Deryn Lake: Death and the Black Pyramid

In the middle of the field some strong sticks had been thrust into the ground round which ropes had been tied in very much the same kind of arrangement as John had seen in Devon. It was here that the fight would take place at the hour of three o’clock. At present there was no sign of the Black Pyramid or Nathaniel Broome, or any representative of his opponent. But the festivities were very much under way. Rose and Emily broke into a run as a puppeteer set up his stall.

John smiled at Sir Gabriel, who was looking like a grandee as he strolled through the mob.

‘Would you care for a little refreshment, Sir?’

‘A small glass of canary would not go amiss.’

‘There’s a tent over there where I imagine we could obtain one. I’ll put Irish Tom in charge of Rose and Emily.’

‘Splendid,’ answered his father and made his way to the liquor tent where a chair was immediately found for him.

On the dot of three o’clock the Black Pyramid, completely recovered from his fight in Devon, his dark skin gleaming with the sheen of ebony, stepped through the ropes and raised his arms aloft. John and his father, the older man sitting on a camp stool right at the front, gave a small cheer. His adversary — a dark young man with a mass of curling hair who called himself Gypsy Joe Summerfield — then came into the ring and made menacing gestures in the direction of his opponent. The Black Pyramid turned disdainfully away.

The fight was by no means a walkover for the black man as Gypsy Joe pounced on him with a welter of flying, brutal fists. But inevitably the range of the Black Pyramid’s powerful arms and the use of his muscular legs, encased as they were in black tights, won him the day. The gypsy was knocked to the ground and had to be helped out of the ring by his clique of supporters. It was then, with the black man jubilantly receiving the accolade of the crowd, that John ran back into the fairground, where Rose was sitting with the maid and the coachman, having a light meal which Emily had packed before they left The White Hart.

‘My darling, come with me a minute, if you will,’ and before she could say a word he had taken her hand and was leading her towards the ring.

The Black Pyramid was just climbing out and would have turned away but Rose broke free and ran towards him calling out, ‘Hello Mr Jack.’

He spun round, looking to see who was hailing him. Then he saw the child — at least it seemed as if he did — and abruptly turned his back and hastened towards a group of cheering admirers.

Rose did something unusual and burst into tears and John sped towards her and scooped her up into his arms.

‘Don’t cry, sweetheart.’

‘But Papa, he turned away from me. And yesterday he was so nice, even thought I startled him.’

‘Then it was the same man?’

‘Definitely. I am certain of it.’

‘I see.’

‘I think perhaps he was trying to hide from me. But why, Papa? Why?’

That, my dear child, John thought, is precisely what I would like to know.

That night John and his father sat in a snug after dinner had been served. There was a comfortable silence between them, the Apothecary’s thoughts being miles away as he ran the details of the case over and over in his mind. There were so many questions left unanswered but one in particular came back to John with vivid clarity. Why had the Black Pyramid put Fraulein Schmitt out of the carriage — had it really been because she grumbled so greatly? And what had she meant by her last remark to him that it had all been make believe? Could it have been possible that the two of them were acting out some piece of theatre? But for whose benefit — and why?

John’s thoughts turned to the other people in the drama. There was Mrs Lucinda Silverwood, so calm and so capable who lived somewhere in Lewes and obviously knew that dark-haired beauty Jemima Lovell better than she had admitted. There was the actress Paulina Gower who the Apothecary had not liked all that much but who had clearly taken the fancy of the redoubtable Joe Jago. As to the men who had travelled on the coach that night, there was mincing little Cuthbert Simms — who John could not help but feel sorry for — and the enigmatic Black Pyramid, together with Nathaniel Broome. A disparate group of people if ever there was one. Yet they had all shared in that extraordinary journey which had culminated in the violent doing-to-death of William Gorringe.

The door to the snug opened and in came the waiter who had served John breakfast on the occasion of his first visit to Lewes.

‘Can I get you anything to drink, Sir?’

John looked across at Sir Gabriel. ‘Father?’

‘A cognac for me, if you please.’

‘And I will have the same.’

‘Very good, Sir.’

‘By the way, before you go, do you remember me talking to you about Vinehurst Place and its occupants on the occasion of my last visit?’

‘I do indeed, Sir.’

‘If I were to draw a man could you tell me from the likeness whether or not it was the vanished Fulke Bassett?’

The waiter looked somewhat startled. ‘I think I could. Yes, sir.’

While he was out of the room John summoned up his vivid pictorial memory. Then he started to sketch as best he could the features of the man known to him as William Gorringe.

‘Do you think that that is the key to the mystery?’ asked Sir Gabriel.

‘I think it has to be. If it isn’t then I’m afraid I must drop the whole thing.’

‘That is not like you, John.’

The Apothecary sighed. ‘Alas, it is a fact. This has been the most baffling set of circumstances I have ever encountered.’

At that moment the waiter returned bearing a tray with a decanter and two fresh glasses upon it. He put it down, then solemnly and in silence John handed him the sketch. The man merely glanced at it.

‘Yes, Sir,’ he said, ‘that’s Mr Bassett. Cruel and evil man that he is.’

‘Thank you,’ John answered. ‘I think everything has just become clear.’

The search for the Black Pyramid was renewed with great urgency. Early the next morning the Apothecary went down to the remnants of the fair, busy packing up and removing what had been left of the stalls, and asked the man’s whereabouts. He was informed that the victorious fighter had moved on to Brighthelmstone — indeed had gone that very night — and was shortly due to fight in that small town. Nobody seemed quite sure when. John had thanked them and returned to The White Hart in something of a quandary.

‘What is the matter, my child?’ asked his father, seeing the anxious look on his son’s face.

John sat down and ordered himself some tea and food. He had left the inn before breakfast, a meal which Sir Gabriel was now picking at.

‘It’s that wretched fighter. He has already departed Lewes.’

‘Do you know where he was bound?’

‘To Brighthelmstone.’

‘Well if you need to question him, follow him and do so.’

‘But, Sir, I vowed to myself that I would never leave Rose again. Yet I realize that I would be much quicker on my own.’

‘How long do you think you will be gone?’

‘A day or two. Three at the most.’

‘Then why are you making such an alarm? The child will be perfectly safe with me. Have I not looked after her properly in the past?’

‘You have guarded her as well as any grandfather possibly could.’

‘Well then?’

John squirmed, sensing that this was a battle he was about to lose.

‘But I swore…’

‘Oh fiddle-faddle,’ said Sir Gabriel, and snapped his long white fingers.

Rose, too, seemed very relaxed about the situation. ‘Oh are you going away, Pa? But not far I believe. Only to Brighthelmstone Grandpa said.’