Death and the Black Pyramid jr-13

by Deryn Lake

  Death and the Black Pyramid

  ( John Rawlings - 13 )

  Deryn Lake

  Deryn Lake

  Death and the Black Pyramid

  One

  The horses were being backed into the traces, the guard — heavily loaded with blunderbuss and pistols — was clambering up to take his seat beside the coachman, the passengers were all aboard. The stagecoach bound for the West Country stood almost ready to leave, the relatives waving a farewell, two or three of them gathered on the covered balcony of the Gloucester Hotel and Coffee House for a better view and also to keep out of the rain. For, even though it was September, the weather was inclement, the shower being of the fine sort that drove into one’s face and rapidly made one’s clothes damp and unpleasant.

  A figure came running through the gloom; a figure holding its hat firmly upon its head as it sped along shouting, ‘Have you any room left?’

  The coachman called an answer. ‘Only in the basket, Sir.’

  There was an audible groan. ‘Oh dear. I feel I’m getting a little old for that.’

  But at that moment the door of the stagecoach swung open and a young man, looking very pale and covered in a clammy cold sweat, got out, reeling slightly. A girl popped her head out of the window.

  ‘Are you not well, Sir?’

  ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘I’m afraid I feel very poorly. You must proceed without me.’

  ‘But…’

  The young man made a gesture towards the heavens, said, ‘Excuse me,’ and bolted off into the dismal night.

  ‘It’s an ill wind,’ called John Rawlings, and cramming his hat on his head, sprinted the last few yards and leapt into the coach before anyone on the roof had had time to descend and take the seat.

  The hands of the coachman’s watch were pointing at eight o’clock and it was time to depart. With a loud crack of the whip the stagecoach rumbled out of the yard, past Boone’s the hat maker and Joseph Miller the fish salesman, who also had premises at Billingsgate according to the sign on his shopfront.

  ‘First stop Brentford, ladies and gents,’ called the guard, and with that they were off on the start of their long journey.

  John Rawlings, still gasping from his exertion, settled in his seat, removed his hat, and looked around him at his fellow passengers. Immediately opposite him was sitting a very pretty dark young woman, who inclined her head graciously as John bowed to her. Next to her was a seedy looking individual, somewhat sad of appearance and giving the impression that he had fallen on hard times. But it was to the man in the corner of the coach that the Apothecary’s eyes were drawn and on him that they lingered. For he was one of the finest specimens that John had ever seen.

  Jet black and extremely handsome, with elegant, regular features and melting black eyes fringed by voluptuous lashes that would have well become a woman, the man had a finely toned physique. John reckoned that the Negro must have stood well over six feet and boasted a powerful pair of shoulders, at present concealed in a damson velvet coat and a travelling cloak, slate grey in colour.

  John glanced to his right and saw a large woman sitting in a huddled posture. She had a fishy, colourless eye which immediately caught the Apothecary’s, causing her to glare at him suspiciously. Beside her and immediately next to John sat a neat little man, all tidy feet and hands, with a white wig placed at a correct angle on his natty head. John at once decided that the man was a dancing master, mainly because of the precision of even his smallest movements.

  The woman with the fishy eye suddenly let out a great sigh and speaking in a pronounced German accent said, ‘Ach, I am so worried about mein luggage. Will it get safely to Exeter, I ask? I doubt it. I truly do.’

  ‘Why, Ma’am?’ enquired the dark young woman opposite.

  ‘My dear young lady you obviously have not travelled much or you vould know that the vays are littered with rogues and vagabonds. Think of the coaching inns, the posthouses, the horse keepers, the hostlers — to say nuzzink of highvaymen and other robbers. I tell you vun’s baggage is not safe anyvere except under vun’s nose.’

  ‘But there are no facilities for that in a stagecoach,’ said the dancing master mildly.

  The fishy-eyed woman rounded on him. ‘Zat is obvious, Sir. Othervise I vould be guarding mine with mein life.’

  John produced a book from inside his cloak and tucked his nose in it, determined not to get drawn into such a pointless and silly discussion. The ploy worked and the conversation flowed round him, the German woman growing tetchier by the second, the young lady playing the innocent and taking the rise out of her, but oh so gently. The dancing master, very sensibly, relapsing into silence.

  They had been travelling an hour and quiet had been restored when suddenly the black man spoke into the hush.

  ‘Does anybody know what time we reach Brentford?’

  John looked up, surprised indeed by the man’s voice, which was educated and pleasant to listen to. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘In another twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘Excellent, my friend. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jack Beef.’

  ‘And mine is John Rawlings. Are you travelling all the way to Exeter?’

  ‘I am indeed. May I present my manager?’ He gestured towards the seedy-looking man. ‘This is Nathaniel Broome.’

  John bowed as best he could. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Sir.’

  ‘Delighted to make yours,’ replied the other, in a high, tight voice.

  ‘You may be wondering why I travel with a manager,’ Jack continued, laughing gently. ‘The answer is that I am a bare-knuckle fighter and I am going to Exeter to take part in a bout.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said John, meaning it.

  Jack Beef looked melancholy. ‘In fact it is a hard life. I admit that I get to see some interesting places but that is the sum total of it.’

  Nathaniel spoke up in his congested tones. ‘Oh come now. What about your fat purses? And the lords of the land whose hands you have shaken?’

  The black man gave a broad grin and explained to his fellow travellers.

  ‘My professional name is the Black Pyramid, apparently because my torso resembles one — inverted I might add,’ he informed the others with a rich laugh that made several people in the compartment smile, other than, it need hardly be said, the German lady who continued to cast her eyes towards the roof and mutter, ‘Ach’.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the conversation died away and they continued to journey in silence until at twenty minutes past nine the coach pulled up in the stableyard of The Three Pigeons in Brentford. John, recalling the terrible Christmas he had spent on the run heading for Exeter, when he had been accused of the murder of his wife, gave an involuntary shiver as he stepped down onto the cobbles.

  The dancing master noticed and said, ‘Are you all right, Sir?’

  John smiled down at him. ‘Yes, perfectly. It is just the inclement night, don’t you know.’

  The little man bowed. ‘Allow me to present myself. My name is Cuthbert Simms. And who might I have the honour of addressing?’

  ‘John Rawlings. I am an apothecary by trade. And you, Sir?’

  ‘I teach the art of dance to folk young and old. For many years I was attached to a great household but…’ He sighed. ‘Things change, alas.’

  John silently gave himself a good mark for guessing correctly.

  ‘Indeed they do. Allow me to buy you a drink, Sir. I think we have thirty minutes before we plunge on again.’

  The little man looked gloomy. ‘The coach travels through the night I believe.’

  ‘Yes. They’re changing the horses now.’

  And it wa
s true. The original team was being led out of the traces and the horsemaster was backing in four fresh beasts.

  ‘Well, we’d better drink up in preparation,’ said Cuthbert and followed John into the inn.

  Half an hour later and all the passengers were getting on board. The German lady had spent the time half threatening, half pleading with the guard to check her luggage.

  ‘Please to make sure that everyzing is in its place.’

  ‘I assure you, Madam,’ the man repeated, with just the slightest edge in his voice, ‘that there are three bags and one hat box in the basket.’

  ‘But are zey mine?’

  ‘Yes, Madam. I put them in there myself.’

  Slightly mollified the woman got in and plonked herself in the corner where she petended to fall asleep immediately. John, studying her, noticed that one of her eyes remained slightly open and drew his own conclusions.

  It was now almost three years since the life of his wife, his beloved Emilia, had been cut so brutally short in the gardens of Gunnersbury House. Three years in which he had run the gamut of emotion, from grieving widower to a man in love once more. For in that time he had again met the capricious Elizabeth di Lorenzi, older than he was and as different from him as a nun to a courtesan. Where he wanted marriage, she would have none of it; where he wanted to settle, she wanted to rove wild and free. Indeed he had almost given up all hope of her when a mysterious letter had arrived, virtually commanding him to go and see her at her magnificent home just outside Exeter. And it was for this reason that he had caught the all-night stagecoach driving to that city, leaving his daughter, Rose, in the charge of her grandfather, the formidable and fascinating Sir Gabriel Kent.

  What, he wondered, could Elizabeth possibly want with him now? He had thought when he had last seen her that there was no chance for them. That there was hardly a word left to say. And now this extraordinary summons. With a sigh, John snuggled down into his cloak and attempted to go to sleep.

  Beside him Cuthbert Simms, neat as a dormouse, slept quietly, his head falling gently onto the Apothecary’s shoulder. Opposite, the dark young lady, bonnet removed and held in her lap, slumbered, leaning her head against the wall of the coach. But it was the Black Pyramid and Nathaniel Broome who amused John on the odd occasions when he opened his eyes. They inclined inwards, resting one upon the other like a pair of elderly ladies, snoring gently, Broome softly, the Black Pyramid with a deep sonorous note that befitted his size. John’s thoughts stole upwards to the two unfortunate women who sat on the roof, and his conscience pricked him that he had taken a seat inside at the very last moment. So much so that he considered giving it up at the next stop.

  He slept as best he could and when next he raised his lids he saw that dawn was just starting to streak the sky and the coach was slowing down as they drove into the village of Thatcham. At The Swan with Two Necks they changed horses again and the passengers were given a forty minute stop for breakfast. Stretching and yawning outside while the others made their way within, John gallantly assisted the two females sitting above to descend. One of them had a very familiar face and the Apothecary became convinced that he had seen her before somewhere. The other was an altogether sensible type of woman with a friendly visage and clear blue eyes. This, despite the fact that she had spent the night sitting bolt upright in the chilly and damp conditions.

  John made a bow. ‘May I offer you my seat for the next stage of the journey, Madam?’

  She shot him a look of pure gratitude. ‘I would be delighted to accept, Sir. And at the next stop I shall surrender it to Mrs Gower with whom I have just shared a terrible night in the elements.’

  The Apothecary nodded. ‘I can imagine. I shall see if any other gentleman would be willing to change with her.’

  The woman curtseyed. ‘Thank you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucinda Silverwood.’

  ‘And I am John Rawlings.’ He bowed and she responded with a brief bob.

  ‘I am going to Devon to join my daughter who is expecting her first child shortly,’ Mrs Silverwood continued.

  And John, remembering the fuss that Emilia’s mother had made at the time of Rose’s arrival, felt a momentary touch of bittersweet sadness as he recalled the time when he had first laid eyes on his daughter.

  ‘I am sure you will be a great comfort to her,’ he said. ‘And now, Madam, allow me to accompany you in to breakfast.’

  As they went inside the last two remaining passengers climbed down from the roof and John glanced at them. One was a plumpish fellow, clearly bald beneath his somewhat ornate wig of curling brown locks. He had fat pink hands and a startled expression caused by the fact that his eyebrows were scantily defined. The other man, by contrast, had raven black brows and a savage hawk’s face, which was pitted and scarred by the ravages of smallpox. His eyes were dark and as John stared he turned a look on the Apothecary which made John start at its ferocity and quickly turn his head away. He made his way inside the inn without glancing back.

  Within it was all comfort as the landlord, used, no doubt, to coaches arriving at this ungodly hour of the morning, had produced a fine bill of fare. A large ham jostled a side of beef and from the kitchen came the reassuring smell of eggs being fried to a crisp. John took his place at the large trestle table which had been set for the occasion and bowed Mrs Silverwood into her place. Behind him he could hear a commotion and, turning slightly, saw that it was the hawk-like man insisting on dining in a private parlour. The landlord, looking put out, was somewhat reluctantly showing him to a snug leading off the passageway.

  John turned to the second woman who had travelled on the roof and whose face was so familiar to him.

  ‘Forgive me, Madam, but I feel that perhaps we have met before. Do you recall where that could have been?’

  She turned on him a beaming smile and said in a broad Welsh accent, ‘No, Sir, we have never met but I expect you might have seen me in the theatre. My name is Paulina Gower. Not that I am in the first rank of actresses, mark you. I expect ’tis more likely that you have seen me playing a maid or some such thing.’

  John lit up. ‘Of course. I was — many years ago I might add — a friend of Coralie Clive’s, though I believe that she has now retired completely. Unlike yourself?’ he added, a slight question in his voice.

  Mrs Gower looked sad and knowing simultaneously. ‘I wish that I had married well — as did she — though I learn she is now widowed, poor soul. But yet to give up the stage entirely would be difficult indeed.’ She sighed. ‘However I’m afraid that I do not have the choice. I must continue to work in order to survive.’

  John pulled a sympathetic face. ‘We live in hard times, I fear.’

  Cuthbert Simms spoke up from across the table. ‘Indeed we do, Sir. At my age I am still forced to teach to make ends meet.’

  ‘But surely,’ said John, addressing the two of them, ‘you both love what you do and to continue it is no hardship.’

  But he never heard their answers because at that moment the breakfast party was rudely interrupted by the arrival of the German woman who was shrieking at the top of her voice.

  ‘Ach, but some of mein luggage is missing. There is a thief here. Vere is the coachman?’

  ‘Having his breakfast as you should be, Madam,’ somebody answered rudely.

  She glared in their direction, unable to identify who it was who had spoken.

  ‘I can eat nuzzink. I am fit to vomit with all this jigging about.’

  ‘Well don’t do it in here,’ the same voice replied.

  The Fraulein — at least John presumed she was such — gave another basilisk stare, turned on her heel and marched into the interior of the inn, clearly to find the driver and twist his ear. There was a general sigh of relief as she left.

  Thirty minutes later they were clambering back on board. Most of the men — with the exception of Cuthbert Simms who claimed fear of the rheumatics — had taken their seats on the roof so that the two ladies could have so
me respite from the elements. John noticed that the man with the hawkish face had also gone within and had huddled down in his cloak to sleep. The German woman, hurrying up at the last minute, having rechecked the basket and deciding that all her luggage was complete after all, got inside with bad grace and a grumpy expression. The coachman cracked his whip.

  ‘Next stop Marlborough, ladies and gents.’

  And they set off.

  John found himself sitting next to the man with scant eyebrows who turned out to be a pleasant fellow, a country solicitor with a practice in Exeter, returning home from a visit to an elderly sister who dwelt in London. Having exchanged courtesies and names — his was Martin Meadows — they chatted nonsense to one another until eventually the solicitor said, ‘Tell me, do you treat many patients with delusions?’

  John stared at him. ‘Of what kind do you mean, Sir?’

  ‘Well, those who think people are plotting against them. That type of thing.’

  The Apothecary regarded him seriously. ‘No, Sir. To be honest I can’t say that I have. Why?’

  Meadows looked non-committal. ‘Oh, no reason really. I just wondered.’

  They relapsed into silence but John, staring out at the tints of autumn, the first hints of which were just starting to emblazon the trees, wondered what was behind the question. He shot a sideways look at Martin Meadows and saw that his face was giving away nothing as he too gazed out at the ever-changing landscape.

  John had always loved the county of Wiltshire, found it mystic, a dark and brooding landscape containing some of the country’s most ancient and mysterious artifacts. The riddle of what Silbury Hill actually was; the looming question of the purpose of Stonehenge; the standing stones at Avebury. All these things intrigued him and he had often, when working alone in his compounding room, puzzled over them.

  And now in the early morning light he breathed in the freshness of the air, looked around him at the magnificent rolling countryside, and fell quietly asleep.