Deryn Lake - Death and the Black Pyramid

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.

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.