Deryn Lake: Death and the Black Pyramid

Inside it was still dark for the curtains were drawn. Crossing to them, John pulled them back and autumn sunlight, piercingly bright, flooded the room. He heard Tyler the landlord give an exclamation behind him and, wheeling round, saw the body for the first time.

William Gorringe lay on the bed in a sea of his own blood, a sea which had spattered onto the walls and even the ceiling. To say that he had been bludgeoned to death would have been an understatement. The man had received so many blows to the head that he was virtually unrecognizable, his face reduced to a lump of flesh, his eyes dislodged from their sockets by the severity of the beating he had sustained. Taking a deep breath John leant over the body and stared at what remained of the head.

The brains were oozing through in a mass of grey matter, hair sticking in it just to make the scene more unpleasant. Slowly, the Apothecary let his eyes wander downwards and saw that Gorringe had several blows, including one to the knees, which were bent up slightly as if the man had been asleep when the attack began. John made a mental note to ask the landlord — who was on the landing making the most terrible retching noises — about spare keys to the rooms.

He straightened up and crossed to the window, noticing that it was closed and that the catch had been slipped through on the inside. Staring downwards he saw that below him was the stabling yard. So it would have been possible for a man to have taken a ladder and made his way upwards and closed the window after he had come in. John’s mind turned to the figure he had seen down the landing and he fervently wished that he had had both the time and the foresight to get a better look.

He turned once more to the body, thinking that Gorringe must have met his death at the hands of a madman or, at the very least, someone in an uncontrollable frenzy. He had a dozen or so separate wounds, the majority of which were to the upper regions. But his chest had also been viciously attacked and John wondered what implement could have been used. Possibly a heavy stick or a piece of piping. But a search of the room, albeit quick, revealed nothing. Whoever had killed William Gorringe had taken the weapon with them.

Outside in the corridor the landlord — very whey-faced — was waiting for him. John looked grim.

‘We’ll have to lock this door until the Constable comes. You have a spare key?’

‘Yes, of course. The girl uses it in the morning when she goes in with the hot water.’

‘And I presume that was what she was doing earlier?’

‘Yes, poor soul. She walked in on that scene of carnage.’

It was a good description, John thought. Aloud he said, ‘Where are the keys normally kept when they are not in use?’

‘They hang on hooks in the kitchen. Why?’

‘Because that could have been the way the murderer gained entry.’

‘But that would suggest some prior knowledge, wouldn’t it? They would have needed to know what room the victim was in.’

‘Oh undoubtedly. This is hardly the work of a stranger. More that of a long-standing enemy.’

‘I see.’

They walked down the stairs in silence to see a strained-looking group awaiting them at the bottom. There was the landlord’s wife, who had her arms round the hysterical maid. There was Jemima, very pale and wide-eyed. There were one or two other guests, drawn by the terrible scream and the general commotion. They reached the bottom and John drew Jemima apart.

‘Do you remember that man Gorringe from the journey?’

‘Yes, indeed I do. He sat in the coach wrapped in his cloak and would speak to none of us.’

‘I’m afraid he is dead, Miss Lovell.’

‘But how? Did his heart give out?’

‘The truth is that he has been cruelly murdered. A crime of passion if ever I saw one. Have you any idea at all where the rest of the coach party have departed to?’

Jemima slowly shook her head. ‘No, only Mr Simms who, as I told you, has gone to Lady Sidmouth’s.’

John pulled a face. ‘I think they’ll have to be found somehow.’

‘Why? You don’t believe that they could be connected with the crime, do you?’

The Apothecary looked at her. ‘It’s possible that one of them is a murderer.’

Jemima lowered her eyes. ‘Oh dear, I hope not. They seemed such a pleasant crowd.’

‘That,’ answered John, ‘is often the way.’

Two hours later he was free to leave the inn. The Constable had been; a lean blackbird of a fellow and a professional, in that he was hired by those whose turn it was to act as peacekeeper and had been in the position for some six years. Taciturn and dour, for all that John took to the man, for he clearly knew what he was doing and had organized everything very swiftly. William Gorringe had been removed from the room and dispatched to the mortuary awaiting the Coroner’s verdict. The Apothecary had furnished the Constable with a list of names of the other travellers on the coach, told him of the strange cloaked figure he had seen, and the remaining guests in the inn had all been asked to give their particulars.

‘Trouble is, Sir,’ said the Constable, scratching his closely shaved chin and looking at John with a black-eyed glance, ‘that it could have been a common thief. We’ve no proof that it was anyone that the victim knew.’

‘Except that there were no signs of anything having been taken. Admittedly I didn’t search the body but I did notice that the dead man wore a diamond ring upon his little finger and that it was still there this morning. Further, the room was left neatly and is it not the trademark of a robber that he always pulls the place apart?’

The dark eyes gleamed. ‘You seem to know a lot about it if I might say so.’

John looked worldly. ‘Merely facts that one picks up from reading the journals, don’t you know.’

And now, having given the Constable both his London address and the address of the Marchesa — a fact which had left a good impression John could tell — he was off at last to see the woman who still held him in her thrall. Leaving the inn, the Apothecary walked to the nearest livery stable where he hired a large, sensible-looking grey horse — his experience with hired horses being none too favourable — and set off to ride out of Exeter. Before he had gone he had seen Jemima Lovell into a small trap that was making for Sidmouth and had negotiated the fee for taking her the extra miles to Lady Sidmouth’s mansion. She said farewell with a sorrowful look in her brilliant eyes.

‘Goodbye, Mr Rawlings. How sad that our journey should have ended so horribly.’

‘Au revoir, Miss Lovell. Try not to think about it too much.’

‘I’ll do my best, Sir.’ And giving his hand a squeeze, she had disappeared down the length of the High Street.

John, having been given a leg-up onto the grey horse, spoke to it as they rode out of the town.

‘Now, my friend, I want a nice easy ride, do you understand. No funny tricks or rearing up. Just take me at a reasonable pace to Lady Elizabeth’s and you shall be rewarded with a nice loose box and a bag of hay.’

The horse twitched its ears and plodded forward, leaving the city behind and following the line of the river Exe. John decided to go along the riverbank, which was pleasant in the September sunshine, but when it came to the high hill on the top of which Elizabeth’s beautiful house was situated the horse refused to budge a step. In the end the Apothecary was forced to dismount and lead the beast upwards by its reins, puffing and panting as he did so. By the time he reached the lodge gates he was thoroughly out of breath and dishevelled into the bargain. Glad that he hadn’t worn a wig and that his hair was tied back in a queue, John mopped his face.