Death on the Romney Marsh (36 page)

‘His carriage is round in the yard. I requested all the gentlemen of town to celebrate my recent success, and you would have been top of the list, old friend, had I but known that you were returned from London.'

‘Thanks for the invitation. I'll join you later,' John answered, turning to the Captain who was now being violently sick beneath a tree.

‘Come on, Sir,' he called. ‘I'll take you home. I don't want you getting into any more scrapes.'

‘I won't have her insulted,' Nathaniel answered thickly, wiping his mouth.

‘You made that obvious,' John answered mordantly. ‘Now, sit down on that stump a moment while I go and get your carriage.'

Five minutes later they were on their way. Between them, the Captain's coachman and the Apothecary had managed to heave Nathaniel into his conveyance, leaving the window open in case of accidents.

‘I've never seen him so bad,' said the driver, shaking his head and clucking his tongue.

John decided to take the most tremendous chance. ‘Ah well,' he said with a sigh, ‘Miss Rosalind's wedding is only a few weeks away now.'

The coachman shot him a penetrating glance. ‘I didn't know he'd told anyone.'

‘I'm a medical man,' the Apothecary answered, as if that explained everything.

‘But even doctors can't mend broken hearts,' the driver answered pithily, then climbed on to his box and cracked his whip.

Captain Pegram had reached the weeping stage and by now had started to sob in earnest. ‘I can't help myself,' he moaned, more to himself than to his fellow passenger. ‘I still love her, God help me. I would kill for her, you know.'

‘I don't think that will be necessary,' John answered crisply. ‘It seems to me that Miss Tireman has a very rosy future ahead of her.'

The Captain ignored him and continued his monologue. ‘She was still a child when I fell in love with her. Only fifteen years old and as beautiful as if she'd just stepped out of a morning rose. Of course, I acted like a man of honour. Nothing took place between us until …'

‘Yes?' said John, agog.

‘Until …' Captain Pegram's head fell forward and he let out a mighty snore.

‘'Zounds and 'zounters!' the Apothecary exclaimed angrily, certain that he had been on the brink of an important revelation. ‘Until when, man?'

But Nathaniel had lost consciousness, deep down in a drunken sleep from which it appeared he would not be surfacing for several hours.

‘Damnation!' John swore, realising only too well that he might never have such an opportunity to talk freely with Captain Pegram again.

The party, which had obviously been in full swing for several hours, was just beginning to show signs of flagging when he returned to The Salutation. Several people had gone and only Lucius, together with Marcel Gironde and Sir Ambrose Ffloote sat together on a settle, still quaffing ale.

‘John,' called the Irishman delightedly, as the Apothecary walked into the taproom. ‘Come and join us.' His wild blue eyes were blazing and his grin was huge, but he seemed very far from tipsy. Like so many men of his nation, Lucius was clearly well able to hold his drink.

‘Gladly,' said John, bowing to the two others before taking his seat.

‘How is the Captain?' the Irishman continued.

‘Unconscious. His servants carried him indoors and his valet was about to undress him when I left.'

Lucius winked a marvellous eye. ‘Oh, the troubles we inflict on ourselves eh? Women and all.'

‘Women and all,' John echoed with feeling.

The Irishman banged his tankard down on the table. ‘I'm tired of all this ale. Let's move on to some decent wine.'

Marcel shook his head, standing up, his words slurring very slightly. ‘Thank you, no. I must return to my beloved wife. There is much to be done this day and the dinner hour approaches,' he added enigmatically.

The Squire, however, remained where he was. ‘No point in my going. Faith has got one of her migraines again and won't eat a thing.'

‘Well, I'm dining here,' Lucius announced. ‘Why don't you two good people join me?'

The generosity was typical of him but John said, ‘Provided we all pay our own way, that sounds a very good suggestion.'

‘Hear, hear,' chortled Sir Ambrose, clearly delighted to be able to extend this enjoyable social occasion.

‘I'll accede to your wishes if it's the only way of keeping your company,' Lucius answered cheerfully, and the three of them made their way into the dining parlour.

Three hours later they were still at table, the Irishman and Sir Ambrose having consumed a great deal of wine and port. John, though, had drunk little, having such a feeling about him that his time in Winchelsea was drawing to its conclusion, and that he must bring the signalling spy to book within the next day or two, or risk losing him or her for ever. With this idea uppermost in his mind, the Apothecary planned to take the horse, Strawberry, out as soon as it was dark and scour the cliff tops, riding as far as Hastings if need be in pursuit of whoever had lured the French frigate on to the sandbank.

‘You're not drinking much,' Lucius commented, observing closely but at the same time pouring himself a large glass of Old Tawny.

‘I want to keep a clear head tonight,' John answered.

‘Why?' asked Sir Ambrose, rolling a tiny eye.

‘Paperwork,' the Apothecary answered vaguely.

‘No point,' the Squire stated baldly. ‘Life's too short. Eat, drink and be merry, that's my motto.'

‘I agree with you but on this occasion I intend to be abstemious.'

‘As you wish.' Sir Ambrose refilled his glass, muttering under his breath.

John presumed that the inaudible words were bound to be imprecations against those lily-livered enough not to get blind drunk at six o'clock on a late March afternoon, and thought what an old fool the man was. But the Squire surprised him.

‘Ought to be getting back,' he said, downing his port in one. ‘I've been away in Rye since I last saw you, Rawlings, and The Pup will have missed me. Care to walk with me?'

‘I certainly would.'

‘Weaklings,' said Lucius, with a cheery wave. ‘I'll have to finish the bottle m'self.'

‘I'm sure you'll manage,' John answered, and gave the Irishman a conspiratorial wink before following Sir Ambrose out of the dining room.

Outside, it was a cold evening and the two men walked briskly towards Paradise House.

‘Not going home yet?' the Squire asked, surprised.

‘No, I thought I'd hire a horse from Truncheons and go for a ride. I need a bit of exercise after so much travelling.'

‘Care to come in for a minute? I know Faith would like to see you, if she's up, that is.'

‘Just for a moment,' John answered, The Pup holding a fearful fascination for him.

The dog was asleep, however, and did not stir as they went into the living room, where it lay sprawled before the fire.

‘Always misses me terribly,' Sir Ambrose whispered. ‘Lives for me, does that animal. Puppy, Puppy,' he called. ‘Papa is home.'

The Pup slowly opened a rheum-laden eye, licked its festering chops, farted, and went straight back to sleep.

‘Papa's home,' the Squire bellowed again, applying the boot. ‘Get up, damn you.'

Most half-heartedly, The Pup staggered to its feet, wagged a feeble tail, then crashed to the floor again and closed its eyes.

‘Out of sorts,' Sir Ambrose said morosely.

‘Yes,' answered John, hardly able to control his mirth.

‘Well, Faith ain't around. Want a brandy, Rawlings? Keep out the cold.'

‘No, thank you, Sir Ambrose. I'd better get on with my ride or I can see myself deciding against being so foolhardy.'

‘Planning to go far?' the Squire asked, reaching for the decanter.

‘Just to Rye and back. Nothing too ambitious.'

‘Very wise. Goodnight, young man. I'll think of you as I warm my feet.'

From Paradise House to the livery stables was just a few yards, and John set off to hire the mild-mannered Strawberry from its somewhat surprised owner.

‘Riding tonight, Sir? There's a rough wind.'

‘Just getting a bit of activity after sitting in a chaise too long. I'll bring her back in a couple of hours.'

‘Very good, Mr Rawlings.'

It was a fool's errand, John thought, as he set off. The signalling spy might well remain within doors tonight. On the other hand his French masters could easily be trying to reach him after the fiasco of the grounded frigate, now impounded by the British navy and therefore lost to the war effort. Quite deliberately, John turned not to Rye but in the other direction, and cantered along towards Pett Level and Fairlight, his cloak billowing out behind him in the chill March wind.

He had not gone far when he heard other hooves at his back, though whether deliberately following or just coincidentally there he could not know. Taking no chances, John led the mare into a rough wooden shelter, for shepherds he supposed, and stood there quietly, peering out. A horseman went by, wearing neither hat nor wig, his hair flying out in a dark streak behind him. A few minutes later there followed another, this one with a tricorne pulled well down. With a familiar pricking of his thumbs John led Strawberry from their hiding place and went in pursuit at a quiet trot.

And then from out at sea, quite a fair way out, the Apothecary noticed, came a series of flashes: 54 902 659, he saw. Instantly John's visual memory recalled the pages of parchment that Dr Willes had shown him. Surely 54 had been ‘come' and 902 ‘in'? But what was 659? John frowned and creased his brow with effort and then it came to him. It stood for one of those words with multiple endings and could mean from, frost – or frog! That was it then: ‘Come in, Frog.' The French wanted to have words with the secret agent who had clumsily lost one of their ships for them!

John dismounted amd led his horse by the reins so that the noise of his approach would be minimal. But even as he advanced, a spout lantern began to flash from only a few hundred yards away.

John counted nine flickers and then the light abruptly and rather shockingly went out.

‘You bloody old fool,' said a low voice in French. ‘What the devil do you think you're playing at?'

‘Don't understand your lingo,' came the reply.

The voice spoke again, this time in English. ‘I'll give you lingo,' it said.

Cocking his pistol, John stepped out of the darkness. ‘Sir Ambrose Ffloote,' he said. ‘I am arresting you on behalf of the Public Office, Bow Street, on a charge of high treason, and possibly murder.'

‘Christ!' exclaimed the Frenchman and was on to his horse and off into the night before the Apothecary had so much as a chance to look at his face.

The Squire stared at John, frozen to the spot. Then he, too, leaped into his saddle with an agility born from years of riding to hounds. ‘Damn you!' he shouted. ‘Damn you, John Rawlings! Spying, maybe. But murder – never!' And, raising his pistol, he took careful and deliberate aim.

There could be little doubt that the people John had hired to decorate the smaller of the two saloons in the Town Hall had done a splendid job. Early spring flowers and greenery had been brought in and arranged in a rather wild abandoned manner, giving the air of a country ball. Candles shone everywhere, there were red hangings at the window, and the floor gleamed with beeswax. Food of the most delicious kind – succulent meats, tempting salads, crystal syllabubs and swaying jellies – was set on a table in an alcove, and there was a warming punch to combat the effects of the chilly March night.

John, finely dressed in cinnamon satin, a dark green waistcoat embroidered with violets and heartsease, all picked out in silver, looked fit to grace a London ballroom as did Elizabeth Rose, in a new gown of lilac lutestring with pearl decorations. Awaiting their guests, they toasted one another as they took a drink to keep out the cold.

‘To your coming back to us, safe and sound,' said Mrs Rose.

‘To your gracious hospitality,' John replied. ‘And to still being here.'

He had saved himself from the Squire's bullet, well aimed though it had been, by throwing himself flat on the ground, and in so doing had lost his quarry. Sir Ambrose had ridden off with a start of two minutes or so, and though John might have caught him up on the dark horse, on gentle Strawberry he stood no chance. The silliest spy of all had vanished into the night and, presumably, across the Channel in a fishing boat, for neither hide nor hair had been seen of him since.

In a way the Apothecary had been glad. Archetypal country squire though Sir Ambrose was, there had still been something likeable about the man, unfunny jokes and xenophobic attitudes into the bargain. But, of course, he had not been xenophobic at all. In fact, despite being too dense to learn the cipher, he had been quite clever. For who would have suspected him, of all people, of being a French sympathiser?

Picking up John's train of thought, Elizabeth said, ‘I wonder if poor little Faith will put in an appearance.'

‘I think she well might,' John answered. ‘I suspect her of being far more lively when Sir Ambrose is not around.'

‘Then let us hope he will never return.'

‘If he does he faces the rope. They hang traitors.'

Elizabeth shivered. ‘Just like they hanged Jasper Harcross.'

Wishing he had not said what he had, a call from the doorway came as a great relief to the Apothecary, instantly lightening the mood.

‘John, my friend, how are you?' said a voice with a delightful French accent. ‘How very kind of you to invite us from London. May I present my young cousin, Olivier?'

‘Of course,' answered the Apothecary, bowing, then warmly embraced the couple who were entering. ‘Serafina, Louis, how wonderful to see you.' He turned to the person with them and bowed once more. ‘My dear Sir, I am delighted to meet you.'