Death on the Romney Marsh Read online

  ‘So I says to this woman, “Ma’am, t’was not I who farted thus but mine horse …”’

  There was a howl of hysterical laughter, much encouraged by the fact that a great pitcher of wine was being passed round.

  ‘So then she says to me, neat as you please, “Nay, Sir, t’was neither of you – and I should know for sure.” I should know for sure! Have you ever heard the like?’

  He drained his glass, slapped his thigh, and wiped his eyes with a spotted handkerchief in what appeared to be one continuous movement. John found himself laughing with the rest, not at the joke, which seemed both meaningless and crude, unless he had missed some salient point, but at the sheer joviality of this heavy hulk. Seeing the Apothecary smiling, the other man walked forward, hand outstretched.

  ‘Ffloote, Sir,’ he announced. ‘Two Fs.’

  ‘Rawlings,’ John replied. ‘One R.’

  Ffloote stared at him blankly for a second, then appeared to have a seizure. ‘One R! Oh, I like that, so I do. You’re a wit, Sir. A regular wit.’ He bent double, guffawing.

  The Apothecary, grinning broadly by now, despite the stupidity of the conversation, shook the offered fingers, the smallest of which was the size of a full-grown carrot. ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, Sir.’

  ‘All mine, all mine,’ Ffloote answered, recovering a little. ‘Come, let me buy you a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I think perhaps just a glass will do. I’m travelling early tomorrow so must try to avoid a thick head.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied the other. ‘I’m off at first light myself. But I’ve never let that deter me from my pleasures. We only live once, you know. Women and wine, my life employ.’ He sang a snatch from The Beggar’s Opera.

  John laughed despite his misgivings. ‘I can’t promise you that I will finish it.’

  ‘That’s of no consequence, my friend. I am here to help you,’ Ffloote answered, and winked a little dark eye, much obscured by the many bags and pouches in which it lay concealed.

  Despite the general awfulness of the fellow, the Apothecary found it impossible to do anything but warm to him. He was so vulgar, such an archetype of the sort always to be met in coaching inns or places of assembly, particularly when one had thought of spending a quiet evening alone, that Ffloote seemed almost unreal, a caricature of himself. As a serving girl came through the door, the Apothecary silently wagered that his new companion would slap her heartily on the rear and, sure enough, Ffloote, with a great bawl of laughter, did just that. The girl, to her credit, did no more than pout and walk away, resisting the temptation to empty the pitcher of wine she was carrying clean over her assailant’s head.

  ‘Sweetmeat,’ Ffloote called after her jocundly, but the girl had moved out of earshot and John was able to distract his attention by asking a question.

  ‘Are you journeying far, Sir?’

  ‘Not really. The Sussex coast, you know. I live in Winchelsea. I’m known locally as the Squire. Ha ha!’

  He erupted into pointless laughter once more, his wine-laden breath puffing directly into John’s face. But the Apothecary was too astonished to notice, staring at his companion open-mouthed.

  ‘Winchelsea did you say?’

  ‘Yes. Why so surprised?’

  John recovered himself. ‘Because, as chance would have it, I am travelling there myself. To a house called Petronilla’s Platt. Do you know it?’

  ‘In the High Street, you mean? Yes, I most certainly do. Recently rebuilt, though there’s been a cottage on that site for centuries.’

  ‘It may sound strange but I have no idea of the identity of my hostess. Are you acquainted with her?’

  For the first time since John had met him, Ffloote stopped smiling and sighed explosively. ‘Rather an odd woman actually. Can’t say I’ve had much to do with her. I believe she was left the place by a cousin. She’s only been there a year.’

  John felt a prickle of excitement. ‘Do you know her name by any chance?’

  Ffloote frowned, his florid face creasing till his eyes vanished almost entirely. ‘Let me see now. Roe, Roach, something of that order. My wife would know. But she ain’t here, is she?’ He nudged the Apothecary violently, then laughed again, bringing John to the conclusion that the man had the most economical sense of humour he had ever come across. Then, just as suddenly, Ffloote’s face took on a foxy expression, signalling quite clearly that he wanted to find something out.

  ‘Why d’ye ask?’ he said. ‘Ain’t you been advised of the lady’s details? Bit rum when you’re going to call on her, what.’

  John, who had been half expecting this, answered glibly, ‘She’s a distant relative of a friend of mine, and he refers to her simply as Aunt Crotchety, because of her disposition I presume. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I’ve been asked to attend her in my professional capacity. I’m an apothecary and the lady has requested a decoction of herbs to settle her colic.’

  ‘Long way to go just for that,’ Ffloote answered, his tiny eye beady.

  John who had over the past few years developed a range of expressions to suit most occasions, contrived to look honest and slightly sheepish all in one. ‘Fact of the matter is I wanted to get out of town for a while.’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘Reasons of my own. So to visit Aunt Crotchety was a good excuse to let the dust settle.’

  ‘Let the dust settle!’ Ffloote roared, his face convulsed with mirth once more. ‘I see you’re a man of the world, my dear Sir. To say nothing of a young rip. Glad to make your acquaintance, so I am. Name in full is Sir Ambrose, plus the last part. You must call during your visit. Wife would be delighted to meet you. Now she suffers enormously with her health. A martyr to the headache, you know, is poor little Faith. Perhaps you could help her, Mr Rawlings. Didn’t catch your first name.’

  ‘John, Sir.’ The Apothecary produced a card and placed it in Sir Ambrose’s enormous fingers. ‘I will certainly do what I can to assist.’

  ‘Well said, well said,’ Ffloote replied. ‘I hope I’ll have the pleasure of travelling with you tomorrow. The post chaise leaves at six. The carriers know me of old and always keep me a place, so I usually look round for three others with whom to share the cost.’

  Having little option but to agree, John forced a smile, hoping as he did so that Sir Ambrose was the type who fell asleep as soon as the wheels started turning. ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said half-heartedly.

  ‘Good fellow. Have another drink. I intend to sit up all night. Waste of time going to bed. I can sleep on the journey.’

  The Apothecary’s spirits rose again. ‘Thank you very much but I really must refuse,’ he said politely. ‘I’ve had rather a hard day. So if you will forgive me …’

  Ffloote grinned widely, displaying a set of minute teeth. ‘No stamina, you young people,’ he said waggishly. ‘That’s the trouble with the youth of today. Now I was brought up to drink and gamble all night and it never did me any harm.’ He thumped his chest, producing a spluttering cough. ‘Fit as a fiddle, me.’

  John looked apologetic. ‘I am sorry to disappoint but the fact remains that I need my sleep. I shall see you tomorrow at six.’

  ‘Don’t be late,’ warned Sir Ambrose. ‘The coach leaves dead on time. They’ve a fierce reputation for speed and the postillions wait for no one.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ said the Apothecary, and, giving a formal bow, thankfully left the room.

  It started to rain during the night, indeed a veritable torrent of water fell out of the sky, waking the Apothecary and sending him to the window to look out on the courtyard, which now resembled a lake, the drains being quite insufficient to deal with the flood. The lights from the hanging lanterns, reflected in the water, looked like little yellow stars that had fallen out of the sky, brought down by the downpour, while all the coaches had drawn up under the galleries for shelter. John could dimly make out the shapes of the coachmen preparing to leave, their hats pulled firmly down, and pitied the intrepid souls who would shortly have
to set out, braving the weather as well as all the other perils of the road.

  John slept only fitfully after that, and at five o’clock a pallid girl, yawning and looking totally exhausted, brought him a jug of hot water for his shave, shouting at him as she departed that breakfast was below if he was prepared to pay for it. Being a member of that school of thought who believed no day should commence without a hearty meal, the Apothecary prepared himself at speed and went downstairs to tuck into eggs and sides of ham and pickled herrings. Creeping cautiously into the dining parlour, John was greatly relieved to see that Sir Ambrose Ffloote was not present, presumably having finally fallen asleep where he sat.

  And indeed his first glimpse of the Squire endorsed this theory. Bleary-eyed and unshaven, his wig askew, Sir Ambrose staggered through the deluge and into the courtyard, heading purposefully towards the post chaise in which John had already secured himself a place.

  He stuck his head through the window, water dripping from the brim of his hat and running down his nose. ‘Ah, you’re here, my young friend. With whom are we travelling? Got to keep the cost down if we can.’

  ‘Nobody’s arrived as yet,’ the Apothecary answered. But even as he spoke, a small neat figure, spruce of appearance and smartly turned out, the very antithesis of Sir Ambrose, stepped from a hackney coach and advanced towards the post chaise. He glanced briefly at the notice: ‘For The Safe and Reliable Conveyance of Travellers, the Hastings Fast Coach. Dines at Lamberhurst. Horses changed, Bromley and Sevenoaks. Fare 9d a mile.’

  ‘Have you a seat left?’ the newcomer asked one of two postillions, who were huddling beneath the galleries, large cloaks and oilskins over their green jackets.

  ‘Two places still available, Sir.’

  Sir Ambrose heaved himself aloft. ‘I want to sit at the back where I can snooze. Best take it before that fellow gets his damned buttocks on it.’

  No chance of that, thought John, but said nothing. A second later the stranger had his foot on the step and was climbing in, glancing round the coach’s interior as he did so.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said politely, removing his hat. ‘It seems I am to have the pleasure of travelling with you.’

  ‘Sir Ambrose Ffloote,’ the Squire announced ungraciously.

  ‘John Rawlings,’ said the Apothecary, making as best a bow as he could in the cramped conditions.

  ‘Florence Hensey,’ replied the other, returning the salute.

  ‘Eh?’ exclaimed Ffloote, opening one eye.

  ‘Florence Hensey, Sir.’

  The Squire guffawed earsplittingly. ‘Florence, did you say? I always thought that to be a woman’s name. Damme, so I did.’

  John squirmed as the newcomer said patiently, ‘Alas, it is a family tradition, Sir. The second child, be it male or female, is always called Florence. It has been a subject of much embarrassment during my lifetime.’

  ‘Sounds foreign to me,’ continued Sir Ambrose unrelentingly.

  ‘My grandmother was Italian,’ Hensey continued.

  ‘Oh, well, that explains it,’ the Squire answered, and firmly shut his eyes, thus indicating that he had no further wish to converse.

  A postillion tapped on the window. ‘Begging your pardon, gentlemen, but we must set off punctual if we’re to make any speed in these bad conditions. Are you willing to share the fare three ways? Unless another passenger comes in the next few minutes, we’ve no choice but to go.’

  ‘Damned expense,’ muttered Sir Ambrose, without raising his lids.

  ‘It suits me well enough,’ said Florence Hensey courteously.

  ‘I would rather leave on time,’ answered John.

  ‘Then we’re off,’ stated the man. ‘Maybe we’ll pick someone up at one of the stages. All right, Will,’ he called to his fellow rider, who mounted one of the second pair in the four-horse team.

  John stared through the large front observation window, Mr Hensey sitting beside him, thinking how the rain had driven all the fun out of the occasion. For normally at one of the coaching inns each departure was a small excitement. Friends, come to bid farewell to loved ones, would weep and wave handkerchiefs; horses would stamp and snort and try to lift the hostlers off the ground, stoutly resisting their every effort to turn out the team. Pedlars would fall over one another in their last-minute attempts to sell wares for the journey. And all the vagabonds of town would come to join the general pandemonium and see if there was a pocket to pick while they were about it. But today nobody stirred and the Apothecary felt a sense of anticlimax as the flying coach, its high back wheels whirling, splashed over the courtyard cobblestones on the start of its journey to the old seaside town of Hastings.

  ‘Quite monstrous weather,’ said Mr Hensey, raising his voice above the sound of Sir Ambrose’s snores, an accompaniment that had begun the very second they started to move.

  ‘I was just thinking the same.’

  ‘I doubt we shall complete the journey in the usual time.’

  ‘Probably not. I think I shall spend the night in Hastings if we are late, then travel to Winchelsea tomorrow morning.’

  ‘May I help you in recommending an inn?’

  ‘You know Hastings well then, Mr Hensey?’

  ‘Yes, I do, very. And it’s doctor, actually. allow me to present myself.’

  Fishing in an inner pocket, John’s travelling companion produced a card and handed it to him. The Apothecary, looking at it with interest, read ‘Florence Hensey, Doctor of Physick, 16 Liquorpond Road, Holbourn’.

  ‘This is a happy coincidence,’ he said, producing his own card, ‘for I am an apothecary.’

  Dr Hensey took it, read it, then extended his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, my very dear Sir. The miles will fly by indeed. Normally I tend to remain quiet on a journey lest my fellow passengers regale me with tales of their illnesses.’

  John smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean. And I simply cannot recall the number of times I have been called upon to deal with travel sickness.’

  ‘I, too,’ answered the doctor, his eyes gleaming with the pleasure of exchanging banter with a fellow practitioner. ‘Tell me, what do you prescribe?’

  ‘Peppermint oil in a little sugared water. And you?’

  ‘The same. Though occasionally slippery elm, depending on the amount of flatulence involved.’

  ‘A thing not to be recommended in the close confines of a flying coach,’ said the Apothecary, grinning.

  Dr Hensey wrinkled his nose. ‘I shall never forget travelling to York with an old lady who suffered from uncontrollable wind. I swear to you, Mr Rawlings, her fellow passengers were fit to choke, for the weather was too inclement to permit ventilation. Do you know, Sir, it was almost a relief when a highwayman pulled us up and turned everybody out.’

  John smiled, not believing a word of it but enjoying the story, and in this light-hearted manner the time passed quickly. As the post chaise slowed down and he looked at his watch, the Apothecary saw that two hours had passed, slightly longer than the postillions had hoped for, and they were drawing to a halt at The King’s Arms in Bromley in order to change horses. Sir Ambrose woke instantly and lumbered out, presumably in search of a bog house. John and Florence, more decorous about their requirements, were for all that glad of a stop. Having answered nature’s call, they had just time to down some ale in The Ram, one of the rooms put aside for travellers, having hurried in there after hearing roars of laughter coming from The Union, another such room. Thus, having successfully avoided Sir Ambrose, the Apothecary and the doctor made their way back to their conveyance, only to stop short and stand staring, despite the rain.

  ‘They’ve found another passenger and she’s in my seat!’ John exclaimed.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll move when it’s explained to her,’ Dr Hensey answered, then suddenly looked knowing. ‘Though, on second thoughts, perhaps I should join Sir Ambrose and leave my place for you. I take it you’re not a married man.’

  ‘She may be a married lad
y,’ the Apothecary answered, and laughed, reading the doctor’s mind.

  ‘Well, whatever, she’s a fine-looking woman.’

  ‘She most certainly is.’

  Suddenly aware that she was being scrutinised, the newcomer turned and gazed straight at the two men who stood surveying her, water pouring from their headgear, making them look utterly ridiculous. Then she smiled and inclined her head in a bow, the feathers on her hat sweeping down as she did so.

  ‘Gracious me,’ said the doctor.

  John did not speak, anxious to get closer and see if the stranger was really as lovely as she appeared to be through the glass of the window. Stepping to the door, he pulled the handle down and allowed Dr Hensey to precede him into the carriage.

  The man of medicine handled the situation with great aplomb. ‘Madam.’ He bowed in the doorway. ‘Pray forgive me while I push past you to take my place in the back. It is my companion, Mr Rawlings, who is fortunate enough to be sitting next to you.’

  She turned to the doctor. ‘I do hope I have not taken anyone’s position.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Florence answered with a smile, and went to the rear seat, a far inferior place, for it faced the back of the front seat, which was positioned so that its two occupants could look out of the large fore window, quite a private way of travelling and certainly not one aimed at general conversation.

  The woman looked straight at John. ‘I must apologise for causing a disturbance. The fact of the matter is that I was travelling on a stage coach that cast a wheel late last night. I decided to stay here and this morning pick up what transport I could to Hastings.’