Death on the Romney Marsh
Table of Contents
The John Rawlings Mysteries
DEATH IN THE DARK WALK
DEATH AT THE BEGGAR'S OPERA
DEATH AT THE DEVIL'S TAVERN
DEATH ON THE ROMNEY MARSH
DEATH IN THE PEERLESS POOL
DEATH AT THE APOTHECARIES' HALL
DEATH IN THE WEST WIND
DEATH AT ST JAMES' PALACE
DEATH IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
DEATH IN THE SETTING SUN
DEATH AND THE CORNISH FIDDLER
DEATH IN HELLFIRE
DEATH AND THE BLACK PYRAMID
DEATH AT THE WEDDING FEAST
ROMNEY MARSH
A John Rawlings Mystery
Deryn Lake
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First published in Great Britain by
Hodder and Stoughton 1998
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.
Copyright © 1998 by Deryn Lake
The right of Deryn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-44830-095-2 (epub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by Palimpsest Book Production Limited
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For LINDSEY DAVIS
with affection.
Olé.
As ever, people have been so kind and willingly given their time to assist me with this book. First, I must thank Mark Dunton of the Public Record Office who, on his day off, helped me go into the archives and find the Cipher of 1757, used by the secret agents of that time. Not only that, he also unearthed the facts behind the workings of the Secret Department and the Secret Office, to say nothing of discovering the legendary Dr Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells and Decipherer to the King. Next I would like to thank Lt Colonel Henry Dormer, former mayor of Winchelsea, who opened up the town's museum especially for me and also loaned me a precious book on Winchelsea's history. I am most grateful, too, to the Reverend Lindsay John Hammond, Vicar of Appledore and also of the remote churches of the Romney Marsh, who helped me so much with the background to St Thomas à Becket, Fairfield, and St Augustine, Brookland. As always I am in the debt of P.C. Keith Gotch of the Metropolitan Police Thames Division for discussing the state of the victim's body with me. Keith is a mine of information and I am very lucky to be able to call on his expertise. Finally let me thank Maureen Lyle and John Kerr, who stoically tramped the Romney Marsh with me, even through the snow. Last but not least my gratitude to fellow writer Keith Miles, always ready to help and advise.
As soon as the Magistrate had taken his seat, those who crowded the public benches did likewise. âBring up the prisoner,' called Joe Jago, the clerk of the court, and there was a general drawing in of breath as a handsome lad with straw coloured hair, well set-up in his person, and with nothing to condemn him except the dirtiness of his face, was brought to stand at the bar facing the clerk and, on a higher level, the Magistrate, John Fielding himself.
âRead the charge,' ordered the Beak.
âThat the prisoner, Nathanial Hicks, did on Epiphany Day, throw at a cockerel at a fair, thus breaking the directive of the Justices of the Peace as given last 1st March, 1756.'
âHow plead you?' the Magistrate asked crisply.
Hicks looked round the court and gave what John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane, present at this hearing, could only think of as a small snigger of satisfaction. âGuilty,' he said, and from certain quarters there came a murmur of amused admiration at his bravado.
The Apothecary shuddered. He lived in an age of horrible cruelty which sickened him, and he could only be glad that people like William Hogarth, the artist, were making a positive stand against the monstrous treatment meted out to defenceless animals by so-called humans. To him, the good-looking young man standing at the bar now wore an evil leer.
Mr Fielding's words ripped into the ensuing silence. âOrders have been given to prevent that barbarous and inhuman custom, for I should blush to call it a diversion, of throwing at cocks on Shrove Tuesday and other festive days. What cowardice in a brave nation, to see a fellow of six foot high throwing a monstrous stick at a poor inoffensive animal, tied to a stake to prevent its escape from the wanton cruelty of its unequal adversary! How inhumane the devices of the boys to whom these creatures belong, who have been seen to put them into hats, after the poor animals' legs, thighs, etc. have been broke, to have their brains knocked out. Surely this is highly inconsistent with that charity, compassion and benevolence, which foreigners observe to be the characteristics of our country. Query, would not these tall young fellows before mentioned make a more comely figure with a musket on their shoulders? For we are now a nation at war and let that not be forgotten. I sentence you to three months in Newgate, Nathanial Hicks, and may the press gang be waiting at the door when you come out.'
âHuzzah!' shouted the Duke of Richmond patriotically, and there was a further murmur, this time of approval. The mood of the court had swung. What right had able-bodied young men to be hurling missiles at cockerels when they should be doing so at the French? Amidst hisses, the glowering Hicks was led away, and the afternoon's work continued.
The Apothecary ceased to concentrate, thinking instead about the extraordinary fact that Britain was once more engaged in hostilities, not only with its neighbours across the Channel but also with Austria and Russia, banded together in a formidable alliance with Sweden and Saxony. The whole sorry business had started the previous August, 1756, when Prussia had resisted Austria's attempts to regain Silesia, lost to the Austrians eleven years before. After that opening defensive action there had been a rush to join one side or the other, each country entering for its own hidden reasons. Yet here in London, other than for more visible signs of the press gangs round the riff-raff hostelries, the public at large were hardly affected by the outbreak of war and life went on very much as it had before.
On this particular day, however, it being a vaporous February, the streets of London dank with fog and the squares and crescents hushed and silent, lying beneath shrouds of ghostly mist, the
beau monde,
those butterflies of society whose pleasure it was to parade forth in bright colours to see and be seen, were for once quite noticeably absent from the walkways of the capital. Normally, people of rank and quality sallied abroad before the hour to dine, observed loosely at any time between two and five, to visit shops, auction rooms, coffee houses, or to call one upon the other. But this specific afternoon, the risk of exposing their fine garments to the damp spirals of clinging haze had clearly sent them into mutual alarm, and they had consequently sought to waste their vapid time elsewhere. Thus when John Rawlings had set foot in the Magistrate's court, located next door to the Public Office in Bow Street, he had found it packed with sightseers. For watching justice meted out by a blind man was considered good sport by those with little else to do with their lives. Shaking his head with a certain wry amusement, John had squeezed his way along the back of the three wooden benches which ran on either side of the courtroom on the ground floor and found himself a very small perching place.
Above his head, the gallery was crammed, and the Apothecary had recognised several faces, particularly that of the Duke of Richmond, who had grinned and waved his tricorne hat. John waved back, but no further exchange of greeting had been possible for it was at that moment that the Principal Magistrate, Mr John Fielding, known to the masses as the Blind Beak, the switch that he always carried into court to help him find his way twitching before him, made his entrance. Everybody rose as with the aid of his clerk, Joe Jago, the Magistrate had walked to his high chair and sat down.
From his uncomfortable vantage point, John had gazed with affection at the man who over the last three years he had grown to respect and admire almost more than any other. It had been a death that had brought them together in the early summer of 1754, the death of a young woman whose body John had found in the pleasure gardens at Vaux Hall. He had been briefly suspected of the crime but had gone on to become John Fielding's friend and confidant, and help him bring the real killer to light. Since then he had assisted the Blind Beak twice more, and was now fondly regarded as an unofficial Beak Runner, that name given to those officers of the court whose duty it was to apprehend criminals. Yet by calling, John was a herbalist who practised his trade from his shop just off London's Piccadilly.
The Apothecary shifted in his cramped position, then realised that Mr Fielding was speaking again.
âAs there are so many members of the public gathered here today, may I take this opportunity to remind you of the situation regarding the joining of His Majesty's forces and marines. Volunteers are given £3. However, the press gang's quarry are all able-bodied, idle' â the Magistrate paused and let his sightless eyes, hidden from view as always by a black bandage, turn in the direction of the gallery and benches â âand disorderly persons who cannot, upon examination, prove themselves to exercise and industriously follow some lawful trade or employment, or to have substance sufficient for their support and maintenance. Those sought for impressment are males aged between seventeen and forty-five, who are fit and stand not less than five feet four inches in their stockinged feet.' The Blind Beak rose to reveal that he himself stood well over six feet tall. âI thank you for your attention,' he said by way of dismissal. âThe court is adjourned until tomorrow.'
As he proceeded out, so too did the onlookers, jostling in the entrance that led them to Bow Street. John went with the throng, his intention to walk the few steps back to the Public Office and from there climb the stairs that led to Mr Fielding's private apartments. For tonight he had been invited to dine with the Fielding family; a small one consisting of the Magistrate, his wife Elizabeth, and their adopted daughter Mary Ann, who was in reality the couple's niece. Quite how this adoption had come about John had never been certain, though he had a suspicion that the child might have been born out of wedlock to one of Mrs Fielding's sisters.