Death and the Black Pyramid

by Deryn Lake

  ‘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.

  Two

  John was awoken by the sound of shouting and looking down saw that hostlers were running to give assistance as the coach pulled into the yard of The Castle and Ball in Marlborough. Looking round him he noticed that the Black Pyramid and Nathaniel Broome were standing up in preparation for descending and that Mr Meadows was clambering to his feet. Hastily adjusting his hat which had slipped down over one eye, John also rose.

  The inn, which was extremely old, was comfortable inside and having made use of its facilities the Apothecary settled himself in a quiet corner and indulged in his favourite hobby of observing. Needless to say the German woman was complaining bitterly about something or other – John did not strain his ears sufficiently to discover what – and was being soothed down by Lucinda Silverwood. Paulina Gower, by contrast, was laughing merrily with the dark young lady, Jemima Lovell. He noticed that once again the man with the hawk’s face had vanished and that Martin Meadows was also absent. Following a whim, the Apothecary made his way to the back of the inn where the private snugs were situated.

  ‘. . . I tell you, Sir, that one or two faces are familiar to me,’ a harsh voice was saying quite loudly.

  John could not help but listen, standing quietly outside the door.

  ‘Are you certain, Sir? Surely it could be a trick of your imagination.’

  ‘It’s the black man. There could not be two like him around.’

  Martin Meadows answered, clearly trying to soothe the speaker down. ‘Oh come. He is a type. A bare-knuckle fighter. I have seen several people like him in my time.’

  ‘Have you indeed? And all black?’

  ‘Well, no,’ came the reply. ‘Not all of them.’

  There was silence and John decided that this was his moment to make an entrance. Grinning cheerfully, he gave a rat-tat on the door and walked into the room.

  Meadows and the hawkish man were sitting round a table in deep discussion. They looked up as the Apothecary went in, the solicitor giving a smile of relief, the other glaring fiercely. John ignored him.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I hope I’m not interrupting. Can’t find a seat in the other bar so I thought I would try in here.’

  ‘Come in, come in, Mr Rawlings, take a chair, do,’ said Meadows. ‘May I present Mr Gorringe to you? Mr Gorringe, this is Mr Rawlings.’

  John gave an effusive bow. ‘A pleasure, Sir,’ he said in an affected voice. ‘Truly a great pleasure.’

  Gorringe half rose, still looking furious, and gave the curtest of salutes back. ‘Actually Meadows and I were having a private conversation.’

  ‘But we have finished that,’ said the solicitor hastily. ‘Indeed we were looking for some young company.’

  ‘Then come into the taproom,’ John answered, laughing merrily over nothing. ‘There’s a goodly crowd in there. That is if you don’t mind standing.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Gorringe, and getting to his feet he left them abruptly, swirling his dark cloak as he went.

  John looked at Martin Meadows. ‘What a strange character.’

  The solicitor motioned him to sit down. ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he sighed. ‘He is under the strong conviction that he has met the black man before somewhere.’

  ‘And what of it?’ said the Apothecary, pretending carelessness.

  ‘God knows, my dear friend. He is the type of man who sees a plot in everything. It is my belief that he suffers from some kind of mania.’

  John would have replied but was prevented from so doing by a call of, ‘All aboard the Exeter coach, Ladies and Gentlemen.’ He and the solicitor made their way out to discover that Gorringe was already sitting on the roof and had produced a book which he was studying assiduously. He merely grunted as John and Martin took their places above. Below them, however, a scene was going on.

  ‘My luggage. Zere is vun piece missing,’ the German lady was screaming.

  ‘I can assure you, Madam . . .’ the guard was answering her patiently.

  Behind her the Black Pyramid loomed suddenly and unexpectedly.

  ‘Be silent, my good woman. I suggest that you spend the next few hours checking and rechecking everything you own.’

  And with that he leant over into the basket and removed all her bags and an unwieldy-looking box and dumped them on the ground at her feet.

  ‘But . . .’ she protested.

  ‘No buts, Madam. No buts, merely baggage.’ And he climbed into the coach.

  ‘Sir,’ the driver called down urgently, ‘we are due to leave immediately.’

  The black man stuck his head out of the window. ‘Then do so,’ he instructed.

  ‘But the lady . . .’

  ‘I shall have ze law on you if you go vizout me!’ she shouted, shaking her fist.

  ‘My card,’ said the Black Pyramid nonchalantly, and with the enormous reach of his arms handed her one as the coachman cracked his whip and the new team of horses led them outwards.

  That evening they spent the night at Bath, clattering into the courtyard of The Katherine Wheel some hours later. Accommodation was limited and they were all forced to share their rooms with at least one other person. John found himself in company with Cuthbert Simms, while Mrs Silverwood doubled up with young Jemima and Paulina Gower. Lucinda and Jemima were informed that they would have to share a bed but they took this news cheerfully enough. The Black Pyramid – pleased as punch that he had got rid of the German woman, whose name turned out to be Fraulein Schmitt – took a bottle of brandy to the room he was allocated with Nathaniel Broome. That left the peculiar Mr Gorringe who, yet again, seemed to be paired with Martin Meadows.

  John, remembering his previous visits to Bath and the many adventures he had had in that city, went to bed late. It seemed to him, sitting alone in a snug with a bottle of wine before he retired, that the ghosts of the past came back to haunt him. He saw Coralie as she once had been – young and fresh, vigorous and full of life, longing to taste it all, eager to build her reputation on the stage. How bitterly it all had treated her, he thought. And thinking of Coralie brought back memories of himself as a young man, relishing everything and treating the world as a huge plaything. Yet, he considered, there was no point in looking back. The secret of a successful life must surely be the ability to go forward. Then he thought of that great beau, Orlando, a doyen of Bath, who
had sacrificed so much in order that others may move on and live in peace.

  John sighed and taking a candle went up to his room and crept inside, careful not to wake Cuthbert who slept like a little child, his breathing light and fast, his small frame barely making a bulge in the bedclothes. Thankful that there were two beds in the chamber, John undressed and climbed in, instantly falling asleep, lulled by the wine.

  He woke some hours later, listening intently, certain that he had heard a voice. Then quite distinctly somebody close to him said, ‘Take care, Fulke Bassett, take great care.’ This remark was followed by a laugh, so sinister that it made the Apothecary’s blood run cold. Reaching for the candle John struck a tinder and lit it. He looked round. The room was empty, other than for the sleeping Cuthbert Simms, who had turned over and was facing the wall. After several minutes spent sitting up in bed, gazing around him, John blew the candle out and tried to sleep. But this time it did not come easily and he lay awake in the darkness, wondering whether he had dreamt the entire incident or whether a voice had actually spoken those strange words and laughed that terrible laugh.

  They set off early the next morning, before breakfast – much to the Apothecary’s chagrin – heading for Wells. Arriving there some three hours later they had a thirty minute stop and time to settle down to some serious eating. John found himself seated next to Cuthbert and felt tempted to mention to him the strange event of the previous night. Eventually he did so.

  ‘Did you sleep well, Mr Simms? I did not disturb you when I came to bed?’

  Cuthbert turned on him a jovial little face. ‘Not at all, my dear chap, to answer your second question. As to the first, I slept soundly, though I dreamt rather a great deal.’

  ‘Oh really? What about?’

  Simms gave a piping laugh. ‘Dashed if I can remember. By the way, did I tell you that I am heading for Lady Sidmouth’s place, just outside Exeter? I was attached to her household some years ago, but only for a short while.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. May I ask the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘Indeed you may. She has engaged me professionally, don’t you know, based on her past experience of my work. I am attempting to teach the dance to her grandchildren, one of whom is a great lumpkin of a fellow – or so I am told.’

  ‘I am sure you will manage splendidly,’ John replied gallantly. He paused, then said, ‘Tell me, did you hear anyone speaking in the night?’

  Cuthbert gazed at him blankly. ‘Speaking? What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t quite know what I mean. It’s just that I woke to hear a voice – I could have sworn it was in the room – saying something. Then the man laughed.’

  ‘What did it – he – say?’

  ‘Watch your step Fulke Bassett, or something like that.’

  There was a fraction’s silence before Cuthbert said, ‘I think you must have dreamt it, my friend, because I heard nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps it was you talking in your sleep.’

  Cuthbert adjusted his cuffs. ‘It might well have been,’ he answered lightly. ‘I told you I had a night of dreams.’

  The conversation had reached a natural halt and John was trying to think of something trivial to say when a familiar voice boomed out, ‘Are, zere you are. I have found you at last.’ And with a gusty sigh Fraulein Schmitt dropped heavily into the empty seat opposite his having caught them up in record time. John remembered his manners and rose to make her a small bow, as did Cuthbert Simms. Looking down the table he saw that the others had not noticed her arrival – or at least were pretending not to do so.

  She glared about her. ‘It vas very vicked of zat black man to drive off vizout me.’

  Hearing a reference to himself, Jack Beef turned round and stared at her with a certain amount of foreboding. Somewhat to John’s surprise she waved a waggish finger at him and said, ‘You are a naughty, naughty boy.’

  He stood up and came towards her. Then he took her hand and kissed it in what the Apothecary could only think of as an extremely theatrical manner.

  ‘Madam, I crave your pardon. It was very wrong of me to do what I did.’

  She fluttered at him, all smiles and eyelashes. ‘I vill forgive you if you vill buy me breakfast.’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  John was frankly astonished, firstly that she should have forgiven the Black Pyramid at all, let alone so easily. And secondly that he should have given in without saying a word in his own defence. For the journey made without her nagging presence had been peaceful and harmonious indeed. Puzzled, he looked at Cuthbert, but the little man was busily tucking into ham and eggs and did not return his gaze.

  Half an hour later the coachman called them and they set off for the final leg of their journey. This took them through the rest of Somerset and finally into the mysterious county of Devon where he had spent his memorable honeymoon and had also met Elizabeth di Lorenzi for the first time.

  John, sitting on the roof once more, studied the landscape and wondered for the umpteenth time why Elizabeth had sent for him. He would have thought – in view of their frank discussions on the last occasion they had met – that their relationship had sadly reached its ultimate conclusion. But obviously he was wrong. Suddenly John wanted to reach Exeter in a hurry and give thought to his future, whether it would include the Marchesa or whether he must continue on his own.

  After stopping at Taunton and Collumpton – where they dined – they finally arrived in Exeter some thirteen hours after leaving Bath. Their journey ended at The Half Moon in High Street. John, miserable as the place made him, was too weary to book himself in anywhere else. For the inn brought back cruel memories of his honeymoon and Emilia’s sweet warmth and comforting presence. Yet he gallantly strode in with the others and asked for a room for the night.

  Almost the entire party was present. Mrs Silverwood, as charming and capable as ever, leading Jemima by the hand; Paulina following with Fraulein Schmitt, very subdued and not questioning her luggage once. The Black Pyramid and his manager strolling in, laughing at some private joke. This left John to walk in with Cuthbert Simms and Martin Meadows. Of that strange character Mr Gorringe there was no sign.

  Having secured a room – on his own he was delighted to say – John made his way to the taproom determined to raise his spirits. Mr Simms and Mr Meadows were there before him, the little man sipping a glass of port while the solicitor was imbibing a cognac. Asking if he might join them, John sat down. The dancing master was in full flow.

  ‘. . . oh yes, I was quite the talk of the town in my day. Everyone came to me – members of the nobility and even a crowned head or two. But then alas,’ He sighed, ‘fashions changed and Italian dance teachers became quite the thing. But I was delighted to say that I was taken into the household of a great merchant, to teach his offspring the Terpsichorean art. One of them was outstanding and a great beauty as well. Indeed I miss my little Helen so much.’ He sighed again and John found himself thinking that the man was very slightly tipsy. ‘She was the belle of the neighbourhood – and of London as well. And as for Bath, let me tell you that she took the place by storm. But she had other ideas and her father threatened to turn her out of the house.’

  Meadows looked shocked. ‘What an unpleasant thing to do.’

  ‘Yes. It was.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ This from John.

  ‘She died, alas.’

  ‘How very sad.’

  ‘Oh, yes it was. A tragedy in fact.’

  Cuthbert Simms sighed for the third time and stared into the dregs remaining in his glass.

  ‘Allow me to get you another port,’ said the Apothecary, standing up.

  ‘Just a wee one perhaps.’

  As John crossed the floor to attract the attention of the potboy his eye was caught by the late arrival of Gorringe, the reception area being clearly visible to his left. The man strode in and shouted at a maid who happened to be standing in the hallway at the time. She bolted off an
d a few minutes later the landlord appeared. Unfortunately, the Apothecary could not hear a word of what was being said but he guessed that the hawk-faced man had gone to look for alternative accommodation but had been unable to find any at this hour of the night. Now he had returned and was demanding a room. Rather hoping that the landlord would refuse, John’s hopes were dashed as a key was produced and Gorringe was shown upstairs.

  The potboy was at his elbow. ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Two cognacs and a glass of port at that table, if you please.’

  ‘Very good, Sir.’

  ‘You’ll never guess who has just arrived and been given a room,’ John said, rejoining the other two.

  Martin laughed. ‘William Gorringe – and he hasn’t just arrived. He was first out of the coach and booked a room for himself before the rest of us had a chance to stir. Didn’t you see him?’

  ‘Frankly, no I didn’t. I wonder where he wandered off to instead of coming in to have a drink?’

  Cuthbert Simms gave an exquisite little shrug. ‘La, who cares? I think he’s a horrid man and not worth the discussion.’

  John laughed. ‘You’re right. Let’s talk of something else.’

  But the dancing master downed his port and stood up, wobbling just the slightest bit. He made a perfect bow however.

  ‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse me. I am afraid I am not used to so much alcohol. I must take to my bed immediately. Goodnight to you.’

  And he went out using tiny precise steps. John turned to Martin Meadows.

  ‘Do you have a room to yourself?’

  ‘Yes, fortunately. The landlord was expecting our coach and had accommodation ready for several of us. And you?’