Death on the Romney Marsh (2 page)

He was thinking about this when he felt a hearty clap on his shoulder, and saw that Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond, was waiting in the fog to have a word with him.

‘Rawlings, my dear soul, how are you?' Not bothering to wait for a reply, the nobleman rattled on, ‘This war business is mighty upsetting, ain't it? Quite put me out of countenance, so it has. I've been asked to volunteer some of my manservants for the army. Damned inconvenient, in view of my plans.'

‘What plans?' asked the Apothecary with a sudden lurch of his heart.

The Duke winked a dark, saturnine eye and for a moment looked exactly like his ancestor, Charles II. ‘Marriage,' he whispered loudly.

John Rawlings quite literally felt sick, having nursed for some considerable time a passion for the beautiful actress Coralie Clive, a passion never consummated but for all that strong enough to make him feel ill at the thought that she might be about to marry Richmond, another of her many admirers.

‘Who is the fortunate woman?' he managed to ask, his voice a croak, at least to his own ears.

Charles Lennox winked again. ‘I'd best not say, as yet. The fact is that I still haven't proposed to her and I think she should be the first to know, don't you?'

The Apothecary fought an overwhelming desire to hit him. ‘Then let me try to guess,' he said, forcing a laugh.

‘I shan't tell you, even if you're right.'

‘Do I know her?' John persisted.

‘Maybe, maybe not,' the Duke teased, clearly enjoying himself.

‘Oh, come now, surely you can trust me to keep your secret.'

‘I judge everyone by my own standards, my friend, and consequently rely on none. Anyway, why is it so important to you?' He narrowed his eyes and stared at the Apothecary suspiciously.

John could feel himself growing wretchedly uncomfortable beneath Charles's perceptive gaze and was positively relieved when somebody bumped against him, clearly not seeing him in the haze.

‘Beg pardon, Sir,' said a woman's voice.

‘Not at all,' he called after her retreating figure.

The Duke, seizing his opportunity to end a conversation which had clearly become tedious to him, said, ‘Well, I must be on my way. Dining with Marlborough, y'know.'

John, still gazing after the female, who had by now vanished in the mist, wondering whether she looked vaguely familiar, turned back to his companion and stared him straight in the eye. ‘Is Coralie Clive your intended, Sir?'

Charles Lennox guffawed. ‘Oh, so that's the way of it, is it? I suspected as much. No, she ain't. But you're a brave man to chance your arm there, my friend. Miss Clive thinks more of her acting than she does of any chap alive.'

‘I know,' said the Apothecary ruefully.

The Duke threw an arm round his shoulders. ‘But I wish you well of her. One of these days she'll come round to realising what she's missing.'

‘I sincerely hope so.'

‘But until she does, may I give you a word of advice?'

‘Please do.'

‘Play the field, my friend. It can be a very exciting pastime.'

‘I might just do that,' John answered as he gave a polite bow of farewell and made his way into the Public Office.

As always, John Fielding received his guest in his spacious salon, its curtains closing out the February fog, a fire of both coal and wood driving away any bodily chills. The Apothecary gladly took the seat opposite that of his host and accepted the glass of hot punch which Mary Ann, sitting on the floor by her uncle's feet, poured out for him. She was a pretty little thing, very composed and self-sufficient, and at the age of almost thirteen starting to lose the roundness of childhood, exhibiting clear signs of the beautiful woman she would one day become. John, who had always liked her, considering her well behaved and unspoiled, gave her a warm smile.

‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, I do like the way you do that,' said Mary Ann, impulsively rising to give him a kiss on the cheek.

‘Do what?' asked the Apothecary, puzzled.

‘Smile. Your mouth goes quite irregular when you do so. Up at one side only. It is most amusing.'

‘I'm glad that I please you.' He made a small bow from where he sat.

‘You are quite the prettiest man alive,' Mary Ann continued, laughing.

‘Enough!' said John Fielding, though his voice was not angry. ‘You are an impudent imp. Begone, before you feel the palm of my hand.'

The child laughed all the more, obviously not in the least afraid of her uncle or his empty threats. ‘Very well. Good evening, gentlemen,' she said saucily, and left the room, staring at John over her retreating shoulder.

‘She's growing up,' commented the Apothecary.

‘A mite too quickly.' The Blind Beak sighed. ‘Elizabeth says that the child is turning into a fine beauty. Is that so, or is it just an aunt's fond wish?'

‘No, it's true enough. Another few years and you'll have every suitor in London knocking on your door.'

‘Perish the thought. But enough of the girl. How are you, Mr Rawlings? How do you fare?'

‘Well enough. Though I declare that I long for a little excitement. Do you realise, sir, that it is almost two years since that sad business at The Devil's Tavern?'

‘Is it really? Good gracious!'

John nodded, even though his companion could not see him, once again endorsing the fact that everyone who knew him treated the Blind Beak exactly as if he were sighted.

‘I realise that much has been happening at the Public Office, what with your many reforms, to say nothing of the criminal cases. But meanwhile I have been living quietly, compounding my simples, instructing my apprentice—'

‘How is young Nicholas?' Mr Fielding interrupted.

‘Never better, Sir. Recovered from the difficulties of his early years and completely restored to the full vigour of youth. Though he will always be thin, in my view.'

‘And his work?'

‘Excellent. He has a natural feel for the use of herbs. You did me a service on the day you introduced him to me.'

The Blind Beak nodded. ‘I am very glad to hear it.' He sipped his punch and then relapsed into silence, sitting so still that he looked almost as if he had fallen asleep. But this was an old trick of his and John, observing his host closely, was certain that behind the calm facade one of the most active brains in the kingdom was working hard. Eventually the Magistrate spoke again. ‘We must all keep vigilant, Mr Rawlings.'

‘What do you mean, Sir?'

‘I speak of the political situation. Britain has entered this war ostensibly because our Hanoverian monarchs have been linked to the Hohenzollerns of Brandenberg – the Prussians, in short – by more than one generation of dynastic ties. However, that is not the real reason at all.'

‘No?' John knew better than to voice any opinion of his own at this stage of the discussion.

‘No. The true motive of the British government was to go to war to stop the growing imperialism of their old enemies across the Channel. Both the French and British navies have long been vying for control of the seas, while higher powers struggle for mastery of the newly discovered territories in the East and West. In short, both sides have been spoiling for a fight and now the opportunity has been given to them.'

‘I understand that. But why should that make us go on our guard?'

‘Beware of spies,' answered the Magistrate succinctly. ‘They'll be swarming across that small stretch of water which divides us by the boatload, mark my words. Adding to the number already here, of course.'

‘Already here?' repeated the Apothecary, his incredulity obvious.

The Magistrate lowered his voice and leaned forward, gesturing to John to do likewise. ‘I am perfectly serious, Mr Rawlings. I have recently had private communication with Mr Todd of the Secret Department, whose contention it is that a powerful spy is even now working out of London.'

The Apothecary's lively eyebrows shot upwards.

‘It is his belief that the man has been in town for some time, before hostilities even, and that his activities are masked by a most respectable position in society,' the Blind Beak went on.

‘But why should a French spy – he is French I presume?' – Mr Fielding nodded – ‘be active in peacetime?'

‘Because there is much that takes place. Deployment of troops, designs of government, to name but two. It would be a spy's duty to discover as much as he could about such things and report his findings back to his masters. Of course, in contrast, there are some foreign agents residing here who do little other than take their money. Mr Todd referred to them as “the sleepers”.'

‘Are you saying, then, that there is a network of spies in this country?' John asked in astonishment.

The Blind Beak refilled both punch glasses as adeptly as if he could see. ‘Perhaps a network would be stating the case too strongly. Shall we simply say a skein of people, probably unaware of each other's existence, who for some reason or another, maybe a straightforward lack of funds, have agreed to act as lookouts for our enemies across the Channel.'

The Apothecary drank deeply. ‘I am amazed. I had no idea.'

Mr Fielding laughed his melodic laugh. ‘You hinted earlier that you were bored, my friend. So here's a task for you. Find a spy and tell the Secret Department of it. But be warned, don't make a fool of yourself in the process.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘During the time of the Jacobite rising, a cousin of my father's believed everyone he met to be a traitor and spent his entire life reporting his friends for Jacobite activities. In the end, they got so angry with him – for these people were all quite innocent, let me hasten to assure you – they bundled him off in a hackney coach, threw a hood over his head, stripped him naked, and left him tied to the railings in Hyde Park for all the world to see.'

The Apothecary pulled a wry face. ‘What a terrible fate! I have taken due warning.'

‘Quite right,' said the Blind Beak, and stood up to escort his guest into dinner, led by the servant who had come to announce that the meal was served.

It wasn't until he was in the confined space of a sedan chair, one of the few playing for hire on such a foggy night in town, that John felt the object in the pocket of his cloak. It had not been there earlier when he had walked from his shop to Bow Street, of that he was certain. But now, drawing it out in the dimness, he saw that it was a letter and could just make out the words ‘Mr John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane', written in a fine flowing hand on its exterior. Wondering when it could possibly have been thrust into its hiding place, and whether Mr Fielding knew anything about it, John closed his eyes, aware that he would make nothing of it in the dark interior of the chair and that he must wait until he got home.

He lived in Nassau Street, in the parish of St Ann's, Soho, sharing a home with his adopted father, Sir Gabriel Kent and, in the custom of the time, his apprentice, Nicholas Dawkins, a boy of exciting ancestry who claimed descent from a member of the court of Tsar Peter the Great, and who had consequently earned himself the nickname of the Muscovite. This entirely male household was strengthened even further by a complement of male servants.

‘A maid could never protect her virtue in such surroundings,' Sir Gabriel had announced firmly, though from whom he had not specified.

However, there was nothing austere or staid about either the house or its occupants, Sir Gabriel himself being considered one of the finest-looking men in town and his son a positive bird of paradise in his love of high fashion. Indeed, clothes were the Apothecary's weakness, his tailor's bills accounting for nearly all his spending money. Yet, other than for this foible, he was an industrious young man who worked as hard as any at his chosen profession, and accusations of being empty-headed were never made against John Rawlings by those who knew him well.

Picking his way through the fog, the linkman, carrying his torch of pitch and tow and walking just ahead of the chair and its two sturdy porters, turned into Gerrard Street and from there into Nassau Street itself, where the chairmen set down their burden outside number two.

Paying all three of them off, John hurried within, anxious to see the letter and learn, perhaps, how it had so mysteriously arrived in his pocket. But he was forestalled on his way to the small salon. The door to Sir Gabriel's library opened and Nicholas Dawkins, his thin face animated, appeared in the entrance.

‘Ah, I thought I heard your footsteps, Sir. I have something of interest to impart to you.'

‘It would seem you have a secret admirer, John,' called Sir Gabriel's voice from inside the room.

Drawing the letter from his cloak, which he handed to the waiting footman, the Apothecary resigned himself to reading it later, and followed Nicholas into the library.

A bright fire, its flames leaping into the chimney, glowed hot in the grate and before it, on a card table, stood a chessboard. The Master's father and the young apprentice had obviously been locked in a battle of wits when they had been interrupted by John's return.

‘Indeed, my dear,' his father continued, ‘it appears you have made such an impact on the poor woman that she called at your shop, incognito of course, in order to speak with you.'

‘That's right, Sir,' added Nicholas enthusiastically. ‘She did do so.'

John stood looking at them, smiling at their little caprice, glad, as always, to be home with the man who had brought him up since he had been a child begging on the streets of London, and with the apprentice whom John had rescued from a similar fate.

Sir Gabriel waved a long, thin hand, a dark, almost black, sapphire ring glittering as he did so. ‘Help yourself to some port, my boy. I find it a very fine vintage and would like your opinion of it.'

‘Thank you,' said the Apothecary, and, having poured some of the deep red liquid into a crystal glass, took a seat by the fire.