Death and the Black Pyramid (2 page)

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 some 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.

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.