Death on the Romney Marsh (6 page)

‘Yes, I suppose you're right.'

John and Henrietta sat in silence for a moment, thinking about the times that lay ahead, wondering how and when the savagery of war would end. And thus with their thoughts miles away were startled when the postillion riding the second team turned and tapped on the window with his whip.

‘Are you gentlemen armed?' he called through the glass.

‘I am,' John answered, ‘but I don't know about the others.'

He moved in his seat, pulling back the curtain which separated the two places, drawn earlier by the Squire when he decided to have yet another doze and consequently cutting Dr Hensey off from his other companions.

‘Are you both armed?' he called into the dimness.

His fellow travellers woke up abruptly, the doctor giving a small snug snore which he disguised with a cough, Sir Ambrose bellowing, ‘Who's there, dammit? What?'

‘It's John Rawlings,' the Apothecary answered quickly before the Squire leaped to his feet in alarm. ‘The postillion has just asked if we are carrying weapons.'

‘I am not,' answered Dr Hensey firmly. ‘It is my vocation to heal not to harm.'

‘Well, I'm armed to the teeth,' Sir Ambrose rejoindered with satisfaction. ‘Always travel with a pair of pistols, to say nothing of a sword. Why does he want to know?'

John turned back. ‘Yes, we are. Why?' he called through the glass.

‘Just heading through Tenterden, Sir. Rum place. Used to be a haunt of smugglers and there's word amongst the carriers that they're coming back. A stagecoach was stopped here a few nights ago, and it wasn't by highwaymen.'

‘Tally ho,' said Sir Ambrose, leaning forward so that his face appeared between John and Miss Tireman. ‘Let the bastards just try, that's all I ask. Shoot their heads clean orff, so I will.'

In the dimness John felt rather than saw Henrietta's grin and would have laughed had not every effort gone into keeping upright on his seat as, with a crack of whips, the two riders urged the horses to a frenzied pace as they charged through the small town, determined to stop for nothing.

‘Oh, my goodness, I'm sorry!' exclaimed Miss Tireman, as she was hurled against him, displacing the Squire who went sprawling on to the floor.

‘My pleasure entirely,' said John, and used the excuse to hold on to her tightly as the flying coach lived up to its name and crashed over the main track between the dwellings.

For a few frantic minutes, the occupants of the post chaise were thrown about like toys in a box, then the pace slowed and there was a cry of triumph from the two postillions.

‘We're through! But keep your weapons handy, gentlemen.'

‘Where are we going now?' called John.

‘We'll pick our way round Shirley Moor, then on to Appledore, Sir,' the postillion answered over his shoulder.

‘Will somebody help me up?' said Sir Ambrose plaintively, and for the first time since they met the Apothecary felt sorry for him, quite unable to get his balance and rolling round the carriage floor like an upturned beetle.

Dr Hensey recovered his equilibrium. ‘My dear Sir, pray allow me to give you a hand. You have sustained no injury I trust.'

‘M'leg feels a bit the worse for wear. I think I cracked my knee as I went down.'

Somewhat reluctantly, his better nature winning the day, the Apothecary released his hold on Miss Tireman and went to the Squire's rescue, somehow heaving him up and back on to his seat, all the while travelling at a lively pace across the rough terrain of the marshlands.

‘Permit me to examine the injured limb,' said the doctor, which the Squire, with a great deal of grunting, allowed him to do.

Henrietta looked up at her companion. ‘Mr Rawlings, if we drive over bumpy ways again, may I trouble you to hold me as you did before. I am quite certain it was your strong arm that prevented me ending up alongside Squire Ffloote. A fate I would not prefer,' she added in a whisper.

‘I should be delighted,' answered the Apothecary enthusiastically, and made a concerted effort to send Coralie Clive packing to the deepest recesses of his memory. Looking over the back of his seat, he saw that the doctor was now applying some lotion to Sir Ambrose's knee, prior to swathing it in a bandage. Meanwhile, the Squire was groaning a great deal and taking nips of brandy from a hip flask.

‘Very civil of you, Sir. Very civil,' he croaked, the first polite thing that John could recall him saying to the dapper little man of medicine.

‘No trouble, Sir Ambrose, I assure you. You have been badly shaken,' Dr Hensey replied.

‘You must come and dine with me and m'wife, so you must. How long will you be staying in Hastings?'

Dr Hensey shook his head. ‘I'm not sure. Sir. I have to attend a rather difficult patient, an extremely querulous invalid. The old lady will permit no other physician near her except myself. Depending on her condition, my visit could be as brief as a day or as long as a week. I am in the lap of the gods.' He spread his hands.

‘Write to me when you know,' ordered Sir Ambrose, grunting as Dr Hensey deftly fastened the Squire's breeches back into place. ‘You shall be entertained royally. Indeed you will.'

‘Most kind, Sir. Most kind,' the physician answered, and John could not help but be glad that Sir Ambrose was treating Dr Hensey with a degree of courtesy at last.

He turned back to Miss Tireman. ‘This looks like marshland to me. Why is it called a moor?'

‘Heaven alone knows, for it's full of drainage ditches as you can see.'

And sure enough, illuminated by the light of a fitful cloud-flurried moon, John observed that the territory through which they were passing was slashed with ribbons of gleaming water, a maze of trenches used by the smugglers of earlier times to outwit pursuit, vanishing into them as Hereward the Wake had once done in the Fenlands of East Anglia in order to elude the Norman invaders.

‘The weather's going to change,' announced Miss Tireman.

John, having successfully imprisoned poor Coralie in a deep dungeon at the back of his brain, gazed at her entranced. ‘How do you know?'

‘It often happens in Kent, and in Sussex too, when one gets near to the coast. The cloud is thinning all the time. Soon it will be gone and it will be bright moonlight. Just you wait and see.'

‘What time do you think we will get to Winchelsea?'

‘About half past seven or thereabouts. In time for supper.'

‘I wonder if Mrs Rose will give me any?'

‘I should call on her tomorrow morning if I were you. Book yourself a room at The Salutation, Mr Rawlings. You will be comfortable there. Besides, they are known for their excellent food.'

‘Is the inn far from the Vicarage?' John asked boldly.

‘There is no Vicarage,' Miss Tireman answered, smiling to herself

‘Then where. …?'

‘I live in the Rectory, Mr Rawlings. And, no, it is but a short pace from The Salutation.'

‘Then I hope to have the pleasure of calling on you.'

‘Had you not invited yourself, I would have invited you,' Miss Tireman answered, then closed her eyes, signifying that the conversation was at an end.

The village of Appledore safely negotiated, the postillions set out on what John could only think of as a somewhat perilous route, for now they had left all habitation behind and were winding along a track through the marshland. Even a road covered by fallen trees would have been preferable to this, he thought, for other than a glimpse of an occasional isolated farm or remote inn there was no sign of life whatsoever. Suddenly he felt desperately alone, as if he were the only person left awake. Behind him, the snores of Sir Ambrose and Dr Hensey blended together in a strange duet of falsetto and bass, while beside him Henrietta Tireman slept as neatly as a dormouse, her head tipped over on to his shoulder, her body relaxed next to his. Even the postillions, weary now with the extra miles of their detour, seemed in a world of their own.

Henrietta's prediction about the weather had proved correct. Overhead an almost full moon shone brightly, the clouds blown away to reveal a mass of glittering stars in the jet black firmament. The rain had stopped completely, the wind was at dead calm. It was a landscape of unreality, drawn from legend. No human entity, or so it seemed to the Apothecary, was left alive. And then he saw something so incredible that he blinked his eyes in disbelief, while down his spine ran a chill of unease.

A man stood in the grasslands beyond the track, ignoring the sheep which grazed at his feet in the moonlight. A man in clothes so fine that one could have laughed at the incongruity of his setting had not the stillness of his stance struck such an awful note of fear. Behind the man and slightly to his right was an ancient church, oddly shaped and somehow hunched against the darkness. Before and all around him curved the marshland ditches, winding gashes of silver sparkling in the moonlight. John stared until his eyes hurt, wondering what any human being could be doing on such a night as this, so distant from habitation and standing so terrifyingly still. And then the Apothecary laughed harshly and Henrietta Tireman stirred beside him.

It was a scarecrow who stood there, he could see that now, the elegant clothes tattered and torn by the elements. Even the lace-trimmed tricorne hat, pulled well forward to hide the fact that the dummy had no face, had a slightly battered look. And yet its lifelike quality was extraordinary. So much so that John realised his heart was pounding and his mouth had gone dry with fright. As the coach continued down the track and the scarecrow passed out of sight, the Apothecary stared back over his shoulder for a final glimpse through the small window set in the door. But to no avail. The unearthly vision had vanished into the night.

Just under an hour later, by dint of making the best time they possibly could, the flying coach crossed the river Rother by ferry and passed rapidly through Rye, the noise of the cobbles beneath the horses' feet waking up the three sleeping passengers. And shortly afterwards they came to Winchelsea and were put down outside the church, John alighting first to help Miss Tireman and Sir Ambrose down the step. Dr Hensey stuck his head out of the window.

‘Goodbye to you all. It really has been a pleasure to travel with you.'

Thinking the man either a saint or an extremely tactful liar in view of Sir Ambrose's initial rudeness, John made a respectful bow. ‘Do look me up when you are in London, Sir.'

‘I intend to ask you to compound some physicks for me.'

‘I will be delighted to do so.'

The Squire broke into the conversation, jovial now that he was back on home territory. ‘Gentlemen, forget London. You shall meet again when I invite you to dine. Dr Hensey, please write to me as soon as you know your plans.'

‘I certainly will.'

The chief postillion, who by now looked ready to drop with fatigue, said, ‘We must go on, Sir. Neither horse nor man is fit for much more.' Then he brightened as John Rawlings handed him a generous tip on behalf of the departing passengers, a douceur to which Sir Ambrose had liberally contributed. ‘Well, goodbye, lady and gentlemen, we're at your service at any time should you require us.' And they were off into the darkness, leaving the three remaining to make their own way to their final destinations.

‘If you will wait while I secure a room at The Salutation I'll walk you home, Miss Tireman,' said the Apothecary hopefully.

‘Nonsense,' answered the Squire genially. ‘It is no trouble to me. The lady's route is the same as my own.'

Henrietta smiled her mercurial smile. ‘Gentlemen, I need bother neither of you. My Papa is always in church at this hour of the night, leading evening prayers for those who wish them. So, as we are almost at its very door, all I have to do is go down the path. That being the case, I'll bid you both farewell.'

She curtsied and would have turned to go had not John taken her hand to kiss it. ‘I shall call on you if I may,' he said.

She bowed her head so that her ridiculous feathers brushed her shoulder. ‘I hope I shall be in, Sir,' she replied, and, with only the merest backward glance, made her way into the ancient portals of St Thomas the Martyr.

It was the lucent sunshine of a late February day that woke John Rawlings the following morning. Leaping out of bed with one of the hare-like bounds that so often characterised his gait, the Apothecary threw back the shutters and stared out over Winchelsea, taking in the details of the houses and the pleasing symmetrical pattern in which the town was laid out. Then, almost of their own accord, his eyes were drawn towards the imposing church, and his thoughts straight to the delectable Miss Tireman. Had she, John wondered, located her father and returned to the Rectory in safety? Then he frowned as a picture of Coralie Clive came to mind and smiled sweetly at him.

‘Don't start any of that,' John grumbled aloud. ‘You've played fast and loose with me for too long, my girl. It's time for fresh fields and pastures new.'

The vision pulled a face and vanished, and the Apothecary turned to see the chambermaid standing in the doorway with a jug of hot water, staring at him, mouth agape. The girl hurried in, put the pitcher down, and fled, not stopping even to say good morning. With a grin, John turned to the mirror and started to shave, noticing as he looked at his reflection that his cinnamon hair had started to get long again, thus making it difficult for him to wear a wig. With a shrug he decided against putting it on, thinking that after all he was in a country town and the fashion codes of the metropolis no longer applied. None the less, he completed his rural ensemble with a very handsome burgundy velvet coat before sauntering down to breakfast.

Delighted to find that the landlord clearly shared the Apothecary's views on a hearty repast being the only way to start the day, John tucked in to a great plate of pickled sea trout and prawns, fresh caught that morning, or so he was informed, followed by a bowl of beef broth, and rounded the meal off with a gammon of bacon and three helpings of bread. With this he drank several cups of tea, thinking that it had probably been acquired through the good offices of Dick Jarvis, tax on the commodity being extremely high. Then, much refreshed, John set out to solve the mystery of the Voice from the Past.