Deryn Lake - Death and the Black Pyramid

A maid, dressed in mob-cap and apron, answered the front door. ‘Yes, Sir?’ she asked anxiously.

John gave her a kindly smile. ‘Would it be possible to speak to Miss Schmitt?’ he said.

‘The ladies are in the garden, Sir. I don’t like to disturb them.’

‘You may tell them that an old friend wishes to have a brief word with them. I have come all the way from Exeter especially.’

He gave her the most winsome smile of which he was capable. She looked confused.

‘I’ll go and see, Sir. Would you like to step inside.’

John did so and was overwhelmed by the general comfort of the place. From where he stood a central flagstoned floor led straight through the house to the back door, down which the maid was running in a frantic sort of way. Off this led low-ceilinged pannelled rooms with a fire blazing in an inglenook despite the warmth of the day, and a cat dozing sleepily in front of it. A profusion of autumnal flowers stood in brightly polished copper jugs and from the kitchen area came a smell of good, plain, country fare. John almost wished they would invite him to dinner until he remembered the Marchesa and his promise to join her later.

The garden door, which the maid had closed behind her, opened again and there, entirely at odds with the genial atmosphere of the house, stood Fraulein Schmitt. She glared at John ferociously.

‘Vot is the meaning of zis intrusion? Vye have you come here?’

John bowed. ‘I have come to inform you, Madam, that Mr William Gorringe has been murdered most foully,’ he boomed in theatrical tones. ‘Furthermore, the Constable of Exeter is seeking your whereabouts and wishes to ask you questions.’

She flew into a rage though John could not help but notice that her face had completely drained of colour.

‘How dare you come here and threaten me,’ she shouted, waving her arms in the air.

‘Madam, I…’ he began, and then the garden door opened again and a little fat woman, no more that four foot eleven and round as a hoop, entered.

‘Augusta,’ she shouted, ‘why are you making so much noise? Be silent I pray you and allow the young man to speak.’

Fraulein Schmitt turned to her. ‘But he is trying to threaten me.’

‘Nonsense, dear. He looks far too pleasant to do any such thing.’

John gave the newcomer a beatific smile and inched a step forward. ‘Madam, I come only to give your sister a warning that the Constable of Exeter is looking for her.’

‘I see. Now would you like to take a seat and tell me the whole story.’

‘Vait a moment…’ protested Augusta, but her sister made a silencing motion and indicated that the Apothecary should sit down in a chair opposite hers. He gratefully accepted.

‘Let me just explain that I am English by marriage,’ the little woman said. ‘Years ago, long before the Seven Years War, my husband, John Mitchell, came to Dusseldorf on business. We married within a few months and I returned to Devon with him. Our parents being dead my sister Augusta left home some while later and went to work in Sussex as a teacher of French and German. But she always visited me from time to time and that is what she is doing at this very moment. So I suppose it is about the unfortunate murder of the man she travelled with that the Constable wants to question her. Yes?’

She put her head on one side and looked at John with bright eyes, reminding him vividly of a robin, even to her shape.

‘Yes, Mrs Mitchell, you are quite right. You see indications are that the murdered man knew his killer and that it was more than likely somebody who was travelling on the same coach.’

‘I must protest,’ Augusta said loudly, ‘vye should the Constable think it is me?’

‘I don’t know that he does,’ John answered mildly. ‘He just wishes to talk to you, that is all.’

Fraulein Schmitt burst into a noisy and showy fit of weeping. ‘I am being persecuted,’ she sobbed. ‘It is not fair. It is cruel. Ach, Matilda, vot have I done to deserve such treatment?’

Her sister had obviously learned long ago how to control such outbursts.

‘Now hush Augusta, do. Mr…?’ She gave John a docile smile.

‘Rawlings, Madam. John Rawlings.’

‘… Rawlings might think you are guilty of something if you continue.’

Augusta turned a horrible colour, a cross between putty and curds, but stopped moaning. ‘Of vot could I be accused?’ she asked.

John merely smiled, thinking that the draining of colour was probably caused by panic. Yet for all that his instinctive dislike of Augusta Schmitt made him rule nothing out. He turned to the woman.

‘If I were you, Madam, I would come to Exeter tomorrow and go to see the Constable voluntarily. I am sure he would appreciate it.’

‘That is a very good idea,’ said Matilda Mitchell firmly. ‘I could drive you there in the trap.’

John stood up, addressing himself to his hostess. ‘Madam, if you will forgive me. My hackney is waiting outside and I fear the fare will be enormous. I must make haste.’

‘Of course. It was nice of you to call, Mr Rawlings.’

The Apothecary bowed. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.’ He made another, more formal, bow in the direction of the Fraulein. ‘Good day, Miss Schmitt.’

She growled something inaudible in return and John made his way out thinking how different the two sisters were not only in looks but also in personality.

Elizabeth, as usual, had not realized how long he had been and was happily dining with Lady Sedgewick and her family. Milady had a large modern house built close to the cathedral but standing in its own pleasant grounds. John, feeling that he looked like a tramp, made his way on foot to the imposing front door and was greeted by a black footman standing well over six feet in height.

‘I’ve come to collect the Marchesa di Lorenzi,’ John said, staring up at him. ‘She is expecting me.’

‘Very good, Sah. If you wouldn’t mind waiting.’

The footman strolled off nonchalantly, ushering John into a small reception room before he went. He returned after a few minutes, a great smile adorning his features.

‘This way, if you please, Sah.’ And he bowed John into a magnificent dining-room where Elizabeth sat with a youngish, attractive woman and children of assorted ages and sizes gathered around the dining-table.

They all looked up as John entered. Feeling decidedly ill-dressed and as if he smelt of the country, he took a seat where Lady Sedgewick indicated. She raised a lorgnette and looked at him.

‘So this is the young man!’ she said.

The Apothecary felt terrible, just like a boy who has been caught out committing some major schoolboy sin. He stood up and bowed ornately.

‘Allow me to present myself, Madam. I am John Rawlings, apothecary of Shug Lane.’

‘What a quaint name,’ said Lady Sedgewick, though whether she was referring to him or his address John could not be certain.

‘Isn’t it,’ Elizabeth answered carelessly. ‘Though there is nothing quaint about young John.’ She laughed. ‘Though on second thoughts…’

The eldest boy and girl, aged about eighteen and sixteen respectively, giggled wildly, while their mother laughed aloud.

‘Hush, there,’ she said when she had calmed herself. ‘We are embarrassing the poor fellow. Grevil, Dorinda, be silent. We have finished dining but are currently on the port, Mr Rawlings. As my eldest boy is but a sprig we have dispensed with the formality of withdrawing.’ She smiled at the Apothecary, rather too broadly for his liking.

He turned a somewhat cold look in Elizabeth’s direction. ‘I take it you have enjoyed yourself, madam.’

‘Very greatly,’ she said, and flickered her eyelid at him.

The apothecary was thoroughly discomfited imagining that the Marchesa had told Lady Sedgewick of her pregnancy. He could almost hear them.