Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “Are you all right?” called a voice, and John, looking up, saw that a tall man with a young but worldly face was dismounting and coming to his side.

  “I think so,” he answered, heaving himself into a sitting position and feeling his arms and legs.

  “You took a nasty tumble, Sir,” said the other, also getting off his mount.

  “I’m afraid I’m not a very good rider.”

  “Not local then?”

  “No, I come from London.”

  “Well, let’s get you on your feet and see what damage has a been done.”

  They put a hand under each arm and hauled the Apothecary upwards.

  “Can you stand?” asked the worldly man.

  “Just about.”

  “Nothing broken then.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  And then came the stroke of good fortune that John had been hoping for. The second man turned to the tall one and said, “Should we take him back to the house, my Lord?”

  “Why not? I could do with a bit of company. Here, you get on my horse. I’ll ride that grey beast.”

  And the next thing John knew was that his foot was in the stirrup and he had been half-lifted by the second man, presumably a servant, into his lordship’s saddle. With the effortless ease of someone who had been riding almost as soon as he could walk. Lord Lyle swung himself into the saddle, pulled the reins tightly, and said, “Don’t you play tricks on me, you brute,” before setting off at a trot towards civilisation.

  Half an hour later they were back, seated in the drawing room, while several male servants fussed round the Apothecary looking for injuries. Meanwhile milord, draped languidly in a great chair, observed the process and sipped a morning glass of sherry. “You’ve had a lucky escape, my friend.”

  John, thinking to himself that his lordship would never know how lucky, said, “I must thank you, Sir, for your gallant rescue. It was immeasurably kind of you. Allow me to present myself. My name is John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly.”

  Antony Lyle,” answered the other carelessly. “Would you like a glass of sherry?”

  “Very much. Thank you.”

  Lord Lyle waved a lazy arm. “Pour one, Simmons. And you can refill my glass at the same time.” He turned to John and laughed. “An apothecary, eh? Well, have you broken anything?” John felt his arms and legs once more. “No, I can honestly say that I’m in one piece, though I’ll be many shades of purple tomorrow.”

  “A fine sight indeed. Good thing that I happened to be around. Where are you staying?”

  “At The Lion.”

  His lordship raised his brows and nodded, making no comment. “And what is your purpose in visiting Redruth?” Before waiting for a reply, he went on, “I come here for a month or two now and then. But our family seat is in Worcester and naturally I have a town house.”

  John decided to be daring. “Is it true that you won this place gambling?”

  Lyle let out a short laugh. “Perfectly. I was eighteen at the time and had staked all I had on the turn of a card. Fortunately it worked my way and I won everything, leaving the Marquis of Dorchester minus the place.”

  “But surely he had other homes to go to?”

  An extremely sly grin crossed Lord Lyle’s face. “He not only wagered this house.”

  “Poor devil. You mean you took everything?”

  “Everything. People said I had the luck of Satan himself that night.”

  He laughed robustly and John, looking at him, thought the man a typical example of his class, a younger member of the aristocracy who would gamble his life away to relieve his perpetual boredom.

  “You certainly seem to have done. Was Lady Lyle pleased with your new homes, Sir?”

  Milord shrugged. “She moves from one to the other as she wishes, usually choosing a house where I am not resident.”

  The Apothecary felt faintly amused that anyone could live such a shallow life. “You do not get on?” he asked boldly.

  His lordship let out a snort. “Get on! We detest one another. She is thin and simple and was foisted on me by my father. I can’t stand the sight of her.”

  “I take it there are no children?”

  “There’s one sickly boy who follows his mother around as if he were tied to her. And that is that. I have provided the heir and done my duty.”

  He held out his sherry glass which was duly refilled, crossed his ankles and grinned at the Apothecary. John, peering at him over the rim of his glass, wondered just how much emotion he actually felt about his current situation.

  Lord Lyle seemed to come to a sudden decision. “I like you,” he said. “Come and look over my estate.”

  Knowing that all of this had once belonged to the Marquis of Dorchester, John stepped out of a huge pair of French doors and into a vast garden. It was laid out in terraces full of yew hedges, rose borders brimming with buds, while over the balustrades climbed clematis, much of it in full bloom. A pillared folly, in which stood iron garden furniture, lay before them. This, in turn, led onto an alley whose lush green grass was bordered by Irish yews. Lord Lyle, glancing at his companion’s awe-struck face, led the way down to an ornamental lake on the banks of which was moored a little rowing boat.

  On the far bank were some ruins, standing dark and strangely mysterious, contrasting with the beauty of the rest of the surroundings.

  “What are they?” asked John, pointing.

  “All that’s left of Roskilly Abbey. Do you want to have a closer look?”

  “Yes. I’d like to see.”

  “We’ll go by boat then. It will be quicker than walking.”

  They climbed into the small vessel and John, almost automatically and despite the aching in his limbs, picked up the oars. Meanwhile milord dipped his fingers idly in the water and hummed to himself as they skimmed the surface. Coming to the other bank John saw a mooring post and a jetty, and somehow or other managed to scramble out and secure the craft. Lord Lyle, taking his time and clearly conserving his energy, followed at his own pace.

  The Abbey had obviously been big and important in its day but the death blow delivered by Henry VIII meant that now only a skeleton of its former glory stood to tell the tale of a once proud history. John, looking up at what had been the chapter house, walked along decayed and deserted cloisters, staring at the remains of the great church. And then he had an optical illusion. He could have sworn that a hooded figure dressed in a monk’s habit had passed quickly round the corner of the church and vanished from his sight. He stared, then looked round for his lordship, who had sat down in the sunshine, taking his ease, his back turned. John stood uncertainly for a moment then made his way to where he had seen the apparition.

  There was nothing and nobody there. The ruins of the church were deserted and empty. All that John could sense was a faint smell, like incense, permeating the brickwork. Yet there was nothing surprising about that, he thought. After all, this had been the place where the monks had prayed. Yet the ghost - if indeed it had been such - had made him uneasy. Involuntarily, there in the bright sunshine, something walked over John’s grave.

  He made his way back to where Lord Lyle, apparently asleep, sat leaning against the stonework, eyes closed. He opened one as the Apothecary approached.

  “Like it?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s a very fine ruin. Tell me, is it haunted?”

  “Zounds, yes. The locals won’t come near the place. There’s talk of ghostly processions of monks, chanting and carrying lanthorns. It has a terrible reputation. Why?”

  “I thought I saw something.”

  “Did you, by Jove. Well, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last. What was it?”

  “A hooded figure wearing a habit.”

  Lord Lyle looked wise. “That would be Brother Mark. They say he was killed when Henry VIII ordered the Abbey to close. He died fighting before the altar, so legend has it.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  But t
he Apothecary was not happy. The story of Brother Mark gallantly losing life in the most holy place in the Abbey somehow did not match what he had seen. For there had been something furtive and almost sinister about the apparition. A something that made him shiver again despite the unexpected warmth of the morning.

  “Seen enough?” asked his lordship.

  “Not quite. Can you spare another ten minutes?”

  “Certainly. I shall doze. Wake me when you are ready to go.”

  As Lord Lyle once more closed his eyes John hurried back to the place where he had seen the supposed ghost. There was nothing there, of course, but despite that the Apothecary started to search the building thoroughly. Then he dropped to his knees and hunted along the ground, running his fingers over the soil as he did so. It was painstaking and hard but eventually he was rewarded. His hand closed over a tiny stump of candle. Swiftly he picked it up and slipped it into a pocket.

  It proved nothing of course as it could have been dropped by an earlier visitor to the Abbey. But nevertheless it was some indication that the ghost may well have been mortal. Slowly John made his way back to where Lord Lyle sat, eyes closed in the sunshine and loud snores emanating from the noble nostrils. But he woke at once and clambered into the boat, taking his turn to row back cheerfully enough. John sat facing him, watching the Abbey grow more distant, thinking about what he had seen and determining to go back to the place after dark to find out more about the creatures of the night.

  Having been warned by Lord Lyles hostler that the grey horse with the unfriendly eye had an erratic temperament, John walked back, leading the creature by the reins. Having thankfully handed her into the care of The Lion’s stables, he made his way within. As usual, Tim Painter was recounting some yarn or other in the taproom. He turned as John entered and gave the Apothecary a meaningful wink.

  “My dear chap, where have you been? I was about to organise a search party.”

  John looked at him in amusement. “Last I saw of you was deep in the clutches of Anne Anstey. How did it go?”

  Tim waved a hand in front of his face. “I cannot discuss it. Let me merely say that I feel utterly exhausted.”

  John grinned. The fellow was such a reprobate and was clearly going to get worse over the years.

  I’ve spoken to the blind fiddler,” he said.

  “Have you, by God. Then our work here is done?”

  “Not quite.”

  And drawing Tim into a private corner, John told him his adventures since he had got up that morning. To give the man his due he listened intelligently and in silence, nodding occasionally. Finally he said, “So you think there’s something strange going on in the Abbey ruins?”

  “It’s just an instinct I have. It’s not based on much but I feel compelled to go back at night.”

  Tim scratched his chin. “Do you think Lord Lyle is involved?”

  “I would imagine he is. Remember I saw a robed and hooded figure leave his house. He’s rich and idle and incredibly bored. In my view he’s either part of what goes on or is turning a blind eye.”

  “Then let’s to it.” And Tim Painter rubbed his hands together.

  “Tonight?”

  “Why not. Anne Anstey is playing cards with friends so I shan’t be seeing her. I am at your disposal, Sir.”

  “We’ll have to gain access to his grounds.”

  “An easy task.” Tim was silent, then said, “Pity we haven’t got habits and hoods ourselves.”

  John nodded. “I don’t see us finding any at this late stage. We’ll just have to wear black.” And suddenly he laughed, feeling incredibly young and reckless. “Tally ho,” he said.

  Tim raised his glass. “To the chase.”

  “Indeed,” answered John, and clinked his in response.

  Chapter 23

  The night had grown unseasonably cold and rowing across the lake in the little boat proved a thoroughly chilling experience. Entry into the huge parkland owned by Lord Lyle had been as easy as Tim Painter had predicted. They had simply chosen a place where the wall was in need of repair and climbed over it. John had stood for a minute, disorientated, then a glimmer of water in the moonlight had been enough to set him on track and the two men, keeping within the shadow of the trees, had made their way towards the lake.

  Once on it, the Apothecary realised, they would be clearly visible. Not from the house, which lay back amongst the huge and sheltering gardens, but from any other pairs of eyes that might also be watching that night. Never the less to walk round the stretch of water would take rather a long time and might also place them in danger. After a whispered discussion, the two men decided to row across and take their chance.

  Night on the lake was very different from its daytime aspect. Banks of reed, habitat of ducks and waterfowl, became inky black pools; while the water itself, by daylight quite blue and sparkling, turned into something dark and unfriendly. The small boat became wet round their feet and Tim was forced to bail while John rowed, the sound of his oars loud and clear in the silence of the night. Meanwhile the shape of the derelict Abbey reared tall and terribly menacing as they approached the jetty.

  “What are you hoping to find?” whispered Tim.

  John shrugged his shoulders and put his finger to his lips as the boat slid into the mooring spot and he leapt ashore. Tim, no doubt to prove his athleticism, followed suit but slipped on the dampness making an unmistakeable crash. Furiously, John glared at him and plucked him into the shadows of the chapter house wall where they crouched, side by side, waiting for something to react to the noise. But only silence echoed back at them and after a few minutes they both relaxed.”Nobody here,” Tim muttered.

  “Not yet,” John answered meaningfully.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How long do you think we should wait?”

  “At least an hour.”

  “Thank God I brought a hip flask,” Tim answered, and took a swig.

  They changed to a sitting position and stayed like that for a while, then Painter stood up. “I think I’ll go for a look round.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve got some idea of the size of this place while I have none.”

  “Then I’ll come with you. But for heaven’s sake be quiet.”

  “Don’t be silly, man. There’s no one about.”

  John replied, “I’m not so certain.”

  Together they crept out of their place of concealment and began a moonlit tour of the Abbey, which was even larger than John had at first realised. Many of the buildings were minus a roof but still had four walls standing; others were crumbling into total decay.

  “It must have been a powerful order in its day,” Tim commented, gazing up to where beautiful windows — now totally without glass - had dominated the rooms beneath.

  But John did not answer, instead straining his ears to catch a faint sound.

  “Listen. Can you hear anything?”

  Tim relapsed into silence. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “There. There it is again. You must be able to hear it.”

  Painter turned a panic-stricken face towards him. “It’s chanting - and it’s getting nearer.”

  “Quick,” said John, and seizing his companion by the elbow, hurried him into the great and gloomy ruined church.

  “Is it ghosts?”

  The Apothecary made a sound of disgust. “They’re as human as you and me.” And so saying he dragged Tim Painter

  I into the dark recesses of a side chapel and crouched behind a tomb. Tim ducked down beside him.

  “Who is it?” he whispered.

  John shrugged once more and motioned him to be quiet, all his attention focussed on the church’s arched and doorless entrance.

  Scarcely breathing, he and Tim watched fascinated as two figures dressed as monks, one of them bearing a lanthorn, came in. The other carried a censer swinging on a chain, which he shook as he proceeded along. Behind them c
ame a procession of people all dressed similarly. But it was their chanting that sent a shiver through the Apothecary; low and deep, it was a chilling sound that seemed to penetrate through to his very soul. Stealing a glance at Tim he saw that the man was pale as a shadow.

  Behind this initial procession, which numbered about two dozen, came people in ordinary clothes, their faces disguised by masks. For those who had none, the device of pulling hats well down had to suffice. John, watching them, was seized by an idea and as the last drew level and passed where he was hidden he, too, joined them at the back of the line, bending his face so that it was hidden by shadow. Tim Painter, clearly losing courage, remained where he was.

  The leaders halted before the altar and threw back their hoods, revealing none other than Lord Lyle and a dark stranger, who produced a crucifix from within his robe and deliberately and slowly turned it upside down. John’s blood ran cold. He was about to witness the Black Mass.

  He could not look. He was not a religious man but something in him rebelled against anything so profane taking part in a place that had once been used by deeply religious men to celebrate the love of God. Yet his eyes could not help but be drawn as a figure stepped out of the line and threw back its cassock, to reveal Anne Anstey, naked, her flesh overflowing. Without pausing she threw herself backwards on the altar and parted her legs, writhing about as if Satan himself were pleasuring her. From the chapel to his left John could hear Tim Painter gasping.

  The smell of incense filled the air and the sound of chanting grew louder as the witches formed a circle. He heard words that he did not understand, saw the crucifix passed round so that the celebrants might spit on it, heard Christ denounced and the congregation swear fealty to Satan. Then one of the males did in fact copulate with Anne Anstey in full view of the rest of the coven. As he jerked on top of her his hood fell back to reveal Geoffrey Colquite. Sickened beyond words, the Apothecary attempted to move away but was forced to remain where he was because the man in front of him turned at the sound of John’s feet.