Death on the Romney Marsh by Deryn Lake

and arches of wood immediately caught John’s eye, lit by weak sunshine coming in through the plain timber framed windows. Though what little light there was was dimmed by a stud wall running across the whole width of the church in order to support the turret. In medieval times, rushes would have been strewn and the congregation would have either stood or sat on the floor. But to suit eighteenth-century demands, John noticed, a pulpit and pews had been recently installed, the pulpit being particularly interesting because it was of the three deck variety. The lower part of it consisting of a gated seat, was clearly meant for the parish clerk, a thin man, the Apothecary thought, for anybody stout would get wedged in in such a small space. Above it was another area from which the Perpetual Curate would conduct the main part of the service. Above this again was the third stage, to which the minister would ascend in order to deliver the sermon, usually of prodigious length and ending barely in time for the congregation to get home to dine at three. Because of the amazingly long time involved many families took chamber pots with them into their pews, which both ladies and gentlemen used discreetly while the service continued.
    The pews themselves each had a locked door and were square in design, containing benches on which the occupants sat facing one another. Vaulting over the wall of one, John thankfully took a seat and rested quietly in the peaceful silence, letting his thoughts run on.
    Could the murder have taken place here, within these very walls? Could there, perhaps, be a clue to the fatal stabbing in this old and holy building? And might there also be an indication as to the identity of the dead man? Much as John had disliked doing so, he had searched the scarecrow’s coat pockets, only to find that they had all been bare. Even the waistcoat openings had been empty, the fob watch missing. Whoever had killed him had made sure that the victim’s name would remain a mystery. Reluctantly, the Apothecary left the pew and began to search amongst the dim recesses of the little church.
    An abandoned cloak lay in the parish clerk’s stall, though this, too, had no papers in it, nor the name-of the tailor stitched within. There were signs that this last might have been ripped out, for a few loose threads remained near the collar. However, the search for a fight was far less successful, there being nothing other than a few drops of dried blood on the floor by the font, though these could have been caused by anything, John considered, even am innocent nosebleed. Logically he had to admit that if the scarecrow had been dead for some months, any sign of the fight in which he died would have been cleared up by now. Dreading what he had to do next, the Apothecary stepped out into the daylight and gazed around him.
    From this angle by the porch, the body was invisible, totally screened by the shepherd’s shelter. Small wonder, then, that nobody had seen it or, if they had, had not recognised it for what it actually was. Yet six months was a long time. Perhaps the scarecrow
had
been observed and simply allowed to remain where it was. But looking for the tailor’s name in the cloak had given the Apothecary an idea and now he felt impelled to put it into practice. Hideous though the thought was, John approached the skeleton once more.
    The maker’s label had been ripped out of the coat, as had that in the horribly foreshortened breeches. But it was just as he was straightening from examining these that the Apothecary caught a glimpse of something protruding from what had once been a fine silk lining, and raised the hem of the coat to eye level. A paper had been stitched inside, there was no doubt of it. A paper that had only become visible as the elements and scavengers tore at the scarecrow’s clothing. Taking his herb knife from his pocket, John cut through the remaining stitches and withdrew a sealed