Death and the Black Pyramid

by Deryn Lake

  ‘Tell me, do you want to have this baby?’

  Her lovely topaz eyes, on a level with his own, looked into his with a direct gaze.

  ‘Yes, of course I do. You know that my son died, killed by that wretched group of young men who called themselves The Angels?’

  ‘You have told me the story often.’

  ‘Well, now that I can feel life growing inside me once more I long for the day when I can hold the child in my arms.’

  John stopped walking. ‘Elizabeth, will you marry me? I cannot bear the idea of our child being born a bastard.’

  ‘Rather than a proposal you could have said that you love me desperately and have thought of no-one else in the months we have been apart.’

  ‘Stop playing games with me,’ the Apothecary said, very slightly irritable. ‘You know I love you and you know how much. And if you don’t you should. Besides, if you remember, I asked you to be my wife a long while ago.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember,’ she answered, her whole manner changing. ‘And I know it is not just to give our child a name. But, my own dear John, I cannot say yes. I no longer wish for married life.’

  ‘Not even for the sake of the child?’

  ‘No, not even then.’

  It was useless to argue further. John realized that if he wanted peace and harmony between them he must content himself with the fact that his second child would be born a bastasd. But then, he reflected, he had been illegitimate and had not had too bad a life of it. In fact, all things considered, it had been relatively happy if one discounted the tragedy of Emilia’s end and the time when he had gone on the run. He sighed, and Elizabeth, mistaking the cause of it, took his hand and held it firmly.

  ‘It is not that I don’t love you in return, my friend. It is just that I love my freedom more.’

  ‘And will you allow me to see my child? Am I to have access to her?’

  ‘Or him.’ Elizabeth said with a smile. ‘Of course. You will be free to come and go as you please. As you always have been.’

  ‘You have no wish to give the baby to me to bring up?’

  She looked fractionally annoyed. ‘No, no wish at all. This child will comfort me in my old age and give meaning and direction to my declining years.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ John answered, just a trifle sadly. ‘Tell me, when is it due?’

  ‘In February. It will come with the early lambs.’

  ‘And may I be here?’

  Elizabeth squeezed his hand. ‘Of course. Please consider this house your second home.’

  John gave up. There was no arguing with her. Most of the women he had known would face the thought of bringing a bastard into the world with shame and humility. Yet here was Elizabeth talking in the most rational way of bringing up her son or daughter by herself, regardless of gossip. The Apothecary had to come to terms with the fact that the Marchesa was entirely different from every one of his other acquaintances; that she stood alone.

  They dined early and John, studying her, thought how this late pregnancy had enhanced her, rounded out her tendency to boniness, softened the contours of her face. Even the savage scar that ran down her cheek from her eye to her mouth seemed to have lost its cruelty and appeared like a gentle line.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he said down the length of the table and regardless of the hovering servants.

  ‘In your eyes perhaps.’

  ‘No, truly.’ He was longing to tell her that forthcoming motherhood became her but did not like to mention it in the presence of the footmen waiting at table. Instead he said conversationally, ‘Tell me, are you acquainted with Lady Sidmouth at all?’

  ‘Yes, I know the old besom. Why?’

  John rolled his eyes in the direction of the footmen and Elizabeth said, ‘Thank you, Faulkener. You may tell the servants to withdraw. If you could return in a quarter of an hour or so that would be splendid.’

  As soon as the room had cleared John got up and took his chair to sit beside her, taking her fingers in his hand and kissing each one individually.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  She stroked his hair. ‘And I love you. But you do understand that we cannot be together. Our lives are too different and I am too old for you.’ He started to protest but she silenced him and said, ‘You know that is true so don’t deny it. But while you are here let us enjoy each other’s company and have an amusing time.’

  ‘Very well.’ He sat up straight. ‘Tell me about Lady Sidmouth.’

  ‘I’ll do better than that. You can meet her in person. I shall call on her tomorrow and take you with me. But why do you want to know about her?’

  ‘There was an incident on my journey here.’

  ‘What sort of incident?’

  ‘A murder.’

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  Filling both their glasses from the decanter that stood on the sideboard, John took a mouthful and then launched into the tale of how he caught the stagecoach at the last minute and of all the varied people he had got to know during the course of the journey.

  ‘And so the unpleasant Mr Gorringe met his end in The Half Moon,’ he ended lightly, though he shivered as he said the words, adding, ‘Actually it was one of the most horrible crimes I have ever witnessed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the poor devil had been bludgeoned to death in the most brutal manner. It was a truly terrible sight to see.’

  Elizabeth remained silent, her profile etched against the light thrown by the fire. She said, ‘Tell me more about the Black Pyramid. He interests me.’

  ‘Do you believe he is the murderer?’

  ‘Quite possibly. Did you not say that Gorringe recognized him?’

  ‘Yes, I believe he did.’

  ‘Then they have a past connection. And as the motive was not robbery you must look to the past, John. For that is where the answer will lie.’

  ‘You sound like Sir John Fielding.’

  Elizabeth pealed with laughter. ‘Do I really? Is that my attraction for you? That I remind you of the man you work for?’

  John raised a svelte eyebrow. ‘Hardly that, my darling. I cannot imagine getting into bed with the revered magistrate.’

  ‘I should hope not indeed.’ She raised her wine glass. ‘I should like to drink to you, John. Thank you for everything you have done for me.’ She put her hand to her body. ‘And thank you for the child. Now that I am enceinte I realize that it is something I should have considered years ago.’

  ‘But then I would not have been the father.’

  Elizabeth smiled enigmatically. ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said.

  They went to bed shortly after the meal was cleared away, both in high spirits, though the awful sight he had seen that morning slightly tempered John’s relief that he and Elizabeth had been reunited. However, she was clearly not suffering from any such inhibitions and burst into song, leaning against the upright pillows and sipping a glass of wine. Just for a second John thought about the servants, wondering whether they could hear her or not. Then he threw caution to the winds and joined in, singing lustily, clinking glasses with her and generally having a good time until eventually both of them fell asleep.

  Five

  The ride from Exeter to Sidmouth came back to John with horrible clarity the next morning as he and Elizabeth set off to visit Lady Sidmouth, travelling in her second-best carriage. He recalled the scrubland where long ago on his honeymoon he had seen a headless coachman driving a coach full of phantoms. This had later turned out to be a sinister deception but it had shaken him and frightened Emilia at the time. And because of those memories he was glad to leave that particular piece of coutryside and emerge onto the wooded headland that led down to the sea.

  The bay of Sidmouth was surrounded on either side by land that protruded into the water. As one faced the ocean a long green promontory stuck out like a finger to the right. But the left-hand side was dominated by red cliffs, above which lay gree
n pastures and in the midst of these was set the home of the redoubtable Lady Sidmouth. As the carriage turned into the drive John could see the house and put it down as having been built in the reign of Queen Anne.

  It was of mellow red brick and in a niche above the front door stood a life-size statue of Demeter. The rest of the building flowed round this central point in becoming lines and the Apothecary found himself liking the harmonious whole enormously. The coachman dropped them at the main entrance and drove round to the stables on the right, while Elizabeth pealed the bell. John stood back and was astonished when the door was answered by a little woman wearing an apron.

  ‘Wretched footmen,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘Never around when they are needed. Come in, my dear, come in. And who is your friend?’

  ‘Lady Sidmouth, may I present John Rawlings to you. John, this is Lady Sidmouth.’

  John bowed handsomely, then kissed the lady’s hand.

  ‘My goodness,’ she said, ‘what an elegant young man. Pray follow me.’

  They did so, entering a large hallway and proceeding from there through a series of rooms until they came to one at the end of the house that overlooked the sea. John stared out of the large window to the undulating swell below him and remembered distant times that had been so full of joy.

  He turned round to see that Lady Sidmouth was ushering him towards a seat.

  ‘Come and sit opposite me, Mr Rawlings. I wish to look at you.’

  She was one of the most extraordinary women that John had ever seen. She had very large upper lids which closed half her eye, revealing a pair of dark brown orbs beneath, which glinted like those of a harvest mouse. But this was not her most peculiar feature, for Lady Sidmouth appeared to have no lips at all. The Apothecary had never seen such a tiny and inverted mouth. When she spoke she did so without moving it and he peered to see if she had any teeth, and was rewarded with a glimpse of minute white seeds. To crown it all she had wispy brown hair which she had screwed up into a bun beneath a very ordinary work a day mob-cap.

  ‘Well now, I think it is time for a little sherry, don’t you?’ And without waiting for a reply she rang a small bell that stood on a table. She turned her attention to Elizabeth. ‘And tell me, my dear, how are you getting on?’

  The Marchesa shot her an amused glance and said, ‘I am enceinte, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Lady Sidmouth did not turn a hair. Instead she asked, ‘And who is the father, may I ask?’

  ‘I am,’ John answered. ‘And in case you are wondering I have repeatedly asked Elizabeth to marry me but she will have none of it.’

  ‘Very wise too. My husband gave me ten children, ranging in ages from thirty to eleven, and then he died. Worn out I expect.’

  John looked at her with new interest. She might be a peculiar-looking little creature but she was as outspoken as the Marchesa herself.

  ‘Very probably,’ he said, and smiled, at which Lady Sidmouth threw her apron over her face and laughed long and loud.

  A footman entered the room and seemed to take the situation entirely as normal. ‘You rang, my Lady?’ he said, remaining utterly straight-faced.

  ‘Of course I did, Hopkins. Who else would have done it? Can you bring a decanter of the dry sherry and three glasses, please? Oh, and some of those sweet little biscuits that I like.’

  ‘Very good, my Lady.’

  A memory was stirring in John’s mind, of a Robin Sidmouth he had once met in Bath. He turned to his hostess.

  ‘Do you by any chance know a Robin Sidmouth? I met him once, some years ago.’

  ‘Of course I know him. He’s my eldest son. He’s inherited the title now his father is dead.’

  John turned to Elizabeth, who said, ‘The Earl of Sidmouth. That’s Robin.’

  The Apothecary, who had always wondered about Robin’s doubtful sexuality, asked, ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Of course,’ his mother snorted, ‘to a dull, lifeless girl called Maud. They’ve been wed two years and have had two children. Mind you he went kicking and screaming to the altar. I’ve always thought he was a Miss Molly myself.’

  John, remembering, said, ‘Who knows?’

  To which she replied, ‘Pish. I should have thought it perfectly obvious.’

  Lady Sidmouth poured out the sherry and handed round the plate of biscuits which Hopkins had placed before her. ‘You must excuse my wearing an apron,’ she said. ‘Fact is I’ve been in the kitchen making plum jam. Our fruit trees were laden this year.’ She fixed a piercing glance on Elizabeth. ‘Was there another reason for your coming to see me? Or was it merely to announce that you were with child?’

  ‘No, there was another reason, my dear Dorothy. My friend John travelled down in a stagecoach with two people whom you are currently employing. One was a dancing master, the other a milliner. You know of whom I speak?’

  ‘Yes, I know them very well. One is Simms, getting on in years but none the less a fine master of the Terpsichorean art. The other is Lovell, a dark-complexioned girl but for all that something of a beauty. They are both currently under my roof.’ She turned to John, her tiny eyes gleaming with curiosity. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  The Apothecary hesitated, wondering whether or not to tell her about the murder of William Gorringe. He decided to be truthful only after another glance at her assured him that she would ferret the facts out of him one way or the other.

  ‘Actually, a fellow passenger was murdered in the inn on the night before last. Jemima Lovell knew of it but Mr Simms did not. I wondered whether he should be informed before the Constable comes calling.’

  ‘Will he come calling?’ Lady Sidmouth responded.

  ‘He might well. The hunt is on to find the missing passengers.’

  ‘Then go and talk to him, Mr Rawlings. He is teaching even while we speak. You will find him in the ballroom. Hopkins can show you where it is.’ And she rang the bell again.

  But as he mounted the stairs behind Hopkins’s stoutly stockinged legs the Apothecary thought that he had small need of directions. For from a room on the first floor there came a great deal of noise – cries of ‘No, no. Do it like this,’ followed by the strains of a frantic violin and a great deal of heavy-footed thumping. With a majestic gesture Hopkins threw open the door and John gazed within.

  Children of assorted ages and sizes – a dozen of them – were ranged in ranks before a red-faced Cuthbert Simms, who had the traditional violin tucked beneath his chin and was presently haranguing them about not getting a step correctly. Eager young virgins of seventeen languished at the back while in the front were younger sprigs, one in particular looking horribly like Robin Sidmouth, all pouting mouth and high heels.

  John stepped into the ballroom and every head turned in his direction. The dancing lesson ground to a halt.

  ‘Mr Rawlings,’ said Cuthbert in tones of great surprise. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘I have come to speak to you, actually.’

  ‘Very well. Ladies and gentlemen, you may take a short break during which you will practice the steps I have been endeavouring to teach you this morning.’

  There were various squeals of protest but Cuthbert looked firm and clapped his hands, after which there were one or two half-hearted attempts made to obey his instructions.

  ‘Well, my dear Sir,’ he said, drawing John to one side. ‘This is most certainly a surprise.’

  ‘Indeed it is, Sir. But truth to tell there was a fatality at The Half Moon which had not been discovered at the time you left. I thought it only fair to warn you that the Constable might come to interview you.’

  ‘Me?’ exclaimed Cuthbert. ‘Whatever for? I know nothing about it. What fatality?’

  ‘William Gorringe was murdered in his bed during the night,’ answered John, looking mild and honest – an expression he had been working on for some time.

  ‘Gorringe, you say? Oh dear me, whoever could have done that I wonder?’

  He turned away, wiping his
sweating face with a large handkerchief and John could see that even the back of Cuthbert’s neck had turned bright red.

  ‘I’ve no idea. The matter is – as I said – in the hands of the Constable. We shall have to await developments.’

  The dancing master was clearly flustered because he clapped his hands together and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you may have the rest of this morning off. I shall see you here at two o’clock sharply.’

  There was a loud shout of delight and a charge towards the door. Cuthbert sighed. ‘No matter how hard I try they behave like little hoydens.’

  ‘Boys will be boys, I suppose,’ John answered cheerfully. His gaze fell on two young ladies walking neatly towards the exit. ‘Now that couple do you credit. Who are they?’

  ‘The Lady Felicity Sidmouth – the Earl’s sister. And the Honourable Miranda Tremayne. She’s some sort of cousin and stays here as a guest.’

  ‘I see.’

  As they drew level the pair dropped neat bobs and John made an effusive bow in return. Miranda gave him a saucy glance and as she went through the door turned to look at him over her shoulder.

  ‘My goodness, she’s going to grow up a beauty.’

  ‘She already is,’ sighed Cuthbert. ‘She has half the young men in the county calling on her. She is also my favourite pupil, being anxious to learn every dance there is.’

  He was clearly relaxing now that the subject of Gorringe had been dropped but John felt it was his duty to persevere.

  ‘Did you know William Gorringe before the journey to Exeter?’ he asked casually.

  The colour swept back into Cuthbert’s cheeks and he answered very swiftly, ‘No. No indeed. The man was a complete stranger to me until we met on the coach.’

  He was just a little too emphatic John thought. But he felt he could question the dancing master no further. He got up from the chair to which Cuthbert had motioned him.

  ‘Well, my friend, I’ll bid you adieu. I just thought I ought to warn you before the Constable descends on you.’