Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “John, I told you, the woman is harmless. Rose is lucky to have been blessed by her.”

  The sound of their voices must have carried on the breeze because both the gypsy and John’s daughter turned their heads in the direction of the newcomers. John caught a flash from eyes clear and fresh, then the woman heaved up her basket and walked away, leaving Rose gazing at the object in her fist.

  “What did the Charmer give you, sweetheart?” asked Elizabeth as they approached.

  “A good luck charm. See.” And she held out her hand.

  John stared at a tiny little doll, about two inches in length and made of old bits of material sewn together.

  “That looks interesting,” was all he could think of saying.

  “She said it was very powerful and would protect me. That I must carry it always.”

  “Well then you must do so,” John answered seriously.

  “I shall, Papa.” She slid her hand into his. “She was nice, you know.”

  “I’m sure she was. Did she tell you her name?”

  “Yes. It’s Gypsy Orchard. She’s on her way to Helstone to sell her wares.”

  “We shall probably pass her on the way back.”

  And they did. As the coach left Porthleven and headed for the Angel Inn they saw the woman, strolling down the lane, quite solitary, but singing to herself as she went. Rose leaned out and waved, and again John had a flash of those clear wide eyes as Gypsy Orchard returned the salute.

  Chapter 6

  It was the night before the Floral Dance and the whole of the evening the town had been filling up with people, while the residents were busy decorating their houses with greenery and flowers. John, having put Rose to bed, had entrusted her into the care of Jed and Rufus, who were downstairs in the taproom consuming ale, and had walked round Helstone with Elizabeth, who had linked her arm through his in a familiar manner he had found extremely pleasing. Everywhere they looked, the citizens had been leaning from windows or shinning up ladders adorning their dwelling places with boughs, floral tributes, or a proliferation of both. The effect of this was to fill the town with a fresh smell which he had found quite delicious.

  As they had promenaded they had met several of The Angel’s other guests. First they had seen Mrs Legassick accompanied by Mrs Bligh. John, who had not met the other woman before, was amused to observe that she was much younger than her companion. Quite petite, with a very good figure and reasonably pretty hair, she clearly fancied herself as being extremely attractive to the opposite sex, and made much of curtseying, simultaneously casting her eyes upwards then over the Apothecary. He could not resist kissing her hand and enquiring how she fared.

  “I am extremely well, Sir. What fine company we have staying in our hotel to be sure. Why with you and Mr Painter I declare we hold the monopoly on the most handsome men in town.”

  Mrs Legassick had fluttered about. “Oh, Cousin, how forward of you. Shame on you. Shame I say.”

  Mrs Bligh had given her an amused glance. “Come now, Muriel, you have the same thoughts but are too nervous to voice them.”

  “Oh la, Tabitha, I should die of mortification to speak as freely as you do.””Oh stuff.”

  All this was said in a light-hearted bantering way, much to John’s relief, and Elizabeth saved any potential embarrassment by laughing, though John suspected it was politeness which made her do so. However at that moment the two ladies were joined by two men, who hastened up to them through the crowd.

  “Ah, my dears, we are so glad we have found you. We asked for you at The Angel but they said you were strolling through the streets.”

  “Strolling the streets,” echoed the other man.

  “Oh Cousins, we’re delighted to meet up with you.” Mrs Legassick turned to Elizabeth. “My dear Marchesa, may I present my cousins Geoffrey and Gregory Colquite?”

  “Indeed you may.”

  “Cousins, this is the Marchesa di Lorenzi.”

  Mrs Legassick said this with an awed sound in her voice and John wondered that Elizabeth did not use her more important title of Lady Elizabeth. But she was a mettlesome woman and probably would have taken any suggestion of that as foolish.

  The two male cousins bowed, then straightened simultaneously, giving the impression that they were marionettes. But other than their similarities of speech and movement, they could not have been more unalike. One was extremely tall, well over six foot and with not a spare ounce of flesh on him anywhere. He was also, the Apothecary thought, totally bald beneath his wig, which bestrode his dome uneasily being somewhat on the tight side. The other man was quite short, not much over five foot, and inclined to be tubby. The tall man had a pair of spectacles which flashed over pale blue eyes; the short man had vivid brown eyes which sparkled as he spoke, which he now did.

  “My dear Madam, it is a pleasure to be presented to you.”

  “A pleasure,” echoed the other one.

  They both bowed again and Elizabeth swept a curtsey. “Gentlemen, the delight is mine.”

  Mrs Legassick spoke. “Let me explain our family. We are all Cornishmen — and women of course.” She tittered noisily. But both Mrs Bligh and I married Englishmen, who, alas, predeceased us. Consequently we decided to pool our resources and share a home. The brothers Colquite are the sons of our uncle Josiah and we often see them when we come visiting Cornwall.”

  “Where do you live?” asked John, curious.

  “In Wiltshire,” Tabitha Bligh replied, twinkling her eyes and tossing her blonde head.

  “It’s an awful journey for them,” said the short plump one, whom the Apothecary had identified as Geoffrey. “In fact we are determined for you both to move back here.”

  “Move back,” repeated Gregory.

  Mrs Legassick neighed. “We shall have to wait and see about that.”

  Elizabeth curtseyed again. “If you will forgive us. We have to meet someone.”

  There was a good deal of bobbing and bowing but eventually the four moved off down the street.

  “Neatly done,” said John appreciatively.

  “I was afraid that we might find ourselves too long in their company.”

  But they got no further in their walk, both of them stopping in their tracks to stare. For coming towards them was the exquisite Diana Warwick in company with Tim Painter, who was doing his very best in the way of being charming.

  “And where is Mrs Pill?” said Elizabeth under her breath.

  “Stuck with horrible little Isobel, I’ll warrant,” answered John, and burst out laughing.

  Seeing them, the couple stopped and Tim gave the most elegant of bows.

  “Greetings, Sir and Madam. A fine night is it not.”

  “Very fine, Sir.”

  “It should be good weather for the Floral Dance tomorrow,” Diana ventured.

  “Certainly. And how is Mrs Pill?” asked Elizabeth in that direct way of hers.

  Tim gave a careless laugh. “It seems little Isobel is unwell and she is ministering to the invalid.”

  John couldn’t help but laugh in return. “Too much wandering round the corridors at night, I expect.”

  “Indubitably. The child is an accomplished liar by the way.” Diana Warwick gave Tim a surprised glance. “How can you say that about your own daughter?”

  “She’s nothing to do with me, Madam. She is the offspring of old man Pill. She was six years old when I met her mother. But, believe me, she grows nastier with each passing year.”

  “Is Mrs Pill then a widow?” This from Elizabeth.

  “Yes. Her husband was considerably older than she. He died when the child was four.”

  Leaving Mrs Pill on the lookout for someone to take care of her, thought the Apothecary. Not that he considered Tim Painter a good choice by any manner of means.

  Diana Warwick gave a truly delightful smile. “My, it’s getting late. I suggest we cross the road, Sir,” she said, quite inconsequentially.

  Tim looked slightly startled as the beauty drop
ped a hasty curtsey and literally fled to the other side of the street. Bowing, he mumbled an apology and joined her. John stared at Elizabeth.

  “Well, I’ve seen some odd exits in my time and that was certainly one of them.”

  “It was almost as if she had seen someone she was trying to get away from,” the Marchesa answered thoughtfully. She stared up the street but there was no one except a middle-aged man with a long wig and a great stick, somewhat old- fashioned in his garb, walking along, quite alone.

  “Very strange,” the Apothecary replied. He offered Elizabeth his arm and they continued on their way.

  After having wandered around for a while strains of music filled their ears, and at the bottom of the town, where Coinage

  Hall Street sloped steeply away, they could see a crowd dancing. Elizabeth smiled.

  “I’ll wager the monkey will do well tonight.”

  “And not only he.”

  For sitting on a barrel outside The Blue Anchor, Gypsy Orchard was telling fortunes.

  “I must go and hear mine.”

  “No,” John answered, for ever since an old woman had foretold the death of Emilia he had had a dread of such things.

  Elizabeth had given him a direct look. “If I didn’t know you better I would say you were afraid.”

  “Frankly, I fear what they will say. I’d rather you didn’t go.”

  “But, my dear, I am determined. Go into the hostelry and drink some ale. I will cross the woman’s palm with silver.” John had no option but to comply and went into The Blue Anchor determined to belittle whatever it was that the gypsy foretold. Inside, somewhat to his surprise, he found Tim Painter, who had obviously abandoned Miss Warwick and gone in search of his own pleasures, sitting on a settle with a slim young man of about twenty years of age, who was squeezed up next to a fat man. They were both, judging by the look of them, well in their cups, and the Apothecary thought that Mr Painter must have downed several pints fast since being in the company of Diana Warwick.

  “How do,” said Tim companionably. He edged up on the wooden bench so that John had room to sit, somewhat uncomfortably. “What would you like to drink, Sir?”

  John, feeling suddenly reckless, said, “A pint of ale, if you please.”

  “Good choice, my friend. Good choice. It’s brewed on the premises, don’t you know. Strong and powerful.” He stood up and went in pursuit of a serving wench.

  The Apothecary turned to the other man. “Good evening, Sir. I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

  “Nicholas Kitto, Sir. A native of Helstone.” He attempted to rise in order to bow but found himself incapable of movement, partly because the man on his right was so huge that had Nicholas relinquinshed the seat he would never have been able to squeeze back in.

  John smiled sympathetically. “Rawlings, Sir. John Rawlings. Of London.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Sir. You’ve travelled a long way to see the Furry Dance. Were you already in the area?”

  “I’ve been staying in Devon but must soon head back for town, alas. But my companion insisted that I see this ancient tradition before I go.”

  “How wise of him.”

  “Her, actually.”

  “Ah,” Nicholas answered.

  John wondered momentarily whether he should say that Elizabeth was merely a friend but decided that such a statement would appear gauche, as well as being totally untrue. He let the moment pass.

  Tim appeared with a wench bearing their order and requesting the Apothecary to move up, forced his way back onto the settle.

  “A health to all,” he said, raising his glass.

  John, liking the man for all his obvious faults, did likewise. While he drank he studied Nick, who had a certain indefinable air about him, though of what the Apothecary was not certain.

  He was a good-looking young fellow and had made an out-of-town effort with his clothes, which were reasonably cut though of a hideous plum shade which clashed horribly with his red hair. In fact he was pretty highly coloured, having bright pink cheeks and a great mass of freckles. Yet despite these handicaps he had an air of refinement, his features being clean cut and rather becoming. John, watching him, wondered about the young man’s parentage. But Tim was speaking.

  “Here’s to both you good fellows. I’ve never met either of you before but I feel as if we have always known one another.”

  The Apothecary, forcing his mind back to the present moment, gave a somewhat sickly grin, but Nicholas, who clearly lacked friends of his own age, responded with enthusiasm.

  “I’ll drink to that and gladly, Sir.”

  It was at that particular instant that John felt rather than witnessed the entire ale house become quiet and somehow tense. Turning, he saw that Elizabeth had walked in alone — enough to frighten the local population - and rising he went immediately to her side to show that she was not unescorted.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “What did the gypsy have to say? Anything of interest?”

  He was looking directly into her face, treating the whole thing as a joke - or attempting to. And just for a split second he saw the expression in her eyes, dreamy yet alarmed, before the shutters came down and she answered, “My dear, the usual stuff, that is all. But she amused me so it was worth the money.”

  He knew by her intonation that he would get no more out of her, so decided to play the game accordingly. “Did you buy any good luck charms?”

  “No, but she gave me this.”

  Elizabeth held out her hand and he saw a small hare, this one made of metal unlike Rose’s little doll.

  “The golden hare,” said the Apothecary, picking it up.

  “Yes, she said to be careful of it,” answered the Marchesa. She smiled. “Here, you have it.”

  “No, no. I’ll buy one myself,” John answered.

  “I insist. It’s a present for you.”

  “Very well. I accept. Thank you very much.” And he tucked the hare away, deep in a pocket.

  Bidding good night to Tim and Nicholas, who blushed a violent shade of red on seeing the Marchesa, they made their way out into Coinage Hall Street. But Gypsy Orchard had gone and the crowds were beginning to thin out. Thinking to himself that Elizabeth was in an odd mood, brought on no doubt by having her fortune told, the Apothecary walked quietly back to The Angel where he wished her good evening and went to his own room.

  Chapter 7

  He was awoken at first light by the noise of drums beating out a strange and exotic rhythm, and for a moment or two John Rawlings lay quite still, thinking how pagan was the sound and imagining primitive man worshipping the sun to such an insistent beat. The music struck a chord with some odd emotion within himself, and getting out of bed, dressed only in his nightshirt, he crossed to the window and threw back the shutters. Below him in the street he could make out the forms of several young men, each one carrying branches of red and white may blossom. They were chanting the words of a strange song and John threw up the window and put his head out, the better to listen.

  “Robin Hood and Little John,

  They both are gone to the fair O!

  And we will go to the merry green wood,

  To see what they do there O!

  And for to chase O!

  To chase the buck and doe O!

  With Hal-an-Tow,

  Jolly rumble O!”

  So this was the famous Hal-an-Tow song. Surely its similarity to a sea shanty and the title itself, so reminiscent of Heel-and- Toe, were indicative of its origin. But the men were singing the chorus and the Apothecary craned his ears once more.

  And we were up as soon as any day O!

  And for to fetch the Summer home.

  The Summer and the May O! For Summer is a come O!

  And Winter is a gone O!”

  John stepped back into the room, wondering about the origins of both the Furry and Hal-an-Tow. One was a survivor of paganism, that much was certain. But exactly how
and when it had started neither he nor anyone else could be certain. He had heard several versions of the origin of the dance. One that Saint Michael had been engaged in an airborne battle with the Devil for the possession of Helstone. Needless to say the Archangel won, gaining his victory by throwing a stone at Satan which caused him to fall, beaten, into Loe Pool. The inhabitants, who were watching from below, danced with joy at this angelic triumph. Another version of this story told how the battle took place in France, causing Saint Michael to retreat from his Mount on that side of the Channel to St Michaels Mount in Cornwall. Satan, afraid of crossing the water, lifted off the lid of Hell and hurled it at his adversary. Once again the missile missed but fell right in the centre of Helstone. Where, or so John had been reliably informed, it was to this day built into the wall of The Angel. There was even a third version in which a fiery dragon passed over the town, slain, of course, by Saint Michael.

  Washing in cold water and shaving as best he could, the Apothecary dressed in workaday clothes, afraid of anything better getting damaged by the general high spirits of the crowd. Then he went next door to wake his daughter.

  She was not only up but struggling into her clothes, a sight that touched him to the heart. He stood in silence for a moment, she unaware of his presence, and watched her wrestling with her dress. Then he coughed politely. Rose spun round and saw him.

  “Oh, Papa. Did you hear the music? It is so exciting. I can’t wait to go and see them.”

  “Come here then, sweetheart. You are trying to get your arm through the neck opening. Let me help you.”

  She stood still but he could tell that she was seething with excitement and as soon as he had fastened up the last button and put on her shoes, Rose headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute, child. Have you cleaned your teeth?”