Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  John, wishing he had his bag of physics and potions, looked round the room and saw several decanters standing on a tray. Rapidly he crossed to it and poured brandy into a glass. This he guided towards Nicholas’s lips.

  The young man s:pped and looked up, then he burst into uncontrollable tears, weeping as loudly and mournfully asa child. Clutching at John’s coat, he murmured, “Oh my God, my God. How can I face the future without her?”

  This was John’s cue and he took it, the ruthless side of his nature dominant.

  “You mean Diana?” he said softly.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then you know she’s dead?”

  “Yes, yes,” sobbed the wretched youth.

  “How did you know?”

  “Because I found her.”

  “I see,” said the Apothecary, taking a seat beside him. “Now perhaps you would like to tell me all about it.”

  There was a silence broken only by the chiming of a long case clock and the sound of a carter proceeding down the lane. Finally Nicholas spoke, his voice punctuated by sobs.

  “How far back do you want me to go?” he asked tremulously. “To the very beginning,” John answered him.

  “The first time I met Diana was with my father.”

  “But I thought you said…”

  “Yes, I did. I have a father but I always thought of him as my uncle, that is until recently.”

  “Are you by any chance illegitimate?” John asked.

  Nick looked at him, his eyes still pouring tears. “Yes, of course I am.”

  “Then who is your father?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  John immediately leapt to the conclusion that the man was a local dignitary and that was why his identity was being protected.

  “Very well. Please go on.”

  “I first met Diana when I was twelve. She was a few years older than I was…”

  Probably about twenty years, thought the Apothecary irreverently.

  “Anyway she was a poor young girl from Truro and my father rescued her, brought her to Helstone and took her under his wing.”

  Well aware of the meaning of that, John checked himself for being so flippant when the young fellow telling the tale was obviously in extremis.

  “And where was your mother at this time?”

  Nicholas made a strange noise. “My mother has put it about that I am her nephew. She went away to give birth to me and returned, according to her, with her sister’s child. My father has set her up very nicely as you can see.”

  John looked about him. “Yes, it is an elegant house indeed.” A strange expression crossed Nick’s face. “My father is quite an important man, you see.”

  “I imagined he must be someone of substance.”

  Nicholas looked as if he was longing to go further but had come to the conclusion that discretion must rule. “He is,” was all that he said.

  John decided that he must return to the matter in hand. “Tell me about yesterday.”

  “I had arranged to meet Diana early in the morning. At six o’clock, before my mother rises. I was going to leave the house and hurry to The Angel.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I got there a little late; at about a quarter past. I rushed upstairs to Diana’s room and knocked on the door. There was no reply so I tried the handle and it opened and I went inside. It was dark within but the curtains were not drawn and she was lying on the bed.”

  Nicholas stopped speaking and his shoulders began to heave. John, terrified that the young man was going to be seized by another fit of weeping said, “Finish your story, I beg you.”

  “I…I bent over her, and then…”

  “Go on.”

  “One of her arms fell over the edge of the bed and swung.” He shot the Apothecary a piteous look. “Oh, Mr Rawlings, she was dead.”

  And the poor chap burst into tears once more.

  Chapter 15

  About half an hour later the Apothecary left Nicholas’s house and, being so near to the church, entered in order to think quietly. Taking a seat in one of the pews, he got his ideas in order. Firstly the disappearance of Isobel Pill had now taken on a decidedly sinister aspect. With no sign of the child or her body it was beginning to look more and more like a case of abduction, despite Gypsy Orchard’s graphic description of her death by drowning. Yet, he supposed, that somewhere in the dark recesses of Loe Pool the body might still be lurking. An unpleasant thought.

  His mind moved on to the death of Diana Warwick. He completely believed Nick who, it seemed to the Apothecary, would be incapable of weaving such a web of lies and deceit. Yet when asked why he hadn’t reported the death to the Constable, the poor young man had admitted that he was slightly ashamed of the liaison and had been too afraid to go to the authorities. Tim, on the other hand, was patently lying. But had he murdered her? Indeed, had she been murdered at all? Or had she died of natural causes, due, perhaps, to overexertion? John looked grim at the last thought, his mind dwelling on what exactly Diana had been. It seemed to him that she was working as a prostitute when Nicholas’s father - whoever he might be - had picked her up in Truro and set her up in a little house somewhere. Then, at some stage, she had turned from father to son, presumably when the old man tired of her.

  It suddenly seemed important to John to discover this unknown person’s identity and enquire discreetly whether he had seen the lady recently. Perhaps he might be able to throw some light on the matter of her death. But in any event, the Apothecary felt extremely curious as to who the man could possibly be. But how he was going to find out was an entirely different matter.

  Sighing, he rose from his pew, still thinking hard, and at that moment the church door opened and the three women — Muriel Legassick, Tabitha Bligh and Anne Anstey - entered in a bunch, talking in whispers. Something made John sit down again and, occupying a back pew as he was, behind the entrance door, he knew he hadn’t been seen. From this vantage point, he watched them with interest.

  They were supposed to be cousins but he had to confess that there was no family resemblance that he could observe, as they came in wildly assorted sizes and shapes. Mrs Anstey was the largest, oozing out of the top of her gown with an amazing decolletage that made John’s head swim. She had white hair, swept up under a vast hat, beneath which her lecherous eyes rolled as she cast them round the church, taking in all the artefacts. She was most like Mrs Bligh to look at, the Apothecary supposed, but even then the resemblance was not striking. Tabitha Bligh, who fancied her chance as greatly as Anne, was staring round to see if there were any men present and, not having noticed the Apothecary, had a bored expression on her face.

  A reasonable place,” said Anne Anstey loudly, “for a church.”

  “It certainly is,” responded Mrs Legassick, “but then I have known it a while.” She turned to Tabitha. “Do you remember when…” Here her voice dropped to an inaudible whisper.

  Tabitha giggled and inexplicably raised the hem of her garment, revealing a short but shapely leg. Meanwhile Mrs Anstey had swept down the aisle as far as the altar rail where she paused before opening it and moving up to the altar itself.

  John stared aghast. Though not a particularly religious man - not typical of his time - this behaviour was quite unacceptable. And then, quite unexpectedly, he coughed, not once but twice. Every head turned and each lady froze where she stood. There was nothing for it but to rise from his pew and make a bow. They all curtseyed in return and hurried towards him.

  “Oh, Mr Rawlings, you naughty man. I’m afraid we didn’t see you,” chirruped Mrs Legassick.Dying to reply, “That was obvious,” John manfully smiled and said, “Truth to tell I dropped off to sleep,” thus covering his tracks.

  Mrs Anstey had hastily retreated from the altar, leaving the rail undone. She now swept forward and curtseyed once more, revealing a great deal of cleavage in the process.

  “Mr Rawlings,” she said in a deep voice, “what are you doing here alone? You
are usually surrounded by a horde of females.”

  “How kind of you to say so,” he answered, clutching his hat to his heart.

  She stared at him suspiciously, wondering whether he was being facetious. John kept a straight face.

  “I was just admiring the beauties of this church,” she said, just a little uncertainly.

  “It is indeed very fine. Now, ladies, will you give me the pleasure of escorting you back to the inn?”

  John had the strangest feeling that he should not leave them alone in the place.

  Mrs Bligh smiled up at him, her eyes vanishing as she did so in a horde of merry creases. “We are quite capable of making our own way, Sir.”

  “Then in that case,” John said firmly, “I shall wait for you.” He saw mouths forming protests and raised a hand, “I absolutely insist. I shall sit down again and await you. Please continue to look round and take no notice of me whatsoever.” He sat and they continued their perambulations though the Apothecary could not help noticing that Mrs Anstey stayed well away from the high altar. Ten minutes later they were done and John led his troop out into the open countryside in which the church stood. They all paused for a moment drinking in the fresh Cornish air, looking about them to where sheep grazed in the fields, and the hills rose beyond. It was such a peaceful scene to encompass so much recent unpleasantness, yet in the Apothecary’s experience this was often the way. His mind went

  L back to the beauty of Gunnersbury House, standing in its own fine grounds, and he thought for a long moment about Emilia

  Iand how much he missed her. At that second he doubted he would ever marry again and he felt enormously saddened.

  Realising that he was standing looking glum, John rallied. “Ladies, are you ready to return?”

  Mrs Anstey’s voice drowned the replies of the others. “I think, Sir, that we will call on the Colquites and the rest of our cousins. As you know, the brothers live locally. It is only a short step from here.”

  For no reason that he could think of the Apothecary felt a thrill of unease. Yet there was nothing harmful about the men: the Colquites were a silly old couple, like a pair of spinsters. As for Sayce, he beamed joviality at all and sundry, while Reece was so neat, so tidy, so minute in fact, that he could pose a threat to nobody. Yet there was something about them collectively that John found disquieting. However, he thrust the notion away.

  “Of course. I shall walk home alone. Good day to you.”

  He bowed once more and parted company from them, proceeding back to The Angel solitary and deep in thought. On the way there he saw Tim Painter, striding up the street at a fair rate, going in the same direction as the three ladies. John wondered whether to hail him but thought better of it when he remembered their parting. He proceeded onward and was nearing The Angel when his attention was drawn by the arrival of a heavily built and somewhat old-fashioned coach. Importantly stepping from it was a mature man greeted with the utmost respect by the passing populace. Women bobbed and men doffed their hats, while a small child burst into tears at all the fuss. Drawing nearer, the Apothecary recognised him as the fellow who had been walking along the street the night before the Furry Dance. Turning to a passer-by, he said, “Who is that man?”

  “Baron Godolphin, Sir.”

  “Hence all the bowing and scraping. I might have guessed.”

  “He’s the local peer of the realm. Baron Godolphin of Helstone.”

  “Ah, that would explain it.”

  Seized by the sudden idea that he could possibly be looking at Nicholas’s actual father, who was definitely a local dignitary, John gave an elaborate bow and was rewarded by a cold glance from eyes hard as steel.

  Just the type to have fathered a bastard child, thought John, and said “Sarvant, Sah,” in an affected London accent.

  “Do I know you?” asked the other nastily.

  “No, Sir, you do not. I was merely passing the time of day.” At this moment their conversation, if it could be described as such, was interrupted by the landlord appearing in the doorway, bowing and rubbing his hands.

  “Good day. Lord Godolphin. A pleasure to see you again, Sir.”

  “Good day,” his lordship replied briefly, and marched into the inn.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the Apothecary followed.

  Lord Godolphin strode into the inner recesses but John, hearing a noise on the stairs, looked up just in time to see a shape covered by a cloth being carried down on a plank. Behind it came the Constable looking grim-faced. Catching sight of John, he called out, A word with you, Sir, if you please.”

  “Certainly.”

  He reached the bottom and the two men carrying the body came to a brief halt.

  “To the mortuary, Will?”

  “Aye.”

  John asked, “Have you informed the Coroner?”

  “A message has been sent, yes.” William Trethowan hesitated. “Do you think she did die naturally, Sir?”

  “I’m not sure. There are no marks on her body as you probably noticed.”

  For a large man, the Constable seemed to wither. “I didn’t look too closely.”

  “Well I did and I can assure you that neither the doctor nor I could see any. But that doesn’t rule out smothering.”

  “But who could have done that?”

  “I think,” John replied thoughtfully, “that it could have been one of several people.”

  That night, with Rose safely in bed and Jed keeping watch from the taproom, John and the Marchesa stepped out into the cool air.

  “So what is your opinion?” she asked, as direct as ever. “About Diana do you mean?”

  “Her and the child.”

  The Apothecary looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure about either of them.”

  “Is there a link, do you believe?”

  “It’s possible, though for the life of me I can’t see what it could be.”

  Elizabeth frowned. As they had apparently never met before they arrived it certainly presents a difficult problem.”

  “But supposing there were some connection between them. That Mrs Pill knew Miss Warwick and they had come here by special arrangement. What then?”

  The Marchesa shook her dark head. “I don’t think so somehow, though you might be right. Tell me all you have discovered about the woman.”

  As far as I can make out she was a poor prostitute from Truro, living as best she could. Then she was taken under the wing of Nicholas Kitto’s mysterious father…”

  “Who is he?” Elizabeth interrupted.

  “That I am not sure of. You know I went to see young Kitto today…?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, he confessed to me that he was the bastard child of some local bigwig or other. He also told me that Diana was his father’s mistress until Nick took her on.”

  A lesser woman might have looked shocked but Elizabeth merely nodded. “I see. A strange situation but not unheard of. Have you any idea who this mysterious parent is?”

  “There’s a local peer called Lord Godolphin. It could be him I suppose.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “He’s all ruffles and hard face. But you’ve seen him yourself. Do you remember the night before the Furry when Diana hastily crossed the road?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you recall a middle-aged man, probably about sixty, walking along on his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was him.”

  Elizabeth looked extremely thoughtful. “Quite a handsome fellow in his way. Perhaps Diana hurried away in order to avoid him. At the time it seemed an extraordinary thing for her to do.”

  “It did indeed. But now it makes sense.”

  “Yes, and it also provides a motive for murder.”

  “You mean Lord Godolphin killed her for some reason or other?”

  “Either him or Tim Painter.” The Apothecary braced his shoulders. “I must have another look at the body. That is if I can get permission.”


  “Do you know where she has been taken?”

  “To the mortuary. I’ll contact the Constable first thing in the morning.”

  “A good idea.” The Marchesa smiled up at him. “Now, we have spoken enough of death and murder. Let us talk of something else.”

  “Our plans perhaps?” said John, turning his full gaze on her. She shook her head and her dark hair was caught in the moonlight, giving it a silvery sheen.

  “You’ll be beautiful even when you’re old,” he said.

  She laughed. “What are you talking about? I am old.”

  “No you’re not. You have the spirit of eternal youth.”

  “I might have in your eyes but actually I am forty-seven in August.”

  It was on the tip of John’s tongue to tell her that next month he would be thirty-four but he held back. Instead he took her in his arms and kissed her. Then, laughing, they made their way downhill and made love quite naturally in the shadow of the trees that lay at the bottom, a rapturous experience to add their own sounds of pleasure to the noises of the night all about them. It was an unforgettable heightening of their relationship and afterwards, walking back slowly towards the inn, their arms round each other, John felt almost emboldened to ask her yet again if she would stay with him for ever. But once more he remained silent and as the evening came finally to an end, he could do nothing more than bid her goodnight and go quietly to his room.

  Chapter 16

  John woke early, and putting his head round his daughters door, saw that she was still asleep. But there was a stirring in the street below that was attracting his attention. Dressing quickly, he went out of The Angel’s front entrance then stood, somewhat dismayed by what he was seeing. The blind fiddler and his band were leaving town, playing as they went. First came the Gaffer, his dark hair and his blackened spectacles gleaming in the early morning sunshine. A pace behind him, as usual, was Gideon — the monkey sitting on his shoulder and banging the tambourine. Behind him, in their turn, came the flautist and the kettle drums player, the mandora and fagotto players bringing up the rear.