Living under an assumed name she might be, adopting another personality she may well have done, but Elizabeth Rose, once Elizabeth Egleton, the celebrated actress, was a performer to the very tips of her fingers. And on this particular occasion, with a variety of puzzled expressions, she was playing the role of aggrieved friend to a somewhat unwilling audience of one.

‘Imagine my shock,' she was saying, ‘when I called at The Salutation only to find that you had gone, without a word, leaving your room just as it had been earlier that morning.'

The Apothecary raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

‘I did not know what had happened to you, Mr Rawlings, nor what to think, and indeed I jumped to the worst conclusion. That the poisoner was on your trail and had struck you down.'

‘An unjustified fear, for here I am.'

‘But how was I to know that?'

‘You weren't, but I do feel you should have had more faith in me.'

Elizabeth bridled slightly. ‘What do you mean?'

John assumed a dignified expression. ‘Have I ever let you down in the past? I think not. I am saddened that you could not trust me, that is all.'

Mrs Rose cast her eyes down but said nothing.

‘As it so happened, a discovery on the Romney Marsh sent me back to London post haste, in order that I might confer with Mr Fielding and others in authority. There are dark deeds brewing hereabouts, Madam. You must believe that.'

Beneath her enamel, the actress went very white. ‘You mean that I—'

‘Not just concerning you,' John interrupted with asperity. ‘There are great games afoot. Remember that we are a nation at war.'

Elizabeth Rose looked suitably chastened and the Apothecary relented a little. ‘So,' he said in a more kindly tone, ‘I have a favour to ask of you. In order that I might mix more freely amongst Winchelsea's polite society, would you object if I passed myself off as your nephew?'

His hostess smiled and momentarily looked amazingly young. ‘So there really is something important going on?'

‘Yes, there is.'

‘A matter of national security?'

‘Almost certainly.'

‘Then I shall play the part of your aunt with pleasure.' She frowned. ‘But if we are going to do this, we must make the story convincing. Mr Rawlings, you will have to leave The Salutation and come and stay here. I have a small back bedroom with a pleasant view which should suit you very well. Furthermore, I will have to call you John.'

‘I had always hoped you would one day.'

‘Then it's settled. I shall tell the serving girl that we had to keep the fact of being related quiet for a few days but that she can now announce the truth to the world. She'll enjoy spreading that piece of gossip.'

‘I'm sure she will. Now, there's one further thing.'