Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “No, Sir,” put in Trethowan. “The child is nowhere to be seen.”

  “Well, that’s a blow to be sure. What do you suggest, my good man?”

  The Constable shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Sir. I must confess I’m in a spot.”

  Tim turned to Kathryn, who was emitting low convulsive sobs. “Come on now, old girl. There’s no need to upset yourself.”

  “There’s every need,” she answered in the grimmest tones. “My daughter, my Isobel, is probably dead and all you can do is make inane remarks. How can you be so unfeeling?”

  It was at that moment that the Apothecary walked in, having left Elizabeth and Rose slowly walking round the shops. He took one glance at Mrs Pill and went straight to fetch his medical bag, returning with it a few minutes later and immediately giving her some physic. While he poured he spoke to William Trethowan.

  “I presume your search was in vain?”

  “You presume correctly, Sir.”

  “Um. Wait outside for me a moment. I want to have a chat with you. I’ll just attend to Mrs Pill first.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “An apothecary.”

  “Good as,” answered Trethowan, and went out.

  Painter meanwhile was standing beside Kathryn looking and being totally ineffectual and as if he couldn’t wait to get back to the ale pot. John shot him a severe glance.

  “Look after her for a moment or two. I just want to have a word with the Constable.”

  “Very well. I’ll do my best.”

  John, feeling uncertain about leaving his patient, stepped outside with a certain reluctance to where Constable Trethowan awaited him. Looking at the man, whose attitude had changed completely since the first time they had met, the Apothecary came straight to the point.

  “Do you think Isobel is dead, because you know I saw her last evening, as did Miss Warwick.”

  William looked grim. “I’m aware of that fact, Sir. Mr Painter told me. But I can assure you that she’s not hiding. She’s either been abducted or that’s what’s happened to her.”

  “But surely she’s not been murdered? If she’s dead it must be accidental.” But the Constable’s unswerving stare made him add the words, “I imagine.”

  “Truth to tell I don’t know what to think, Sir. The child is a stranger hereabouts so you can’t say she made any enemies. I’ve a mind to ask the gypsy woman what she reckons.”

  John stared at him incredulously. “You don’t believe in all that rubbish, do you?”

  The minute he had spoken he regretted it, for Trethowan frowned darkly and said, “I be Cornish, Sir. So don’t mock me about my beliefs.”

  “I’m sorry. I meant nothing personal.”

  “Don’t you want to come with me? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  And John had to admit that part of him was intrigued as to what Gypsy Orchard would say, though his sane sensible self refused to have anything to do with it.

  He assumed a nonchalant air. “I’ll wait for you to report back to me. I must go in search of my companion and my daughter.”

  Trethowan lowered his voice. “I’d keep a close guard on your maiden, Sir.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “There could be funny people about.”

  John’s stomach lurched. “Are you referring to those strange individuals who love children above all other?”

  “I am indeed. If Isobel has been abducted then like as not there may be one working down here.”

  “Come to watch the lads and lasses who gather round on Flora Day.”

  “Precisely.” The Constable pulled out a watch. “I’m off to try and find Gypsy Orchard, Sir. Goodbye.”

  And John was left staring at his departing back, half wishing that he were going with him. He returned to the parlour to find Mrs Pill deserted by Tim, sitting on her own, gazing vacantly at the wall.

  “Would you like to lie down?” he asked.

  She stared at him listlessly. “I don’t care,” she answered. “I won’t sleep if I do.”

  “I can give you a pill that will soothe you.”

  “But I want to stay awake in case... just in case... there is any news.”

  The Apothecary felt unable to answer her so merely cleared his throat. Mrs Pill put out a bony hand and seized his arm.

  “Mr Rawlings, do you think Isobel is dead?” she asked, repeating his earlier question to the Constable.

  John shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. It is possible I suppose.”

  “But if she is not I tremble to think what might be her fate.” Determined not to go down that road, the Apothecary stood up. “I shall go and find Mr Painter for you.”

  Mrs Pill sighed. “That wastrel. Don’t bother yourself. I think I am better off on my own.”

  John, who was rapidly feeling that Tim was a total waste of everyone’s time, said nothing and was saved any further embarrassment by the entry of Rose and Elizabeth. His daughter, he noticed at once, looked tired and somewhat red about the eyes. He raised a mobile brow at the Marchesa, who said quietly, “She has been upset by Isobel’s disappearance.”

  “But she didn’t like the girl,” he answered in an undertone.

  “I know but that hasn’t stopped her feeling sorry.”

  John, shaking his head with sad amusement, bent down and picked his daughter up into his arms. “You funny little thing,” he said.

  “Oh Papa,” she said, and burying her head in his neck. Rose started to cry.

  Mrs Pill sat motionless and Elizabeth, sitting down beside her, took her hands. John, seizing the moment, carried Rose out into the yard where they were uninterrupted except for the stamp and whinny of horses and the occasional plodding of an hostler. Sitting down on the wall by the well, John snuggled the child onto his lap.

  “What’s the matter, darling?”

  “Oh, Pa, what has happened to Isobel?”

  He sighed. “I wish I knew.”

  “I didn’t like her but I do feel sorry for her.”

  “I experience the same emotion.”

  “You’re sure she’s not hiding?”

  John looked at his child very seriously. “I don’t see how she can be. The Constable is a local man and he would have found her if anyone could.”

  Rose wept afresh and some of her tears fell on John’s hands, moving him profoundly. He held his daughter very close, thankful with all his heart that she had not gone missing, loving her as the last vestige on earth of Emilia, wondering what sex his unborn child, the child that perished with its mother, would have been.

  His reverie was disturbed by the sound of someone approaching and, looking up, he saw that Diana Warwick was coming towards him. Putting Rose down carefully, he stood up and bowed.

  “Mr Rawlings, I was thinking how sweet you looked holding your child. You are a most unusual and loving father.”

  “I am all that Rose has got,” he replied honestly.

  She looked at him with a bright smile. “But you will remarry, surely.”

  John’s thoughts flew to Elizabeth and again he answered truthfully. “I am not sure about that.”

  Diana smiled beautifully. “There’s many a woman who would like you for a partner, Sir.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so.”

  “I only speak the truth.”

  And with that she curtsied and went on to the stables, enquiring audibly about hiring a horse. This put an idea into John’s mind and he turned to Rose.

  “Would you like to go for a ride?”

  “Oh, yes please Papa.”

  “Then we’ll ask Mrs Elizabeth to join us.”

  Half an hour later it was all done. The livery stables which worked in conjunction with The Angel had provided them with two stout mounts and a pony for the young person. Then the three of them clattered out of the stable yard and set off to the right in the direction of Loe Pool. Elizabeth, as was usual with her, led off at some speed, particularly when they reache
d the open country beyond the town. John and Rose followed at a sedate pace, suitable for the child, good rider though she was. So it was that they reached the Pool and stopped to marvel at its size and splendour. In the distance to the right, standing on high ground overlooking the lake, was a great house. But it was not to this that the Apothecary’s eyes were drawn. He looked instead at the horse that Diana had hired, grazing beneath a tree, its reins looped loosely over a branch. Beside it stood another horse, also cropping the turf.

  John knew instantly that the lady in question was with her mystery man and felt his natural curiosity reach overwhelming proportions. Thinking to himself that it couldn’t possibly be Tim Painter — unless the man had moved very fast — he longed to get a glimpse of who it was. Yet his natural revulsion against Peeping Toms held sway. He said to Rose, “Shall we dismount or do you want to search for Mrs Elizabeth?”

  Rose turned on him a stricken face. “She isn’t lost too, is she?”

  John laughed. “Not she. She’s probably just ridden on a little. She’ll be back, don’t worry.”

  “Then I’ll get off.” And she slid to the ground in quite an expert fashion before John could catch her.

  He dismounted and stood beside her, looking at the enchanting vista. Then the thought came that if Isobel had vanished into the Pool it would be almost impossible to find the girl. He had seen many lakes but this one was particularly wooded on its shore line and would be almost impossible to search.

  A low laugh coming from the group of trees to his right made him glance over, and there, to his great astonishment he saw Diana Warwick emerging accompanied by the red-headed aristocratic-looking Nicholas Kitto. So that was it! She must have met Kitto somewhere and they had formed a liaison, a liaison which was still continuing.

  But why the secrecy? the Apothecary wondered. What was it that prevented them from announcing to the world that they were sweethearts? Then it occurred to him that Diana might be married despite her claiming otherwise, and with it came the certainty that she was a good deal older than young Kitto, possibly even as much as twenty years.

  Rose, quite unabashed, waved enthusiastically in the manner of children and called out, “Good day, Miss Warwick.”

  “Good day,” she called back, obviously extremely embarrassed.

  John meanwhile was muttering at his daughter, “Just leave it, Rose. Don’t say any more.”

  But she either didn’t hear him or was just being wilful because she called out, “The Constable couldn’t find Isobel.”

  “I know, my dear. Isn’t it a shame.”

  Meanwhile Kitto, who had been surveying the scene, decided to make the best of it and came forward with a grin.

  “Hello, Rawlings. We meet again.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said John over-heartily, attempting to appear nonchalant.

  “Miss Warwick and I are old friends,” continued the young man, flushing despite his brave approach.

  “Oh, excellent,” the Apothecary answered in the same vein.

  “I must be getting back,” said Diana.

  “Oh, really? Well I’ll see you as arranged then.”

  And Nicholas bent down to assist his ladylove to mount, cupping his hands together to receive her foot as she climbed into the side saddle.

  John was partly amused by the incident yet greatly puzzled. It seemed to him that there was something odd about the pair of them, but what it was totally eluded him. He felt certain, though, that he would discover it eventually.

  Elizabeth rode up as Nicholas left, having given Diana several minutes start. John, observing the Marchesa closely, thought he had never seen anyone as beautiful. Her black hair was loose, flying out as she cantered along, and the colour was fresh in her cheeks. Today she rode side saddle, something she did not often do, but it suited her well. Only the ugly scar, the flaw in the diamond, detracted from her being totally lovely.

  She stared at Nicholas’s departing back. “I see you had company.”

  “More than that. A little bit of a mystery. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Elizabeth turned her mount so that she was once more surveying the Loe.

  “It’s a vast area. Heaven help the child if she’s fallen in. She’ll never be found,” she added under her breath, conscious of Rose’s presence.

  “I agree,” John answered heavily as the three of them set off for home.

  Something made him stop at The Blue Anchor, something other than the smell of their home brewed ale. Telling Elizabeth and Rose to continue on to the inn, John walked in, fairly certain that he would find William Trethowan, and sure enough the chap was seated in the bar. But this time he wore a serious expression and was only with one crony, talking quietly. He looked up as John entered and beckoned the Apothecary over.

  “Now, Sir,” he began, “I know you don’t hold with fortune telling and the like but you must remember that Gypsy Orchard is a Charmer, and that means she is highly respected round these parts.”

  John sat down. “Tell me about Charmers. What do they do?”

  “They are magic people. They can cure all kinds of illnesses and ailments; warts, wounds, adder bites. They can stop bleeding in both people and animals. Gypsy Orchard was born with the gift and that’s why I trust what she says.”

  “And what does she say about Isobel?”

  “I’d rather you heard that for yourself, Sir.”

  Once again John was seized with a terrible fear, remembering that time so long ago when an old woman had foretold Emilia’s death. At the time he had thought it all trickery and fakery but events were to prove him wrong.

  “I don’t think…”

  “Twill be for your benefit, Sir.”

  But he could say nothing further. There was a rustle in the doorway and there she stood, dark and tanned, her basket on her hip, her eyes staring straight into John’s soul. And what eyes they were. Clear as a Cornish river, with all the light and shade attached thereto, dancing and glistening in the candlelight. Indeed, as she turned to the Constable, John could have sworn that they glinted like emeralds in the gathering shadows.

  He stood up and bowed. “Madam.”

  She laughed, lightly and musically. “Just call me Gypsy Orchard if you would, Sir. I’m more used to it than anything else.” And she put out her hand.

  John took it and the second he had done so felt something of her power. It coursed through him like a flash of lightning.

  “You’re a healer, too,” she said. “In fact that is what you do all the time. And you’re very good at it. But you do something else as well. Now what is it?”

  She closed those remarkable eyes for a few moments, then they flew open again. “I know,” she said. “You hunt down villains and killers. That is the other part of your life.”

  Chapter 12

  The gypsy motioned John to sit and, taking a seat beside him, took his hands and turned them palms uppermost. Despite himself, despite his fear of what she might be about to say, he was enthralled.

  “A complicated man,” she said after a few moments, “who has known much joy and much sadness.” She lowered her voice so that the Constable would not be able to hear her. “You are blessed with the power of healing and will continue with this work until the day you die.” Gypsy Orchard smiled then gave him an amused look. “You have a daughter and will also have a son.”

  “My wife is dead,” John answered bitterly.

  “I am aware of that.” She grinned at him and he saw the flash of strong white teeth. “You don’t need a wife to get a boy, Apothecary.”

  He couldn’t help but smile in return. “Then who will be my son’s mother?”

  As to that I am going to keep you guessing.”

  “You don’t know, do you.”

  “You may accuse me of spinning a yarn but I tell you what I see. It is not wise to mock a Charmer, Sir.”

  “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. Please continue.”

  But she had turned his hands over and given them ba
ck to him. “Let’s talk about the missing child instead.”

  John, reluctantly realising that he had spoilt his chance of learning more, said, “Oh very well. Tell me what you see regarding her.”

  “She’s dead, Sir. Dead and gone.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Convinced.”

  “Then how did she die?”

  “She was drowned, poor little mite. Gone back to the water from which she came.”

  John shivered, despite himself. “Is she in Loe Pool?”

  Gypsy Orchard shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure, to be honest with “ee. I felt the waters close round my head but I was not certain from where they were coming.”

  “And this is what you told the Constable?”

  “Just as I tell it to you now.”

  “Then may God rest her soul.”

  “Amen.”

  They sat in total silence, neither William Trethowan nor his companion saying a word, and into this quiet there stole the distant sounds of music which grew louder and louder until eventually it came through the doors of the inn in a great clamorous cacophony. John looked up and found himself peering into a small anxious face wearing a hat, its body thrust into a jacket, its little hands held out in a piteous gesture. “Hello, little fellow,” said John.

  It was the monkey, for once not carrying the collecting hat and bearing its usual sad cast of features. Gypsy Orchard said, “It has known suffering, that creature.”

  “What do you mean?” asked John.

  “It has had a cruel master. But now it is free of him and with a reasonable crew. Particularly the blind man.” And she laughed as if at some joke of her own.

  John stood up. “Can I cross your palm with silver, milady?” She rose also so that yet again he was looking into those freshwater eyes of hers. “No, that is my gift to “ee,” she said.

  Trethowan spoke up. “I reckon we’ll have to search the Loe best we can.”

  John nodded. “Looks like it. I’ll try and round up a few strong swimmers.”

  Aye, do that. Well, goodbye Sir. I’m home to my dinner.” Picking up the monkey, John went into the next door bar to discover the band playing for all they were worth. They stood in the midst of a small crowd, entertaining one and all, and there was a roar of approval when the Apothecary entered with their simian pet.