Read Online Death on the Romney Marsh by Deryn Lake - Free Book Online

be cowed by all that had happened to her, living in fear of her life from an unknown poisoner’s hand, but for all that she was finely coiffed and elegantly presented. As always she wore enamel on her face, attempting to disguise her true age and yet, in a way, drawing attention to it. But the steadfast eyes, though full of despair, were none the less bright as crystal. John’s heart went out to the Voice from the Past that she had still not found peace.
    He stepped out from the shadows and bowed deeply. ‘Don’t be afraid, Madam,’ he said gently. ‘Your summons has been answered. I am John Rawlings, come to serve you as best I can.’
    She was so startled that she drew in her breath on a rasp. ‘Is it really you?’ she asked in a quivering voice.
    â€˜Yes, Mrs Harcross, it really is.’
    She seized his arm in alarm. ‘Oh, don’t call me that, I beg you. She is dead, that evil woman. Her hour came long ago.’
    This was hardly the place to ask the unhappy creature why she had tried to eradicate all evidence of her past, though it was not difficult for John to guess the reason. Instead he said, ‘Then would you prefer me to address you as Mrs Rose?’
    She froze. ‘How did you know I used that alias?’
    â€˜Because I made one or two discreet enquiries about the owner of Petronilla’s Platt. You must understand that it is not every day one is delivered a note in the fog. You can hardly blame me for trying to find out a little more about the messenger.’
    Mrs Rose relaxed a little. ‘No, of course not. I am being foolish. After all, if I can’t trust you, Mr Rawlings, who can I depend on?’
    â€˜Then shall we go back to your cottage so that you may tell me exactly what is troubling you?’
    John’s companion grew tense once more. ‘No, I cannot rely on the serving girl, Agnes. She comes from the town and, I feel certain, has been primed to find out all she can about me. Let us go into the church. At least it is quiet there.’
    So saying, Mrs Rose took the Apothecary’s arm and guided him to the gate, then down the path and through the entrance of St Thomas the Martyr, into the hushed and dim interior. Instantly, a sense of great antiquity consumed him – that and something else. There was an air of continuity, as if the medieval craftsmen who had built it had only stepped outside momentarily and would be back at any moment. Their handiwork seemed as fresh as the day it had been carved despite the acts of vandalism inflicted by the fanatical puritans who held sway during the Commonwealth. John, looking to his right, found his eye drawn to the face of the Green Man, that pagan figure of fertility and tree worship, thought by some scholars to be the basis for the legend of Robin Hood, his head planted centrally in the canopy above the tombs that lay beneath.
    Taking the Apothecary’s hand in her gloved one, Mrs Rose, after glancing all around, led him to the left and down the northernmost aisle, divided in half by a wall with a door in it. Going through this to a pew tucked close to the pulpit, a private place if ever there was one, she sat down. Then she turned her eyes on him, the look in their depths unfathomable.
    â€˜One thing before we begin. Swear to me, Mr Rawlings, swear in this holy place, that you will never mention the reason why we are both here.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜I cannot bear to hear the names that since … since Jasper’s death … I now have come to dread. Swear to me by all that you hold dear that you will not talk about the past.’
    â€˜But if I am to discuss your present situation, surely that will be inevitable.’
    â€˜No, it will not,’ she answered vehemently. ‘The facts are, as I told you in my letter, that I am sure I am being slowly poisoned. Yet whether by a friend of Jasper’s killers or by a woman who once loved him, and