Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “Odds my life,” said Elizabeth, laughing to herself, “I’m sure they rival the Furry Dancers themselves.”

  But she had spoken too soon, for down the street in a great and colourful line were coming the gentry folk, refreshed and ready to dance the night away. Watching them, the Apothecary thought them almost magical; the women dressed finely in vivid colours, hats and bonnets upon their heads, the men in their turn in their best clothes, glittering buckles winking upon their shoes as they whirled their partners in the brilliant sunlight. And it was then that he caught a glimpse - and glimpse only it was - of little Isobel. Just for a second the crowd of onlookers across the street parted and he distinctly saw her, dancing along, parodying the adults. He caught her eye, gestured to her, called her name. She heard him, stared at him, then she vanished once more, and it was with that one brief sighting he had to be content. Even if he hadn’t caught her he knew she was safe and would no doubt return when she finally grew tired.

  By the end of the evening he was deeply in love. The sight of Elizabeth in white muslin, her black hair cascading round her shoulders, worn loose and unconventional, had driven him practically mad. As he had partnered her through the dances for six or eight couples he resented the moments when he had to leave her and dance with the other women in the set, glad when she put her gloved hand back in his and gave him an unreadable glance. That she was deliberately playing with him the Apothecary had no doubt, but he had no power to prevent it.

  Emilia was starting to fade into memory, yet she would still come in the night to haunt his dreams. Had he loved her as much as he loved Elizabeth he asked himself? Yet there could be no comparison of the depth of his feelings. He felt that his marriage and all the many memories that were attached to it had assumed an almost unreal quality and that Emilia herself was beginning to slip away.

  Yet even in thinking of the future the Apothecary knew that difficulties lay ahead. As soon as his visit to Cornwell was ended he must return to London. And he felt certain that Elizabeth would refuse to accompany him. Therefore his principal challenge lay in persuading her to give up her country seat and to dwell with him in town. Yet how he was going to do it he had no idea. With a determined effort, John tried to put the whole problem out of his mind and concentrate instead on having a thoroughly good time.

  Elizabeth looked up at him. “What are you thinking?”

  “About Emilia,” he answered truthfully.

  “You loved her very much,” she replied, not as a question but a statement of fact.

  “Yes I did.” He held her close. “But now I have fallen in love with you, Elizabeth. In fact with each passing day it grows a little more.”

  She smiled at him quizzically. “You’re certain of this?”

  “Positive.”

  The Marchesa gave him an inscrutable glance. “And you are contemplating proposing to me, no doubt?”

  “Well, I…”

  “My sweetest Apothecary, I love you too. Who wouldn’t? But I will never marry you. Of that you may rest assured.”

  And so saying she whirled him off his feet in a lively jig.

  Chapter 10

  That night he made love to her with a feeling he had never experienced before, for combined with his passion was a kind of neediness, a longing for her that in some way he knew could never be satisfied. And perhaps, he thought, when he eventually returned to the loneliness of his room, it never should be. For didn’t marriage bring with it a necessity of boredom, a familiarity which did not sit easily with the high emotions he felt? The Apothecary, undressing then getting into bed, knew then that whatever fate Elizabeth was going to hand out to him, he would continue to love her despite all.

  Exhausted, he fell asleep at once only to dream of little Isobel. In the dream she was standing in the doorway of his room, a mocking smile on her face as she stared at him. “Isobel,” he said. “You must stop hiding.”

  “But I’ve found the perfect place,” she answered, and in the way of dreams vanished from his sight.

  He woke late the next morning to discover Rose standing in exactly the same spot, looking at him in much the same manner.

  “Come on, Pa. You’re very late.”

  “Pass me my watch, sweetheart.”

  Rose retrieved the handsome piece, a twenty-first birthday present from John’s father, Sir Gabriel Kent, and handed it to the Apothecary.

  “Good God, it’s ten o’clock. Why didn’t you wake me before?”

  “I did come in but you were in a deep sleep.”

  John sat up, feeling somewhat guilty, and saw that Rose was fully dressed. “Who helped you get ready?” he asked.

  “Mrs Elizabeth.”

  “Is she up as well?”

  “She has joined the hunt for Isobel.”

  “Isn’t the little toad back yet?”

  “No, Papa. She stayed out all night.”

  Rose’s face took on a slightly virtuous expression which John found highly amusing. He threw a pillow at her.

  “And there’s no point in trying to look pious,” he said.

  Rose answered, “What does pious mean?”

  “It means… Oh, never mind. Go downstairs and wait for me. I’ll be about quarter of an hour.”

  His daughter duly trotted off and it was left to the Apothecary to wash and shave to the best of his ability, then to hurry into his clothes. Having dressed himself in his travelling suit, prepared for a search, he went down to find Mrs Pill, white-faced and silent, sitting in the parlour with Tim Painter, who was trying to comfort her in an off-handed sort of way. Diana Warwick was also sitting quietly in a corner, taking in everything that was going on but saying little. The rest of the guests, including the Marchesa and Rose, were absent.

  John approached Kathryn Pill. “My dear Madam, I hear that your daughter has not returned.”

  She turned on him a terrible look. “No, Sir. And now I know for certain that something is grievously wrong. The child would have come back as soon as it got dark. I am positive of that.”

  Yet again the Apothecary felt a clutch of fear and took himself to task for not crossing the road and grabbing the girl, even if it had meant disturbing the Furry.

  “When was the last time she was seen?” he asked.

  At about five. Miss Warwick saw Isobel in the street. She called out to her but the child ran away. Oh, Mr Rawlings, I blame myself totally for not going to find her.”

  “We could all do that,” drawled Tim Painter.

  Kathryn rounded on him. “Yes, and so you should take the blame. I was ill yesterday afternoon and was in no fit state to search. But there was nothing the matter with you.”

  “I’ll remind you that I ran all the way to the church, accompanied by Rawlings here, when I heard the girl had been sighted nearby.”

  She looked slightly mollified but continued in the same vein. “That was good of you but there was no reason to abandon your duty and go to the taproom. You should have sought her high and low.”

  Tim looked askance. “I did. So did John. Then we decided that enough was enough and we’d earned a drink. And that’s all I’ve got to say on the matter.”

  John could not help but admire the man for the way in which he handled the angry female. He felt certain that he personally would have cringed with apology and emerged in disarray. Now Tim said airily, “The rest are out looking. Should we join them, Rawlings?”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  Miss Warwick called from her corner, “May I search with you, gentlemen?”

  “Oh please do,” Tim oozed.

  Mrs Pill shot him a black look. “And I shall come too,” she announced. “After all, Isobel is my daughter.”

  They went out into the street where they divided into groups. Tim and Mrs Pill, who took Painter’s arm in a most determined fashion, would search the top part of the town; John and Miss Warwick the bottom end. Looking round for Elizabeth and being unable to see her, the Apothecary, out of politeness, offered the beautiful Dian
a, who this morning looked radiant, his arm. She curtseyed, dimpled a smile at him, and took it.

  Deciding that they should search every alleyway leading off the main road, John plunged into the first. Most of them were stable yards but in one he discovered a blacksmith at work. Straightening up at the sound of approaching footsteps, John saw that it was none other than William Trethowan.

  “Found your little girl, have “ee?” the Constable asked, wiping a huge and dirty hand across his forehead.

  “No, Sir, we haven’t,” the Apothecary replied forthrightly. “In fact I am searching for her at this very moment. Now I believe you said something yesterday about organising a proper look. Have you done anything about it?”

  The Constable straightened up looking slightly shamefaced. “If truth be told, Sir, I haven’t as yet.”

  “Why not?” John asked, feeling somewhat annoyed.

  “Because yesterday was Flora Day and I’ve only just got back to work.”

  “That’s as may be. But the fact remains that a child has gone missing and has now been absent all night. So I suggest that a proper search is organised swiftly.”

  At last he seemed to be making headway, for the Constable laid down his tools, calling out to another chap, “Rob, I’m off to organise a seeking party. Take over my duties for a while.”

  “Meanwhile,” John continued crisply, “the lady and I will continue with our look around.”

  They poked about the yard, Mrs Warwick standing well clear of anything messy, until they were certain that Isobel was not concealed anywhere. Then they moved on, Diana declaring that the girl was a little wretch to be sure.

  “Do you have children?” John enquired of her tactlessly.

  Miss Warwick sighed, a pretty sound. “Alas, Sir, I am not married.”

  “Tell me,” said the Apothecary, to cover his confusion, “why did you travel to Helstone on your own and without a lady companion? What I mean is, of what interest is this pagan dance to you?”

  She tapped him gently on the face with her fan. “You’re very forward, Sir, to ask such questions.”

  “Forgive me. I’m just naturally curious.”

  “Well, I came to meet someone if you must know.”

  John brimmed with curiosity. “Really? And who might that be?”

  She laughed, her voice the sound of a waterfall. “Now that would be betraying a confidence, would it not. Let it suffice that I tell you I have a friend hereabouts.”

  A male, thought John. He smiled and said, “Madam, I will intrude no further on your privacy. After all, it makes you all the more intriguing that you have a little secret.”

  She smiled up at him and John thought that she really was one of the most ravishing creatures he had ever seen. Yet again he caught himself wondering how old she was.

  Returning to Coinage Hall Street they walked briskly down to where the meadows began. Miss Warwick stared at her elegant dress.

  “I think, Sir, that I should change my clothes if I am to go searching any further.”

  He was most intrigued by her and more than a little amused. So much so that despite the power of his feelings for the Marchesa he could not resist giving Dianas hand a little squeeze.

  “My dear Madam,” he said, his eyes very lively, “I would not dream of dragging you over such rough terrain. I shall continue on my own.”

  “But that would be a great pity,” she responded, quite definitely flirting with him, “could we not just tell Mrs Pill that we got this far but could not proceed further? Besides where is the Constable going to look? Surely at Loe Pool.”

  John stood for a moment thinking, then decided that he had searched round the Pool once and was damned if he was going to do so again. In fact, he considered, he was not overkeen on little Isobel and was assisting with the search only out of a sense of duty. He turned to Miss Warwick.

  “Then if I may escort you back to town?”

  “Certainly, Sir.” And she swept a deep curtsey.

  They did not hurry about their walk back and consequently were the last to arrive at The Angel, where, they discovered, Mrs Pill was holding a council of war. Pale but determined, she was finally managing to instil a sense of worry into her listeners.

  “I admit,” she said, “that Isobel tends to be disobedient and not come when she is called. But for her to stay out all night is unheard of. I tell you in all seriousness that something is amiss.”

  “I have seen the Constable and he is organising a proper search some time today.”

  “What do you mean by that?” came Tim’s beautifully educated voice. “Haven’t we looked properly then?”

  “There’s no need for those remarks,” answered Mrs Pill testily. “It is my opinion that my daughter has been abducted.”

  “But by whom?” asked Mrs Legassick, who had joined the party with her friends, all of whom had been out looking. “And for what purpose?”

  Kathryn went dangerously white. “Who knows why? Probably for some unlawful design.”

  “Oh surely not,” said a Mr Colquite, and the other echoed, “Surely not.”

  Anne Anstey put in tactlessly, “Oh yes, I have heard of young girls being abducted. They take them to work in brothels or to send overseas to tend the plantations.”

  Mrs Pill made a terrible retching sound and Tim said, “Steady on!”

  Tabitha Bligh, who clearly regarded Mrs Anstey as some kind of rival, answered, “How cruel of you to say such things. Why, you could send the poor woman into an hysteric.”

  John, who had been thinking much the same thing, glanced at Mrs Pill but saw that with great determination she was remaining in control of herself.

  “So what are we going to do?” she asked, her face set and rigid. Everybody stared at everybody else but nobody said a word. The Apothecary broke the silence.

  “We can do nothing until the Constable has searched the place. Then, I believe, we must follow his advice.”

  But even as he spoke he recognised the futility of his words. William Trethowan was at heart a fairly simple man and would probably be as puzzled by Isobel’s disappearance as everybody else. He addressed Mrs Pill.

  “Madam, we have just searched the town. There is nothing we can do further until the Constable reports to you.”

  “You’re right, of course. But I have such a sense of futility. A longing to see my child again. Just sitting here makes me feel quite sickened.”

  “I don’t know what to suggest.”

  Elizabeth spoke. “I believe we should pass the time as pleasantly as possible. Why don’t we look round the local shops?”

  Mrs Pill shook her head. “You go by all means. Personally, I would rather wait here for the Constable.”

  “Do you mind if I take a stroll round?” Tim Painter asked, fixing Diana Warwick with such a meaningful glance that it shot through John’s mind that he might be the man she had come to meet.

  “No, no, you go,” Kathryn answered, not noticing.

  “Thank you.” And he made a hasty exit accompanied by most of the other men, only too glad to get away from the depressing atmosphere.

  John caught Elizabeth’s eye and bowed. “May I accompany you?”

  “Provided Rose wants to go, yes.”

  The child stood up, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes please, Papa.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll go and shop.”

  As he passed Miss Warwick she gave another deep curtsey. John paused. “Madam, will you be all right on your own?”

  “I shall find company, don’t worry, Sir.”

  “Then I’ll bid you good day.”

  “Good day, Sir.” And under her breath she added the words, “Dearest Mr Rawlings.”

  They delayed their return to the hostelry, relishing the time alone together. During their perambulations they passed the seven friends, Mrs Legassick and Mrs Bligh, together with the hot-eyed Anne Anstey, the brothers Colquite and the other two cousins walking dutifully behind.

  John, somewhat a
mused by them, said, “I wonder if they ever separate.”

  “You know very well they do. Didn’t you come across the men in The Blue Anchor?”

  “Yes, but only once. Do you think they sleep together and take turn and turn about?”

  She laughed that deep laugh of hers. “What an amazing thought.”

  “Isn’t it though?”

  But the more he considered it, the more the Apothecary began to wonder just what was the nature of the cousins” inseparable relationship.

  Chapter 11

  The Constables search was over and the news was not good. He had gone to see Mrs Pill, finding her sitting in the parlour of The Angel, and had solemnly announced that they could not find her child anywhere in Helstone.

  She had gone stiff with grief, her plain face taking on a mask-like expression. Are you saying that my girl has gone?” she croaked, out of drawn, white lips.

  William Trethowan, looking acutely miserable, shuffled from foot to foot. “Yes, Mam, I’m afraid that is so.”

  “Then she has been abducted?”

  “Unless there’s been an accident at Loe Pool.”

  “An accident? What do you mean?”

  Totally lacking tact Trethowan blundered on, “They do say round these parts that every seven years or so the Pool claims a victim.”

  Kathryn let out a low cry. “So that’s where she is. Oh God help me.”

  “I’m not saying she is there Mam. It’s just a possibility.”

  “Then you must send down a good swimmer. Someone who can look for her body.”

  “Mam, have you see the size of the Pool? It would take a strong man several hours to walk round.”

  “But surely you can organise something? We are talking about my child. My only child.”

  With these words she started to weep copiously and unattractively while the wretched Constable shifted his weight from one side to the next, looking as if he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. His agony was relieved by the arrival of Tim Painter, who strolled in nonchalantly, smelling of ale.

  “Found her?” he asked cheerfully. Then he stole a glance at the loudly weeping Kathryn and added, “Probably not then.”