by Deryn Lake
‘Would you care for a little refreshment, Sir?’
‘A small glass of canary would not go amiss.’
‘There’s a tent over there where I imagine we could obtain one. I’ll put Irish Tom in charge of Rose and Emily.’
‘Splendid,’ answered his father and made his way to the liquor tent where a chair was immediately found for him.
On the dot of three o’clock the Black Pyramid, completely recovered from his fight in Devon, his dark skin gleaming with the sheen of ebony, stepped through the ropes and raised his arms aloft. John and his father, the older man sitting on a camp stool right at the front, gave a small cheer. His adversary — a dark young man with a mass of curling hair who called himself Gypsy Joe Summerfield — then came into the ring and made menacing gestures in the direction of his opponent. The Black Pyramid turned disdainfully away.
The fight was by no means a walkover for the black man as Gypsy Joe pounced on him with a welter of flying, brutal fists. But inevitably the range of the Black Pyramid’s powerful arms and the use of his muscular legs, encased as they were in black tights, won him the day. The gypsy was knocked to the ground and had to be helped out of the ring by his clique of supporters. It was then, with the black man jubilantly receiving the accolade of the crowd, that John ran back into the fairground, where Rose was sitting with the maid and the coachman, having a light meal which Emily had packed before they left The White Hart.
‘My darling, come with me a minute, if you will,’ and before she could say a word he had taken her hand and was leading her towards the ring.
The Black Pyramid was just climbing out and would have turned away but Rose broke free and ran towards him calling out, ‘Hello Mr Jack.’
He spun round, looking to see who was hailing him. Then he saw the child — at least it seemed as if he did — and abruptly turned his back and hastened towards a group of cheering admirers.
Rose did something unusual and burst into tears and John sped towards her and scooped her up into his arms.
‘Don’t cry, sweetheart.’
‘But Papa, he turned away from me. And yesterday he was so nice, even thought I startled him.’
‘Then it was the same man?’
‘Definitely. I am certain of it.’
‘I see.’
‘I think perhaps he was trying to hide from me. But why, Papa? Why?’
That, my dear child, John thought, is precisely what I would like to know.
That night John and his father sat in a snug after dinner had been served. There was a comfortable silence between them, the Apothecary’s thoughts being miles away as he ran the details of the case over and over in his mind. There were so many questions left unanswered but one in particular came back to John with vivid clarity. Why had the Black Pyramid put Fraulein Schmitt out of the carriage — had it really been because she grumbled so greatly? And what had she meant by her last remark to him that it had all been make believe? Could it have been possible that the two of them were acting out some piece of theatre? But for whose benefit — and why?
John’s thoughts turned to the other people in the drama. There was Mrs Lucinda Silverwood, so calm and so capable who lived somewhere in Lewes and obviously knew that dark-haired beauty Jemima Lovell better than she had admitted. There was the actress Paulina Gower who the Apothecary had not liked all that much but who had clearly taken the fancy of the redoubtable Joe Jago. As to the men who had travelled on the coach that night, there was mincing little Cuthbert Simms — who John could not help but feel sorry for — and the enigmatic Black Pyramid, together with Nathaniel Broome. A disparate group of people if ever there was one. Yet they had all shared in that extraordinary journey which had culminated in the violent doing-to-death of William Gorringe.
The door to the snug opened and in came the waiter who had served John breakfast on the occasion of his first visit to Lewes.
‘Can I get you anything to drink, Sir?’
John looked across at Sir Gabriel. ‘Father?’
‘A cognac for me, if you please.’
‘And I will have the same.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
‘By the way, before you go, do you remember me talking to you about Vinehurst Place and its occupants on the occasion of my last visit?’
‘I do indeed, Sir.’
‘If I were to draw a man could you tell me from the likeness whether or not it was the vanished Fulke Bassett?’
The waiter looked somewhat startled. ‘I think I could. Yes, sir.’
While he was out of the room John summoned up his vivid pictorial memory. Then he started to sketch as best he could the features of the man known to him as William Gorringe.
‘Do you think that that is the key to the mystery?’ asked Sir Gabriel.
‘I think it has to be. If it isn’t then I’m afraid I must drop the whole thing.’
‘That is not like you, John.’
The Apothecary sighed. ‘Alas, it is a fact. This has been the most baffling set of circumstances I have ever encountered.’
At that moment the waiter returned bearing a tray with a decanter and two fresh glasses upon it. He put it down, then solemnly and in silence John handed him the sketch. The man merely glanced at it.
‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, ‘that’s Mr Bassett. Cruel and evil man that he is.’
‘Thank you,’ John answered. ‘I think everything has just become clear.’
Twenty-Seven
The search for the Black Pyramid was renewed with great urgency. Early the next morning the Apothecary went down to the remnants of the fair, busy packing up and removing what had been left of the stalls, and asked the man’s whereabouts. He was informed that the victorious fighter had moved on to Brighthelmstone — indeed had gone that very night — and was shortly due to fight in that small town. Nobody seemed quite sure when. John had thanked them and returned to The White Hart in something of a quandary.
‘What is the matter, my child?’ asked his father, seeing the anxious look on his son’s face.
John sat down and ordered himself some tea and food. He had left the inn before breakfast, a meal which Sir Gabriel was now picking at.
‘It’s that wretched fighter. He has already departed Lewes.’
‘Do you know where he was bound?’
‘To Brighthelmstone.’
‘Well if you need to question him, follow him and do so.’
‘But, Sir, I vowed to myself that I would never leave Rose again. Yet I realize that I would be much quicker on my own.’
‘How long do you think you will be gone?’
‘A day or two. Three at the most.’
‘Then why are you making such an alarm? The child will be perfectly safe with me. Have I not looked after her properly in the past?’
‘You have guarded her as well as any grandfather possibly could.’
‘Well then?’
John squirmed, sensing that this was a battle he was about to lose.
‘But I swore…’
‘Oh fiddle-faddle,’ said Sir Gabriel, and snapped his long white fingers.
Rose, too, seemed very relaxed about the situation. ‘Oh are you going away, Pa? But not far I believe. Only to Brighthelmstone Grandpa said.’
‘Yes, that’s right, darling. But if you really object I won’t go.’
She stared at him in blank surprise. ‘Oh no, that would be foolish. I think you should go and try to find Jack. And when you do could you ask him why he was so horrid to me at the fight. All I wanted was to greet him.’
John laughed, he could not help himself. It was like being in the presence of a very small adult.
‘You’re sure?’
‘I am positive. Emily and I have some walks planned. We’re probably going to have an adventure.’
‘Well don’t make it like ours, whatever you do. I don’t want you going near Vinehurst Place, do you hear?’
Rose gave a demure curtsy but refused to meet John’s eyes.
&n
bsp; ‘I repeat, you are to leave that house alone.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ she answered, but behind her back she was crossing her fingers.
John took the public stage to Brighthelmstone, a relatively short drive, and arrived there in the late afternoon. Booking himself a room in The Ship he immediately set out to explore the place, which was small and somehow rather sad-looking. However, walking by the sea he spied several bathing machines with brave souls venturing into the waves. Immediately he was seized by the desire to swim, having been sitting long enough in the cramped conditions of a coach. Acting purely on impulse he went down to one of the machines, tramping over the pebble on his booted feet, and booked himself a place behind a portly young man, obviously in agony through gout-ridden toes.
The attendant hired him a pair of flannel drawers and an oilskin cap for his hair, which John refused. Stepping out of the machine and down the steps the Apothecary strode manfully into the waves and in a few minutes was swimming strongly out to sea. He had always loved the sport, probably because he was good at it, and now he felt happy and more relaxed that he had in an age.
In front of him, even further out than he was, he could see a single swimmer, his arms rising and falling as he executed a perfect crawl. At the rate he was going, John thought, the man would soon end up in France. An urge to catch him up possessed John and he increased his speed. Ahead of him he saw the swimmer turn his head as if conscious of his pursuer and though he could not be certain because of the distance, the Apothecary had the fleeting impression that the man was black.
A strange feeling overcame him at that moment as he became convinced that the man he had come to Brighthelmstone to find was swimming but a few yards away from him. Striking out for everything he was worth, he determined to catch him up. And then, at that very moment, the man’s head vanished. John stared round as best he could through the waves but there was no sign of him anywhere. And then he felt a pair of strong arms encircle him and he was dragged down beneath the water.
Holding his breath John shot to the surface again and saw that it was indeed the Black Pyramid who held him in a potentially lethal grip.
‘Right, you little bastard,’ said the black man, his face streaming, ‘exactly what game are you playing with me?’
‘I might ask the same of you,’ the Apothecary gasped back.
‘You have no right to spy on me. Who are you, you miserable little worm, wriggling all over the place?’ And without waiting for a reply the black man dragged him under the sea again.
John truly thought that he was drowning and felt more terrified than he had ever done before. He started to fight, beating at the brawny black chest with his fists and kicking as powerfully as was possible in that vast and unfriendly ocean.
They came up for air once more. ‘Frightened, huh?’ said the Black Pyramid in such an aggressive tone that John once more feared for his life.
‘Yes, I’m frightened,’ he spluttered. ‘In fact I’m scared witless.’
‘Good,’ answered the Black Pyramid, and baring his teeth he pushed John under and held him down.
What saved him he never afterwards could tell. Whether another intrepid swimmer drew near or whether the black man decided that John was simply not worth running the risk of being caught for was forever moot. But the fact was that he was suddenly released and floated up to the surface in a kind of stupor. His future hung in the balance but he somehow managed to pull himself together and struck out for the shore. In the distance as he turned towards the Brighthelmstone coast he could see the Black Pyramid swimming out further than ever — and faster too.
Somehow the Apothecary made the shingle at the foot of the bathing machines and there he collapsed, lying flat on his face and gasping. A bathing attendant came down the steps.
‘Are you all right, Sir?’
He literally could not speak, having saved the last of his breath to swim to the beach. Instead John gave a weak nod of the head.
‘Well, you don’t look all right, Sir, if you’ll pardon my saying. I’ll give you a hand into the machine.’
He assisted the trembling Apothecary to his feet and half carried him up the few steps into the bathing machine from which he had started his perilous swim.
‘I’ll just sit down for a minute,’ gasped John.
But it was half an hour before he could make the effort to get dressed and then he walked very slowly back to The Ship where he went into the residents’ parlour and ordered himself a large brandy. He was just sipping it when his would-be murderer walked into the room.
‘You survived then,’ the black man said laconically.
‘Yes,’ John answered, equally briefly, then added, ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because,’ said the Black Pyramid, looming over the Apothecary’s chair, ‘I was sick of the sight of you. Wherever I went, there you were.’
John took another mouthful of brandy, then said, ‘Did you know William Gorringe — or should I say Fulke Bassett — before that coach ride?’
The black man hesitated, sucking the air in through his teeth, before saying, ‘Yes, I knew him.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘What makes you ask that?’
‘You’ve just demonstrated that you are capable of it.’
‘Oh yes, I am quite able to take a life.’
‘Then did you?’
‘I refuse to answer that.’ The Black Pyramid suddenly gave a slow smile and John thought how handsome he was and how transformed he was by smiling. ‘Listen, my friend, let me buy you a drink and you can answer some of my questions for a change.’
‘Very well. I accept.’
The fighter lowered his enormous length into the chair opposite John’s. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what is your interest in this killing?’
‘Did I not inform you that in the past I have worked with Sir John Fielding of Bow Street?’
‘I do not recall it.’
‘Well, I have done so, many times. And though this is not one of his cases I can honestly say that I am deeply interested in this particular affair. Probably because I was travelling in the same coach as the victim.’
‘I see.’
At that moment the girl arrived with their drinks and the conversation ceased until she had gone. Then the Pyramid said, ‘And so you think that one of the passengers is guilty, do you?’
‘Obviously so.’
‘But surely it could have been an outsider who attacked him.’
‘It could have been but I don’t think it was.’
There was a long silence during which both men drank a draught, then the black man said, ‘Well, you need look no further.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked John.
‘Because I killed him,’ said the Black Pyramid, and once again smiled his slow dark smile.
It was too easy, thought John. He had never before received an admission of guilt and now that he had he was frankly flabbergasted. Every instinct he possessed told him that the fighter was telling him the truth, yet still he had the small niggle of doubt.
‘You are certain?’ he said feebly.
The Black Pyramid boomed a laugh. ‘Good God, man, I’ve just confessed to you. What more do you want?’
‘Proof,’ answered John, rallying.
‘Of what kind?’
‘Tell me how you did it?’
‘Well, I had met him before, as I’ve already told you. He recognized me despite the passing of the years. But that was not why I killed him. The reason was that I loathed him, hated him, every bit of me despised the evil bastard.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no intention of answering that.’
‘You might have to when you come before your judges.’
‘I shall deal with that if and when the time arrives,’ the Black Pyramid answered calmly.
John stared at him and found himself liking the man, liking the way he handled himself under pressure. Yet determined as he was to get to the heart of the mystery, t
he Apothecary had come up against a brick wall. The bare-knuckle fighter steadfastly refused to elucidate further.
‘So how did you do it?’ John asked.
‘I crept up in the night and beat the bugger’s brains out.’
The Apothecary shot into his pictorial memory the image of that stealthy figure walking along the landing. He could see it quite clearly, cloaked and mysterious and completely sexless. And even though he was observing it from above he knew then that the Black Pyramid was lying — or at least telling him only part of the story.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said slowly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. You are only telling me a small portion of what really happened.’
The Black Pyramid got to his feet. ‘That is all, Mr Rawlings, that I am prepared to say.’ He made a deep bow. ‘Good night to you, Sir. I leave you to take whatever action you deem necessary.’
And with another brief salutation he left the room.
Twenty-Eight
All the way back to Lewes John berated himself with thoughts of the million and one questions he should have asked the Black Pyramid, the most important of which should surely have been what he was doing in the great house known as Vinehurst Place. Because the more the Apothecary thought of it the stranger it seemed. And yet…? His mind once again raced down that frightening track which led to the most extraordinary idea he had ever had. An idea so outrageous that he could hardly comprehend it. An idea which he had whispered to Sir Gabriel who had looked at him askance. And now he was heading back to that little town that clung beneath the castle to wind the whole affair up — or at least to try and do so.
But how to start — that was the thought that bothered him. For whichever way round he looked at the problem it always began and ended with the black fighter. And John could not help but feel that if he had questioned the man properly this current situation could have been completely avoided. Or could it?
He was in such a whirlwind of thought that the Apothecary felt extremely nervous as he stepped off the public stage and into the confines of The White Hart. His incredible idea was, after all, pure supposition and to tie it in with the murder of Fulke Bassett, passing under the name of William Gorringe as he had been, was going to be practically impossible.
