‘I can get you an invitation if you so desire.’
Joe spoke at once. ‘I should like that very much. I can think of nothing better than a good mill.’
‘And I would like to go as well,’ put in John.
‘Tell me,’ said Jago, having refilled everyone’s tankard first, ‘everything you know about the murdered man.’
Nathaniel let out a high-pitched laugh. ‘Oh the investigation begins here, does it?’
‘Most certainly.’
It was the Black Pyramid who answered him. ‘I knew nothing of the dead man except that he seemed very irritable throughout the journey.’
John interrupted. ‘But I thought he told Mr Meadows that he felt he knew you — had seen you before somewhere.’
The Pyramid raised a massive shoulder. ‘My friend, I am a famous bare-knuckle fighter. Many, many people have seen me during the course of my career. I am hardly surprised the man thought he recognized me. It is a common occurrence.’
‘I don’t recall it being quite like that,’ John answered quietly. ‘You see I happened to come in on a conversation between the deceased and Martin Meadows in which Mr Gorringe swore he knew you.’
‘So?’ said the black man, a steely look in his eye.
Joe cleared his throat. ‘So we must accept your explanation.’
Nathaniel was looking decidedly uncomfortable. ‘I always said that that Gorringe would make trouble.’
Joe’s eye caught John’s for the briefest second then flickered away. He stood up.
‘Gentlemen, it has been a great pleasure speaking to you.’ He produced a watch from a pocket in his waistcoat. ‘Goodness me, I am late for my next appointment. I must go forthwith.’
John got to his feet. ‘I’ll walk with you a bit of the way, Joe.’ He bowed. ‘Goodbye gentlemen.’
The two men rose and returned the salutation, then huddled over their ale, their heads close together.
Once outside the tavern John turned to Joe Jago. ‘Well?’
‘They were lying through their teeth, both of them.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘They knew William Gorringe and he knew them. What we must find out is when and how well.’
The village of Sidford lay quiet beneath the noonday sun and John, looking at the rustic bridge with its usual passengers of slow-moving cattle, thought what a delightful setting it was. He imagined himself owning a house here, far away from London and its wicked life. But even as the idea entered his mind he knew that he would be quite incapable of leaving the metropolis and its many and varying excitements. He thought of Vaux Hall and the Peerless Pool, he thought of Chelsea buns and the Theatre Royal, he thought of the Hercules Pillars inn and the Foundling Hospital, and was aware that he loved London life with all its ugliness and wild raw beauty too much to consider moving away.
And just for a second he felt as if he had entered Elizabeth’s mind and knew that just as he was an avowed Londoner, so was she a born countrywoman. And that she, too, could no sooner leave Devon with all its magnificent scenery and that it was ridiculous to think of her ever doing so. He sighed then, wondering how often he would be able to see his child when it was born, and Joe must have heard him because he gave the Apothecary a strange look.
‘Everything all right, Sir?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Then let’s go and find the redoubtable German lady.’
But when they knocked at the door of the house only the little maid answered, bobbed a curtsy, and said, ‘The ladies have gone away for a few days, Sirs. They felt that they needed a little holiday.’
‘Where have they gone, do you know?’
‘Cornwall, Sir. To the town of Padstow. Mrs Mitchell has a friend there and they have decided to call on her. Shall I say you came?’
‘Please do. Do you know how long they are staying?’
‘About a week, Sir.’
‘How very unfortunate,’ said John as they stepped back into the waiting trap, a mode of transport they had hired to get them around.
‘It is indeed, Mr Rawlings. But I am sure we shall find ways of occupying our time.’
‘How exactly?’
‘By going to see the Black Pyramid fight for a start.’
John smiled crookedly. ‘I can’t think of a better way of spending an evening.’
As he said this he thought of Elizabeth and hoped that she would forgive him the minor falsehood.
Seventeen
The candles were being replaced by servants, the wine decanters too, and bets were being laid by the hordes of people present, which, somewhat to John’s astonishment, included several members of the fair sex. And what women they were. Pretty, painted dolls — patched, powdered and pretentious — vied for attention alongside big, bosomy buttocks, with low-cut gowns and leering smiles, many of which displayed brown rotting teeth. John thought, running an interested eye over them, that they all looked like products of a Covent Garden whorehouse serving both ends of the social scale.
He and Joe Jago had arrived at the home of Lord Lechdale an hour earlier, driving along in the dying light of the sun. It had been an amazing experience to pass through a landscape from which the colour was slowly being bleached away, watching the trees and fields grow dark then black, with here and there a point of light where something caught the amber rays and was brilliantly reflected. As they had approached Wych Manor every window in the place had gleamed red, while the building itself had appeared gaunt and unreal. But as they drew nearer and the sun moved round they saw that it was after all a Tudor mansion house lit with nothing more than candles and that their eyes had been affected by the strange light of sunset.
The fight was to be held in the Great Hall which had at one time been the entire house, medieval in its origins, the rest of the building having been created by later members of the family. In this Hall Lord Lechdale had constructed an arena by dint of placing together a host of sturdy trestle tables and on this cordoning off a ring with rope. At the moment the ring stood empty as the guests mingled, drank and eyed up the women. John noticed an old fellow, wrinkled and gnarled as one of last Christmas’s nuts, with a whore on each knee, caressing them both, while they, in their turn, each had a hand on his vital parts to his obvious great delight.
Joe grinned. ‘Poor old dolly monger. He’s having the time of his life.’
‘And not only him,’ answered John, and pointed to where the youthful Grevil Sedgewick was succumbing to the charms of a beauteous young whore.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ answered the clerk, scratching his head so that his wig sat askew. ‘I hope someone has told him the facts of life.’
‘Well, if they haven’t he’s on the point of finding out,’ answered John, and held out his glass for a refill.
At that moment a thunderous voice called for silence and into the expectant hush came the announcement, ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the Black Pyramid.’
Looking as if his body had been recently oiled the black man stepped into the ring, the ropes held up for him by Nathaniel Broome, and raised his hands above his head. There was a roar of approval from the crowd gathered, many of whom had seen him fight before and who had staked a great deal of money on him winning again.
‘And now, gentlemen, Mighty John Elmwood.’
A man who lived up to his name clambered into the ring to receive a slightly less enthusiastic welcome. But for all that he was a marvellous sight, standing at least six feet five in height — a veritable giant — and packed with powerful muscles and enormous arms. Looking at him, John had a sinking feeling. He ran his eye over the man’s heavy breasts, thick neck, and the tracery of black hair that encased his entire body, and silently said a prayer for
