Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “I told you it was Heel-and-Toe,” interrupted John.

  “You’re probably right.” Elizabeth gave him a look in which lay a certain fondness.

  He returned the glance equally then turned to his daughter. “So now you know some more.”

  “It sounds very interesting,” she said in her advanced way, and returned to her breakfast.

  An hour later they left The White Hart behind them and took the coaching road to Falmouth. From there Jed turned inland and they picked their way over rough lanes and cart tracks to Helstone.

  Looking through the window, John studied the place with interest. There was one large main street with several houses and a building standing out into the thoroughfare. The other streets that he could glimpse were narrow and winding. The whole village was surrounded by pleasant hills and trees, and there was a fine church standing out to the right, while a river ran at the bottom of the town. He thought it rather enchanting and quaint.

  “It’s a magic place,” said Rose suddenly.

  John shivered, he had no idea why. “What makes you say that, sweetheart?”

  “Because it is,” she answered, and refused to elaborate further.

  They went downhill into the town, through the small streets, then turned left and found themselves in the broad thoroughfare. Elizabeth looked to her left.

  “There’s an inn,” she said. “And it’s called The Angel.”

  “That’s where we’ll stay, then.”

  And John put his head out of the window and called up to Jed, who pulled the coach to a halt before the main front door. Rufus jumped down and pulled down the step for John to dismount. Having handed Elizabeth out, the Apothecary turned back to lift down Rose. She came willingly enough but he felt as he picked her up that she was trembling.

  “What’s the matter, darling?”

  “I don’t know, Papa. I feel a bit frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  Once again she answered, “I don’t know.”

  But he could pay her no more attention for the landlord was coming forward to greet them. “Good day, Sir and Madam. How may I help you?”

  “We would like some rooms,” Elizabeth answered promptly. “We have come down for Flora Day.”

  “Very good you’ll find it too, Mam. Would that be two rooms you require?”

  John was hoping she would say yes but she said, “No, three.

  This is my companion, Mr Rawlings. The little girl is his daughter. Rose. We also require a room for the servants, so four in total.”

  Jed and Rufus appeared, bearing the luggage between them.

  “As you say, Mam. Now, if you’d like to follow me.” The landlord led the way up a staircase and turned left. “How will this be, Mam?”

  He threw open the door to reveal a pleasant room that overlooked the street.

  “It will suit me perfectly,” Elizabeth answered, smiling at the man, who was, John thought, quite handsome in a dark, saturnine way.

  “And I thought this for the young lady.” He showed them a much smaller, darker room next door.

  “Rose?”

  “Where is Papa going to sleep.”

  “I have a room vacant on the next floor, if that is agreeable, Sir?”

  John was about to open his mouth to refuse, when Rose spoke up. “I’d like to be up there, then I’ll be close to you Papa.”

  The Apothecary bowed to the inevitable. “Very well. Do you have two rooms above, landlord?”

  “I do, Sir.”

  “Then kindly show us.”

  Elizabeth spoke. “I shall refresh myself after the journey. I will see you downstairs in half-an-hour, John.” And with that she disappeared into her chamber.

  The Apothecary was left with no alternative but to climb another flight.

  Thirty minutes later everything had been sorted out and John descended the staircase, his daughter holding his hand. He found Elizabeth in the parlour talking to a very unusuallooking woman. Small and extremely thin, she wore a big pair of spectacles which magnified her eyes to an enormous size, giving the impression that she had no other features in her face. She jumped as John entered, shooting him a nervous glance.

  “Ah, my dear,” said the Marchesa, giving him a rapid kiss on the cheek. “Are you all settled?”

  “Yes, perfectly, thank you.”

  “Mrs Legassick, may I present my travelling companion, John Rawlings. And this is his daughter, Rose.”

  Mrs Legassick twittered nervously. “Oh yes, how do you do? How do you do, indeed?”

  She gave a sudden smile baring rather small, sharp teeth. Rose, meanwhile, made a polite bob.

  “Oh, what a sweet child. How delightful.” She patted Rose’s red curls with enthusiasm, her victim pulling something of a face. “I, alas, have not had any little ones. Are we going to be friends, my dear?”

  Rose remained silent, staring at the floor, and it was John who spoke up.

  “She suffers with shyness from time to time. Please forgive her.” Nothing could have been further from the truth but he felt obliged to make some kind of excuse for his daughter’s unusual quietness.

  “Perfectly all right,” gushed Mrs Legassick. “Such a dear little soul. Not like the other little girl who is staying here. But, hush, I mustn’t speak out of turn.”

  Elizabeth asked, “Have several people arrived to see the Floral Dance?”

  “One or two. I am here with my companion, Mrs Bligh. We both originally came from Cornwall so we have returned to see the Dance. No, the child I spoke of is little Isobel, here with her mother, a Mrs Pill.”

  “Isobel Pill,” said John under his breath, and catching Rose’s eye, his mobile brows rose in amusement.

  “They are accompanied by a Mr Painter, would you believe?” Mrs Legassick giggled nervously.

  “Good gracious,” said Elizabeth. “I can hardly wait to meet them. Who else do we have here?”

  “A lady travelling alone. I believe she might well be an actress or something of that nature. She is a Miss Warwick. That about makes up the number, I think.”

  “Most interesting,” said John. He turned to Elizabeth. “Shall we stroll before we dine?”

  “By all means.”

  She took his arm and they stepped forth, the child holding his hand on the other side.

  They found themselves in an unusually wide street down the side of which flowed a tumbling brook. To ensure that people could step over it, leats had been built which did not hide the rapid torrent that passed beneath. Rose stopped, fascinated.

  “Oh look, Father. It’s a stream.”

  “I think it’s a river, Rose. But I don’t know which. Do you, Elizabeth?”

  “No, but we’ll find out. What an amazing thing.”

  “Isn’t it.”

  But the Apothecary’s next remarks were suddenly stilled by the sight of the three people coming towards them who could only, if their descriptions were anything to go by, be Painter and Pill, accompanied by little Isobel.

  It was to the man that his eyes were drawn, as were those of Elizabeth, he noticed. Tall, just under six feet in height, with black hair tied back in a bow, he was devastatingly handsome and well aware of it. The woman, by contrast, was plain as a poppy seed, and had made no attempt at all to enhance her looks by the use of powder and paint. Shorter than her companion, she was slim but that was about all that could be said in her favour. She wore a small pair of spectacles perched on an unexceptional nose, while the mouth beneath was thin and closed like a trap. Her eyes were so nondescript as to be almost colourless, and she gazed at the world unsmilingly.

  Her child, on the other hand, was quite pretty but spoilt by the most ferocious scowl. Aged about seven, or so John reckoned, she peered out belligerently at the passers-by froma rather attractive pair of eyes beneath a mop of dark hair. The Apothecary stole another glance at Painter to see if he was the father but felt fairly certain that the man was not responsible.

  Isobel, aware that she was
being observed, grasped Painter’s hand and hid her face in his breeches, an indelicate move to say the least. Rose simply gaped, open-mouthed, at the performance.

  “Mr Painter, Mr Painter,” came the muffled voice. “Stop them staring at me.”

  Painter made a bow as best he could with the child burrowing into him, and flashed his green eyes in Elizabeth’s direction.

  “Forgive me, Ma’am. Fact is the child’s highly strung. Do apologise.”

  He had a simply stunning voice, well modulated and pleasant to listen to. He was obviously a product of a first-class education, John considered.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Makes her sound like a fiddle.”

  At this Mrs Pill entered the conversation.

  “There’s no need to be personal, Ma’am.”

  “I had no intention of so being. I apologise if my remark caused offence.”

  “Not at all,” said Painter, eyeing the Marchesa up. “Apology accepted. Kathryn meant no harm, did you dear? Where are you staying?”

  “At The Angel. We’ve just arrived.”

  “Splendid, so are we - staying there I mean. Allow me to present myself. I am Timothy Painter.”

  “How do you do? My name is John Rawlings.”

  The men bowed. Then Tim went on, And this is my fiancee, Mrs Pill, and her daughter Isobel.”

  Kathryn Pill bobbed a somewhat grumpy curtsey.

  Elizabeth spoke up. “I am Elizabeth di Lorenzi. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  Tim looked at her with a sparkle in his eye. “You are Italian, Madam?”

  “No, I am English, Sir. My late husband was a Venetian.”

  “I see,” he said, and put a wealth of meaning into the two words.

  Mrs Pill, clearly noticing that her companion was more than a little distracted by the exquisite Elizabeth, said, “We must continue our promenade, I fear. Good day to you both. No doubt we shall meet again.”

  “We certainly will,” said Tim Painter pointedly.

  John gave him an amused look. “It has been most interesting, Sir, Until next time.” And with that he and his party made their way up the street.

  Rose turned to look at him. “I didn’t like that girl, Papa.”

  “Why, darling? She didn’t do anything to you.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Marchesa briskly. “She was a horrible child and there’s an end to it. All that hiding her face and burying herself in the young man’s leg. She’s far too old for such a caper.”

  John burst out laughing. “I see that I am hopelessly outnumbered and I concede victory immediately. From now on little Isobel shall be held up as an example of what not to be.”

  Rose suddenly took Elizabeth’s hand. “I am glad we came here. It is going to be unusual.”

  “Why do you say that?” the Marchesa asked curiously.

  “Because I believe it is,” Rose answered, and releasing her fingers, went skipping up the street.

  Chapter 4

  That evening, quite late, while John Rawlings embraced Elizabeth di Lorenzi before making his way back to his own room, a sound of music came from the streets below. Raising his head, John listened, then he looked at the Marchesa, who lay propped up against the pillow.

  “Does that seem familiar or am I imagining it?”

  “But there’s an extra instrument — or two even.”

  And she was up off the bed and had gone to the window, throwing open the casement in order to peer out. John followed, rather more lazily, and stood beside her.

  Below them, gathered outside The Angel, were the band of musicians they had encountered in Jamaica Inn. And, sure enough, they had acquired a mandora and a fagotto player - a somewhat unusual instrument - on their journey to Helstone. Leading them was the blind fiddler, who stood in their midst, foot tapping, body swaying, giving his all. A group of people had already gathered round them and were clapping to the persistent beat. John turned to Elizabeth.

  “Shall we join them? Rose is asleep so we can step outside for a while.”

  But Elizabeth was already pulling on her male garb, not bothering to squeeze into her stays. John, turning from the window, admiringly watched her dress. Her figure was the same as when he had first seen it, long and lean, almost masculine had it not been for the swell of her beautiful breasts.

  “You’re lovely,” he said sincerely.

  “You think so?” she answered with a half smile.

  “You know I do.”

  “Thank you.” And she turned away to complete her toilette.

  Five minutes later they were ready and went down into the street to join the small crowd gathered round the musicians. There were now six instrumentalists in all: the blind fiddler himself, the man with a pair of kettledrums strapped round his waist, the flautist - a wee pixie of a person - together with thetambourine, the mandora and the fagotto players. They had also acquired along the way a monkey with a tragic face. Dressed in a jacket and a small hat, both of which had seen better days, the wretched creature had attached itself to the tambourinist. He was a spry young fellow with curly brown hair and eyes almost the same colour. But for all that he was painfully thin and looked as if he could do with a good meal or three. The mandora player, on the other hand, although also thin, had the look of an aesthete, being long of hair and nose, and with a cultivated manner which added to the languid way he plucked the instrument’s strings. The fagotto blower, on the other hand, was fat and friendly, puffing his cheeks out as he played and generally looking round him with an amusing twinkle in his eye, making the crowd laugh. While the man with the kettledrums appeared a regular rogue, having a craggy face and periwinkle eyes which he fastened on the Marchesa with a very naughty gaze.

  “What a motley crew,” she said laughing.

  “But they make a good sound,” John answered. He bowed to her. “Shall we dance?”

  “Why not?”

  And the couple whirled off, only to be joined by others, so that in the end everyone - with the exception of one or two elderly people - was prancing away to the music. Eventually, though, it came to an end and the blind fiddler, assisted by the young tambourine player, sent the monkey round with a hat. As the creature approached, its two keepers not far behind, the Apothecary spoke.

  “Well done. Your music is most enjoyable.” The monkey rattled the hat which had a few coins in the bottom. “Now, I’d better pay you, young fellow.” John put out a tentative finger towards the creature but it backed away nervously. “Where did you get him?” he enquired of the tambourine man who had joined the group.

  The young chap bowed low. “Hello, Sir. I’m Gideon. I remember playing for you in Jamaica Inn. We actually bought him at a market. He had been with a band before apparently but for some reason was put up for sale. I think his previous owner died.”

  “He seems very nervous. Do you think he was badly treated?”

  “More than likely. We picked him up for very little money.”

  Elizabeth said in her straightforward way, “Well, I expect he’ll be well fed with you - and loved as best you can.”

  The young man answered simply, “It’s hard to love a monkey but I must admit to having certain feelings of fondness for it.”

  “Then that’s as well.” The Marchesa put a shilling in the hat, as did John. The sad monkey’s face contorted into something resembling a grin before it scampered away to its next customers. The fiddler shuffled up to them. “Thank’ee, Sir. I’ll play again.”

  He picked up his bow once more and the Apothecary, at close quarters now, studied the man. He was unkempt, that much was certain. A great tangle of black hair, streaked here and there with grey, was visible beneath the battered hat he always wore, which was an amazing creation, sporting a selection of dilapidated feathers at one side. It reminded the Apothecary of drawings of Robin Hood he had seen from time to time, and he could not help wondering whether the fiddler ever removed it.

  Beneath this fantastic head of hair were a pair of black spectacles,
worn no doubt to hide his sightless eyes from the world, which sat atop a hawkish nose. His face, stained a deep brown by constant exposure to the elements, was pitted with the scars of smallpox, and indeed one could have declared him to be a regular vagabond had it not been for his mouth. For this was passionate and well-formed, the mouth of a sensualist. It was, the Apothecary concluded, the one thing that betrayed him to be a musician, speaking as it did of finer feelings.

  Apart from this unusual quality the fiddler was thin, reasonably tall, and despite his lack of flesh, strong and wiry. Yet again, his hands were exquisite; small and beautifully shaped as well as being nimble, one running over the strings like a bird in flight, the other guiding the bow to produce beautiful sounds. John, watching him, felt drawn to the man despite his strange appearance.

  Elizabeth meanwhile was stamping her feet and clapping, and when a strange young man bowed before her and led her off to dance, John could only smile half-heartedly as he watched them whirl down the street. It was then that he felt a tug at his hand and, looking down, saw Rose.

  “What are you doing up?” he asked, somewhat crossly. “Isobel woke me,” she answered, her great eyes awash with tears.

  John crouched down. “What do you mean?”

  “She came into my room and stood staring at me. Don’t be cross, Papa.”

  He was filled with tenderness. “I’m not, sweetheart. I just want to know what happened.”

  “I told you. Isobel entered my room and stared at me.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “No. But, oh Papa, it was the expression on her face. It was as if she wanted to kill me.”

  “Well, stay up for a bit then I’ll go back and sit with you. And tomorrow morning I’ll speak to her mother.”

  “What will you say?”

  “I shall tell her what occurred and ask for an explanation. Don’t worry, darling, it won’t happen again I promise you.” Elizabeth, breathless and laughing, was brought back by the young man, who was in very much the same condition. Seeing Rose’s unhappy face she stopped short but at a silent signal from John, said nothing. His daughter, meanwhile, having cried a little, was being cheered by the atmosphere in the crowd.