Death and the Black Pyramid (16 page)

‘Oh I don't think so, Sir. It was just your imagination.'

‘I'm not so certain. Remember it has witnessed a violent death.'

‘I dare say a lot of other places have as well and they can't all be haunted.'

‘Well, I'm glad I'm not staying here another night,' John answered defiantly. Then added, ‘But what about you, Joe? I am sure that Lady Elizabeth would be glad to have you as a guest.'

‘That's kind of you Mr Rawlings, but I feel I will be of more use staying behind in Exeter. But before we part company I'd be obliged if you would let me have a list of everyone travelling on the stagecoach with you. And, if possible, give me some address for them.'

‘I'll do it as soon as I have had breakfast. But tell me, Joe, how do you intend to get around and about?'

‘I shall hire an horse. A good sturdy beast that I can rely on.'

‘An excellent idea.' John got out of bed. ‘But be sure to call on me soon so that we can compare notes.'

‘You can trust me to do that, Sir. Besides I'd like to get a look at the Marchesa's home.'

‘I think that you will approve of it enormously.'

‘I look forward to seeing it.'

And, that said, Joe continued with his shaving.

Fifteen

It was the night of Lady Sidmouth's ball. Outside the house and along the drive she had had flaming torches placed so that the entire area had taken on a mystic quality. As John alighted from the coach he heard far below him the seductive song of the sea and imagined mermaids chorusing as they rested on the rocks beneath, combing their long, flowing hair.

Elizabeth had dressed very beautifully in a deep lilac over-robe on top of a petticoat of white lace, which had bands of lilac crossing it at intervals. Down the sides of the gown she wore ruches of pleated silk interspersed with tiny imitation violets. At her throat she had a choker of ribbon and this, too, was decorated with little violets. Her neckline was square and low, her breasts rising above it in the most delightful way, while on her head she wore a high white wig built up over a frame. In this ensemble her pregnancy did not show and John thought her one of the loveliest creatures he had ever cast his eyes on.

He, too, had taken a great deal of trouble with his appearance, wearing the suit of crimson satin covered with silver butterflies made for him by the tailor in Exeter. His waistcoat, cut quite short, was of silver, fitting him snugly over the waist, which still remained slim despite the passing years. Over this his dramatic coat had a high stand collar and this, together with a new wig dressed away from the face with long sidecurls, made the Apothecary look interesting and handsome, something that he felt he did not always achieve.

They paused a moment as they descended from the coach. It was a calm night and although it was dark – or perhaps because of it – the house looked beautiful and fairy-like, set in its own parkland, with terraces sweeping down to gardens which, in their turn, swept to lawns which went down to the sea. The moon was out, casting a silvery light over the whole surroundings. The scent of the very last flowers of the season could be vaguely sniffed upon the air and John paused a moment, imagining this place in high summer, when the overwhelming perfume of the grounds met the high salt smell of the ocean and bathed one in an atmosphere soothing yet stimulating.

Inside, the house was decorated superbly. Lady Sidmouth, in her eccentric way, had ordered the gardeners to bring in garlands of greenery which hung between the pillars in the entrance hall. Indeed she had decorated the house almost as if she were preparing for a pagan festival. John, looking at Milady, garbed from head to toe in a violent shade of pink, a great wavering headdress of purple plumes upon her heavily wigged head, thought her more than capable of it. She stood in a receiving line of people, on one side of her the fat little boy whom John now knew to be the son of the Earl of Sidmouth, on the other his aunt, the sixteen-year-old Felicity Sidmouth. Further down the line was their cousin, the beauteous Miranda Tremayne. As the Apothecary drew level with her she gave him a special, secretive smile.

John and Elizabeth passed on and into the ballroom, where they discovered the frantic and tiny figure of Cuthbert Simms, who tonight was playing the part of Master of Ceremonies. Several footmen weaved their way amongst the crowded room with trays on which stood glasses of champagne. John took one as did the Marchesa.

‘Ah, my dear Lady Elizabeth,' boomed a voice behind them, and a local woman, tall and handsome – the kind who would look good on a horse – started to engage the Marchesa in conversation. John looked around him and then let out a muffled cry of surprise. Emerging from the set, which had just come to an end amidst loud applause, was Joe Jago, smartly wigged and even more smartly dressed. The Apothecary shook his head in wonderment. Grinning broadly, the clerk approached him.

‘God's life, Joe. You were the last person I expected to find here.'

‘Ah well, Sir, I have a habit of popping up in strange places.'

‘You do indeed. How did you manage to get invited?'

Joe looked modest. ‘Lady Sidmouth asked me. I happened to see off a cut-purse who was attempting to rob her in Exeter. She was duly grateful and we have become quite friendly since.'

‘And you have achieved this in scarcely any time.'

‘We work fast in the Public Office, Mr Rawlings,' answered the clerk, and winked a bright blue eye.

John looked round the room. ‘I wonder who else is here.'

‘Several people who came down on the fateful coach trip I imagine.'

‘Yes, so there are.'

The Apothecary waved and bowed to Martin Meadows, who was somewhat disastrously dressed in a topcoat of bright pea green which did not really become him, and to Fraulein Schmitt and her sister, the little round Matilda Mitchell, both dressed to kill in the fashion of five years previously.

‘How strange that they should have been asked,' he whispered to Joe.

‘And they are not all,' the clerk whispered back.

Paulina Gower, resplendent in a gown of dark blue with a lighter petticoat beneath, had just sailed into the ballroom and was presently looking round her to see who she could engage in conversation. She bore down on the Marchesa with a determined step.

‘How do you do, Madam. Forgive me introducing myself but I have glimpsed you at the theatre. I am Paulina Gower.'

Elizabeth gave her a friendly smile. ‘Of course. I saw you play Lady Macbeth. Quite one of the most chilling performances I have ever witnessed.'

The horse-like woman raised her quizzing glass. ‘Ah, Miss Gower. I am
chawmed
to meet you. I have not seen you act as yet but it is an experience that I much look forward to. How long are you staying in Exeter?'

‘I am booked to play the season, Ma'am. I shall be departing in March.'

‘Then I must get tickets immediately.'

‘How kind of you.' Paulina Gower turned her head and saw John and her look of benevolence – very much adopted by actors and writers when their work was being praised – changed to a cold glare.

‘I did not expect to see you here, Sir,' she said acidly.

‘You never know with me,' John answered, grinning inanely. He bowed to her. ‘But it is always a pleasure to see you, Madam.'

She gave him a look and then swept on to speak to somebody else. John turned to Elizabeth. ‘Marchesa, would you care to dance?'

‘Indeed I would, Sir.'

A set was just ending and John led her out as Cuthbert Simms called out, ‘Partners if you please, ladies and gentlemen, for Green Stockings.'

He was sweating profusely and looked rather depressed, clad as he was in a striped green and white ensemble with a huge cravat that concealed a large part of his face. John bowed and Elizabeth curtsied as they walked past him to take their places.

The Apothecary, at his most professional, could not help but worry as Elizabeth whirled and jigged and clapped her hands. And afterwards when he led her away he said as much.

‘Sweetheart, was that dance too strenuous for you?'

‘Gracious no,' she replied. ‘Remember that this is my second child and I refuse to cut out all my pleasures.'

But there were small beads of perspiration on her upper lip and John was pleased when a break was called in the dancing and she went to speak to a group of people that she knew. This left him free momentarily and he seized the opportunity to attract the attention of Cuthbert Simms. Bowing ornately, the little man forced a smile.

‘Ah, my dear Sir. How do I find you?'

‘Very well,' John answered, ‘but somewhat tired. I am heartily sick of coach travel.'

‘And why is that may I ask?'

‘I have been doing a great deal of it. Since we last spoke I have been to Lewes, via London. And that done I returned to Devon.'

The dancing master wiped his sweating brow. ‘Oh, and what took you to Sussex may I ask?'

‘I was following a lead in that still unsolved murder. I heard that the victim had taken the London stage there using another name.'

Cuthbert's cheeks went even pinker than they had been. ‘Really? How interesting. And did you find any clues?'

John put on his innocent face. ‘Not exactly. But can I tell you the most extraordinary thing?'

‘Of course.'

‘Well, while I was there I saw that little dark girl who worked here making hats and headdresses. What was her name now?'

‘You don't mean Jemima Lovell?'

‘That's right,' answered John, snapping his fingers. ‘That was what she was called. Anyway I witnessed her proceeding along in Lewes and chatting animatedly to another passenger from our particular coach.'

The dancing master's face had turned from a roseate hue to one of immense pallor. ‘And who might that have been?' he asked, his voice a rasp.

‘Mrs Lucinda Silverwood, would you believe. I had not realized that the two of them had formed such a close association. Why, they were walking intimately as if they had known one another most of their lives.'

Cuthbert made a highly visible effort to pull himself together. ‘They have clearly become friendly.'

‘Clearly indeed,' John answered, bowed, and left the poor man.

The evening progressed well. Elizabeth danced twice more and then, somewhat to John's relief, sat and chatted to the other ladies. However, she encouraged him to join in and he found himself in a line of dancers opposite the delectable Miranda Tremayne, who gave him an incredibly naughty look as they joined gloved hands and passed one another. Fortunately the dance was rather too vigorous to encourage a great deal of conversation but as it ended Miranda curtsied and said, ‘May I walk with you a little, Sir?'

‘By all means but I am joining the Lady Elizabeth you know.'

‘And which is she?' asked the minx, feigning ignorance.

‘The dark-haired woman sitting next to Lady Sidmouth.'

‘Oh,' said the reply, the very sound expressing surprise.

John raised a dark eyebrow. ‘You know her?' he asked.

‘No, Sir, we have never been introduced. I take it she is a friend of your mother's.'

He felt furious. ‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because she looks a little – mature.'

‘She is also very beautiful and clever. Perhaps you will attain her standards when you reach her age.'

‘Oh la,' said Miranda, with a wicked smile, ‘I can't think about that now. That time is positively years away.'

‘Then be sure to use the hours carefully,' the Apothecary answered, bowed, and walked off.

He was still seething when he joined the Marchesa and she, knowing him so well, detected a change in his manner.

‘My dear, has somebody said something to annoy you? You look positively evil.'

‘No, it was nothing. Somebody trod heavily on my foot, that's all.'

‘Who was it? Surely not that very pretty girl you were dancing with?'

‘It was some horrid old man. I'm not certain which.'

‘Well, it is to be hoped that he falls over in the next set.'

Elizabeth laughed, tickled him under the chin with her feather fan and turned to talk to her neighbour. John stole a surreptitious glance at her. He now knew Miranda Tremayne to be a vicious little beast but still her remarks had stung him. For to him the Marchesa was the most beautiful and the most powerful woman he had ever met. Yet, if facts were faced, she was old indeed to bring a baby into the world. And suddenly John feared for her, feared that the child which he had given her might prove too much for her and end her glorious and vivid life. He stood up abruptly, bowed to the ladies, and made his way to the refreshment table.

Frau Schmitt bore down on him.

‘Ach, mein friend. Have you got any nearer to solving this murder case?'

‘No, no nearer I am afraid, Madam.'

‘I vent to the Constable zat morning. Naturally he exonerated me of all guilt.'

By no stretch of the imagination could John envision the man doing such a thing but he merely smiled.

‘That must have been a great relief to you.'

‘Vye you say such a thing? I am completely innocent.'

‘Madam, this affair is one of many strange depths. A man who called himself William Gorringe was murdered on the night we all stayed at The Half Moon. There was no robbery so clearly he was murdered by somebody he knew – unless it was the work of a total lunatic. Therefore it is perfectly reasonable for the Constable to assume that it was someone with whom Gorringe travelled. Until that person is brought to justice everyone – including myself – is under suspicion.'