by Deryn Lake
‘I don’t think so,’ he said slowly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. You are only telling me a small portion of what really happened.’
The Black Pyramid got to his feet. ‘That is all, Mr Rawlings, that I am prepared to say.’ He made a deep bow. ‘Good night to you, Sir. I leave you to take whatever action you deem necessary.’
And with another brief salutation he left the room.
Twenty-Eight
All the way back to Lewes John berated himself with thoughts of the million and one questions he should have asked the Black Pyramid, the most important of which should surely have been what he was doing in the great house known as Vinehurst Place. Because the more the Apothecary thought of it the stranger it seemed. And yet . . .? His mind once again raced down that frightening track which led to the most extraordinary idea he had ever had. An idea so outrageous that he could hardly comprehend it. An idea which he had whispered to Sir Gabriel who had looked at him askance. And now he was heading back to that little town that clung beneath the castle to wind the whole affair up – or at least to try and do so.
But how to start – that was the thought that bothered him. For whichever way round he looked at the problem it always began and ended with the black fighter. And John could not help but feel that if he had questioned the man properly this current situation could have been completely avoided. Or could it?
He was in such a whirlwind of thought that the Apothecary felt extremely nervous as he stepped off the public stage and into the confines of The White Hart. His incredible idea was, after all, pure supposition and to tie it in with the murder of Fulke Bassett, passing under the name of William Gorringe as he had been, was going to be practically impossible.
John’s mind went to Joe Jago – safely returned to London long since – and at that moment he wished for the steadiness of the clerk’s company and felt that he would know how next to proceed. Mentally bracing himself for what he believed was going to be a rocky ride ahead, the apothecary looked for his family.
There was no sign of any of them and he imagined that they had all gone out in the coach, probably into the surrounding countryside. Feeling somewhat at a loose end the Apothecary dumped his bag in his room – which he had kept on – and wandered out into the street. He found his feet turning towards the castle and he climbed up to where he could see the keep. It was a very warm October day and there were several figures sitting outside. Then his heart lurched violently as a female stood up and he recognized her as Coralie. A younger girl stood beside her whom he took to be Georgiana. John felt as if he were watching some enormous play with the ruins of the once-mighty castle as the backdrop and the woman he had once loved taking the leading part. At that moment he longed to call out, to attract her attention, but knew that he never would, never could. He just stood silently as Coralie put her arm round her daughter’s shoulders and walked slowly into the keep without so much as glancing round.
As if this were an omen the Apothecary felt a chill wind come up from nowhere which made him suddenly go cold to the bone. He hurried into The White Hart and into the guests’ parlour, and who should be sitting there but Sir Gabriel.
‘Father!’ John exclaimed. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Well, here I am. And glad to see you back, my son. Did you run down your quarry?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And?’
‘And he confessed to the murder.’
‘He confessed?’
‘Yes, but Father there’s something not right about it. I know he’s hiding someone.’
‘Ah yes, your extraordinary idea.’
‘I know it sounds incredible but I am truly beginning to believe it is the truth.’
Sir Gabriel said nothing, compressing his lips and shaking his head slowly, and the two men sat in silence, thinking about what John had just suggested. And it was into this strange quiet that Irish Tom walked some quarter of an hour later. He looked somewhat perturbed.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, Sorrh. I wondered if you had seen Miss Rose and Emily.’
John snapped to attention. ‘No, I’ve only just got back. Where are they?’ He looked at Sir Gabriel.
‘They went off in the coach for a jaunt. Surely you didn’t leave them?’ The older man directed this at the coachman.
‘It was at Miss Rose’s insistence, Sorrh Gabriel. She asked if she might have a little walk with Emily and could I pick them up in half an hour.’
‘And they weren’t there?’ asked John, a terrible fear making his voice catch.
‘No, Sorrh, they weren’t. I waited for thirty minutes and then I came back here because I thought they might have walked back.’
‘By God!’ John was on his feet. ‘Not again! That little imp went missing in Cornwall and I nearly lost her for good. Where the devil did you take them, Tom? Don’t tell me Vinehurst Place?’
The coachman had gone red as a soldier’s coat. ‘Not exactly, Sorrh. But it was close to the walk that led up to it.’
‘Then let’s get there – and fast.’
‘I shall attend also,’ said Sir Gabriel.
Poor Tom, looking fit to weep, rushed from the room in the direction of the stables while Sir Gabriel hastily pulled on a cloak.
John Rawlings turned to his father, his face the colour of chalk. ‘Why did she have to wander off? What possessed the child?’
‘You will have to deal with that in the future. What we must concentrate on now is finding her.’
John nodded, hardly able to speak, and a second or two later they heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles and saw Irish Tom ready and waiting for them outside. Without saying anything further they got into the coach and sped off up the road in the direction of Vinehurst Place.
John sat tight-lipped, thinking of the time in Cornwall when his daughter had hidden from a black coven and had taken refuge down that deep and terrible well in which lay another body. At that moment all he could think of was how much he loved Rose, despite the fact he could cheerfully wring her neck for running off in the way she had. Yet he was forced to admit that she had probably inherited her spirit of adventure from him and he supposed that there would be little he could do about it. With a feeling of dread the Apothecary sat back against the coach’s cushioned seat.
It was only a few minutes’ drive to the lane that led to the entrance to Vinehurst Place yet it felt like an eternity to John. As soon as the carriage came to a halt he leapt out but then he remembered himself and turned to Sir Gabriel.
‘Father, you’ll be safer staying here. I would rather do this on my own.’
‘My child, what makes you think that Rose is within?’
‘I don’t know. But she was fascinated by the house. Besides I have a feeling about it. I can’t explain.’
‘You’ll take Irish Tom with you?’
‘Yes. That is if you don’t mind being left alone.’
‘Don’t worry I am armed. But I shall only shoot to kill if it is strictly necessary.’
Despite everything, despite his worry for his beloved child’s safety, John could not help but give a crooked grin. His father – age being no hindrance to him – was speaking in total earnest.
‘That’s excellent news, Sir,’ he said, straight-faced. He called up to the box, ‘Tom, come down. I want you to go with me.’
‘Should I bring my shillelagh, Sorrh?’
‘Bring anything that can inflict damage.’
And at that John fingered the pistol in his own pocket and felt a little more secure.
It was dusk as he and Tom set out, the dying autumn sun casting strange shadows and making the Apothecary’s heart beat faster. Indeed he had rarely felt more nervous as he worried about Rose and where she could possibly be. He cleared his mind and tried sending her a message, just as he had done in Cornwall when she had vanished before. But unfortunately this time it did not work. Concentrate as he would no answer came.
H
e and the coachman reached the end of the lane and then stopped short. The gates, never used and seemingly permanently closed, stood wide open, and even while they stood gaping at them there was the sound of wheels behind and a dark carriage thundered past them. It hurtled up the overgrown drive and round the sweep to draw up at the front door and simultaneously every candle in the house was lit. It must have taken an army of servants to achieve this effect but Vinehurst Place blazed with light.
‘God’s teeth, Sorrh, what the deuce is happening?’
‘I have no idea, Tom, but I’m going to find out.’
‘Well, I’m right beside you, Mr R.’
They proceeded up the drive, this time keeping to the shadow of the trees for the lights of the house blazed out over the lawns. And as they drew nearer they could hear sounds – a harpsichord played a welcoming air, together with muted laughter and somebody whistling a merry tune.
Tom looked at John. ‘How do we go about this, Sorrh? Do we just knock at the front door?’
John silently shook his head. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘let’s creep round the back and see if we can get in that way.’
‘Do you think Miss Rose is in there?’
Once again the Apothecary shook his head. ‘I have no idea but I am prepared to try anything to find her.’
As they drew nearer the house the noise grew louder and they were able to identify it as coming from the grand saloon at the rear of the hall. Moving in complete silence they circumnavigated the side of the building and at last reached the large French doors of the room, hung with floor-length curtains as it was and opening on to the gardens behind. And then John stood aghast, motioning Tom to be still. For the curtains were not drawn and the interior was as brilliantly lit as a stage set.
They were all there, every last one of them, with the exception, of course, of Augusta Schmitt. There was a stranger in their midst, however, a man that John had not seen before, a man of about fifty, tall and well made. He had a glass in his hand and as the Apothecary looked round, wide eyed, he saw that so did the others. The man raised his glass.
‘To just deserts,’ he said.
Nobody answered but they all downed the contents of their glass with extreme solemnity. John stared in ever-growing amazement as he let his eyes wander over the assembled company. For though this had been the very thing that he had whispered to Sir Gabriel it still took his breath away to learn that he was right. Lucinda Silverwood stood with Jemima Lovell and Paulina Gower, her arm casually draped round Jemima’s shoulders. Nathaniel Broome was in earnest conversation with Cuthbert Simms, the dancing master’s little face quite flushed with drink and excitement. Everyone who had ridden in the coach that fateful evening was present, other than for the Black Pyramid and the German woman. John thought grimly that the only two people not connected with them had been himself and Martin Meadows.
He took a step forward, anxious to hear what was being said and the movement must have caught Cuthbert’s eye. He gave a little scream and said, ‘Oh my goodness, there’s somebody out there.’
John and Irish Tom turned to run but at that moment a vast shadow loomed up in front of them and grabbed John by the collar of his coat.
‘So we meet again, my friend,’ it said.
John was just able to gasp out, ‘Run, Tom, run. Find Rose for God’s sake,’ before he was lifted in the air and carried unceremoniously into Vinehurst Place.
Twenty-Nine
John had never made an entrance like it. Thrown onto the Black Pyramid’s shoulder like a doll, he was carried into the grand saloon and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
‘Look what I have found,’ said the black man. ‘The nosy creature who has been snooping round us all has just committed his final act of spying and followed us here.’
There was a snicker of laughter but generally the faces that regarded him were tight with suspicion.
‘Mr Rawlings,’ said Lucinda Silverwood, ‘I would have thought better of you. What on earth brings you to Vinehurst Place?’
John swallowed and made a gallant attempt at regaining his equilibrium. ‘I have come in search of my daughter,’ he said, his voice sounding somewhat hoarse to his ears. ‘She has gone missing and I had a feeling she might have come here.’
‘And why should she do that, pray?’ asked Cuthbert Simms.
‘Because she is fascinated by the house as apparently are all of you.’
‘Aye, as well we might be,’ answered Nathaniel Broome in a tone so bitter that the Apothecary scarcely recognized it.
The man standing in the midst of them all, the only person that John did not know, gave him a peremptory bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, Sir. I am Richard Bassett.’
‘The brother of Helen, the one who was . . .’
‘Shot? Yes, I am he. Pray take a seat.’
And suddenly the whole situation became as strange and weird as anything the Apothecary had ever seen upon the stage or read in a novel. Here were almost the whole contingent of that coach ride from London to Devon, the ride that had ended in a man being bludgeoned to death, all knowing one another as John had suspected and now gathered together as guests of Helen Bassett’s brother.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Richard asked.
‘Yes, I would. Anything. This has come as something of a shock.’
Yet it hadn’t really. It was just that the whole situation was utterly bizarre. Beyond anything that the Apothecary had ever had to deal with or had experienced. Far from knowing how to handle himself, he decided that the best policy was to keep quiet and let them question him. Yet they seemed strangely silent, almost nonplussed by his presence. It was the Black Pyramid who was the most vocal.
‘Well, I must say, Mr Rawlings, that you did a clever job in tracking us here. What put you onto it?’
John sighed. ‘Actually it was a chance remark of the coachman who drove us to Devon. He recognized Gorringe and said he had taken him to a stop near Lewes where a carriage had picked him up. He also remembered that the man had used another name though he could not recall it.’
‘So you came to Lewes on the off chance?’
‘Yes, I did. And then I heard about Vinehurst Place, that a terrible tragedy had been enacted within its walls. But at that time I had not made the connection.’
Richard Bassett interrupted them.
‘He’s got this far, Jack. We may as well tell him the whole story.’
‘But Richard, that would make him the most dangerous person to all of us.’
‘He doesn’t look dangerous to me. He looks like a man of honour. Are you, Sir?’
John gulped the cognac which had been passed to him and found he had drained the glass.
‘I believe that I am,’ he answered. ‘I tell lies sometimes, I adopt guises in order to aid Sir John Fielding’s enquiries, but I think I can answer that I am generally an honourable person.’
Richard leant his face close to the Apothecary’s. ‘Then I want you to take a solemn oath that what you hear tonight will remain your secret and yours alone.’
John was silent, considering his options and feeling the seriousness of the occasion. He either had to make a swift escape – which was an impossibility – or go along with their instructions. He looked round the room. Paulina Gower was shooting him a very black look. Mrs Silverwood, though serious, was giving him a half-smile, while Jemima actually seemed sympathetic. Nathaniel Broome was expressionless, Cuthbert Simms was looking perturbed, but the Black Pyramid seemed utterly fearful. He spoke.
‘What is the alternative, Richard?’
Richard – a tall man of medium physique with fair hair that had started to recede – answered very simply, ‘We should have to kill him.’
John sat rigid, then said, ‘In that case you leave me little choice but to swear an oath.’
There was an indrawing of breath from the onlookers and Nat Broome called out, ‘Let’s kill the bastard. He’s been a regular pain in the arse since we first met h
im.’
Richard was clearly in charge of the meeting because he said, ‘Do we need another death on our conscience?’
Lucinda Silverwood spoke up firmly. ‘No, we don’t. Let Mr Rawlings take an oath to remain silent and that will satisfy me.’
There were general murmurs of approbation and John gulped, almost certain that his life had been saved. But added to this feeling of relief was an enormous sense of curiosity. He longed to know the secret of Vinehurst Place. He longed to know which of them had actually murdered Fulke Bassett.
‘Get me a bible,’ he said, ‘and I will swear.’
Richard went out of the room and in his absence the Black Pyramid murmured, ‘If you let us down, Rawlings, I vow I’ll come after you, hunt you down, and this time I will kill you.’
But John hardly listened, feelings of worry for Rose consuming him once more. Had Irish Tom found her? Or was she not at Vinehurst Place at all? Had she, in fact, gone for a walk somewhere entirely different?
Richard Bassett came back into the room bearing a large and heavy family bible. He placed it on the table and told the Apothecary to raise it in his right hand. With a struggle John managed to do so. Then he said in as solemn a voice as he could manage, ‘I swear by Almighty God that everything I hear tonight shall be kept secret by me until the day I die.’ He turned to the Black Pyramid, alias Jack Beef, ‘There. Is that good enough for you?’ he said.
The black man merely shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that needed no words. Richard spoke again.
‘Please, all sit down. I intend to tell Mr Rawlings the story of how my father murdered my beloved sister – and the aftermath of his actions.’
There was a general shuffling of chairs and John, too, sat down on a small sofa. Richard began, his voice pitched so that everyone could hear him.
‘I think the tale really begins when my mother acquired a little blackboy to accompany her as was the fashion in those days amongst ladies of rank and fortune. She bought him when he was six and a frightened little fellow. We were living in town at the time but subsequently my father made a considerable amount of money in the City of London and built this house and moved Helen and myself out of London to live here. She was ten and I was twelve. Indeed I was the same age as the blackboy whom we had christened Jack.’