Death on the Romney Marsh (33 page)

There was a sound at John's elbow and he turned to see Henrietta, looking rather pale, her clear eyes distinctly cloudy. The Apothecary bowed low. ‘Madam,' he said, and offered her his arm, which she swiftly took.

‘I can hardly believe this invitation,' she said in a low voice as they ascended the stairs together, Richard Hayman immediately behind.

‘Why is that?'

‘It seems such an extraordinary thing to do, to give a supper party following such a harrowing event. I wonder if Justin has taken leave of his senses.'

‘I doubt that. More probably he felt the spirit of camaraderie which we all experienced, working as a team on that beach. By the way, do you know who went for the Riding Officers?' he added casually.

‘I have no idea.'

‘How can I find out?'

‘By asking the Captain of Dragoons. Look, he's just coming in.'

And John stared down into the marble hall to see a tall man in military uniform making his way inside. The Dragoon saluted smartly when he saw Henrietta and called out, ‘Good evening, Miss Tireman.' She curtseyed in response and the Apothecary felt a pang of jealousy.

They had reached the top of the stairs and followed the throng into a stately saloon dominated by a fully lit chandelier which gleamed with a thousand candles, their reflection in the huge gilt-framed mirrors enhancing the crimson wallpaper and the wonderful windows looking out over the sleeping park.

‘Magnificent,' said John.

‘I'm glad you like it,' answered a voice at his ear, and there was the Marquis, dressed in black and scarlet, looking over his guests with an enigmatic eye.

Servants must have toiled up another, invisible, staircase while the company was assembling, for elegant silver-topped jugs of wine and glasses of gleaming crystal had been laid out, and there were clear signs of activity in the dining room which led off the saloon. Taking a glass from a liveried footman, the Rye coat of arms emblazoned on his coat, John drank deep, thinking he had earned his reward. Then he saw that Captain Pegram was approaching, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face. Remembering the scene in the campanile, the Apothecary adjusted his features into a mask of inscrutability.

‘Mr Rawlings,' said Nathaniel, hopping from one foot to the other in obvious embarrassment.

‘Sir.' John bowed civilly.

‘I am sorry I had to leave you so abruptly when you called the other day. A pressing engagement.'

The Apothecary adopted a puzzled expression, as if he could not quite recall the incident. ‘Now, let me see … Ah, yes. We were discussing the merits of Miss Rosalind's portrait at the time, were we not?'

The Captain frowned. ‘Yes. I told you then and I tell you now, I drew that picture from my imagination. But, damme, it's none of your damnable business anyway. I can have portraits of whomsoever I like in my own house.'

‘As long as they don't lay you open to blackmail,' John answered quietly.

‘And what do you mean by that, Sir?'

‘Merely that some unscrupulous person, knowing that you possessed such a thing, might threaten to reveal you to the Marquis. My advice to you would be to destroy it,' the Apothecary added, echoing the words he had heard spoken in the campanile.

But who had uttered them? Had the formidable Mrs Tireman, desperate to protect her daughter's honour in view of her forthcoming marriage, resorted to threatening the Captain? Or had Henrietta lied about losing her hat? Had she, perhaps to protect the Marquis rather than her sister, begged him to destroy the picture? Or could the beautiful bride, terrified of losing her great match, have been the woman in the bell tower? Or, John thought, could another female, perhaps a new and jealous mistress, have insisted that Nathaniel get rid of the revealing drawing?

The Apothecary looked round the room. Mrs Gironde, who had willingly gone to flirt with a total stranger, the Scarecrow, might well be having an adulterous affair. And he supposed, though without much conviction, that even Faith Ffloote could possibly do likewise. The only person he could safely discount, even though John believed he had detected a certain penchant for the Captain in her, was Elizabeth Rose, who had been fast asleep in her cottage at the time. Or had she? Just because she had retired for the night by the time the Apothecary returned from The Salutation didn't actually prove a thing.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, supper is served,' intoned a voice, and the Marquis, Rosalind shimmering on his arm, led the way into the dining room where a cold collation had been prepared and a seat had been laid at the enormous table for all those present.

Justin sat at the head with Mrs Tireman on his right and Lady Ffloote on his left, obviously showing his respect to the older ladies. Rosalind meanwhile took her place at the table's foot, flanked by her father and Sir Ambrose. John found himself seated halfway down, Mrs Finch on one side, Henrietta on the other, the Captain of Dragoons beyond her.

John, rather familiarly, leaned across his lady love, bowing his head and extending a hand. ‘Sir, may I take the liberty of introducing myself? John Rawlings, an apothecary from London. I was present on the beach tonight. Tell me, what do you think of such a remarkable happening?'

The Captain of Dragoons bowed and shook the offered fingers. ‘Grant, Sir. Matthew Grant. A most extraordinary occurrence, I agree.'

‘Is it your belief that the French frigate got on to the sandbank accidentally? Or do you think she was signalled in?'

Captain Grant shook his head. ‘It seems very unlikely that a crew of experienced sailors would run aground accidentally. I rather think they responded to a signal.'

‘But who could possibly give such a thing?'

‘An English secret agent trying to trap them, perhaps, or else somebody very foolish.'

‘I hadn't considered that,' John replied truthfully. He turned both ideas over in his mind, then asked, ‘Who rode to Rye and aroused the Riding Officers?'

‘Well, I didn't see the chap personally but I was told that it was a dark, youngish man with a strong accent of some kind.'

Lucius, thought the Apothecary.

‘What happened exactly?'

‘He went to the Customs House and told them there had been a French landing on the beach at Pett Level. Fortunately they believed him. The Riding Officers called out the Dragoons and we went off in force.'

‘And the man?'

‘Went without giving his name.'

Henrietta joined in. ‘What an odd thing to do.'

‘It wouldn't surprise me at all if he didn't have something to hide,' answered Captain Grant, gazing at her in what John could only think of as an extremely forward manner.

‘What do you mean, Sir?'

‘That he was an English secret agent wishing to remain anonymous.'

‘How very exciting!' Henrietta answered, clasping her hands together.

The Apothecary sat in silence, thinking that the Captain was probably right, that no honest citizen would vanish into the night having delivered a message of such great importance. And this train of ideas reminded him of the French master spy supposedly in their midst, and the extraordinary appearance of Louis de Vignolles in Hastings. Making a decision that after a few hours' sleep he would return there to try and seek out the Comte, the Apothecary concentrated instead on preventing the dashing Captain of Dragoons from monopolising the entire conversation, to say nothing of Miss Henrietta Tireman and her beautiful eyes.

The party did not break up until long after dawn, indeed the younger, more resilient people stayed on and had breakfast, somewhat to the annoyance of the exquisite Rosalind, John thought. Her beauty looked as fresh and flawless after a night without sleep as it did at any other time but there was a kind of irritation about her, as if she could no longer be bothered to entertain those members of the lower orders who were filling her intended bridegroom's house. Like many who had risen higher than the social strata in which they had been born, the younger Miss Tireman had developed into an arrant little snob.

Finally, though, the guests congregated in the half moon of the carriage sweep, waiting while the conveyances were brought round from the stables. And it was just at that moment, as he was preparing to mount the high step into the trap, that John saw a familiar figure making its way up the drive on horseback.

‘Good morning, Lord Rye,' called a cheery voice.

‘Good morning,' the Marquis called back, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

The figure drew closer and dismounted, leaving his easel and paints attached to the saddlebag. Then he bowed.

‘I'm a painter, my Lord. In the area to execute whatever commissions I am given. I thought you might like a picture of your house …'

Then he stopped dead as Rosalind stepped forward and took her betrothed by the hand.

‘… or of this beautiful woman, here. Great God in the dawning, but isn't she perfection.'

‘Lucius,' said John, aware that the Marquis was starting to frown.

The Irishman's head swivelled. ‘Holy Mary, but if it isn't yourself.' He gazed round the group, all of whom stood staring at him as if he were a freak at a fair. ‘Lucius Delahunty, ladies and gentlemen, artist to the gentry and nobility. Well, Sirs, which of you would like your portrait painted?'

‘I think, Mr Delahunty.' said Justin, regaining his humour, ‘that you should leave these good people alone for the moment. They have endured rather a long and difficult night. But if you would be so kind as to step inside, I most certainly would like to see some samples of your work.'

‘Gladly, my Lord,' Lucius answered promptly. He bowed low. ‘What the devil have you been up to?' he whispered to the Apothecary as he straightened up.

‘I think perhaps you know,' John muttered back.

An angelic expression of innocence crossed the Irishman's face. ‘Now how, my friend,' he answered with a broad wink, ‘could I possibly do that?'

So saying and with another sweeping bow and a wave to the assembled onlookers, Lucius Delahunty followed the Marquis and Rosalind into the gracious confines of Ravenhurst Park.

All John could think of was going to bed for a few hours and sleeping off the effects of such a remarkable night, but this was not to be. Just as Richard Hayman dropped him at the door of Petronilla's Platt, the post boy came trotting down the empty street, handing the Apothecary a letter bearing the seal of the Public Office in Bow Street. John broke it, unrolled the paper on which the letter was written, and surveyed the contents.

Sir, I write to You on a Matter of some Urgency and under the Instruction of the King's Decipherer. That Learned Gentleman requests Your Presence in London as soon as it is Convenient for You to Travel. In the Profound Hope that You will be Able to Comply, I remain, Sir, Your Obedient Servant,

J. Fielding

‘Oh no!' John groaned aloud.

But there was no escaping the fact. He had been summoned and that was that. Feeling decidedly the worse for wear, John quietly let himself into the house only to find that Agnes was bustling and banging about, singing very loudly as she did.

‘Agnes!' he remonstrated.

She jumped. ‘Oh, Sir, you startled me. Don't worry, the mistress is awake. I've just taken her a mess of eggs and a cup of chocolate.'

The Apothecary thought it sounded an unappetising combination but gave the simple soul a grateful smile none the less. ‘That was very thoughtful. Perhaps you might enquire if I could see her before I go.'

Agnes's plain face fell. ‘Are you off again, Sir?'

John sighed. ‘Yes, alas.'

‘When are you leaving?'

‘In the next thirty minutes or so. There's a post chaise departing from Hastings at noon but I want to get there early and have a look round.'

And see if there's any sign of Louis de Vignolles, he thought.

‘I'll tell Mrs Rose, Sir.'

In her days as a great actress, the former Mrs Egleton had no doubt received many an admirer déshabillé, but now she pulled a shawl round her shoulders as John went into her bedroom.

‘Well” he said, without preface, ‘I've found the poisoner.'

She sat erect, biting her lip with sudden strain. ‘Who was it? Not Cap—?'

‘No, not Captain Pegram. He may be up to all sorts of things but poisoning is not one of them.'

‘Then who—?'

John shook his head. ‘Not who, my dear, but what.'

Mrs Rose looked thoroughly perplexed. ‘Could you explain that?'

‘The poison was contained in the Elixir of Youth, Mrs Gironde's special brew. She's no apothecary and was using an ingredient dangerous to human life. So, Elizabeth, every time you tried to make yourself look younger you succeeded instead in making yourself ill. Anyway, I think all's well that ends well. Silly Nan is by now thoroughly nervous and is sworn to retrieve all existing bottles and make no more. I think I'll have to do the ladies of Winchelsea a service and bring them some of my wrinkle cream, a perfectly harmless substance that might even work.'

Elizabeth frowned, ‘Then who left those gifts on my doorstep?'

‘Probably people who genuinely wanted to help you, Nathaniel Pegram for one. It was all a terrible coincidence.'

‘Then I fetched you down from London for nothing.'

‘On the contrary. Had I not come the Scarecrow might still be keeping his lonely vigil and the activities of the Frog and the Moth would have continued unchecked.'

‘Are you any nearer knowing who they are?'

‘I have a notion about one of them but the other remains as big a mystery as ever.'

‘Are you going to tell me who it is?' Elizabeth asked, her eyes brightening.

‘No,' John answered firmly. ‘I most certainly am not.'

One hour later he was in Hastings, alighting at The Swan, the coaching inn at which he would pick up his conveyance to town. Having time to spare, the Apothecary strode into the parlour in which he had first seen Louis, only to find that it was almost empty, only a few travellers sitting there, waiting to journey on as he was. Having ordered a drink, John sat down to consume it and also to think.