by Deryn Lake
“He wandered off, did he?” said the tambourine player, laughing.
Taking the creature from John’s arms he handed him his instrument which the monkey began to play haphazardly. “Well, now, Wilkes, be taking my place, will “ee?”
John laughed. “Is that his name? Wilkes?”
“Yes, after that evil politician. But we meet again, Sir. As you know, I’m Gideon.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“The rest of the mob have names too. The mandora player is Zachariah, and the fagotto, Giles. The kettledrums man is George and the flautist is John.”
“And your leader, the blind fiddler? What is he called?” Gideon chuckled softly. “He’s just known as the Gaffer.”
“Doesn’t he have a name?”
“Reckon he did years ago. But he’s probably forgot it.”
“Good gracious. Anyway, allow me to introduce myself. I’m John Rawlings.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Let me buy you all a pint of ale before I go.”
“Obliged to you, Sir. We’d like that, wouldn’t we boys?”
The members of the band nodded and winked to show their approval, not missing a note of the music as they did so. The Gaffer, meanwhile, was jigging about in time to his own playing, thoroughly enjoying himself. John stared at him, thinking him a jolly good fellow but wondering what it was about the chap that seemed somehow familiar. It was probably, he concluded, because the blind fiddler was a type, an unusual one but for all that a type. The sort that one associated with country fairs and gatherings, and dances organised by farming folk.
Reluctantly, because he was enjoying the music and the general atmosphere, John made to go but was stopped in the doorway by Gypsy Orchard. Her white teeth flashed disconcertingly.
“Take care of your son when he comes, Sir,” she said, then laughed, and hurried off down the street, her hips swinging, her basket still balanced on one of them, her doorknocker plait woven with flowers from the hedgerows.
John stood, shaking his head, and at that moment William Trethowan, the Constable, who had been delayed within, came out of the hostelry. He had changed since their first meeting, the Apothecary thought, now having an air of humility where first he had appeared overbearing. He approached John and cleared his throat.
“Should I tell Mrs Pill what Gypsy Orchard said, do you think, Sir?”
“I think best not. Though she’ll probably find out from someone.”
“Poor soul. I pity her. Tell me, is Mr Painter the child’s father?”
“Not he. I think he drifts through life trying to have a good time and he considered little Isobel a hindrance.”
“Um.” The Constable rubbed his chin. “Sufficient to murder her maybe?”
“Do you know,” John answered thoughtfully, “you could well be right.”
When he got back to The Angel it was to find that dinner was being served in the dining parlour. Hastily going to his room to change into something more fanciful, a black and silver ensemble somewhat reminiscent of his father’s mode of dress, John joined Elizabeth downstairs only to discover that Rose was missing.
“Where is she?” he asked, suddenly panicking.
The Marchesa smiled reassuringly. “She was tired out, poor little thing. I put her to bed and she fell asleep immediately.”
“But she hasn’t dined,” said John, genuinely worried, unaware of how amusing he looked in his fine fancy rig with such a perturbed face.
“Oh my dear, look at you! You possess all the qualities of a fine mother hen. A missed meal won’t kill the child. Lack of sleep is far more dangerous.”
The Apothecary grinned sheepishly. “You’re right. Being a sole parent is very difficult.”
“I’ve told you before — you will remarry.”
“Not until the day you say yes, Elizabeth.”
She gave no answer but tapped him lightly with her fan, then she took his arm and went in to dine.
Mrs Pill was absent and so were Mrs Legassick and Mrs Bligh. Anne Anstey, however, was present, sitting alone. She gave him a rapturous smile as he entered but turned her nose up at the sight of Elizabeth. The four male cousins, who were not staying at The Angel, had come in anyway and were tucking in heartily to their vittals, particularly the melon-faced man who considered himself a sure card and was, as usual, holding forth between chews. Diana Warwick, looking ravishing in a gown of palest blue, also sat alone, wistfully sipping soup. John made much of bowing to her but gave only the smallest salutation to Mrs Anstey. Elizabeth, inclining her head graciously to the assembled company, allowed John to help her into her chair, then sat serenely while he ordered wine.
“Mrs Pill must be resting,” she said in an undertone. “Clearly, yes.”
But they were not able to pursue this topic of conversation for at that moment the door of the dining parlour was flung open to reveal Tim Painter, looking for all the world as if he had stepped straight out of a fashion plate, his dark hair tied back in an exquisite bow, his lilac suit glittering with embroidery in deep blue. He bowed to the entire room.
“Good evening,” he said, his delicious voice filling the empty corners. Then he saw Miss Warwick and in one stride had arrived at her table. “Madam, may I join you?”
Nicholas Kitto or no Nicholas Kitto, Diana was clearly attracted to the gorgeous man standing before her.
“Mrs Pill is not with you, Sir?”
“No, she’s taken to her bed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, of course you may. I shall be pleased with the company.”
“Then I will gladly oblige.”
And snatching up her hand which had been resting on the table top, Tim kissed it long and lingeringly.
The entire room, which had gone silent during this exchange, now burst into conversation.
“Well, I reckon he’s onto a winner,” said Sayce, the melon man, and burst into guffaws of laughter despite the fact that he still had food in his mouth.
“Shush,” whispered one of the Colquites.
“Damned if I will,” Sayce roared, and wiped his eyes with his napkin, meanwhile stealing a glance round the room to see if others were watching him.
Elizabeth raised a brow at John. “Tim wasted no time I see,” she whispered.
“He’s a randy lad for sure,” the Apothecary murmured back. “I wonder how far he will get.”
John raised a suave eyebrow back at her. “Her heart is supposedly taken by another.”
Elizabeth leant forward. “Really? Who?”
“A young local blade called Nicholas Kitto. You saw him depart - at least I think you did - from Loe Pool this afternoon.”
The Marchesa’s eyes glistened. “Tell me all that you know.”
“Not much really. Simply that Miss Warwick - who I would estimate is several years his senior — met the young fellow somewhere or other and they have set up a clandestine affair.”
“Does one or other of them have disapproving parents?”
“Nicholas I would imagine. I can’t quite imagine Diana having parents.”
Elizabeth pealed with laughter and John silently drew breath. At that moment he felt that he stood outside himself and looked on the scene, knowing that all his life, come what may between him and the dark-haired scar-faced woman with whom he would like to throw in his lot, this would be something he would remember always. The sable loveliness of her, throwing her head back in the candlelight, appreciating his humour, at ease with him in every way.
It was at this juncture that Sayce belched loudly and said, “By Gad, that was damnable good food.” He stood up, his little eyes taking in the entire room, who stared at him, some friendly, others wishing the man would be silent and sit down again. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to give you a toast. I raise my glass to those master chefs who have laboured behind the scenes to prepare tonight’s feast. I ask you all to rise and drink to them.”
John, finding the fellow a total bore, none the less
got to his feet, as did Elizabeth.
“The cooks, God bless “em,” said Sayce.
Everyone drank, including Tim Painter and Diana Warwick, then sat down again, rather hurriedly John thought. But Sayce wasn’t done with them yet. He remained standing and launched into an anecdote.
“Forgive me one and all if I may crave your attention a moment more. I want to tell you a yarn of my boyhood…”
His voice rambled on, punctuated with a great many wheezing laughs and thigh slaps, and all the time his tiny mean eyes were seeking out the company, looking for approbation, demanding attention, playing to his audience of would-be admirers.
Tim had long since stopped paying the man any heed and was concentrating all his charm on Diana. Leaning across the table, he covered one of her hands with his, and muttered something inaudible.
John said with asperity, “I would have thought he might have paid some small consideration to Mrs Pill.”
“Not he,” Elizabeth answered. “Mr Painter is a man with an eye to the main chance in life. As long as his next drink is guaranteed, as long as his next mistress - be she only for a night or two - is provided, then he is happy. He is an opportunist and the pangs of conscience that might allay the rest of us for things done or not done, simply don’t apply to him.”
“Then he is brutal,” John answered softly.
“I don’t think he would agree. In his mind he cares about people, worries about them. But in reality he doesn’t give a straw.” Mutually they looked over at the subject of their conversation and saw that he now held both Diana’s hands and was gazing at her with a steadfast expression on his face.
Mr Sayce stopped his discourse at this juncture and sat down amidst half-hearted applause. Everyone started to concentrate on their food once more with the notable exception of Anne Anstey, who suddenly began to choke, gazing piteously over a white napkin which she held tightly to her mouth.
“Oh dear,” John murmured to Elizabeth. “I have a feeling I am about to be summoned.”
Digging in to her game pie, the Marchesa merely rolled her eyes at him in silent agreement.
Mrs Anstey continued to make alarming noises to the point that John stood up and crossed over to her table.
“Can I assist you, Madam? Perhaps a glass of water might help.”
For answer Mrs Anstey heaved violently, though thankfully not productively. John side stepped.
“I must get out,” she gasped, and practically threw herself into his arms. Throwing a desperate glance at Elizabeth, who most unsympathetically just grinned, the Apothecary began to lead her from the room.
Sayce stood up. “Can I do anything?” he asked, glancing round the diners to make sure he had been noticed.
“Yes, accompany us if you would,” John answered desperately, struggling under Anne’s not inconsiderable weight.
“Certainly, old boy. Keep a cool head in a crisis, Sayce, my old mama always used to say.”
Together, staggering slightly, the two men took Mrs Anstey outside the dining parlour and into the hallway, where she stood gasping and clutching her abdomen. John took the opportunity to race upstairs for his bag of medicines. On his return, however, he found both Sayce and the woman concerned had vanished. Feeling annoyed, he marched back into the dining parlour to discover Anne Anstey fully recovered, drinking a glass of wine and toasting Eustace Sayce, who, in return, was glowing in her fulsome compliments, together with the rest of his party.
Angrily, John sat down. “Well, I must say… “
Elizabeth whispered, “Oh come now. Surely you’re glad to be rid of her? I’ll swear she has designs on you.”
“Yes, you’re right.” He looked round and saw to his astonishment that Tim and Diana were also absent.
“And where did they go?”
“Only one place I can think of,” Elizabeth answered, and slowly winked her eye.
Chapter 13
In the eerie light of dawning Loe Pool had taken on a dark and sinister air, very different from the warm and pleasant aspect of the previous afternoon. Seeing it, the rising sun striking the sheet of water and burnishing it to gold, John felt that it had a mysterious quality, a quality of things unseen and unspoken, and for a moment felt his imagination run wild, wondering whether a merry-maid splashed in its depths.
He had gathered together three strong swimmers; himself, Jed and Rufus, the coachman and the guard, who had been having an excellent time of it in Helstone, spending every day at leisure and every night in the taproom. The only restriction to their total freedom had been the Apothecary’s insistence that they remain at The Angel in the evenings, keeping an ear out for Rose and occasionally checking her welfare. Other than for that small duty they had had a complete rest from work. But now they had been called in to help look for the body of Isobel Pill.
John had hoped to bring Tim Painter in to assist but there had been no sign of him last night after his sudden disappearance with Diana. And to call him this morning would have been bad manners indeed. So the Apothecary and his small contingent had presented themselves to the Constable before first light and declared themselves willing to undertake the grisly task that lay ahead.
William Trethowan, in company with three other powerful men, had met them at the bottom of Coinage Hall Street, and then the little troop had walked the rest of the way to the Loe and arrived just as the sun was glinting over the horizon.
“If she’s there she’ll be in the shallows. But if she was murdered, then her killer might have had had a boat and weighted her down.”
John shook his head. “If she was killed, then whoever did it acted on the spur of the moment, I feel certain of it.””Then she should be somewhere where we can get at her. So let’s to it.”
He positioned his men at quarter of a mile intervals and told them to dive in and look around, then, having covered the delegated area, to keep moving on. But even as he set them the task the Constable had a hopeless air about him, as if he knew that however hard they searched they would come up with nothing.
John, diving into the green water, found it depressing and rather horrible and not a task that he would wish on anyone. And when he surfaced, having ploughed his way through weeds, he could see in the distance that Rufus and Jed were equally miserable at the task which it had been their duty to perform. Eventually, though, after four hours searching, the Constable called the wretched business off.
“It’s useless, lads. There’s nothing down there but dead dogs. If the maiden’s in the Loe then she’s sunk to where we can’t get her.”
“What’ll us do, Willum?”
“Leave it be. There’s naught else. I’ll have to see her mother and tell her straightly what’s transpired.”
“I’ll come with you if you like,” the Apothecary offered.
“No, Sir, it’s a grim task but I’ll do it on my own,” the Constable replied with dignity, earning himself even more credit in John’s eyes.
It was by now seven o’clock and the weary men, having towelled and dressed themselves, started the walk back into town. As they did so William beckoned John to one side.
“Excuse me asking, Sir, but have you any experience of this kind of thing? I mean through your apothecarying or such-like?”
John decided to admit everything. “Yes, as a matter of fact I work from time to time with Sir John Fielding, the Principal Magistrate of London. Years ago I was briefly suspected of committing a murder but fortunately when he questioned me, Mr Fielding, as he then was, realised I was telling the truth. I assisted him to find that murderer and I have been doing so ever since, off and on.”
“London is a long, long way from here, Sir, of course. But I reckon you must be thought something of to work with Sir John.”
“Have you heard of him?”
“No, Sir, to be honest I haven’t.”
“He’s blind you know. He’s known to the mob as the Blind Beak.”
“You don’t say.”
“And talking of that,
what do you know about the blind fiddler?”
The Constable chuckled. “The Gaffer? Not very much really. He first appeared on Flora Day about five years ago. He organises the music, as you’ve heard for yourself. None of them, not he nor his band, want paying for the privilege. Instead they send a boy round - this year it was a monkey — with a hat. Then they move on. I reckon they’ll be going in a day or two.”
“And what about the rest of the people?” John asked. “Will they be off soon?”
“Oh yes. In the next few days the town will return to normal.”
And Isobel’s murderer - if he exists - will walk away with the others. That is if she is dead.”
Trethowan stopped in his tracks, forcing the Apothecary to do likewise. “You may believe me a superstitious fool, Mr Rawlings. And I suppose that in many ways I am. But I have great faith in Gypsy Orchard. She’s been around Helstone ever since she was a thin little girl fending for herself. And I’ve asked her things in the past and what she has told me has always come about. So if she says to me that Isobel is drowned, then drowned the child is.”
It was a great testament of belief and in the face of such blazing sincerity John would have felt cheapened and somehow shabby if he had argued. Instead he said, “Then you face a difficult situation, Constable.”
“I’ve a plan for that, Sir.”
“And what is it?”
“To ask everyone staying at The Angel Inn to remain a few more days while I continue to search.”
And if they refuse?”
“Then I shall regard them as mighty suspicious and question them hard.”
And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I shall reluctantly be forced to let them go.”
John was silent, resuming his walk back to Helstone, thinking that both he and the Constable were going to have a great deal to do before people left the town for good. He was still contemplating where it would be best to start when he reached the front door steps of the hostelry and turned in, meeting Muriel Legassick and Tabitha Bligh on their way out. “Good morning, ladies,” he said pleasantly.
