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

there were so very many, I do not know.’
    John sat silently, thinking about her request, wondering how he could possibly comply with it. Beside him, he was horribly aware, Mrs Rose sat trembling with stress, willing him to help her. Yet, if it came to a matter of asking questions how could he agree never to discuss the very situation that had brought the current position about? In the end, though, he could not bear her patent misery a moment longer.
    â€˜I promise not to mention, to you at least, all that has gone before,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me what it is that worries you. How do you know somebody is trying to kill you?’
    She looked at him sorrowfully, her eyes full of tears. ‘If you will remember I left this country in order to nurse my cousin Ralph, and with him took up residence in Italy. He had gone there for his health, though by that stage no warm climate could help him. He was too eaten up with consumption to last more than a year or two and eventually the poor soul, may God rest him, died in my arms. I was related to Ralph through my mother, my father, if you recall, being a Huguenot weaver. Anyway, Ralph had been left Petronilla’s Platt by his maiden sister and he, in turn, thinking to set me up in a modicum of comfort, bequeathed me a small legacy and her cottage. Thus I came to Winchelsea.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜All was well at first. I mingled amongst the people of the town who accepted me as best they could, though a widow on her own is not generally considered quite the thing in polite society.’
    John raised a dark brow but said nothing.
    â€˜Anyway, after I had been here a month or so, I was given a gift, a cake, which made me violently ill after I ate it.’
    The Apothecary stared at her. ‘But who gave it to you? Surely you could have raised the matter with them?’
    Mrs Rose stared into her lap, where her hands were abstractedly working a handkerchief. ‘That is just the point. I do not know where it came from.’
    â€˜What on earth do you mean?’ John exclaimed, his voice sounding harsher than he had intended.
    â€˜I mean that it was left on my doorstep while I was out. Wrapped up very prettily and in a nice basket. Anyway, not suspecting anything, I took it in and had it for supper.’
    â€˜And then?’
    â€˜During the night I became ill and the physician had to be sent for. Anyway, he purged me and after a few days I recovered and put the matter down to mere coincidence, a chill or something of that sort. Then it happened again. This time a basket of fruit was left on my doorstep.’
    â€˜And you ate some of it?’
    Mrs Rose, born Elizabeth Tessier, who had once been a woman of importance, a leading actress of her day, for ever enshrined in theatrical history as the creator of Lucy Lockit in the original production of
The Beggar’s Opera
, suddenly looked sad and vulnerable.
    â€˜Times are hard, Mr Rawlings. I eke out my money as best I can but any gift is welcome, believe me.’
    â€˜And did it not occur to you to wonder who your generous benefactor might be?’
    â€˜I thought it was somebody connected with the church, which I attend regularly, to pray for Jasper’s soul amongst other things, who had seen me and somehow guessed my situation. Someone who was too tactful to approach me openly and offer me charity.’
    â€˜I see,’ said the Apothecary, concealing his cynicism as the thought went rapidly through his mind that Elizabeth Rose’s late husband, the murdered Jasper Harcross, could do with all the prayers for salvation that he could possibly get. ‘So the fruit poisoned you as well?’ he asked.
    â€˜I had a seizure in the middle of the night, just as before.’
    â€˜And have any further gifts been left since then?’
    â€˜One, a bottle of home-made wine.’
    â€˜And what did you do with that?’
    â€˜I have kept it untouched.’
    John nodded.