Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  They both bobbed curtsies. “Good morning, Mr Rawlings, and a very fine one too.”

  “When are you thinking of leaving, may I ask?” he enquired politely, getting straight down to business.

  Mrs Legassick smiled and her eyes behind her spectacles loomed suddenly large. “Well, it rather depends on the Colquites. They are all for us remaining at The Angel for a few days more but then they live close by and do not have the tedious journey back to Wiltshire to contend with. But we shall make up our minds today, you may depend on it.” Tabitha, who had been running her eyes over the Apothecary, said, And what about you, Mr Rawlings? What are your plans?”

  “I shall probably remain for another few days,” he said airily. “It rather depends on the Marchesa’s wishes.”

  “Oh yes, of course, your travelling companion.” Tabitha robustly stressed the last two words. “How delightful it must be for you, to be sure, to have such a charming lady to escort.”

  “Oh yes it is. Very. Good day, ladies.” And bowing once more, the Apothecary made his way inside.

  It was shortly after seven in the morning and the general flow of people were coming down to breakfast. John, realising that he looked a scallywag but not really caring, decided to join them, hoping that Elizabeth and Rose would soon put in an appearance. The early morning exercise had given him a ravenous appetite and he ordered ham, eggs, herrings and various other delicacies that the bill of fare was offering. He was just through his third slice of gammon when Rose entered the room alone. He stood up and kissed her.

  “Good day to you, my darling. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes thank you, Papa.”

  “And where is Mrs Elizabeth?”

  “I knocked on her door, Papa, but she didn’t answer.”

  John looked up from his food.

  “Strange. I hope she’s alright.”

  “Perhaps she didn’t hear me.”

  “None the less I think I’ll go and check. Now you stay here like a good girl and eat your breakfast. I shall only be a few minutes. Wait for me, Rose.”

  Leaving the table, the Apothecary hurried up the stairs and gave a loud knock on the Marchesa’s door. There was no reply, and acting on instinct he went to Mrs Pill’s room and knocked there.

  “Come in,” said Tim Painter’s voice.

  Opening the door he found Kathryn, Tim and Elizabeth talking together earnestly.

  “I’m sorry. Am I intruding?”

  They looked up and John took in the fact that Mrs Pill was not only up and dressed but had a most determined expression on her face.

  The Marchesa got to her feet. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

  Kathryn spoke. “No, my dear, you have been most kind.” She turned to John. “Mr Rawlings, I have decided to return home and fetch what few male servants I have. They, together with my brother, will then return and search Helstone high and low for Isobel. You see, I will never believe she is dead until I see her body for myself. I think she is being held captive in someone’s house. That is what I reckon.”

  John would like to have agreed with her but Gypsy Orchard’s face as she described water coming over her head, returned to haunt him.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said feebly.

  Tim spoke up. “I shall stay and continue the search in the meantime.”

  Surreptitiously Elizabeth and John exchanged a look, remembering his performance on the previous evening with Diana Warwick. Then they chorused, “Yes.”

  Mrs Pill put on her travelling cloak and arranged a hat on her head.

  “My coachman waits below,” she announced and proceeded from the room, Tim Painter at her heels. John and Elizabeth descended the staircase more slowly.

  The Marchesa turned to look at him. “Did you find anything this morning?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “The child is dead, isn’t she?”

  “According to Gypsy Orchard, yes.”

  “And that woman is a Charmer which means she has an ancient gift.”

  “Really.” Remembering the gypsy’s prophecy about his son, John suddenly gave a broad grin.

  And what are you smiling about?” asked Elizabeth, giving him a sideways glance.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” John answered.

  They entered the dining parlour together and the Apothecary looked across at his table. His daughter, whom he had left sitting there, promising her father that she would wait for him, was missing. He turned to Elizabeth.

  “Rose? Where is she?”

  She stared at him blankly. “When did you last see her?”

  “She was down here, eating breakfast with me. I told her to stay but…” John hastened to the serving girl. “My daughter was sitting at that table.” He pointed. “Did you see where she went?”

  “She went away with a lady, Sir.”

  “Who? Do you know her?”

  “Yes, Sir. She’s staying here but I’m not sure of her name.”

  “Thank you.”

  He and Elizabeth were off, flying down the street in different directions, calling Rose’s name loudly. Inside himself, John felt physically sick, the horrible thought going through his mind that there could be a gang of child abductors at work in Helstone and that Rose was their latest victim. Having run the length of Coinage Hall Street and back on the opposite side, he saw Elizabeth hurrying down on the other part of the road. Calling her name, he ran rapidly across and joined her. Too out of breath to speak, she merely shook her head.

  John gasped, “Let’s look in the stable yard.”

  They passed under the lamp-hung arch and then stopped dead. Sitting on the wall by the well was Anne Anstey, clearly recovered from her choking fit of the previous night. Next to her was Mrs Legassick, and wedged in between them, clearly hanging on every word Anne was saying to her, was Rose.

  “Don’t be angry,” said Elizabeth quietly. “Remember she’s young yet.”

  John put on as pleasant a countenance as he was capable of, and walked forward, calling his child’s name. She looked up startled, then scrambled off the wall. But it was at Mrs Anstey that he was actually staring, so that her expression made a sharp impression on him. Just for a second he saw guilt, followed by a conscious effort to mask that emotion. Then her usual lecherous expression returned as she ran her eyes over the Apothecary, standing there in his rough-and-tumble state.

  “What a delightful daughter you have, Mr Rawlings. She and I have just been getting better acquainted.”

  “So I see,” John replied unpleasantly.

  “Run along to your father, dear.”

  But Rose had already crossed the short distance between them and had wound herself round the Apothecary’s legs. And it was at that moment, with the air full of tension and John wondering how to handle the situation, that a first floor window flew ajar and a maid’s frantic face appeared in the opening.

  “Help!” she screamed. “Somebody please come!”

  Every head craned back as they all looked upward.

  “What’s the matter?” called John.

  “Oh Sir. It’s Miss Warwick. Oh come at once. I think she’s been murdered.”

  Chapter 14

  She was lying on the bed, quite naked, and just for a moment John caught himself admiring the perfect figure topped by a pair of exquisite shapely breasts. Then he remembered where he was and took himself to task. Crossing to Diana Warwick’s side, he bent over and applied his fingers to the pulse in her neck. There was nothing. It was as the chambermaid had suspected. Miss Warwick was dead.

  The Apothecary straightened up. “I think, my girl, that you had better send for a physician.”

  “Oh yes, Sir. I’ll go at once.” And the frightened creature left the room in a hurry.

  Alone with the corpse, John began the task he loathed, examining the dead woman to see if there was any indication as to what had caused her death. Gritting his teeth, he started with the head, gently feeling her neck for
signs of anything broken. There was nothing. Neither was the face marked in any way. Nor did her breath smell of any poison and there was no swelling of the lips or tongue. Indeed, other than for a startled expression in the staring eyes, Diana Warwick could have just dropped off to sleep. After looking into them for a second or two, John drew down the lids.

  Though he was loath to look, the vaginal area revealed recent sexual activity.

  “Surprise indeed!” thought John, certain that Tim Painter was the man involved.

  But as to the cause of her death, there was no outward sign. Puzzled, John stood up as the door opened to reveal a slim dark young man.

  “And who might you be, Sir?” he asked John suspiciously.

  John gave a brief bow. “I’m an apothecary. I’m staying in the inn and was first on the scene to examine the body.”

  The man nodded his head. “I’m Dr Penhale. Well, Sir, what have you deduced?””Nothing at all, Sir. It would appear that the woman died of natural causes.”

  “Have you any reason to think she should not?”

  “None. Except for the fact that she was relatively young. That and…”

  But how to put into words the uncomfortable feeling he had been left with since the disappearance of Isobel?

  “Except what, Sir?” asked the doctor, who had started to examine the body.

  “Nothing really. A child vanished the day before yesterday, that is all.”

  Dr Penhale was examining Diana’s privy parts. “Seems this woman had had intercourse shortly before she died.”

  “Yes, I gathered that.”

  “Who was she, do you know? I mean, did she have a husband?”

  “She used the title Miss Warwick and there was no sign of any such person. I rather imagine she was a woman of the world, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do take it, Sir. But what do you think caused her to die?”

  “Is it possible that a subtle poison has been used?”

  “It would have to be something unknown because the wretched woman did not vomit or have laxes. But why do you think it might be murder, Mr Rawlings?”

  “As I told you, Dr Penhale, the strange disappearance of a little girl has unsettled me. But it is probably quite coincidental and Miss Warwick has died naturally.”

  The doctor looked at the corpse again. “Do you think it possible that she was smothered?”

  “By a pillow you mean?”

  “That, or something similar.”

  “In the act of ravishment?” John asked.

  “Yes, I would have thought that could have happened.” Dr Penhale shook his dark head. “But surely our imaginations are running riot. Here is a woman who died during - or very soon after - venery. That is all there is to it, unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “As I said earlier, perhaps her unknown lover took her life.” Dr Penhale gave a short laugh. “Here am I, just taken over my father’s practice, and a strange death occurs. Well, I will report the matter to the Constable.”

  The two men prepared to leave the room but not before they had stood on either side of the bed, looking at the last mortal remains of Diana Warwick.

  “She was very beautiful,” said the doctor.

  “Yes, Sir, she was. How old do you reckon her to be?”

  “I don’t know. It is difficult to say.”

  John gazed at the lovely face, now the colour of a snowdrop. “I would think about forty,” he said.

  The physician answered, “You’re probably right. Shall we cover her up?” And the two of them pulled a sheet up and hid that most delectable of women from the world.

  As they left the room, John turned the key in the lock, and the physician turned on him a look of surprise.

  “Just to make sure no one enters,” the Apothecary said by way of explanation.

  Dr Penhale allowed the first smile of the day to cross his rather set features. “You think of everything, Mr Rawlings. Have you any experience of these matters?”

  “Yes,” said John shortly, and left it at that.

  Downstairs everything was very quiet. Elizabeth sat with Rose, while Mrs Anstey and Mrs Legassick, together with Mrs Bligh, who had joined them, were pretending to read newspapers. They all looked up as John and the doctor came in.

  “Is it true?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  She looked into his eyes and asked a silent question and John shrugged his shoulders, indicating the three other women who sat, silent as mice, listening to every word uttered.

  “Come, my dears,” he said to the Marchesa and his daughter, “let us step outside.”

  Taking Rose’s hand, Elizabeth moved rapidly out of the front door to the street. The Apothecary spoke in an urgent undertone.

  “She’s dead all right but with no outward signs of violence. Yet both the doctor and I agree that she could have been smothered. He is going to report the matter to the Constable.” The Marchesa made a face. “Tim Painter?” she said.

  “Exactly what I thought.”

  “John, what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve got to speak to him and also to Nicholas Kitto. Urgendy. Have you seen Tim at all?”

  “No, not a sign since Mrs Pill went off in her carriage.”

  “Well, I’m going to find him. God’s life, I seem to do nothing but spend my time searching this benighted town.” Elizabeth smiled. “I can think of worse places to look.”

  John grinned. “So can I. Tell me one thing, did Kathryn know that we found nothing this early morning?”

  “Yes, and it strengthened her determination to come back with reinforcements.”

  “Good. Are you all right looking after Rose?”

  “Rose and I are always all right.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll be off” And planting a swift kiss on the cheeks of the Marchesa and his daughter, John made his way to The Blue Anchor. Exactly as he had thought, he found Tim Painter in the taproom, downing ale at some speed. Without ado John went up to him.

  “Good day to you, old boy…”

  But Tim stopped short, seeing the expression on the other’s face.

  “How was Diana Warwick when you left her?” John asked abruptly.

  A range of expressions, culminating in one of extreme innocence, raced over the handsome man’s features.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “That won’t do, Painter. The woman’s dead and there is bound to be an enquiry as to how she died. So I’ll ask you beforethe Constable does. When and where did you last see her?”

  Tim swallowed the rest of his glass of ale and drawled, “Well you could give as good an opinion of that as I, my friend.”

  “How so?”

  “Because when we left the dining parlour she complained of feeling a little faint. So I escorted her to her room and that was the last I saw of her. But you say she’s dead? What a terrible thing. I can scarcely believe it.”

  His expression during this speech was one of studied innocence mixed with shock, and John, watching him, decided that the chap would have made a first-rate actor.

  “Well, you had better start believing it,” said the Apothecary, “because you will have to tell your tale to the Constable.”

  Tim looked mortified. “Why? Why should I? I merely escorted the poor woman to her chamber. What have I to do with her death?”

  His beautifully moderated voice had raised a little in anger and one or two other customers gave him a glance.

  John thought carefully, then decided to be forthright. “Look Tim,” he said, “it would be better to make a clean breast of it to me rather than lie to those in authority. William Trethowan is far from stupid and you could be in serious trouble if you told him a falsehood.”

  Painter turned away, banging his glass down on the counter. “Another pint of your excellent ale, if you please,” was all he said.

  The Apothecary had been dismissed and he knew it. But for all that he believed little of what had just
been said to him. Tim Painter was hiding something, of that much he was absolutely positive.

  Nicholas Kitto was the next person he should call on but he hadn’t a notion where the fellow lived. However a few discreet enquiries at The Blue Anchor, plus the passing of a coin, provided him with the necessary information. It appeared that

  I youngNick was studying to be a lawyer and currently had taken articles with the firm of Penaluna Brothers. Having

  L

  received directions as to where this was situated, theApothecary walked to Meneage Street, wondering exactly how he was going to present himself. In the event, though, the situation was made easy for him. Nicholas was just being shown out, face pale as a cloud, with the firm direction to return home.

  John bowed. “My dear Sir, allow me to escort you. You are clearly unwell and need someone to walk with you.”

  Nicholas, barely recognising him, gave a feeble nod. “Kind of you, Sir.”

  “Not at all. I am an apothecary and used to dealing with illness. Here, take my arm.”

  “Gladly,” Nicholas replied, and they set off in sad procession, crossing the road and making their way up the street that led to the church. Somewhat to the Apothecary’s surprise, they walked up to the last house in the lane, a rather large and grand affair, and here they stopped.

  “Thank you so much,” the young man said weakly.

  John, seizing the moment, answered, “Oh I couldn’t possibly leave you alone. I must hand you into the care of your parents.”

  Nick pulled a face. “I only have a mother and I believe she might be out.”

  “Then I will come and sit with you until she returns. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Once inside, the Apothecary looked round. The house was simply but expensively furnished in tasteful colours. Indeed it was the best dwelling he had been in since his arrival in Helstone. But he had little time to take more than a cursory glance for no sooner were they within than Nicholas turned the colour of a blanched almond and collapsed into a chair, his head swinging down between his knees.