Deryn Lake - Death and the Black Pyramid

Half an hour later they were setting off, heading towards the coast and the high cliffs. As they neared their objective John could see the town of Exmouth below and the meeting of the mighty Exe with its mother ocean. He turned his head to the right and there, dark and stark in the autumn sunshine stood the ruin of Wildtor Grange, the house in which he had first set eyes on Elizabeth. He tapped on the carriage side with his riding crop and the Marchesa stuck her head out.

‘There’s the Grange.’

‘I know. Do you want to go and look?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ John answered.

But inside he felt somewhat apprehensive. It was true that he had first seen Elizabeth within those decaying walls, but at that time he had been on honeymoon with Emilia. So the mansion contained memories of both women and he was not sure that he wanted to revive such thoughts.

They were approaching the house from the top of the cliffs and from this angle the windows — or rather the one or two that had survived — were glittering in the sunlight. The illusion was extraordinary, as if the place were still lived in, as if the glow came from within, cast by crackling log fires. On Elizabeth’s instruction the coachman began to circle the mansion, looking for somewhere to draw up the carriage, while John followed slowly, gazing up at the formidable ruin with a kind of terrible fascination.

The coach eventually stopped in the stable block. John looked at the place with a shudder, remembering the Society of Angels who had once terrorized Exeter and who had hidden their carriage there. But they were all gone now and were scarce remembered by the younger generation. He dismounted at the block just in time to hand the Marchesa down from her carriage. She shivered as she looked round her.

‘I don’t know why I said to come to this accursed house.’

‘I take it you no longer keep up your rooms here?’

For Elizabeth had once upon a time kept a private apartment in the heart of the ruin where she had hidden out when it had been necessary.

‘I have not visited the place for about two years.’ She turned to the house with determination. ‘I think I shall go and look at them now.’

And she marched off towards the spot where they had long ago found entry through a low window without glass. John followed more slowly, his good mood of earlier now totally gone. He was riven with memories, some so sweet, some less so, and it seemed to him that Emilia was not very far away from him as he followed in the Marchesa’s wake.

The elements had done much to harm Wildtor Grange he thought as he stepped through the window. Leaves, long dead, had blown in and there were signs that wild animals had made the house their own. The sad and melancholy atmosphere had grown even more oppressive, the Apothecary considered, as he strode through the echoing reception hall. Ahead of him he could see the Marchesa’s indomitable figure heading up that huge and monstrous staircase which reared to the floors above. With reluctant footsteps, John followed in her wake.

She must have been moving very fast for she was out of sight by the time he reached the top, where the staircase branched into two, each fork leading in opposite directions. John was just about to proceed along the left-hand corridor when he paused. From downstairs, far below, he could hear the distant sound of voices.

His flesh crawled on his body as every thought of supernatural phenomenon set his nerves jarring. The concept that he might be listening to a long-dead conversation from the defunct Thornes — the family who once had lived in the Grange — filled him with horror. Yet somehow he steeled himself to creep back down that great gothic staircase to the huge hall below. Whoever or whatever it was that was speaking was in one of those ghastly side rooms, full of rotting furniture, that led off the reception hall, but which one it was John had no idea. Following the sound of that unearthly whispering, he crept along.

It was a man and a woman conversing, of that much he was sure. Edging into one of those empty, decaying suites he drew closer to the sound until eventually, after passing through cavernous and deserted rooms, he found himself in earshot. John crouched down beside a sofa that must once have been the height of elegance, and listened.

‘… but what of my father?’ the woman was saying.

‘He’s perfectly safe, my dear,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘But he is bound to be suspected.’

‘As will we all.’

There was a pause then the young woman — or at least John judged her to be so by her tone — said, ‘But the Constable is far from stupid I am told.’

The Apothecary strained his ears.

‘Remember that everyone is innocent until proved guilty.’

She gave a humourless laugh. ‘That is what worries me.’

John moved forward a fraction, afraid of missing a word, and then loud and clear from the floor above came Elizabeth’s voice, ‘Where are you, my dear? You must come and see this. John, where have you vanished to?’

There was a horrified silence from the next room and then the Apothecary heard two pairs of feet running for dear life as the speakers rushed from the room as fast as they could. He sprang up and sprinted into the now deserted salon in which they had been speaking. They were gone and by a different route from the one that he and Elizabeth had employed to gain entry. Nonetheless John chased after the sound of their departure until he came to a French window in a far drawing-room. All the glass had gone but the door hung open on creaking hinges. Peering out he saw two riders leaving the Grange and going hell for leather. He stared, wishing that he had his telescope, but they were already too far away to identify with the naked eye. He turned as he heard footsteps behind him. Elizabeth stood there.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

He faced her, fractionally annoyed. ‘There were two people in here. They were talking about something which I have a strong suspicion was connected with the murder case. When they heard your voice they ran for their lives. And who can blame them?’

Elizabeth looked contrite. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I had no idea.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said.

‘I should have guessed something was up when you disappeared so suddenly.’

‘Yes.’ John sighed. ‘Now what was it you wanted to show me?’

‘Oh, it was just a silly little thing. There’s a handkerchief of yours still in my drawing-room.’

John thought back to the last time he had been in Wildtor Grange and felt somewhat embarrassed. But he couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that for something so trivial Elizabeth had interrupted a most important conversation. His mood of youthful exuberance totally vanished, John now felt middle-aged and serious.

Elizabeth came closer to him. ‘Do you want to pursue them? I presume they have gone?’ she added as an afterthought.

‘They’ve gone all right and I would imagine that they are halfway across Devon from the speed they were riding.’

‘Well, in that case you must set off at once. I shall follow in a more sedate fashion in the coach.’

John swiftly picked up her hand and kissed it, then, without saying a word, sped out through the tattered French window. Five minutes later he was mounted and thundering over the cobbles. As he left the Grange behind him, heading up towards the cliffs, he saw the two riders ahead of him, not going towards Exmouth as he had imagined but instead turning towards the fishing village of Sidmouth. He increased his pace but one of them — the woman — looked over her shoulder and must have said something to her companion. A moment later and the pair had plunged into the dense trees that grew on the lower ground above the village. John knew at that moment that he had lost them so he reined in and waited for Elizabeth to catch him up.