Death on the Romney Marsh (28 page)

‘Well glory be to God on high!' exclaimed Mr Delahunty. ‘If that isn't the king of all coincidences. That's where I'm heading m'self'. He chuckled infectiously. ‘I may as well cut through all formality as we're destined to be in each other's company for so many hours. Just call me Lucius, all of Dublin does.'

Shaking his head in bewilderment at the number of people heading for the Sussex coast these days, the Apothecary replied, ‘Then you must use my first name too.'

‘Oh, be assured I will, John. You may wager your very life on it.'

And with that rather odd turn of phrase, Mr Delahunty burst into song as they headed off in the direction of London Bridge.

Even the miserable old woman with a face like a fig was laughing by the time the four occupants of the post chaise disembarked at their journey's end, such was the effect of the sparkling company of Lucius Delahunty. John, whose acquaintance with the fellow had started somewhat inauspiciously, to say the least, found himself warming with each passing mile to the sheer charm of this inhabitant of the Emerald Isle, and by the time they reached The Swan coaching inn at Hastings was inviting Lucius to visit him in Winchelsea.

The Irishman stared, thunderstruck. ‘Well, now, if that isn't an even greater coincidence. Winchelsea is my destination, saints bless us all.'

It was the Apothecary's turn to stare. ‘But why are you going there? It's such a dull little town. Nothing ever happens.'

Which would be true if it weren't for the spies, the smugglers, and the poisoner, John thought.

Lucius grinned. ‘You might well ask such a question. But the fact is, my friend, I'm an artist. Yes, seriously. I've even sold a painting or two in my time. So I'm going to set up my easel and daub away, then hope I can sell a few of the finished products to the local inhabitants.'

‘Rather a strange choice of location, if I might say. Rye is far more picturesque.'

‘Ah, but I met a girl from Winchelsea once, name of Molly Malone. Irish as they come but living in England with some old relative or other. You wouldn't happen to know her by any chance?' John shook his head. ‘Oh, that's a terrible shame. Maybe she's moved on. After all, it was four years ago.'

‘So you're going there to look for her?'

‘Well, hardly that. Let's just say I had hoped to combine a bit of pleasure with business.'

Lucius stretched, clearly glad to be out of the confines of the carriage, and John thought that he was very much the Celtic type of Irishman with his long black hair and deep blue eyes. It was believed by many people that those particular looks came from the shipwrecked sailors of the Spanish Armada, driven ashore on to Ireland's West coast, though others again said that that theory was only folklore, that none of the Spaniards had survived the ordeal. The Apothecary kept an open mind on the subject, finding it hard to believe that not one of the mariners had lived on, spirited into the community by a willing local girl, there to vanish from prying eyes. And Lucius for sure had a certain exotic style which seemed to speak of an interesting ancestry.

The Irishman looked at his watch. ‘Great God in the evening, if it isn't ten o'clock. The rain must have delayed us. Well, I'm booking in here. What about you, John? Shall we have a few drinks before we retire?'

It was too tempting, particularly as the downpour, widespread throughout the south of England, had only just stopped and the night was damp and unappetising.

‘Yes, I'm your man. We can travel on to Winchelsea early in the morning.'

Handing their luggage to a lad, the two men proceeded inside, warming their hands at a welcoming log fire which burned in an inglenook in the ancient hostelry's hallway, then making their way into the guests' parlour, crowded with people at this particular moment, a confusion caused by the fact that the stage coach and another chaise had all arrived at the inn at roughly the same time. With not a seat to be had, John and Lucius leaned against the bar and quaffed ale, looking about them at the varied but cheerful company. And then the Apothecary's eye was caught by a familiar figure, sitting quietly in a dark corner, slightly hunched in his cloak, his hat pulled well down in a clear attempt not to be recognised.

‘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.'