Death and the Black Pyramid

by Deryn Lake

  ‘First stop is Croydon,’ called the guard and with a turn of wheels and a crack of the whip, John set off on this extremely nebulous adventure.

  They reached Lewes approximately nine and a half hours later having stopped at Croydon, Godstone, East Grinstead and Uckfield before they reached their destination. Dropping John and another woman, large and grumpy and wearing eyebrow wigs made of mouse fur, at an establishment named The White Hart, the Apothecary decided to book himself a room for the night and afterwards go into the taproom to pick up any local gossip.

  But first he must dine, feeling very empty and decidedly in need of a good glass of claret. He made his way to the dining parlour which was totally devoid of people and addressed an ancient waiter.

  ‘Good evening. I have just arrived off the stagecoach. Am I too late to get a bite of supper?’

  ‘Provided you take what the cook has to offer, Sir, no, you are not.’

  ‘Then fetch me some pottage and pie and I’ll be happy.’

  ‘And what would you like to drink?’

  ‘Some wine, if you please.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir.’

  The waiter left the room and John was just starting to read a newspaper when the woman with the eyebrow wigs, which John regarded as quite the most monstrous fashion, came in and sat down at a table adjacent to his.

  ‘Where’s the serving man?’ she enquired abruptly.

  ‘He’s just gone out to put in my order,’ John answered, lowering the paper.

  ‘Well I hope he hurries back. I’m starving to death after that journey.’

  As she looked as far from her demise as was humanly possible the Apothecary merely smiled and started to read once more.

  ‘Well, how did you fare whilst travelling, Sir?’

  ‘I have been on the road for some days,’ John answered pleasantly. ‘I have come from Exeter.’

  ‘Goodness me. That’s a fair way to travel. What brings you to this part of the world?’

  ‘Business. Just business.’

  At that point the waiter came in and after grumbling that there was nothing decent left to eat the woman ordered an immense amount of food and a bottle of wine. John’s claret had arrived by this time and he politely offered the woman a glass as she was still waiting.

  ‘Very kind of you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Rawlings, Ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll accept.’

  He poured it out and saw her get the look in her eye of someone who was longing to talk.

  With a mental sigh he relinquished the newspaper.

  ‘I’ve come to visit my daughter,’ she started. ‘She lives close by but, alas, has too many children to warrant my staying with her, every bedroom being taken if you follow my meaning.’

  John nodded.

  ‘Of course, I am a native of these parts. I was actually born in Lewes but shortly after my arrival my father got employment on the Vinehurst estate – he was assistant gamekeeper, don’t you know, and rose to become the head man. Anyway, my mother and I – there were just the three of us in the family at that time – moved to a tied cottage. When I was old enough I became a maid in the big house but I was courted by a very pleasant gentleman – he was the son of the jewellers, you know, Ludden’s of Lewes they are called to this day.’

  John’s pottage arrived and he started to eat it but the woman continued regardless.

  ‘Of course that marriage gave me the start in life I had always wanted. Deep inside me I had always had the craving to be something else, a woman of importance, a creature of note.’

  John supped his soup and nodded, hoping her food would arrive soon and there would be a merciful silence.

  ‘Well, I achieved my ambition. I went to London and was accepted for small parts at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.’

  The Apothecary wondered whether to mention Coralie Clive but realized he wouldn’t get a word in anyway.

  ‘I had to leave my husband behind me, alas. But when I was rising up the ladder . . .’

  John grinned wildly at the thought.

  ‘. . . he was taken ill, poor soul, and so I left my career and returned to nurse him. I had two daughters by him, you know, and then I lost him.’

  John longed to ask where, but forbore.

  ‘Oh, that was a sad day. But I gave him a splendid funeral. We had the most magnificent lying in state, I can tell you. The whole of Lewes came to pay their respects. Anyway as I had no son the jewellery company passed to his younger brother, which was most unfortunate. Still, he left me well provided for and . . .’

  At that moment the woman’s meal arrived and she dug in with relish. There was total silence and John gave a sigh of relief as he ate his pie in comparative comfort. But no sooner had she consumed her pottage than she started once more.

  ‘Of course, I am a lady of leisure these days.’ She looked at John from under her mouse fur brows and he felt a sinking of his heart.

  ‘My congratulations,’ he murmured.

  ‘But I do find it lonely, being on my own. It is so difficult to meet any gentleman with whom one has anything in common. I may have been born in humble circumstances but I played with the Bassett children as a young girl, I’ll have you know. And now I am a woman of means. So I am looking for a husband,’ she concluded archly. ‘Do you know anyone, Sir?’

  ‘Unfortunately not off-hand, Madam. Why don’t you place an advertisment in a newspaper?’

  ‘Now that,’ she said, digging into her chicken with gusto, ‘is a very good idea.’

  John had been too tired to visit the taproom and so had gone straight to bed. But during the night he had awoken from a dream and sat bolt upright. Something the woman had said earlier had come back to him while he slept, and now he turned it over in his brain. She had mentioned the name Bassett and the Apothecary began to puzzle where he had heard it before.

  And then he remembered. He had been sharing a room with Cuthbert Simms and had heard a disembodied voice say, ‘Take care, Fulke Bassett. Take great care.’

  As he put his head back on the pillow, John Rawlings determined to ask the woman exactly to whom she had been referring – at the risk of being considered an interested suitor.

  Twelve

  There was no sign of the talkative woman at breakfast the following morning and John gave a crooked smile at the thought that both the females with whom he had recently spent the evening had vanished by daylight. However, the same old waiter was serving and John called him over to the table.

  ‘Good morning, my friend. Has the lady been down to breakfast yet?’

  ‘No, Sir. I expect she be still abed. Shall I tell her you were asking for her?’

  ‘No, I’d rather you didn’t,’ John answered hastily. He helped himself to beef and bread. ‘Tell me, does the name Bassett mean anything to you?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. They’m be the big family round here. Made a lot of money in the City, did the old great grandfather, and built him a grand house called Vinehurst Place. That was before the tragedy, you see.’

  John sat bolt upright and put down his newspaper. ‘What tragedy was that?’

  ‘The shooting, Sir. The great grandson – who inherited the house – shot his daughter dead. Seems that he wanted her to marry some old Marquis – a real old beast of a fellow who had already had three wives – and she objected. It seems she had already given her heart elsewhere, though she would tell no-one who her lover was. Anyway, to cut to the point, on the eve of her wedding they had a most terrible argument and he shot her dead.’

  ‘Good heavens. What happened to him?’

  ‘He ran from the house and was never seen again.’

  John could scarcely believe it. ‘You mean he escaped the law?’

  ‘Completely and utterly. He just took off into the night and has not been heard of from that day to this.’

  The Apothecary could hardly eat his breakfast. ‘So what happened to the house?’

  ‘That was left to Master Richard – he was the old man
’s son. Apparently he ran to his sister’s side and held her while she was dying. Then, once the funeral was over, he moved away to London where he now resides. Vinehurst Place is kept clean by a handful of servants but nobody goes there anymore.’

  ‘Where is it? I’d like to go and have a look at the place.’

  ‘It’s easy enough to find. Leave Lewes on the Brighthelmstone road, then take the first turning left at the crossroads. Follow a narrow path and you will come upon the house from the back. It should take no more than an half hour to reach.’

  ‘Thank you so much for the information. I shall set off as soon as I have finished my repast.’

  The waiter shook his head sadly. ‘It do seem tragic to me that the old place that was once so full of life and fun should stand so empty and lonely.’

  John asked on a whim, ‘Is it haunted?’

  ‘They say the dead girl, Miss Helen, goes weeping along the corridor. The servants often hear her.’

  Despite the fact that it was a warm day and John had reached the stage of toast and marmalade, he gave a shiver.

  ‘What a terrible tale. Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘You be’m more than welcome, Sir.’

  It was a good half hour’s walk, John thought, as he strode out on another particularly beautiful day. The sky above was the deep blue of ripening grapes, with wisps of cloud the colour of angel’s wings. The trees were in high drama, ranging in shade from pale gold to wild and fiery russet. There was a mysterious scent in the air. A combination of woodsmoke, leaves and dark, damp earth. The Apothecary breathed in deeply and felt a leap of his spirits, a joyousness in being alive and well. He felt glad that Elizabeth was bringing his child into the world to share in the marvellous experience of being part of it.

  His thoughts turned to his daughter, Rose, and he had a sudden longing to see her again. To see her childish beauty crowned by her mop of red hair. He pictured her walking along with Sir Gabriel, his tall figure leaning heavily upon his great stick, his three-storey wig white as ivory, bending to examine a flower that his granddaughter was pointing out. He considered that if he left Lewes tomorrow morning he would have time to hurry back to them and maybe stay a day or two before returning to Devon for Lady Sidmouth’s ball.

  Ahead of him loomed the crossroads and John, turning, saw behind him the small town he had just left with its great and gloomy castle rearing high above, perched on a hill overlooking the river. He turned again and took the left fork, proceeding down a narrow lane until the way before him opened up and he found himself before a tall pair of cast-iron gates. Peering through them he saw a long green sward – about a mile in length – leading to a house that seemed to him to be the epitome of graceful design and elegant construction. John pushed at the gates which swung open with an almighty creak. Looking guiltily round to see if anybody else had heard the noise, the apothecary eased his way between them.

  The moment he set his eyes on Vinehurst Place he felt almost mesmerized by it, as if the house had him in its thrall. And yet as John drew nearer he saw that the place was lifeless. No smoke rose from the chimneys, no head peered out from one of the many windows, there was no sound of any kind. It was just as if the place had been deserted on the night of the murder and nobody had set foot in it since.

  The Apothecary drew nearer, his eye taking in with admiration the rose-pink brickwork and the clever way in which the builder had curved the cornice below the great attic storey, giving a false but pleasing perspective. The windows had delightful arches above them while the garden door had a span with a design. John strained to see what it was but at that moment a figure appeared from nowhere and stood motionless watching him. It was its very stillness that frightened the Apothecary who, after stopping in his tracks and staring for a moment or two, turned on his heels and walked rapidly away. There was no shout and no sound of running feet and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw that the figure still stood there, immobile as a statue, its motionless head staring in his direction. Frightened out of his wits, yet for no good reason, John ran the rest of the way and, squeezing through the gates, hared down the lane that lay beyond.

  Afterwards when he had regained his breath and his equilibrium John walked slowly back to Lewes, wondering why he had been so afraid. The figure had been real enough, there had been no doubt about that. Yet it was the fact that it made no move towards him that had scared him so much. Telling himself that he was being foolish the Apothecary reached the small town and headed into an hostelry to have a reviving drink.

  That evening he went for a walk – or rather a climb – for he plodded up the hill to the castle and stood there beside its menacing hulk watching a fog come up from the sea and blow along the course of the river. He observed it slowly wrap its tendrils round the little town and knew that as soon as he descended from the castle’s heights he would find himself immersed in it. It was at that moment that he decided to go back to London the next morning to reunite himself with Sir Gabriel and Rose. Elizabeth had made it clear that he was to return to Devon to escort her to the ball but after that – who knew? Shivering slightly, John descended the hill and found himself plunged into the mist.

  It was thicker in the town than he had imagined and what scant lighting there was came mostly from the fronts of shops. John plunged on in the direction of The White Hart – or what he imagined the direction to be – and had just crossed the street when two women suddenly appeared out of the fog and walked quite close to him. Normally he wouldn’t have given them a second glance but there was something in the way that they carried themselves that attracted his attention. John sunk back into a shop doorway as a breath of their conversation reached his ears.

  ‘. . . glad to be out of it I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, my dear. But don’t dwell. It’s all over now.’

  ‘Yes, thank God. Poor Charles. His guts saved him from a terrible ordeal.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  They were alongside the Apothecary, just passing him, and the light from a shoemaker’s shop shone directly on them. John gave an audible gasp. He was astonished to see the dark little milliner, Jemima Lovell, and walking beside her was none other than the woman who had travelled back from Devon with him, Lucinda Silverwood herself.

  Thirteen

  The hackney coach dropped him next afternoon at the corner of Gerrard Street, and the Apothecary practically ran the rest of the way to Nassau Street. Dashing up the few steps to the front door he inserted his key in the lock only to feel the door being pulled from the other side and to hear a little voice saying, ‘Papa, is that you?’

  He practically flew into the reception hall. ‘Sweetheart, how did you know?’

  ‘She has been telling me for the last two days that you were coming,’ said Sir Gabriel Kent, making his way out of the library, walking slowly and leaning heavily on his cane. John turned to him and just for a minute saw his father quite clearly.

  Sir Gabriel was now eighty-three years of age and as spare of frame as ever. But time was at last taking its toll on him and he no longer stood straight and tall but was starting to stoop, while lines of wisdom had cut deep into his countenance. His skin had become the colour of parchment, matching his amazing white wig, and his hands were covered with the brown marks that some people called death spots. But his eyes were still bright and golden and looked at John with the same clarity that they had always held.

  ‘My dearest boy,’ he said, and embraced his son warmly. ‘Rose has a gift indeed for she has been informing me all day yesterday and most of today that you were on your way to see us.’

  John smiled a secret smile at his daughter, knowing full well that she had been born with ancient magic. However, the child’s next question disturbed him slightly.

  ‘How is Mrs Elizabeth?’ she asked.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ answered her father, somewhat nonplussed.

  ‘Come, my son, let us repair to the library,’ said Sir Gabriel, then turning t
o Rose he added, ‘Dearest, I wish to speak to your father privately. You may join us in thirty minutes.’

  The red hair flew as she tossed her head but she trotted away to her nursemaid obediently enough. John stared after her.

  ‘Does she miss her companion Octavia?’

  Sir Gabriel straightened his shoulders. ‘Well, I think she does somewhat. But most of all, John, she misses you.’

  He led the way into the library and the Apothecary sat down opposite him and allowed his adopted father to pour him a small sherry. He stared at the great old man as he passed him his glass.

  ‘Father, there is something I have to tell you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ And Sir Gabriel gave him a glance which held a great deal of amusement in its depths.

  John, for no reason, felt awkward. ‘It’s about Elizabeth di Lorenzi.’

  The golden eyes gleamed. ‘Something to do with the reason she wanted to see you, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes. Sir, you are going to be a grandfather once more.’

  Sir Gabriel’s face creased. ‘I see that you didn’t waste your time in Devon then.’

  John felt himself blush. ‘Well, I . . .’

  His father interrupted him. ‘There is no need to explain to me, my son. You have been a widower for some years and I know that at the time you were very much in love with the Marchesa di Lorenzi. Tell me, are you still?’

  ‘Yes, yes I am. But she will not marry me, Sir, despite the fact that she is carrying my child.’

  ‘So she intends to give birth to a bastard?’

  ‘Yes, I fear she does. But don’t worry about her position in society. She is rich and she is powerful. Only a few people will abandon her.’