Death and the Black Pyramid

by Deryn Lake

  ‘You’ve been to call on a member of the household?’ John asked, though he knew the answer even before the man spoke.

  ‘Sir Gabriel’s granddaughter, I’m afraid.’

  The Apothecary gave him a stricken glance, said ‘Excuse me,’ and fled past the physician into the hall and up the stairs. Without pausing for a second he flung open the door of Rose’s bedroom, then stopped as he took in the scene before him.

  Sir Gabriel Kent, arrayed in negligent style, sporting an elegant cap upon his head, his shirt unbuttoned, the collar loosely turned down to reveal a ribbon band fastening, a great long gown over the whole ensemble, was sitting quietly on Rose’s bed, gently stroking her hand. The child herself lay amongst the white bedclothes, her face an almost identical shade, racked by a most unpleasant cough that had a deep sound within it as if the child were fighting for breath. John’s adopted father turned his head at the noise of the intrusion.

  ‘My boy, I was on the point of writing to you to beg your return. Rose is stricken down as you see.’

  ‘How long has she been ill?’

  ‘Three days. Dr Wilde says it is a chin cough.’

  ‘He’s probably right. What has he prescribed?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s gone round to the apothecary now.’

  ‘Then I’ll save him the trouble. Rose must have Sundew. It is the finest form of treatment for such an illness.’

  Sir Gabriel sat up straight and looked at John with such a deep expression that his son caught his breath.

  ‘I am pleased you have taken control of the situation.’

  ‘It is not all that common a herb but I have some in my shop. Father, let us send a footman round there posthaste. I’ll write a personal note to Mr de Prycke to ask him to compound.’

  ‘Of course. It shall be done at once. And may I say, my very dear child, how good it is to have you at home. Promise me that you will stay with us for a while.’

  John put his arm round the old man’s shoulders. ‘Father, I would never go away again if I had freedom of choice but I cannot desert Elizabeth. Not . . .’ he added in a somewhat cynical voice, ‘. . . that she needs any protection from me.’

  ‘But your duty lies here as well, John. I quite understand about the Marchesa di Lorenzi but meanwhile your other child is in dire need of you.’

  ‘Well, I am returned,’ John answered, and throwing off his cloak went to sit beside Rose and take the pale little hand that lay so still upon the counterpane.

  ‘Papa,’ she whispered, though her eyes did not open and other than for that whisper she seemed to be utterly lifeless.

  ‘I am home, my darling, and I will not go away again,’ he answered.

  The fingers tightened round his but she made no further response.

  John fought hard to control himself. The guilt which he had felt recently was redoubled in strength and his thoughts ran down a million alleyways as he contemplated the future. But with a tremendous effort he brought his emotions under control. Rising from the bed he crossed to where Sir Gabriel had taken a chair.

  ‘Father, call the nursery maid. She must sit with Rose while I write to Mr de Prycke.’

  Sir Gabriel replied with much dignity, ‘I prefer to keep the vigil, John. I would not like my granddaughter to feel that she has been totally deserted.’

  Wounded to the heart but determined to keep himself in check, John hastened downstairs to the library where he called a footman and simultaneously wrote a prescription for his shop. But at the last minute he hesitated. He did not like Mr de Prycke and Gideon was still too inexperienced to be trusted with such a vital matter. There was nothing for it. He would have to make the distillation himself. He rattled an instruction to the hovering servant.

  ‘Simmons, run into the street and fetch me a chair. I must go to my shop immediately and I need to be quick.’

  The man hurried away and John called up the stairs, ‘Father, I’m going out. I don’t trust anyone else to make up the physic for Rose.’ Then he went out of the front door as two stout fellows with a chair between them came up to it. ‘The apothecary’s shop in Shug Lane,’ he said and got inside.

  To him the journey was tediously slow, stopping for carts and coaches and large ungainly members of the population. But at last he pulled up outside his familiar – and somehow badly missed – premises and, paying off the chair men, bolted inside. Gideon, looking terribly grown-up and smooth, was standing on the far side of the counter wearing a long, dark robe.

  ‘Good gracious, Gideon,’ John exclaimed, ‘you dress more formally than I do.’

  His apprentice’s mouth dropped open. ‘Sir! I didn’t know you were coming back. What a surprise. How very nice to see you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have no time for pleasantries,’ John said, going straight to the compounding room, simultaneously throwing off his cloak. ‘I am worried about Rose’s cough and I have come to make her a distillation of Sundew. Where do you keep it?’

  He was searching amongst the bunches of dried herbs hanging from hooks in the ceiling. Gideon broke out in a sweat.

  ‘Master de Prycke got rid of that, Sir.’

  ‘What do you mean got rid of it?’

  ‘He sold it to an apothecary in Seething Lane. He was desperate for it – the man I mean. I am sure Master de Prycke meant well.’

  ‘I am sure he did,’ John answered through gritted teeth. ‘But Rose’s life might hang in the balance. Now where can I get some?’

  ‘You could try Master Berry in Piccadilly, and, failing him, Master Wisley in Duke Street.’

  ‘Shut the shop,’ John ordered, staring at the stupefied apprentice. ‘Now! You go to Duke Street, I’ll try Piccadilly. Here’s some money. Pay whatever is asked. And Gideon, please run as you’ve never run before. Do it for Rose.’

  And with that the Apothecary was off, sprinting like a hare – the movements of which his own occasionally resembled – towards Piccadilly.

  Sundew, otherwise known as Drosera Anglica, was a fairly rare plant, grown mostly in Scotland and Ireland. Because of its rarity it was dear to buy but John always kept some in stock having observed over the years its extremely beneficial effects on chin coughs, coughs which made a whooping sound, bronchitis and other illnesses of the chest. But many apothecaries did not stock it, considering it too expensive and believing it only suitable for application to warts.

  Master Berry fell into this category and John, feeling frantic, turned in the direction of Duke Street only to meet Gideon at the top, red in the face and gasping but brandishing a parcel which he waved frantically in John’s direction.

  ‘Got it, Sir.’

  ‘Thank God! Let’s get back to the shop.’

  They ran all the way, Gideon being far the faster was ahead of John sufficiently to allow him to open up and let in a grumbling Mr de Prycke.

  ‘Why did you lock up in the middle of the day, boy? I can’t take my eye off you . . .’

  ‘He did it at my behest, Mr de Prycke. You apparently sold the last of my Sundew to another apothecary. And now I need some urgently for my daughter.’

  De Prycke’s face took on a slightly cynical expression. ‘Is the poor child suffering with warts?’

  John did not answer but made immediately for the compounding room, Gideon hot upon his heels. Mr de Prycke hovered in the doorway.

  ‘May I assist?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ John answered, trying to hide the irritation in his voice. ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking over behind the counter.’

  ‘But Gideon . . .’

  ‘Gideon knows my ways,’ the Apothecary answered abruptly and turned away to the pan of water which he had placed on an oil-lamp and which had already started to bubble.

  An hour later and it was done. The plant had been boiled in just the right amount of water and now stood cooling on the side. John turned to Gideon.

  ‘You can hurry on home, my boy. I’ll bottle this up as soon as it has cooled down. You are to explain to Sir Ga
briel the cause of the delay. Now, look sharp.’

  The apprentice struggled out of his long black garb and into his cloak, then bolted out past a staring Mr de Prycke.

  ‘Really . . .’ he started to exclaim but John forestalled him.

  ‘I’ve sent him home early, Mr de Prycke. And I shall shortly be returning myself. Would you mind very much locking up before you return to your lodgings?’

  ‘On that point, Mr Rawlings, may I enquire whether you have returned to us for good? Or is your intention to take your leave again? I merely ask because I want to know where I stand.’

  John answered without hesitation, somewhat irritated by the man’s attitude but determined to remain civil. ‘I am back to stay, Sir.’

  ‘Does that mean you will no longer be requiring my services?’

  ‘Mr de Prycke you are more than welcome to work out the rest of the time that we contracted. In fact it would help me very much if you did. I intend to remain at my daughter’s bedside until she is fully recovered so I will not be able to devote my time to the shop.’

  ‘In that case, Sir, I shall work next week and then I will take my leave of you. Quite frankly I find your apprentice a wretched little beast and I shall be glad to see the back of him.’

  ‘I am sure the feeling is mutual,’ John answered pleasantly and turned his attention to the pan of cooling liquid.

  He arrived at Nassau Street to find Sir Gabriel reeling with fatigue, so much so that he had to be helped by a footman down the stairs. John, meanwhile, carefully measured out ten drops of the Sundew fluid into a small amount of water and raised the cup to Rose’s mouth.

  ‘Here, drink this, sweetheart. It will make you better I promise you.’

  The poor child did not open her eyes but gulped down the medicine and immediately had a violent fit of coughing. John listened intently and recognized the familiar sound of the whoop. His heart sank, knowing that many a child had died of this illness, exhausted and fighting for breath.

  He began to talk to Rose in a soothing voice. ‘Papa is home now, darling. And he will stay at home until you are well and able to play games with him again. And then we’ll all go off to Devon for Christmas and you can ride your pony. Would you like that?’

  After a while he noticed that Rose’s breathing had become a little deeper and realized that she had dropped off to sleep. He took a seat in the chair in which Sir Gabriel had sat and stared at her beautiful little face. She meant everything to him and he wondered how he could have left her for so long without the father she loved.

  Suddenly he found himself questioning his relationship with Elizabeth. Was he a fool to have offered his love to her? Was he heartless for abandoning his family in order to pursue her? Yet she was soon to be the mother of his child as a result. Feeling ill at ease with himself the Apothecary rose and slowly began to pace the room.

  The nursery maid arrived and said, ‘I’ll watch Rose now, Mr Rawlings. Sir Gabriel is waiting for you in the library.’

  ‘Very well. Just for half an hour. But if she should wake you are to send for me immediately, is that clear?’

  ‘Very good, Sir.’ And the girl bobbed a curtsy.

  Downstairs the library offered its usual warmth and comfort. A fire of coal and wood gleamed in the grate and the curtains were drawn against the night. In one of the two wing chairs set close to the blaze sat Sir Gabriel, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. John looked at him with enormous tenderness and tiptoed past him to pour himself a sherry.

  ‘John?’ said a sleepy voice.

  The Apothecary turned. ‘I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?’

  ‘I was only dozing, my son. How is Rose?’

  ‘She has fallen into a natural sleep. I have given her ten drops of the compound and will administer another ten in three hours’ time.’

  ‘And what is your prognosis?’

  John sat down in the chair opposite and, putting his glass on a small table, leaned across the space and took Sir Gabriel’s long and fine fingers between his own. ‘Father, believe me, I am as worried as you but I have given her the finest medicine there is. I can only pray that her natural strength will pull her through.’

  ‘I see. Pour me a sherry if you would.’

  John did so and handed a schooner to the great old man who sat before him.

  ‘I give you a toast,’ said Sir Gabriel Kent. ‘To my granddaughter’s total recovery – and to her father’s permanent return to London.’

  It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask about his duties to his unborn child but something told him to remain silent. He looked at his adopted father with enormous love.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.

  Twenty-Two

  Throughout that night John administered the drops of Sundew to his daughter. He had not admitted to Sir Gabriel how terrified he was for the last thing he wanted was to add to his father’s fears. But secretly he was in torment, his spirits never lower, as he contemplated a future without the shining presence of Rose. John had never felt closer to her than he did now, longing for that terrible cough to stop, longing for her to have enough strength to fight the illness away.

  At about five o’clock in the morning he heard her speak and opened his eyes from where he sat dozing in a chair by the bed.

  ‘Papa?’

  It was said as a question and John immediately came to full consciousness and knelt down beside her, taking her hand.

  ‘I’m here sweetheart.’

  ‘I have seen Mother. She was here in the room with me.’

  Despite himself John peered into the shadowy depths of the chamber, but nothing moved.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing. She just stood by the bed and smiled.’

  ‘I’m glad she came to see you, darling. Now go back to sleep.’

  ‘Will you stay with me, Papa?’

  ‘I shall not leave your side until you are better.’

  She turned to look at him, her eyes the colour of gentians. ‘You promise it?’

  ‘I promise.’

  She slept a little after that but an hour later was woken by a violent fit of coughing. John, trying desperately to act as an apothecary rather than as a father, listened intently and thought that the whooping noise was diminishing. As soon as Rose had settled down once more he gave her some further drops of Sundew and at last saw the cold finger of dawn lay itself across the room.

  The physician had sent round an infusion of Willowherb which, though effective in the cases of coughs, was nothing like as powerful as that which John had prescribed. The Apothecary decided that to mix them would not be advisable and therefore when the doctor called the next morning he saw his bottle of physic untouched.

  ‘What’s this, Sir. Have you not treated the child?’

  ‘I most certainly have, Dr Wilde. I have given her Sundew and I compounded it myself.’

  ‘I take it you are an apothecary?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I own a shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly.’

  ‘Then I see that the girl is in good hands. I’ll examine her now, if you please.’

  John stood aside while the physician bent over his daughter and thought how strange the world was. He had come back to London because Elizabeth had dismissed him and now he knew that he would never, could never, leave Rose again. Any future visits to Devon – or anywhere else for that matter – would be in the company of his daughter or not at all.

  The doctor straightened up. ‘There is a definite improvement, Mr Rawlings. If the child lives through today then she will survive. I shall call again this evening. Good day to you.’

  He had spoken bluntly, as one professional to another, but John felt cold at the very words. Tired beyond belief he nonetheless sat beside Rose until she slept once more before sending for the nursery maid.

  ‘I must go and change my clothes and get a bite to eat. You promise to call me if the child wakes.’

  ‘Immediately, Mr Rawlings. You can rest assured.’

&n
bsp; Sir Gabriel, looking rested but still drawn with worry, was sitting at the breakfast table, delicately peeling a grape. He looked up as John entered.

  ‘How is Rose, my boy? Is there any change?’

  ‘Father, there is. The doctor said there was a marked recovery.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘All,’ lied John, and gave Sir Gabriel a confident smile.

  All that long, long day the Apothecary spent sitting beside his daughter, every four hours giving her ten drops of the substance, realizing that soon he would have to make up some more and wondering where he would be able to buy the herb Sundew. The physician called at five o’clock and pronounced that the child would live. But John already knew this; knew by the increase in his daughter’s colour, by the way in which that racking cough was starting to subside. Though not a religious man by any means he found himself thanking God for Rose’s return to life and at last, at long last, left the child in the care of her grandfather and staggered downstairs and into the library. He almost fell into one of the chairs and looked up as a footman entered the room.

  ‘Is Master Purle at home?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir. He’s in the kitchens.’

  ‘Send him up to me, would you.’

  The servant hesitated in the doorway. ‘Miss Rose, Sir. How is she?’

  ‘She will live, thank God. And thank you for asking. You may tell the rest of the servants.’

  A few minutes later the figure of Gideon appeared at the entrance, looking slightly embarrassed at being invited into the inner sanctum.

  ‘You sent for me, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, sit down and have a drink with me. Rose is going to be all right, my friend. Thanks to your efforts to get Sundew.’

  Gideon perched uncomfortably on the chair opposite John’s. ‘It must be running short by now, Mr Rawlings.’

  ‘That’s what I want you to do tomorrow, my boy. I want you to scour the apothecaries in London and buy some more of the herb.’

  ‘I’ll go and gladly. Poor little girl. I hope I’m not too bold in saying that she misses you, Sir.’