Death on the Romney Marsh (15 page)

But then the Apothecary stopped looking at the Marquis and gave his full attention to the girl on his arm, aware that he was staring as hard as every other red blooded male in the room. For she was more than beautiful, she was exquisite, a fabulous creature, almost inhuman in her perfection. A mass of hair, the colour of spun gold, tumbled round her head, its very wildness attractive. Mermaid's eyes, neither green nor blue but a shade somewhere between the two, were set widely apart in a superbly boned face. Yet though all this loveliness could have been marred had the girl's figure been poor, this, too, was incomparable, small and supple yet with full and shapely breasts. As she walked forward Rosalind glittered with emeralds, clearly a gift from her future husband, which she unconsciously stroked with loving fingers.

‘The fair bride?' whispered John to no one in particular.

‘Yes,' replied Captain Pegram, and there could be no doubt that his voice came through gritted teeth. Mentally the Apothecary took note, though he said nothing.

The enchanted couple, for that is how they appeared, entered the room and the entire company paid their respects. Stealing a glance while he bowed, John saw that Rosalind's mother, coming in just behind her daughter adored all the adulation whereas the Reverend Tireman looked decidedly ill at ease. As for Henrietta, bringing up the rear, John could easily understand how much in her sister's shadow she must feel. For to be brought up with someone as lovely as that, to have to live with daily comparisons, must be difficult indeed.

The music for the first dance struck up and sets were formed. Then everyone stood and watched as the Marquis and his fiancée opened the assembly. From nowhere the terrifying Mrs Finch appeared with a wretched young partner and joined the set in which John and Elizabeth found themselves.

‘Gorgeous, is she not?' she said to the Apothecary, her eyes following every move Rosalind made.

‘Perfectly lovely.'

‘So sad for poor dear Henrietta.'

‘It can't be easy to have quite so beautiful a sister, though Henrietta herself is very good looking and need have no cause for jealousy.'

Mrs Finch made a little moue as the dance began. ‘Oh, it wasn't to their appearance that I was referring.'

John bowed to Elizabeth Rose and they prepared to step off into
Portsmouth
, a longways dance for eight couples.

‘Then what was it?' he asked over his shoulder.

Mrs Finch giggled. ‘Why, to the fact that before her sister came on the scene it was Henrietta who was betrothed to the Marquis.'

‘Good God!' exclaimed the Apothecary, and went whirling off down the length of the room before he could say another word.

It had been a remarkable evening in many senses of the word. First, because John had really enjoyed himself despite the bizarre carnival atmosphere. For underlying all the gaiety, the music, the dancing and the noise, had been his strange conviction that somewhere in the crowded room, the Frog and the Moth had been present, hiding their true identities, laughing and smiling as if they had never contracted to spy for France; as if one, or possibly both, of them, had not stabbed a man to death and hung his body on a crucifix to be eaten away by predators. Because the Apothecary, the more he thought about it, was becoming more and more convinced that the Scarecrow, sent to England to awaken two sleeping spies, must have met his end at the hands of one of them. Why else should an unknown Frenchman be killed in a foreign country where nobody knew him at all?

The other reason why John had found the evening so exceptional was personal. For as he and Henrietta Tireman had met for the third dance, he had felt a welcome glow in his heart which had put an answering smile on his face. With Coralie Clive firmly out of the way, the Apothecary was convinced that he was falling in love.

The admiration in his eyes had brought an immediate response from her. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?' she had asked, but almost suspiciously, not with her usual humour.

‘Because you look so lovely.'

‘Are you serious? Haven't you seen Rosalind?'

John had cast his eyes over to where the Marquis and his beloved sat out from the dancing, taking a cooling drink.

‘Yes, of course I have.'

‘And?'

‘She might be an angel, my dear, but you have a devilish streak which makes you irresistible.'

The words had come from nowhere but he clearly could not have said a better thing. Miss Tireman squeezed his hand warmly as they passed each other in a grand chain. ‘Thank you,' was all she said, but her glance was eloquent.

By the time the last dance was called, the Apothecary was in turmoil, wondering how he was going to track down two elusive spies, to say nothing of a killer, and pay court to the rector's daughter simultaneously. Further, the trail leading to the Scarecrow's murderer had gone cold after a delay of several months. It seemed to John, in a rather anxious moment, that he had taken on a task larger than he could handle.

‘I wonder if they're here,' whispered Mrs Rose as she and the Apothecary jigged in the centre of their set.

‘Who?' John asked, not sure what she meant.

‘The poisoner, of course.'

His heart sank even further. He had temporarily forgotten all about the attempts on Elizabeth's life, the reason that had brought him to Winchelsea in the first place. Without meaning to, the Apothecary let out an audible groan.

‘What's the matter?'

He shook his head. ‘It's just that there are so many games afoot at the moment. I don't quite know how I am going to deal with them all.'

‘Perhaps you should send for help,' Mrs Rose suggested sensibly.

‘Perhaps I should,' answered John, and decided that the very next day he would write to Mr Fielding.

In the event, there was no need. Early the next morning, just as the Apothecary was struggling out of bed, a boy came up from The Salutation to redeliver a letter to Petronilla's Platt.

‘There's post for you,' Mrs Rose called up the stairs.

‘I'll be down in a moment,' answered John, and hurriedly washed and shaved, then repeated the process all over again just in case he should meet Henrietta while he was out and about.

He studied the letter over breakfast. It was written in Joe Jago's hand but signed by Mr Fielding, the usual practice for the Magistrate's correspondence.

Dear Mr Rawlings,

I am Sending this out with the afternoon Post in order that you may receive it by Saturday morning, 10th March. If you do so Please proceed at Once to the Church of St Thomas à Becket, Fairfield, on the Romney Marsh, where two Brave Fellows with a Coach will be waiting to remove the Body of the Scarecrow. They will be accompanied by Joe Jago, who has much to Impart to You. If You have not arrived by Noon they will Proceed without You but in that Event you are to await a Further Message from my Clerk.

Signed, ever your friend,

J. Fielding.

The Apothecary snatched at the watch which his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday.

‘God's life, it's nine o'clock already. Aunt Elizabeth' – this for the benefit of the serving maid who was hovering by the door – ‘I must run to Truncheons and hire a horse. I have an appointment to keep by twelve.'

The actress responded with great aplomb. ‘I'll send the girl while you finish your food. Agnes, go directly to Truncheons and charter a mount for my nephew. Be quick about it.'

‘Yes, Ma'am.' And the servant hurried through the front door, removing her apron as she went.

Twenty minutes later John was in the saddle, this time on a dark mettlesome mount with a rolling maddish eye.

‘I'll have no trouble from you, my friend,' the Apothecary stated as he put his foot in the stirrup. The horse responded by deliberately moving as John mounted, then proceeded to go like a greyhound with a gale behind it not stopping until they reached the ferry between Rye and East Guldeford, which crossed the wide tidal estuary of the River Rother, taking over men, horses and vehicles heading for the Romney Marsh.

Once across the water, Fairfield was no great distance away, and on this occasion, not stopping to visit Brookland church but half expecting to see the extraordinary young curate on his travels, John covered the miles in excellent time. But for all that the party from London had got there ahead of him. As the Apothecary rounded the bend in the track, he saw the conveyance used by Mr Fielding's Flying Runners, two court officials with a coach ready to leave for any part of the kingdom at fifteen minutes' notice, drawn up as near to the Scarecrow as it could get. He also saw the sun reflect on the foxy red hair of Joe Jago, who did not care for wigs and wore his as little as he could get away with.

‘Joe,' called John, and the Clerk turned and waved his arm.

‘Mr Rawlings, Sir, how are you?'

‘Extremely glad to see you. There is a great deal going on.'

‘So I gather.'

‘All right, Mr Jago?' called one of the Runners. ‘shall we get the body down?'

‘Yes. He needs some work on his head, I understand.'

‘He certainly does,' John added with feeling.

‘Pass the bucket, George,' came the reply.

‘Shall we step into the church, Sir, while they go about their task? The more we keep out of the way of prying eyes the better, I believe.'

‘Yes, let's,' John answered, not really relishing having to see the skeleton come down.

They entered the ancient quiet of St Thomas à Becket and sat in one of the boxed pews.

‘Now, Mr Rawlings, let's exchange news. Yours first,' said Joe.

‘You got my letter telling you what Dr Willes said?'

‘We certainly did.' Joe produced a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘You are ordered to give secret instructions immediately to the British spies, the Frog and the Moth. You will find the pair in Winchelsea. Contact them as arranged.'

‘What does Mr Fielding think?'

‘He believes that either one or both of them murdered the Scarecrow. That they either individually or as a team resisted his attempts to awaken them, as the jargon goes, probably near the time of the outbreak of war, which would fit in with the pitiable state of the body.'

‘So we are not looking for an outside individual?'

‘Unless the Scarecrow fell foul of the smugglers, it doesn't seem very likely to me. I think once we have identified the spies we have found our killer.'

‘Talking of that, somebody – though whether it were spy or smuggler I do not know – was signalling with a lantern from the clifftops the other night.'

‘How very interesting,' said Joe. ‘Ah, well, acting as carelessly as that, he – or she – shouldn't be too difficult to find.'

‘That's what you think!' exclaimed John. ‘I tell you, Joe, there are several people the spies could be. In fact, Winchelsea is simply swarming with them.' And he went on to describe everyone he had met at the Assembly.

‘Are there any other likely candidates, anyone you didn't meet?' Jago asked, scratching his jaw.

‘Several people. Quite honestly, Joe, I don't know quite how I'm going to sort it all out. What with that and Mrs Harcross's idea that somebody is trying to poison her.'

‘You're still not sure about that, are you?'

‘No, to be perfectly honest. The suspect wine was so very good.'

‘But perhaps it came from a different donor.'

‘That is certainly possible. The labels were not the same.'

‘As Mr Fielding said, it is a situation to be watched.'

‘Indeed,' said John, not very happily.

‘Cheer up, Sir. The Beak has a plan.'

‘Which is?'

‘Simply put, I am to come to Winchelsea in the role of an official from the Secret Office. I am going to start asking questions about an unknown Frenchman who was here six months ago. This will no doubt provoke some sort of reaction and will, almost certainly, make our sleeping spies nervous. They might then well make a mistake. Meanwhile, you are to work covertly, continuing your pose as Mrs Rose's nephew, an excellent ploy. As such, you may well worm your way into confidences and see more than I do. Between us, we'll flush 'em out, never you fear.'

John was silent, then said, ‘So I presume we are to act as if we have never met?'

‘We most certainly must.'

‘But what about Mrs Rose? She will remember you.'

‘For better or worse we must take her into our confidence. If by any chance she is the Moth – I do not exactly see her as a frog, do you? – it will only serve to make her fearful and then she will probably betray herself.'

‘But how could Elizabeth be the Moth?' John burst out.

Jago's foxy features looked sly as boots. ‘This is war, Mr Rawlings. You must not even trust your own shadow lest it betray you.'

‘That is becoming abundantly clear.'

There was a shout from outside the church door. ‘All done, Sir.'

‘Right you are,' called Joe. He stood up. ‘Come along, Mr Rawlings. We'll say goodbye here. The Runners will take the Scarecrow back to town, where his remains and his clothes will be examined. The cloak you found told us nothing, by the way. Meanwhile, I shall hire a man with a trap and appear in Winchelsea tonight, under cover of darkness. I shall go straight to The Salutation and book myself a room and in the morning I shall begin my investigations. My plan is that we meet from time to time – I shall get a message to you – to compare notes.'

‘And how do you suggest I go about asking questions?'

‘Your old ploy of the helpful apothecary, Sir. Now that you have met people it will be
de rigueur
' – Jago pronounced it “dee rigor” – ‘for you to call on them.'

‘You're right, of course.' John got to his feet. ‘I'll leave first.'

‘Tell the Brave Fellows I'll be with them as soon as you've gone.'