by Deryn Lake
“Indeed not,” said John, thinking of the state of the body. “Will you be attending?” Nicholas continued.
“Yes, of course. Do you know who else is going?”
“I have no idea. A mere handful I expect.”
“And where is it to be held?”
Nicholas looked surprised. “Here, in the local churchyard. The ceremony will be conducted by the Vicar. It is at half past ten in the morning.”
“I shall make a point of being there.” John cleared his throat. “Tell me, my friend, are you coming to terms with her death?”
“I have accepted the fact that I shall not see her any more but it has not made life any easier to bear. To tell you the truth I am missing her terribly.”
“I’m sure,” the Apothecary answered soothingly. “Now tell me again, you went to her room at about six o’clock in the morning, is that correct?”
“I’ve already told you, yes.”
“And you saw no one about as you ascended the stairs?”
“I passed some little maid with her thumb in her mouth. That was all.”
“And you found Diana dead?”
“Yes. Why do you want me to repeat everything?”
“What would you say if I told you that someone else had discovered the body some four hours earlier?”
Nicholas looked utterly astonished. “Who for God’s sake?”
“The blind fiddler,” John answered slowly.
Kitto’s face was a picture of disbelief. “The blind fiddler?” he repeated. “Why him of all people? What was he doing there?”
“Much the same as you I imagine.”
“What are you inferring?” snarled Nick Kitto, his face suddenly white and savage.
“I am saying that you were not Diana’s only visitor that night.” The attack was as unexpected as it was swift. The Apothecary, covered with bruises and with a cut lip and black eye to boot, was suddenly knocked to the floor by a hammer blow to his jaw.
“Oh God help us,” he bellowed, holding his face.
But Nick was on top of him and pounding his head on the wood repeatedly. Every tooth the Apothecary had shook violently and his senses had started to swim when there was a sudden shout from the doorway.
“Nicholas! Whatever are you doing? Stop it at once, do you hear me?”
It was Mrs Ennis, looking formidable in a purple gown with which her hair clashed violently. Her son, however, continued to crash away regardless. John felt himself to be on the point of losing consciousness when the rough treatment suddenly came to an end and he was vaguely aware that Nick had been hauled to his feet and sent to stand a good few feet away. The Apothecary had never been so glad to see anyone as his extremely unlikely rescuer. He looked at Nick’s mother, glassyeyed.
“Thanks,” he managed from a mouth totally swollen.
“My dear young man, whatever happened? Why was Nicholas attacking you?”
Nicholas rolled his eyes at John, a pleading in their depths.
“A slight argument over a game of chance,” the Apothecary muttered inaudibly.
This reply was treated with contempt as there were no cards or dice visible. “How about the truth,” said Mrs Ennis fiercely.
Nicholas growled from the corner in which he had been sent to stand, “It was my fault. I attacked him.”
“Why for heaven’s sake?”
“He was maligning a friend of mine.”
“I was telling the simple truth,” answered John from the floor.
Mrs Ennis swelled up, resembling an egg more closely than ever. “Now what is this all about? Mr Rawlings, please explain.”
She helped him to stand and he collapsed into a nearby chair, very much the worse for wear. Shooting a look at
Nicholas he saw that the young man was standing in the corner like a truculent little boy, sticking out his lower lip and generally pulling a sour face. No wonder he hadn’t been man enough for Diana, John thought cruelly.
Mrs Ennis turned to her son. “Well, Sir, as your friend will not speak, what do you have to say?”
“Nothing.”
“A fine how-do-you-do indeed. Both remain silent when it comes to the cause of the quarrel. Well you can leave my house, the pair of you. Go and fight in the street for all I care.”
“What about the neighbours?” muttered Nick.
“Oh they must take their chance,” Mrs Ennis snapped in reply. Weakly, John got to his feet and staggered towards the front door. Holding his somewhat crumpled hat in his hand he made his way out, then turned towards the church, desperately needing somewhere quiet to sit for half an hour. But he had got no further than a few yards when a voice said, “Oh my dear Sir. You seem fit to drop.”
He looked up and into the clear eyes of Gypsy Orchard.
“I don’t feel too good,” he replied weakly, before everything went black and he lost consciousness, seeing nothing but the stars whirling round his head. He came round lying comfortably on a chaise, a cooling bandage on his forehead, some soothing ointment applied to both his eye and his lip. Watching him anxiously were the Vicar and the gypsy, a rather odd combination thought the Apothecary wryly.
“Ah, my dear Sir,” said Mr Robinson, “you are back with us.” Struggling, John sat up. “Yes, I apologise. I’ve had rather a harsh time of it in the last few days. It all started when I fell off my horse and everything has grown progressively worse since then.”
Gypsy Orchard smiled. Ah, the things you men get up to. Anyway, Sir, I’ll give you a little pot of my special ointment for your eye and your mouth. Apply morning and night and you’ll soon be feeling better. Now I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Mr Robinson. I must be on my way.”
“Where are you going?” John asked, genuinely wanting her to stay.
She shrugged. “Wherever the fancy takes me. Goodbye,” and she turned and left the room.
John propped himself upright. “How did I get here, Sir?”
“The gypsy rang the doorbell and told me there was a sick man in the street. I carried you in with the aid of a servant.”
“Thank you very much, Sir. Mr Robinson…” John hesitated, not quite sure whether he should tell him.
“Yes, my son?”
“Sir, I have reason to believe there is a witch’s coven based in a house near Loe Pool.”
The Vicar sighed wearily. “So I understand. The trouble is, catching them at it.”
“There,” said John, “I might be able to help you.”
“Really? Good heavens! What do you know of them?”
The Apothecary pointed to his swollen eye and lip. “One of their number gave me these. I attended a ceremony of theirs in the ruins of Roskilly Abbey. Only as a hidden observer,” he added hastily as he saw a look of panic rise in Mr Robinson’s eye.
“Really? How did you get there?”
“It’s a long story,” said John. And suddenly he felt a great deal better to be discussing the matter with a clerk in holy orders.
“First I shall get us a glass of cordial each and then you can tell me everything,” Mr Robinson answered.
He rang a bell and an ancient servant answered and took the order.
“Now,” said the Vicar, seating himself opposite John, “tell me all you know.”
“Gladly, Sir.”
And John launched into his tale, leaving out nothing, despite the fact that Mr Robinson lost colour at some of his more lurid descriptions and once went so far as to put his hands over his ears, his expression one of total disgust.
Chapter 25
The story was told and John, seeing the look of both horror and fear on Mr Robinson’s face, regretted telling it.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said. “It is rather a ghastly tale.”
The Vicar made an effort to pull himself together. “Well, I’m glad you related it for all that. Now, I don’t usually imbibe at this time of day but I feel on this occasion a small sherry might not come amiss.”
“I think that sounds like a very good
idea,” said the Apothecary, reviving somewhat.
Despite Mr Robinson’s words two large helpings were poured from a decanter standing on a side table. Handing John a glass, the Vicar took a seat opposite his.
“The point is, my friend, short of doing what you did in Redruth, how do I catch them at it?”
“I think you should involve the Constable, Sir. After all those who practice witchcraft are breaking the law of the land.”
“And of God.”
“Indeed,” John replied solemnly. He drank his sherry and began to feel a great deal better. “Forgive me, but you have lived in Helstone all your life, have you not?”
“Yes indeed. As I have already told you I was curate here until the Reverend Halsall passed to his rest when I secured this place for my living.”
The Apothecary looked round him. “You have a fine house here.”
“Yes, but it is not the vicarage house which I considered unsuitable.”
“Oh,” said John, longing to ask why but not daring.
As if in answer to his unspoken thoughts the Vicar said, “Mrs Robinson did not care for the other place. But she liked this house very much.”
“Oh I see. How long has she been dead, Sir?”
“Twelve years at least,” the Vicar replied gloomily.
“And you have no children?”
It was a natural enough question but Mr Robinson looked slightly irritated and replied, “No, none,” rather shortly.
John, observing him, wondered why.
“Have some more sherry,” said the Vicar, refilling the Apothecary’s glass without waiting for a reply.
“Thank you, Sir. I’ll have this then I really must be getting along.”
“My dear chap, do you feel up to walking back?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. As long as I can get past the house of my assailant without being attacked.”
“You didn’t tell me who it was.”
“Nicholas Kitto.”
A very odd expression came over the Vicar’s face. “That young scoundrel,” he said. “I don’t know why he behaves so badly. I truly cannot think.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Sir. I was telling him an unpleasant truth about the love of his life.”
“The woman I am to bury tomorrow?”
“The very same.”
Mr Robinson was silent for quite a while, then said, “I knew her, you know.”
“Did you?” asked John, intensely interested.
“Yes. I found her wandering the streets of Truro and brought her back to Helstone to give her a decent Christian education. But alas she caught the eye of a certain noble gentleman, though what the arrangement between them was I was never quite certain. For Diana, set up by him no doubt, spent some of her time in London, going to theatres and so on. But she always came back here and when Nicholas was about seventeen he met her and fell in love with her.”
Even while the Vicar was saying the words they were striking the Apothecary as odd. For surely Nick had told him that his father, Lord Godolphin, had rescued Diana from Truro. So somebody wasn’t telling the truth and it could not possibly be the reverend gentleman. Or could it? John listened avidly.
“What did the noble gentleman do in that situation?” he asked.
Mr Robinson shrugged, quite elegantly for a man of the cloth. “I have no idea. Perhaps she saw them both, perhaps she dropped the older man for the younger. Who knows?”
And John, his head in a whirl, thoroughly agreed with the last statement. For why should Nick tell him a tissue of lies unless it was to protect someone. But it was no use bombarding the Vicar with questions. The Apothecary decided to change the subject.
“Are you expecting a large number at the funeral, Sir?” he asked.
“A mere handful if we’re lucky,” came the rather sad reply.
“Well I shall be there,” said John, rising somewhat shakily to his feet.
“My dear boy, allow me to walk with you.” And Mr Robinson stood up too.
True to his word the Vicar escorted John up the street, then on to The Angel. There was no sign of Nick Kitto anywhere and the Apothecary rather imagined that his mother must be holding him under lock and key. If it hadn’t been for the aching in his head he almost could feel sorry for the wretched young man.
“Well, good afternoon, my friend. I shall see you tomorrow.”
“You will indeed,” answered the Apothecary, as he and Mr Robinson bowed to each other and parted company.
A far bigger crowd turned up than John or the Vicar had anticipated. Mrs Pill, accompanied by her brother and the entire retinue of servants, came. There was Lord Godolphin and Nicholas Kitto, of course. Tim Painter arrived, a few minutes after Kathryn, sitting in a different pew and smiling amiably at the world. These people together with the landlord of The Angel and several of the regulars made quite a goodly collection, John thought, as he made his way to his customary place at the back of the church, where he could observe everyone but not be seen himself.
Mr Robinson, rather pale, his blue eyes like glinting sapphires in his face, began the customary funeral oration. Today his voice seemed weak and he cleared his throat several times until he finally got a grip on himself and began to speak in normal tones. John thought over the story he had heard of the Vicar saving Diana from begging on the streets of Truro. Then the other tale of Nicholas Kitto’s father doing exactly the selfsame thing.
Lord Godolphin was sitting almost directly in front of him, dressed to the inch, his face emotionless. In fact it looked almost deliberately blank, as if the man were trying to disguise what he was feeling. Across the way from him was Tim Painter, no longer grinning but managing for once to appear quite serious. John stole a look at Mrs Pill who seemed bowed with grief, her head in her hands as people rose to sing a hymn. All in all the Apothecary supposed they were pretty typical of a bunch of people attending a funeral. And yet there was something wrong, as if everyone were playing a part, trying to appear something that they were not.
The service came to an end and it was time for the committal to earth. Six burly village lads carried the coffin in the absence of male relatives while the Vicar led the way to the graveside, walking slowly and sorrowfully. John followed the rest of the doleful procession trailing along behind. Mrs Pill was leaning heavily on Jaspers arm, weeping copiously and staggering slightly as she threw in the obligatory handful of earth. Lord Godolphin cast a large portion but Nick Kitto, by now in floods of tears, threw in a red rose and glared defiantly out of moist eyes at the rest of the company. Tim Painter, looking quite shaken, emptied some earth from stiff fingers, while John Rawlings passed by, never sympathising with the ceremony and not feeling moved to do so on this occasion.
The dismal walk from the graveyard to the church began. The Apothecary, proceeding alone, felt a tug at his elbow and saw that a shame-faced Nick Kitto had joined him.
“I’m sorry I attacked you, Sir, and I hope I did no damage.”
The Apothecary smiled as best his damaged lip allowed. “Other than for giving me a thundering headache, no harm done.”
“I wanted to ask you..Nick started, but there his voice was drowned by a much louder sound. From beyond the church came the noise of a band playing a funeral march at full volume, above the rest of the cacophony rising the sweet, sad voice of a violin. He knew even without seeing who had gathered there, that the blind fiddler had heard of Diana’s funeral and had come to pay his respects.
He turned to Nicholas. “The Gaffer is here with his band. Now I beg you to restrain yourself. Ask him questions by all means but pray do so in a civilised manner.”
But young Kitto had already broken into a run and was heading along the path that went round to the front of the church. John, following at a slightly more leisurely pace, concluded that the young man had quite literally gone mad with love. But when he got round the corner he saw that even wild Nick had been halted by the sheer sobbing beauty of the fiddler’s music. The rest of the ba
nd were playing softly beneath the soaring notes of the violin, which seemed to be offering a prayer direct to God, far more effectively than those just said in the church, the Apothecary thought. The rest of the funeral party, coming up from the graveside, were also stopped by the sight of the blind fiddler, in fact everyone stood in silence until the air was concluded, when one or two people burst into spontaneous applause.
The Gaffer lowered his bow and turned his head. “I hear we have company lads.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Gideon. “It’s the funeral party.”
The blind man took a step towards them. “How de doo, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve come to pay my respects to Diana Warwick.”
At that Nicholas broke ranks. “What did you mean by going into her bedroom in the small hours? It was me who found her dead, not you.”
There was a stunned silence, broken by the fiddler saying, “I knew Miss Warwick when you were still a twinkle in your fathers eye, young man. And I felt free enough with her to visit her in her room at any time I pleased.”
Nicholas literally ran towards him, fists raised. “I’ll have you for that.”
“No you won’t,” the Gaffer responded and sidestepped so adroitly that Nick fell flat on his face in the churchyard.
The Apothecary could not resist it. He chuckled under his breath. The fiddler looked over in the direction of the sound. “Mr Rawlings, is it?”
John stepped up to him. “Yes, it’s me.”
“I thought I recognised that laugh.”
“So you’ve concluded your business in Redruth?”
“Aye, “tis all done. Is yours?”
“Yes,” John answered briefly, his attention drawn by the fact that Lord Godolphin had gone to assist Nicholas Kitto and was helping him to stand upright.
The Gaffer put a hand on John’s arm. “There’s dark doings there, my friend.”
John could only whisper, “I know,” before the figure of Nick charged up once more.
“You dirty blackguard,” he said.
The blind fiddler turned on him. “No, Sir, that I am not. In fact I Ve probably done more honourable things in my life than you can conceive of. Now you listen to me, young sir. The woman whom you have just seen buried was a great friend of mine. She was also a whore. If you can’t accept that, if you want to put her on a pedestal, then that is entirely your choice. But one day reality will creep in and you must accept her for what she was. Until that happens, I bid you good afternoon and I take my leave of you. Goodbye, Mr Kitto.”
