Death and the Black Pyramid (22 page)

He and the Marchesa dined together quite informally, having a table set in one of the smaller dining-rooms, and when the meal was done they withdrew to a drawing-room, rather than the grand salon. They sat in front of the fire and Elizabeth picked up a letter she had received.

‘John,' she said without preamble, ‘I have received a communication from an elderly cousin of mine in Shropshire. He is not very well and I fear he may not be long for this world. I have therefore decided to go and see him.'

‘Are you up to the journey?' the Apothecary enquired professionally.

She gave him a slightly cynical look. ‘Of course I am. I shall travel in comfort all the way, so you need not worry on that score. But you, my dear, ought you not to return to London soon?'

Guiltily feeling that she must have been reading his mind, John replied nonchalantly, ‘Now that you suggest it I feel I should. Rose must be missing me and, truth told, I am longing to see her again. As for Sir Gabriel, he is now a great age and I honestly ought to spend more time with him.'

‘Then you must do so,' she replied. She leant towards him. ‘Do you not think you spend too much of yourself on solving mysteries?'

‘I have been telling myself that since I started working for Sir John Fielding,' he replied wretchedly. ‘I felt it took me away from my wife, my father, my child. And yet I am obsessed with the whole idea. If a villain gets away undetected I feel that I have been personally beaten.'

She smiled, just a fraction sadly. ‘I can understand that. I once felt similarly about the Society of Angels who brought about the ruin of my son. I could not rest until the last little verminous beast had been put down. But once they were gone all the anger went out of me and I have become a sober citizen.'

John laughed aloud. ‘If you are a sober citizen then I am a Greek god.'

‘Well?' she answered.

And they laughed together, in total harmony once more.

Later that night John went by coach to Exeter and booked in at The Half Moon. The stagecoach was departing so early in the morning that he preferred to get a good night's sleep to leaving Elizabeth at the crack of dawn. Yet as he said farewell to her and turned to watch her wave him goodbye he had the strangest feeling that it would be some time before he saw her again.

Twenty-One

It was when he reached Brentford that the Apothecary was struck by the feeling that all was not well at home. Into his mind came a picture of Rose, thin and pale and coughing, and he passed the rest of the journey in a fever of impatience to get back. Paying off the hackney which had transported him from the Gloucester Coffee House to Nassau Street, John ran up the steps and was just about to ring the bell when the front door opened to reveal the figure of what could only be a physician.

‘Oh,' said the man, clearly astonished to find someone standing in the doorway. ‘Forgive me, Sir, I was just making my way out.'

‘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 Gabriel 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.