Death on the Romney Marsh (11 page)

‘Oh, I see. Well, Sir, the mysterious lady turned out to be none other than Elizabeth Harcross, widow of the profligate Jasper. She sent for me in great secrecy because she is under the impression that some enemy from the past is trying to kill her.'

‘And are they?'

John frowned. ‘Possibly, yes. Anonymous gifts of food and drink are left on her doorstep which she claims are making her ill. However, I sampled a bottle of wine donated in a similar manner and all it did was make me sing.'

Joe Jago cracked a laugh as did the Blind Beak.

‘How typical,' said the Magistrate. Then he grew serious. ‘None the less, it is a situation that should be watched. What do you intend to do?'

‘Return there when you have decided what action you want to take regarding the scarecrow.'

‘Um.' Mr Fielding fingered his chin, then turned to his clerk ‘What do you think, Joe? Should we leave our spying friend to the mercies of the village constable?'

‘No, Sir. Let's send a couple of Runners to bring him back here. The clothes should be examined, if nothing more. After all, we can give him a burial just as easily as anyone else.'

John's stomach churned. ‘His head is in a terrible condition.'

‘The Runners can clean him up,' answered the Magistrate cheerily. ‘But before we do anything, we must get this piece of paper to Dr Willes.'

The Apothecary's mobile brows rose. ‘Dr Willes?'

Mr Fielding laughed again. ‘Should we tell him, Joe?'

The clerk's foxy features vanished in a dried-out riverbed of wrinkles as he grinned scampishly. ‘Not all of it, Sir, no.'

Catching their mood, John's crooked smile appeared. ‘What don't I know? Who is this Dr Willes?'

The Blind Beak cleared his throat and suddenly looked immensely stern. ‘Have respect. We speak of the Decipherer to the King, Sir. A man of great importance whose name you must keep utterly confidential, you understand.'

The Apothecary's jaw dropped. ‘I was not-aware there was such a post.'

‘That is because you are young, my friend. Believe me, there is a Secret Department attached to the Post Office which was founded about the turn of this century and has been functional ever since, its task to open suspect mail and decipher coded messages. That is apart from the Secret Office which falls directly within the jurisdiction of the Secretary of State himself and is responsible for organising the secret agents or spies.'

‘I am frankly astounded. Why should there be the need for such things?'

Joe Jago broke in, tapping the side of his nose with his finger. ‘To garner information, Mr Rawlings. Governments need intelligence, and they are prepared to pay to get it.'

Mr Fielding shifted the papers on his desk and the other two men turned to look at him. ‘I suggest you take your find directly to Dr Willes yourself, Mr Rawlings. It is quite clearly time that you learned something of what goes on behind the scenes. But tell me first, have you breakfasted?'

‘Yes, thank you. As I told you, I rode straight from Fairfield to Hastings, a goodish way. But by going hell for leather I managed to catch the two o'clock post chaise. So, having arrived early this morning, I booked a room in one of the inns and got a few hours' sleep and some food before I came here.'

‘Very sensible. Then would it suit you to visit Dr Willes immediately? Jago will write a letter of introduction and you can explain to the King's Decipherer exactly how you came across this document.'

‘I should be more than delighted. In fact, positively intrigued.'

‘Excellent. I shall order you some coffee while Joe puts pen to paper.'

‘I think I'd rather take a stroll, Sir. Twelve hours in a coach is enough to give anyone cramp.'

‘Indeed, indeed. Come back in half an hour, my friend, and all will be ready for you.'

Emerging into the cold unflattering brightness of London on a February morning, still dressed in the clothes he had worn for the last twenty-four hours and feeling desperately in need of a shave, was hardly the moment to run into the woman for whom John perpetually wanted to look his best. But fate was obviously in quizzical mood, for there she was. Wondering whether to hide in a doorway, but for all that longing to speak to her, the Apothecary hovered like a moth round a flame as Coralie Clive walked in his direction, clearly not yet having seen him.

John's heart beat faster as she drew nearer and he felt his mouth go dry. Then, telling himself not to be a fool, he bowed low, horribly aware that the sleeve of his coat, obviously put under a strain by the marathon ride he had undertaken yesterday, ripped as he did so.

‘Good heavens,' said Coralie, her voice rippling with amusement, ‘if it isn't Mr Rawlings.'

He felt instantly irritated. ‘I had thought we were on first name terms by now, Miss Clive.'

Her green eyes, bright as emeralds and easily as sparkling, gave him an enigmatic look. ‘Of course we are. I apologise for being so formal.'

‘Then why were you?'

‘Because you are such a strange young man.'

‘What do you mean?' asked John defensively. ‘I studied hard for my profession, I have a shop of my own which is doing very well. I am a model of rectitude. How dare you call me strange!'

Although he was annoyed, laughter was only a breath away, as always with her. In fact every emotion he had for her – love, desire, adoration even – constantly fizzed beneath the surface like a glass of champagne and was just as difficult to control.

She slipped her arm through his. ‘I have not seen you for an age, my friend. What have you been up to?'

‘Not a great deal, that is until now.'

‘Why? What has happened? No, don't tell me. We meet in Bow Street. You are once more involved with Mr Fielding and one of his inquiries.'

John nodded. ‘You guess correctly.'

Coralie laughed. ‘You look as if you might be.'

He was falling in love with her all over again and the Apothecary took an iron grip on his affections, knowing the extent of her power to hurt him. Indeed, had it not been for Coralie Clive's avowed intent to become as celebrated an actress as her sister, Kitty, John would long ago have proposed marriage.

‘I take it from that remark that you noticed I haven't shaved.'

‘Something of that sort. Oh my dear, you look a positive ruffian.'

‘That's because I am one.'

‘How you do surprise me!'

‘Do I?' said John, and without another word he kissed her deeply on the mouth, there in Bow Street, in full view of the passing populace.

Mad thoughts went through his mind. Of taking her straight to his home and going to bed with her, of throwing her into a hackney coach and driving to a church where the parson would marry them, of simply offering her his hand and heart for evermore. But John, perhaps to his credit, perhaps not, did none of those things, somehow wanting Coralie to make some gesture indicating that she was as strongly attracted to him as he was to her. Her response to him was warm enough, returning his kisses with ardour, not fighting him off as she so easily could have done.

‘Do you care for me at all?' he heard himself whisper.

‘Of course I do. I consider you a very dear friend.'

‘For God's sake, Coralie,' he answered roughly. ‘Please don't mince words. Now that Richmond is off the scene, I thought you might regard me differently.'

She drew away from him. ‘The Duke and I were companions, that is all.'

‘You mean you didn't sleep with him?'

Now he had made a mistake. Kissing in public might be one thing, but questioning her about a past relationship was another. Coralie positively smouldered.

‘How dare you quiz me about what I do? What gives you that right?'

A little light-headed through lack of sleep, the Apothecary answered recklessly, ‘The fact that I am totally besotted with you.'

‘Besotted?' repeated the actress with contempt. ‘Old men are besotted with chitty little girls. Married women are besotted with their husband's apprentices. Couldn't you find a better word to describe what you feel?'

‘Oh, for the love of Heaven,' shouted John, losing his patience, ‘I adore you. Is that any better?'

‘No, it isn't,' stormed Coralie Clive. ‘You lust for me, that's the truth of it, John Rawlings. Love simply doesn't enter into it. Good morning to you.' And with that she turned on her high red heel and marched off towards Drury Lane without another word.

John stared after her rigidly retreating back, swore an evil oath and kicked a pile of refuse flying, then stalked back into the Public Office, his face bleached with fury.

And he was in no better frame of mind when he stormed into his home in Nassau Street, banging into the hall and clattering through the house like a tempest.

Sir Gabriel's head appeared over the first-floor banisters. ‘Good God, boy, I thought we were under attack. Whatever are you doing?'

‘Nothing,' John answered angrily.

‘I can only presume that something has gone wrong, judging from the fact that you are back from Winchelsea so soon and that your expression's black as thunder.'

‘This face I must see,' said a female voice, and to John's astonishment Serafina de Vignolles, the woman with whom he had once been totally infatuated, her daughter, and John's god-daughter, Italia, toddling beside her, came on to the landing from the first-floor salon.

‘My dear friend,' she called down. ‘You look so troubled. Whatever has happened to you?'

Milking the situation, the Apothecary cast his features into an expression of deepest gloom. ‘What has not!' he answered dramatically.

‘That means a woman is involved,' said Sir Gabriel with asperity. ‘Come and join us, my son. We are having some champagne prior to dining early for the benefit of Italia.'

‘And how is my god-daughter?' said John, running up the last few steps and snatching the child up into his arms.

She was a beautiful little creature, with an abundance of her father's lustrous black hair tumbling in curls on either side of a roses-on-snow complexion. Little seed-pearl teeth showed when she smiled and her body, secure against John's shoulder, already had the strong supple feel of Serafina's about it.

‘I am fine,' answered Italia with composure, and gave the Apothecary a bussing upon his cheek. ‘You're very hairy,' she added.

‘And that is not the first time I've been told that today,' he replied grimly.

‘Has Coralie Clive been misbehaving again?' asked Serafina, looking acute.

‘Indeed she has,' said John with feeling, and settling himself by the fire took the glass handed to him by Sir Gabriel.

Suddenly it was very good to be at home again and in the company of those who cared for him, all listening attentively, even the child, to the tale he had to tell.

‘So,' said John's father, when his son had finished, ‘it seems that you have had a most adventurous time. I can hardly credit that Mrs Harcross has returned and now considers herself to be in danger. Who would want to do such a thing to so lovely a woman?'

‘She believes an old friend of Jasper's – or one of the others.'

Serafina shook her head. ‘I can't agree with her. All the vengeance in that terrible situation was played out long ago. As for Jasper's many women, they have all gone their different ways.'

‘You say your spy had a coded message upon him,' put in Sir Gabriel.

‘Yes, I am to take it to the King's Decipherer later today.'

‘And who might that be?'

‘I am not at liberty to divulge. Mr Fielding gave me a name and an address but asked me not to pass it to anyone.'

Sir Gabriel rubbed his thin and elegant hands together. ‘What splendid stuff this is. There's nothing better than a good tale of spies in my view. Why, I remember when the Young Pretender marched south in ‘45, London was full of Jacobite sympathisers. Everybody believed everybody else to be a secret agent for the Bonny Prince. It was all enormous fun.'

‘Some people took it very seriously,' the Apothecary answered severely.

‘As did I,' Sir Gabriel replied without a flicker.

In this manner they chatted on until, after John had gone to wash, shave and change into clean and more fashionable attire, they went in to dine. Then their amusement came from watching Italia attempting to imitate the eating habits of her elders, even down to the way her mother dabbed her curving lips with a napkin.

‘Why, she's as like you as if you had spat her out of your mouth,' said John.

‘In manner, yes. In looks I think Italia favours her French ancestry.'

‘She already has your elegance.'

‘Thank you,' Serafina answered, and shot the Apothecary a look in the depths of which was all the old affection she had felt for him.

Without thinking, John said, ‘I wish Coralie were more like you.'

‘She really upset you this morning, didn't she?'

‘Yes.'

‘My son,' put in Sir Gabriel, ‘may I give you a little advice?'

‘Please do.'

‘As best you can, forget that lady. If she cares for you at all she will one day start to realise that acting alone is not enough to satisfy her, then she will come to you and tell you so. If, however, she is not your destined consort, she will turn to someone else when that moment arrives. Therefore, the best thing you can do is let the earth revolve, let time pass, and enjoy life as fully as you can without her.'

‘You're right, of course,' said John, with a certain reluctance.

‘Indeed he is,' stated Serafina. She looked at her daughter, who was drooping a little. ‘Sirs, I must take my leave of you. The effort of behaving impeccably has tired Italia out. My coach is in the mews, John. May my coachman take you to your destination once he has set us down?'

‘I suppose that would be in order, provided he does not know upon whom I'm calling.'