Death and the Black Pyramid Read Free

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    The Fraulein – at least John presumed she was such – gave another basilisk stare, turned on her heel and marched into the interior of the inn, clearly to find the driver and twist his ear. There was a general sigh of relief as she left.
    Thirty minutes later they were clambering back on board. Most of the men – with the exception of Cuthbert Simms who claimed fear of the rheumatics – had taken their seats on the roof so that the two ladies could have some respite from the elements. John noticed that the man with the hawkish face had also gone within and had huddled down in his cloak to sleep. The German woman, hurrying up at the last minute, having rechecked the basket and deciding that all her luggage was complete after all, got inside with bad grace and a grumpy expression. The coachman cracked his whip.
    â€˜Next stop Marlborough, ladies and gents.’
    And they set off.
    John found himself sitting next to the man with scant eyebrows who turned out to be a pleasant fellow, a country solicitor with a practice in Exeter, returning home from a visit to an elderly sister who dwelt in London. Having exchanged courtesies and names – his was Martin Meadows – they chatted nonsense to one another until eventually the solicitor said, ‘Tell me, do you treat many patients with delusions?’
    John stared at him. ‘Of what kind do you mean, Sir?’
    â€˜Well, those who think people are plotting against them. That type of thing.’
    The Apothecary regarded him seriously. ‘No, Sir. To be honest I can’t say that I have. Why?’
    Meadows looked non-committal. ‘Oh, no reason really. I just wondered.’
    They relapsed into silence but John, staring out at the tints of autumn, the first hints of which were just starting to emblazon the trees, wondered what was behind the question. He shot a sideways look at Martin Meadows and saw that his face was giving away nothing as he too gazed out at the ever-changing landscape.
    John had always loved the county of Wiltshire, found it mystic, a dark and brooding landscape containing some of the country’s most ancient and mysterious artifacts. The riddle of what Silbury Hill actually was; the looming question of the purpose of Stonehenge; the standing stones at Avebury. All these things intrigued him and he had often, when working alone in his compounding room, puzzled over them.
    And now in the early morning light he breathed in the freshness of the air, looked around him at the magnificent rolling countryside, and fell quietly asleep.

Two
    John was awoken by the sound of shouting and looking down saw that hostlers were running to give assistance as the coach pulled into the yard of The Castle and Ball in Marlborough. Looking round him he noticed that the Black Pyramid and Nathaniel Broome were standing up in preparation for descending and that Mr Meadows was clambering to his feet. Hastily adjusting his hat which had slipped down over one eye, John also rose.
    The inn, which was extremely old, was comfortable inside and having made use of its facilities the Apothecary settled himself in a quiet corner and indulged in his favourite hobby of observing. Needless to say the German woman was complaining bitterly about something or other – John did not strain his ears sufficiently to discover what – and was being soothed down by Lucinda Silverwood. Paulina Gower, by contrast, was laughing merrily with the dark young lady, Jemima Lovell. He noticed that once again the man with the hawk’s face had vanished and that Martin Meadows was also absent. Following a whim, the Apothecary made his way to the back of the inn where the private snugs were situated.
    â€˜. . . I tell you, Sir, that one or two faces are familiar to me,’ a harsh voice was saying quite loudly.
    John could not help but listen, standing quietly outside the door.
    â€˜Are you certain, Sir? Surely it could be a trick of your