Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “I just had a feeling that I hadn’t heard the last of you when we said our farewells.”

  “I’ve come to talk to you about Diana Warwick,” said the Apothecary quietly.

  “Well bless you now, Sir. I rather thought you might.”

  Chapter 21

  The shadows were creeping over the great, somewhat mysterious, courtyard as John Rawlings turned to the blind fiddler and said, “How well did you know her? Was she a friend of yours from the past? Is it true you met in London?”

  The musician didn’t answer, instead saying, “Would it be all the same to you, Sir, if I sat down?”

  Feeling discourteous and suddenly disadvantaged, the Apothecary answered, “Yes, of course. How remiss of me. Here, let me.”

  And he led the blind man to a nearby seat and took one himself.

  There was silence and then the fiddler said eventually, “Aye, I’ve know Diana a long time. From London, and also from Truro.”

  Memories of Nick Kitto saying that she had been a poor young girl from that very town until his father had rescued her, came back.

  “Were you one of her clients?” John asked boldly, deciding it was better to state the facts rather than mince words.

  The darkened spectacles turned in his direction and stared silently. “Now what would she be wanting with me?” And the Gaffer chuckled quietly.

  John peered at him, seeing the jungle of dark hair and darkened skin. Beneath all that, however, he could see a strong face. A face dominated by the glasses which the fiddler wore. The Apothecary suddenly longed to see the man without the concealing spectacles. For a wild moment he thought of snatching them off, but restrained himself.

  “I think you are probably fairly handsome beneath all that grime,” he said, somewhat thoughtlessly.

  The Gaffer laughed aloud. Am I mucky then, Sir? I do apologise to “ee for that. It’s not that I mean to be but my fellow musicians don’t really bother about dressing me.”

  “But somebody shaves you,” John pointed out.”Once a week I’m done by young Gideon. And that’s the extent of my beautifying.”

  All this was said with much good humour but there was something about the recital that didn’t quite ring true. The Apothecary realised with a start that he had been entirely led away from his original question.

  “I’m sorry if I am being indelicate but I have a witness who tells me that you visited Diana Warwick in her room on the night she was murdered. Or rather I should say in the early hours of the next day.”

  The Gaffer nodded slowly, then said, “It’s true enough. I did go in to see her. But she was already dead.”

  John sat silently for a moment or two. “How did you know?” he asked eventually.

  “I knew by her stillness, Sir.”

  “I see. Can you describe to me exactly what you found.” The Cornish fiddler sighed. “I went into the room - the door was not locked - and I called her name, but she did not answer me. I crossed over to the bed and shook her gently by the shoulders, but she made no response at all. Eventually I found her wrist and took her pulse but there was nothing. So I concluded, Sir, rightly or wrongly, that the poor girl had been done to death.”

  “But why presume that? Why did you not think she had died naturally?”

  “Because women of forty, in good health, rarely do so.”

  The Apothecary was silent, thinking of the exceptional gifts of those who are blind. “How did you know Diana?” he asked eventually.

  “She and I were old friends,” the Gaffer replied firmly.

  “Then you had been her client,” the Apothecary said.

  The black spectacles shifted once more, turning in John’s direction and fixing him with a sightless gaze. “I was once - long ago. Before my…accident.”

  “So you weren’t born blind,” John exclaimed, interested because of Sir John Fielding’s catastrophe when he had been aged eighteen.

  The Cornish fiddler shook his head. “No, I was in my late twenties when it happened. Oh, that was a grievous day I can tell you. Anyway, I put on my black spectacles and walked away from the whole thing. I took to the road, playing my violin, and have been living by my wits ever since.”

  “What happened exactly?”

  “That I’d rather not say, Sir. It is a subject too painful to discuss before a comparative stranger.”

  “Of course. I quite understand.”

  “Do you, Sir? Well, that’s very good of you I must say.”

  John looked up sharply, certain that he had heard a certain mocking tone underlying the Gaffer’s speech. But the expression on the face of the man was utterly bland, almost emotionless. Inwardly he sighed. He felt as if the blind fiddler had given him a certain amount of information and no more. He also felt that it was impossible for him to ask any further questions. That, for want of a better phrase, he had been out-manoeuvred.

  The Apothecary got to his feet. “Thank you so much for telling me what you have. I am extremely grateful to you.”

  The fiddler also stood up. “Most kind of you to say so, Sir. Now, would you give me your arm to the nearest ale house. I can hear by the silence that my fellow musicians have gone on ahead.” John took the fellow’s hand and tucked it through his arm, then proceeded slowly out of the courtyard, looking around him as he went.

  “A fine place, this,” he said. “Who owns it?”

  “It used to belong to the Marquis of Dorchester but it changed hands after a game of cards.”

  “Really?” said John, intrigued.

  “Yes, it is owned these days by Lord Lyle. A dull fellow but an excellent gambler.”

  “What happened to the Marquis?”

  “He vanished, Sir. Out he went into the night and nobody ever heard of him again.”

  “God’s wounds. And the title?”

  “Inherited by his cousin, another dull fellow.”

  “Was the Marquis then presumed dead?”

  “Oh yes, Sir. This all happened fifteen years ago at least. Mind you The Cornish fiddler laughed once more. “— the cousin didn’t get much other than the name. It had all been gambled away.”

  “He sounds a bad lad, this Marquis.”

  “Oh he was that all right, Sir. A very naughty chap.”

  They turned into the street and John spotted an alehouse. “I think I can see what you’re seeking.”

  And sure enough there was little fat Giles coming out and staring about him.

  “Here,” called John, and the jolly man saw them and waved. Handing the blind fiddler into his care, John made his way back to The Lion to find out what, if anything, Tim Painter had been up to.

  As he might have suspected there was a woman involved. John made his way into the inn only to stop short. There ahead of him were Muriel Legassick and Tabitha Bligh. Seeing him as soon as he appeared, the women came up, all giggles and grins. “Why, Mr Rawlings, this is a regular reunion. We came here to visit some elderly relatives only to discover that Mr Painter and your own dear self had booked in. What a splendid thing.”

  It was Mrs Legassick, eyes enormous behind her glasses, who spoke. Tabitha Bligh had her say.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Sir. I was wondering what we would do for some gay company.”

  They nodded and smiled at him but it was to Anne Anstey that John’s eyes were drawn. She and Tim were sitting side-by- side, rapt in deep conversation, staring at one another intently. She glanced up as the Apothecary entered and gave him a look which proclaimed her triumph in securing a man. In fact she positively sneered at John that he had missed his chance, a fact which infuriated him as he had never even liked the wretched woman.She moved largely and made a fanning motion with her hand. “Well, Sir, we meet again. How nice to see you.”

  John gave a curt bow. “Madam.”

  “I was just saying to Mr Painter here that Helstone had grown very dull and we were hard put to it to raise a smile. We therefore decided that Redruth would suit us better. But where, may I ask, are the March
esa and your daughter?”

  “They have returned home, Madam. They left early this morning.”

  “And you allowed them to go unescorted. My!”

  “Jed was driving the coach and Rufus carried shotgun. I think they are reasonably well protected.”

  “My late husband would never allow me to travel alone. He insisted on accompanying me wherever I went.”

  “How awkward for you,” John said tartly.

  She shot him a look from her great slumberous eyes which for some reason made him feel uncomfortable, then she turned away.

  Tim Painter, meanwhile, was inviting her to dine with him. “I couldn’t possibly, Sir. I have my friends to consider.”

  “Oh Rawlings can look after them, can’t you old chap?” Horrified, the Apothecary gave a hasty bow. Alas I have a previous engagement. I’m afraid I cannot oblige. Forgive me.” And turning on his heel he marched out of The Lion leaving Tim Painter to sort out the problem.

  Despite the horrid thought of spending the evening in the company of Mrs Legassick and Mrs Bligh, he felt guilty and a little ashamed of himself. After all they had done nothing to him. It was just that he found them utterly boring. He was on the point of turning back and making an excuse about his engagement having been cancelled and facing the evening like a man, when a rotund figure, in company with another, rolled out of an alehouse just ahead of him. John was just about to call out when something furtive in their manner reduced him to silence. Instead, the Apothecary found himself slinking into

  L a doorway until they were several yards ahead of him. Then,

  Iwalking quietly and not drawing attention to himself, John started to follow Messrs Sayce and Reece as they made their way through the back streets of Redruth.

  Ahead of him the couple walked quite straightly, as if they had purpose and also as if they knew precisely where they were going. It seemed to the Apothecary, straining his ears, that they proceeded in silence, almost grimly in fact. Wondering where on earth they were bound, John walked along behind them, keeping his distance. And then to his amazement they turned into the courtyard where he had been earlier and made their way up to the front door of the big house. They pulled the bell and after a short interval were admitted, leaving the Apothecary quite literally standing. Wondering what to do next, he made his way into the nearby alehouse and ordered himself a large glass of Gascon wine.

  The Cornish fiddler and his gang had all left and the place was practically deserted. John decided to converse with a serving wench who was wandering about idly.

  “Good afternoon, my dear.”

  She gave him a suspicious glance. “Afternoon,” she said in a broad Cornish accent.

  “Not many people about.”

  “No. They’m been gone for their dinner.”

  This reminded the Apothecary that he hadn’t eaten and at that moment as if to endorse the fact, his stomach rumbled loudly. He patted it.

  “Excuse me.”

  The girl smiled and looked a bit more friendly. “Hungry, are you?”

  “Ravenous.”

  “I got a bit of rabbit pie.”

  John gave her a grin which twisted up on one side. “I’d like that very much, please.”

  “Then you shall have it, young Sir.”

  She disappeared into the back and John was left alone with his thoughts. The blind fiddler had told him that the house was owned by Lord Lyle. So, though he wouldn’t have put them down as the people who might be on calling terms with the nobility, it was possible that Sayce and Reece knew the man. It was even possible - just - that the aged aunt might be a resident at Lord Lyle’s house.

  The Apothecary, while he was waiting, ran through a list of excuses as to why he should visit Lord Lyle, but none of the reasons seemed legitimate. In the end all he could do was wolf down his belated dinner and sink a pint of ale, still in a quandary as to what action to take. Eventually he decided to watch the house against the moment when Sayce and Reece should reappear.

  Standing outside, discreetly hidden from prying eyes, John waited until dusk fell but there was still no sign of the two visitors. Eventually deciding that they must have come out while he was in the alehouse, he turned disconsolately in the direction of The Lion. And then, behind him, he heard the front door open quietly. Wheeling round and at the same time hiding in some sheltering darkness, he looked rapidly across. A hooded figure had come out. A figure that sent a shiver down John’s back from the silent way it stood framed in the doorway before it made its way through the gardens and out of his line of sight.

  Back in The Lion he found the two ladies looking round madly for someone with whom to play cards. Greeted like a long-lost brother, John felt that he had no option but to agree and sat down reluctantly at the table. Being a poor player and not really enjoying himself, he decided to make the best of it by asking one or two questions.

  “Where is Mrs Anstey?” he began.

  A look shot between the duo together with an audible giggle-

  “She has retired,” said Mrs Bligh, barely suppressing a laugh. “She had a megrim.”

  “Dear me. And what of Mr Painter? Did he have a megrim too?”

  Now they laughed aloud. “Oh, Mr Rawlings, you are so droll,” said Mrs Legassick, wiping her eyes. “What will you think of next?”

  “Who knows, Madam,” John replied, laying a card. “Whatever fancy catches me, I daresay.” He changed the subject. “By the way, do either of you ladies know the name of a great house belonging to Lord Lyle? It stands just outside the town.”

  Was it his imagination or did a frisson run between the two of them? After a few seconds silence Mrs Legassick spoke. “I know the place of which you speak but I do not recall its name.”

  “It’s called Tryon House I believe,” said Tabitha Bligh.

  He looked at her and decided to change the subject.

  “And how are you enjoying your stay in Redruth?” he asked.

  “Very well, thank you Sir. It is a most pleasant town.”

  “Which reminds me,” said John, laying another card but at the same time watching their expressions. “I saw two of your many cousins, namely Herbert Reece and Eustace Sayce, tonight.”

  “Oh really?” said Mrs Bligh. “And where were they then?”

  “Strangely enough they were going into Tryon Place,” John answered, and was rewarded by the look of frozen horror that appeared on both their faces.

  Chapter 22

  That night John slept particularly heavily and woke late. Putting a hand out to seize and look blearily at his travelling clock he saw that it was after ten and that he had missed his favourite meal of the day. Even getting out of bed was an effort, in fact every muscle in his body ached, as if he had been given a severe kicking. Yet he had done nothing more strenuous than play cards with the ladies and drink a little wine. Feeling ghastly, John washed and dressed and went downstairs. There was nobody about and his need to take some fresh air was critical. Hoping he did not look as bad as he felt, the Apothecary made his way into the street.

  The town was particularly deserted and he walked along aimlessly, then found that his steps were leading him towards Tryon House, almost of their own accord. Suddenly he decided on the reckless venture of taking a closer look at the place. Of making an attempt to get into the grounds to see where it was that the hooded figure had been heading. As so often happened with the Apothecary, action followed immediately on the thought and he quickened his pace, walking with more determination.

  As he made his way he thought of the word uttered by Gypsy Orchard. She had said Wicca and had appeared quite nervous at the sight of the Colquite Brothers. Could they really, thought John, be involved in magic? Apparently such a pair of harmless old duffers, they seemed stupid more than anything else. But was this an act? he wondered. Did their bland silly old-man act mask something far more sinister?

  At last he was heading out of town and Tryon House appeared in the distance. Once again, the Apothecary gazed on its
pillared entrance and the large courtyard that stood before it. Yesterday it had been packed with people while the Cornish fiddler played, but today it stood empty other than for a stable boy listlessly sweeping away the signs of recent habitation. Boldly, John approached.”Good morning, my man. Is Lord Lyle within?”

  “No, Sir. He’m be gone for his morning ride.”

  “Oh really. Whereabouts did he head?”

  “Out to the countryside beyond. Shall I say you called, Sir?”

  “Yes,” John called over his departing shoulder. “Tell him John Rawlings wants to see him.”

  But the Apothecary was running, seized by an idea and determined to put it into action. He sped back to The Lion and round to the stables, where an hostler was idling round in the yard, sucking a straw and whistling.

  “Quick,” called John. “Saddle up my horse, would you?” Looking slightly astonished, the man complied and fifteen minutes later the Apothecary was mounted and making his way out of town. How he would know Lord Lyle when he saw him, he had no idea. But he was determined to find the fellow and somehow or other get into conversation with him.

  Countryside lay all round Redruth, it being a small town, though considerably bigger than Helstone. Further, there were several horsemen out and about and the Apothecary was beginning to think he had taken on a hopeless task when he spotted two riders in the distance. Somehow he knew that one was Lord Lyle, the lucky man who had won Tryon House gaming at cards. Indeed, he recognised the fellow from the crowd of people listening to the music on the previous evening. So certain was he that he had found his quarry that he urged his horse into a canter. However, he had not taken into consideration the temperament of the beast. Liking to go at its own pace, the grey horse with the uncertain eye sped off into a gallop leaving the Apothecary to be tossed about like a ship in a gale. Clinging on for all he was worth he shot past the two men, giving them a frantic look as he did so. They laughed, he heard them do it, but for all that they set off in pursuit, presumably to try and slow the horse up. And then the creature stopped short and John went sailing over its head, landing in the grass below with a thud.