‘I see.’
At that moment the girl arrived with their drinks and the conversation ceased until she had gone. Then the Pyramid said, ‘And so you think that one of the passengers is guilty, do you?’
‘Obviously so.’
‘But surely it could have been an outsider who attacked him.’
‘It could have been but I don’t think it was.’
There was a long silence during which both men drank a draught, then the black man said, ‘Well, you need look no further.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked John.
‘Because I killed him,’ said the Black Pyramid, and once again smiled his slow dark smile.
It was too easy, thought John. He had never before received an admission of guilt and now that he had he was frankly flabbergasted. Every instinct he possessed told him that the fighter was telling him the truth, yet still he had the small niggle of doubt.
‘You are certain?’ he said feebly.
The Black Pyramid boomed a laugh. ‘Good God, man, I’ve just confessed to you. What more do you want?’
‘Proof,’ answered John, rallying.
‘Of what kind?’
‘Tell me how you did it?’
‘Well, I had met him before, as I’ve already told you. He recognized me despite the passing of the years. But that was not why I killed him. The reason was that I loathed him, hated him, every bit of me despised the evil bastard.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no intention of answering that.’
‘You might have to when you come before your judges.’
‘I shall deal with that if and when the time arrives,’ the Black Pyramid answered calmly.
John stared at him and found himself liking the man, liking the way he handled himself under pressure. Yet determined as he was to get to the heart of the mystery, the Apothecary had come up against a brick wall. The bare-knuckle fighter steadfastly refused to elucidate further.
‘So how did you do it?’ John asked.
‘I crept up in the night and beat the bugger’s brains out.’
The Apothecary shot into his pictorial memory the image of that stealthy figure walking along the landing. He could see it quite clearly, cloaked and mysterious and completely sexless. And even though he was observing it from above he knew then that the Black Pyramid was lying — or at least telling him only part of the story.
‘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.