Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “It’s exciting, Papa.”

  “Isn’t it. Now, listen carefully. The blind fiddler is just about to start again. And, see, he’s got a tame monkey with him.” They stood enthralled while the tatterdemalion band struck up once more and played their music to the ever-growing group of people. Rose, John noticed, could not take her eyes from the small simian, which walked round and round with the hat, collecting quite a goodly sum in the process. Eventually, though, they played their final chord, took a bow, and wandered off in the direction of The Blue Anchor. Elizabeth smiled at Rose.

  “Are you tired?”

  “Yes. But Papa said he would sit with me while I go to sleep.”

  “Well then, so he shall.”

  They went back into The Angel and John carried the half- asleep child upstairs and put her to bed.

  “Rose, do you want me to lock you in?”

  “No, I wouldn’t like that. Just sit beside me.”

  But something made him stay even when Rose’s breathing deepened until he, too, dozed off in the chair beside the bed. How long he remained like that he couldn’t say but he woke suddenly to find that all was dark, the candle which had been burning having guttered out while he slept. John froze in the darkness, aware of a sound over by the door. There could be no doubt of it. Someone was entering the room.

  He stood up silently, crossing the small space as quietly as he could, but a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. Realising that the other person would now be aware of his presence, he sprinted to the door and threw it open. There was nobody there but hurling himself up the corridor he spied a small figure clad in a nightgown. It would appear that Isobel had decided to torment his daughter once more.

  The next morning at breakfast John once again signalled to Elizabeth not to ask any questions, though he could see that she was longing to know exactly what was happening. He did say, however, that he was anxious to talk to Mrs Pill and her daughter.

  “I don’t believe they are down yet. The only people I have seen so far are the two ladies, Mrs Legassick and Mrs Bligh. They went out early to perambulate.”

  “Wait a minute. I can hear someone coming now.”

  They turned their heads to the door but the vision that entered was nobody that either the Apothecary or the Marchesa had seen before. However, this did not stop either of them staring roundeyed. For the woman was indeed a sight to behold.

  Dressed to the inch in the very latest fashion, her head covered by a superb hat, her jewels glittering in the morning light, she waved at them nonchalantly before drifting across the dining parlour to take a seat. John frankly could not take his eyes off her.

  He guessed her to be in her forties but she had that timeless quality of all great beauties. The setting of her face was stunning - or had once been so - though the Apothecary could see a certain hardness about her visage which made him wonder exactly what her antecedents were. Her hair, though vividly blonde, was beautifully arranged beneath her hat, and the rest of her features were perfect, everything from her great, luminous eyes to her sweet little mouth which was superbly placed. Feeling John’s gaze, she turned politely.

  “Good morning to you, Sir. A nice day, is it not?”

  He was thoroughly nonplussed. Rising from his chair he made his very best bow. “Indeed it is, Madam. May I present myself? My name is John Rawlings.” He bowed again.

  She returned the salute graciously, bowing from the waist. “And I am Diana Warwick. How do you do.” Her gaze swept down and took in Elizabeth. “And this is Mrs Rawlings?”

  “No, Madam. I am Elizabeth di Lorenzi, widow of the Marchese di Lorenzi of Venice.”

  “I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.”

  “As I am yours.”

  “This is my daughter, Rose Rawlings,” John added somewhat lamely, frankly daunted by the combined power of these two extraordinary women.

  Diana Warwick’s glance took in Rose as if she were preparing to sketch her. Eventually, she said, “You have very beautiful hair, child.”

  John’s daughter smiled dutifully. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  It was at this juncture that Mrs Pill and Isobel entered the room, Tim, a lazy grin on his face, bringing up the rear. He cast his eyes round, saw Elizabeth, and gave a magnificent bow.

  The Apothecary fixed Isobel with a meaningful glance to which she responded by pulling a face. Furious, he was about to go over and have it out there and then, but Elizabeth laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  But more was happening. Diana Warwick had noticed the handsome man bowing to Elizabeth and was making little movements at her table in order to attract attention, which, after a few moments, she succeeded in doing. Tim Painter, on the point of sitting down, saw the dazzling woman in the corner and was frankly making a banquet of her with his eyes. Kathryn Pill’s momentary look of annoyance was rapidly overtaken by a somewhat phoney smile. She gave a small curtsey in Miss Warwick’s direction, then sat down and took to ordering her breakfast in a business-like manner. Tim, after bowing fulsomely once more, also took his seat.

  “It would appear that the lady has made an impression,” murmured John.

  Elizabeth gave a cat-like smile. “Mrs Pill covers her anger well,” she whispered back.

  The Apothecary dropped his voice even lower. “How old do you think Miss Warwick is?”

  The Marchesa ran her eye over the woman who was by now glancing at a newspaper as she sipped her tea. “Same as me. In her late forties.”

  John stared at her. “I never think of you as that age. To me you will always be young and alluring.”

  Elizabeth laughed aloud. “Maybe, but how does the rest of the world see me, that is the question?”

  “Well, if our Mr Painter is anything to go by I would imagine very much as I do.”

  She did not reply but instead stretched out her hand and laid it on John’s arm. For a moment there was silence, then Rose spoke.

  “That horrible Isobel is looking at me.”

  “Well stare at her, do. You’ve nothing to be afraid of Rose. She can’t hurt you.”

  His daughter looked up at him. “I’m not so sure of that, Papa.”

  Breakfast over, John went to tackle Mrs Pill. Crossing to her table he gave a formal bow and said, “I wonder if I might have a word, Madam?”

  Kathryn regarded him icily. “Pray do.”

  “I would rather it was in private.”

  Tim Painter looked up, the expression in his eyes one of amused laziness. “I’ll leave you then.”

  “I feel you should be present, Sir. But I really meant could we speak somewhere else, not in so public a place.”

  Isobel spoke in a whining tone. “What does he want, Mama?”

  Mrs Pill looked at her lovingly. “Nothing, my sweetheart. But I think it best if you go for a walk with Mr Painter.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Neither do I,” added Tim.

  Mrs Pill pursed her plain lips together but instantly gave in. “Then in that case you must both remain. Shall we step into the other parlour?”

  “Certainly,” said John.

  Once inside the other room, deserted except for an elderly gentleman scanning a paper, he came directly to the point.

  “Mrs Pill, your daughter is terrorising mine. She came into Rose’s room, waking her up, and stood there silently staring at her.”

  The unprepossessing features worked, then she said, “That is not possible, Sir. I think your child is fabricating the whole story. Isobel sleeps in my room and was with me the entire night.”

  “But I saw her with my own eyes. After Rose told me what had happened I waited in her room and heard the intruder for myself. I rushed to the door and witnessed your daughter disappearing up the corridor.”

  Mrs Pill’s mouth tightened to a trap. “I cannot credit what you are saying, Sir. You must have seen someone else. Isobel did not leave my side.”

  It was hopeless and John knew it. In the face of such a stau
nch denial he had no option other than to make a stiff bow, bid the trio an abrupt good morning, and angrily withdraw.

  Chapter 5

  To say that John was angry was understating the case. He fumed his way back to the breakfast room, banging the parlour door loudly behind him. Starting to speak to Elizabeth before he could even see her, he discovered to his chagrin that the room was empty. Standing for a moment or two, feeling utterly foolish, shuffling from one foot to the other, he eventually made his way out of The Angel and into the street.

  To the right of the inn stood an open courtyard beyond which were the stables and coach house. In the distance the Apothecary could see the Marchesa, holding Rose’s hand, talking to Jed the coachman, together with their guard, Rufus. He started to make his way towards them, then stopped, intrigued by a well which stood in the stable yard. Its outer wall was about three feet in height, not nearly high enough in view of the well’s enormous depth which, when he peered down into the darkness, seemed to him to be about forty feet. Indeed it was so deep that it was impossible to glimpse the bottom. Above the well was a device for lowering buckets on a rope, at present hanging idly. Intrigued, John leant over once again, but even though he allowed time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness he caught but the merest glint of the water below.

  “Trying to see the bottom, Sir?” It was one of the inn’s hosders who spoke.

  “Yes. It seems very far down.”

  “That’s because the water level is low. It rises and falls according to the weather, y’see.”

  “Well, well,” John answered, then realised what he had said and grimaced.

  The hostler chuckled. Ah, the old ones are always the best, Sir.”

  “Indeed.” The Apothecary straightened up from leaning on the wall. “Nice to speak with you, my friend.”

  “I’m always around the yard, Sir, if you need to know anything about the old place. Worked here since I was a lad, like.”

  “We’ll have a chat about it some time but presently I can see my friend and my daughter. Good day to you.”

  “Good day, Sir.”

  They parted company, John joining Elizabeth. Rose immediately turned to her father.

  “What did she say, Papa?”

  “Nothing very much.” He decided to be honest with the child. “Actually they denied everything. Said that Isobel did not stir all night.”

  Rose went as red as the flower after which she was named. “But you saw her.”

  “I know I did. I can’t think why her mother is being so duplicitous.”

  “Because she probably wasn’t there with her. She was probably out with Mr Painter.”

  “You know I think you’re right,” John answered. He smoothed Rose’s curls which in her agitation had started flying wild. “Anyway I believe it best we forget it now. Let us speak of other things. Elizabeth?”

  “You are utterly right. We are here on holiday, after all. So sweetheart, what would you like to do today?”

  “Go in search of the monkey,” John’s daughter answered promptly, then looked puzzled when both her father and the Marchesa burst out laughing.

  They did see the blind fiddler’s band, complete with its simian pet, quite frequently during the next three days. In fact, John thought, it was hard to avoid them. Wherever they went, either in the town or the surrounding countryside, they seemed to come across them, much to the delight of Rose.

  On the day before the Furry Dance they set forth in the carriage to see the sea. It was only a short ride to the nearest point, Porthleven, and fortunately the day was fine. Rose was brimming with joy throughout the journey. John, watching her, felt a tug at his heartstrings that his late wife, Emilia, wasnot there to observe the child as she first glimpsed the vastness of the ocean. But he firmly thrust such ideas away, knowing that to dwell on the past would do neither him nor Rose any good. Instead he shared his daughters pleasure, hanging out of the carriage window beside her as the sea appeared in all its tumbling glory.

  “It’s wonderful,” breathed Rose. She pulled John’s sleeve. “Why haven’t I seen it before?”

  “Because we live in London. That’s a long way from the sea.” They abandoned the coach and made their way on foot to a wide cove where all three removed their shoes and paddled in the waves. Poignantly reminded of his honeymoon, which he and Emilia had spent in Devon, John remained somewhat quiet and withdrawn. But if Elizabeth noticed this she said nothing, while Rose was too preoccupied with the sand and the shells and the snow-capped waves to be even aware of his silence. After a while the two adults sat side-by-side on the damp shingle while John’s daughter played by herself. The Apothecary sighed.

  “Poor Rose. She could do with a companion.”

  Elizabeth’s black hair caught on the wind and a big strand of it blew loose. “Well, no doubt you will provide her with one in time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My dear, you are bound to remarry and have more children. You will meet somebody, have no fear.”

  “I have already met her,” John answered, leaning back on his elbows and watching Elizabeth through eyes narrowed against the sun.

  She turned to him, the expression on her face serious. “But, John, I have no wish to marry again. Oh, it’s not because I still yearn for my husband. I have put those memories behind me years since. No, it is because now I am independent and have been for such a long time that I could no longer bear the thought of sharing my life with another. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  “I have explained the situation to the best of my ability,” the Marchesa said coldly.

  “I find what you say incomprehensible. Surely everyone wants to find a mate.”

  “You do, most certainly. But I would prefer to have you as a lover.”

  “Then there is no chance of you following me to London when I go?”

  Elizabeth gazed out to sea, pulling the remaining strands of hair loose so that it blew round her face. “I will visit you for a season but that is as far as the mood will take me.”

  “Do I mean nothing to you?” asked the Apothecary petulantly.

  She turned swiftly and kissed him full on the lips. “As much if not more than my husband. But it is I who have changed. Besides, I am older than you. You must find a young woman, John. A woman who can give you a family.”

  Why, thought the Apothecary, do I have to fall in love with such difficult women? First Coralie Clive, the actress, wedded to the theatre and not to a husband. Then Emilia Alleyn, who had loved another man until the time she met John. And now the most confusing of them all; Elizabeth di Lorenzi who was determined to follow her own path - and follow it alone.

  He sighed aloud and the Marchesa laughed and tickled him under the chin. “There, John. Be of stout heart. You are young yet.”

  He got to his feet, rather inelegantly. “Come along. Time we went back.”

  But Elizabeth was not paying attention, instead gazing out to sea. “What’s that ship making for the beach?”

  John stared. “I’m not sure. But there’s something about it I don’t like the look of.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was smugglers.”

  “Not landing goods in daylight, surely?”

  Elizabeth gave him a loving look. “Oh, my sweet London boy. How innocent you are. The blackguards round this coastline are in charge of events. The number of law enforcers is pitiful compared with the smuggling gangs, which can number up to a hundred strong. But I think you’re right about that vessel. Let us be off.”

  They called Rose, who came reluctantly, the pockets of her dress full of shells. Rapidly John dried off her feet and put on her shoes and stockings.

  “We’re going to explore, my darling. So please to hurry.”

  “But I want to watch the ship that’s coming in.”

  “We can see that from further away. Now come along.” Eventually they dragged her away from the beach and made their way to the place where the fishermen’s boats we
re moored. There were several boats tied up within its embrace including a somewhat larger vessel than was customary. Elizabeth looked it over with a seasoned eye.

  “As I thought. I feel certain the fisherfolk have another, more lucrative, way of making a living. Do you agree?”

  “I do, Madam. I spy a low-life ale house further down the path. Would you be seen dead in such a place?”

  “I would certainly. And to make my point, I reckon they serve some goodly spirits within.”

  John chuckled, his good temper returning. “Then let us go and sample them.”

  It was indeed a rough establishment. The place was thick with tobacco smoke which had discoloured both walls and ceiling, further it was packed with disreputable characters who mixed freely with honest fishermen. From the beams were hanging various bottles and herbs, and for a minute John was reminded of his Apothecary’s shop and felt a moment’s pang of nostalgia. Every eye turned to look at Elizabeth - probably the first woman ever to enter the place - and there were several growls and whistles of a lewd kind. John fixed the perpetrators with as dark as look as he dared, and bowed the Marchesa to a ramshackle stool, the only seat available.

  Just as she had predicted, the cognac was of the finest and was clearly an illegal import, probably coming from Guernsey where English taxes did not apply. However, after one glass John grew anxious about Rose, who had been left in the carriage under the watchful eye of Jed, and he and Elizabeth made their way back. But they stopped short as they rounded the bend and the coach came into their line of sight, for Rose was standing outside talking to a woman. The Apothecary began to increase his stride but Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm.

  “Don’t John. She’s talking to a Charmer.”

  “A what?”

  “A wise woman. This one is a Romany, a gypsy. She won’t do her any harm.”

  John stared at the owner of tanned skin and black hair which had been plaited, long and thick, hanging to the gypsy’s waist. Into the plait she had woven flowers, while on her hip the woman carried a basket full of pegs, lace mats, lucky charms, and heather tied up in little bunches. Even while he watched he saw her hand Rose something, in response to which the child gave a polite bob. He would have called out but yet again Elizabeth silenced him.