Death on the Romney Marsh by Deryn Lake Page A

document. Breaking the seal, he spread the paper on to the ground in order to study it.
    â€˜189 1504 598 2211 1905 500 665 2099,’ he read, followed by the cryptic phrase, ‘la Grenouille et le Papillon de Nuit’. Then ensued another series of numbers, together with the word ‘Winchelsea’.
    John stared in astonishment, his brain racing, only able to conclude that he had inadvertently stumbled across some sort of code and wondering how, with all the goodwill in the world, the village constable was going to deal with this extraordinary set of circumstances. And then as he looked at the paper again, the realisation that he had come across some altogether larger game than a straightforward killing for gain or revenge dawned on him. The document stitched into the lining of the scarecrow’s coat could be nothing but sealed and coded orders.
    The Apothecary stood silently for another few moments, deciding on the best course of action. Then, with great determination, he folded the paper and put it safely in his inner pocket, meanwhile ramming the scarecrow’s hat back on its maggot-blown wig. Then having pulled the tricorne well down to hide the skull, John swiftly mounted his horse and went at the gallop back along the road he had come.
    â€˜La Gren-oil eh le Pap-pill-yon de Newt’, read Joe Jago in an atrocious French accent.
    â€˜Extraordinary!’ commented the Blind Beak, who sat leaning back in his chair, his black-bandaged eyes tilted towards the ceiling, his hands folded across his stomach, his feet upon a footstool. ‘Quite extraordinary.’
    â€˜Then come another series of numbers, Sir.’
    â€˜Obviously a cipher. Well done, Mr Rawlings. You did absolutely the right thing in bringing this document straight to me.’
    â€˜Thank God,’ said John. ‘My instinct told me so. Yet I kept thinking I ought to inform the constable about the body. Though how on earth he would have sorted it all out, I dread to think.’
    â€˜I somehow feel it would have been beyond him. We are a nation at war, Mr Rawlings, and judging by the code the dead man was carrying and the fact that it was concealed in the lining of his coat, I can only presume the victim was a member of what is known as the Secret Service.’
    â€˜You mean a spy?’
    â€˜Yes, I do.’
    The Apothecary gave a sudden laugh. ‘I seem to remember you advising me to find myself one, and not that long ago at that.’
    Mr Fielding rumbled an answering chuckle. ‘Yes, so I did. Well, you appear to have succeeded. But more of espionage in a moment. First, tell me, my friend, how are you getting on with your mysterious visit to Winchelsea?’
    â€˜You know about it?’
    â€˜Sir Gabriel came here to dine the other evening.’
    â€˜Oh, I see. Well, Sir, the mysterious lady turned out to be none other than Elizabeth Harcross, widow of the profligate Jasper. She sent for me in great secrecy because she is under the impression that some enemy from the past is trying to kill her.’
    â€˜And are they?’
    John frowned. ‘Possibly, yes. Anonymous gifts of food and drink are left on her doorstep which she claims are making her ill. However, I sampled a bottle of wine donated in a similar manner and all it did was make me sing.’
    Joe Jago cracked a laugh as did the Blind Beak.
    â€˜How typical,’ said the Magistrate. Then he grew serious. ‘None the less, it is a situation that should be watched. What do you intend to do?’
    â€˜Return there when you have decided what action you want to take regarding the scarecrow.’
    â€˜Um.’ Mr Fielding fingered his chin, then turned to his clerk ‘What do you think, Joe? Should we leave our spying friend to the mercies of the village constable?’
    â€˜No, Sir. Let’s send a couple of Runners to bring him back here. The clothes should be examined, if nothing more. After all, we can give him a