Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “I would be delighted to do so, Sir. May I sit down?”

  “By all means - how remiss of me. What can I get you to drink?”

  “A sherry would be splendid, thank you.”

  Lord Godolphin poured from a glittering decanter and passed John a glass, which he raised.

  “Your health, Sir.”

  “And yours. Now tell me of London.”

  The Apothecary drew breath then started on a somewhat rosily painted version of the capital. He talked about the theatres, the pleasure gardens, the gaiety, the cutting fashions, but eventually he turned the subject to the whores of Covent Garden.

  “Do you know the area, my lord?”

  “Of course. Whenever I visit the capital I make my way there, simply to observe of course.”

  With an effort John kept a straight face, thinking to himself that a splendid Madam at fifty guineas a night would probably be his lordship’s meat. However, exercising a tight control of his features, he said, “The woman are a sad selection of humanity, are they not?”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “Did you know one such was done to death in Helstone a few days ago?”

  Lord Godolphin went the colour of stone and made much of sipping his sherry. “Really?” he said eventually. “And who might that have been?”

  “She called herself Miss Warwick. Diana was her Christian name.”

  Now it was his lordship’s turn to keep a blank look. “Not a local woman I take it?”

  “No, not local,” John answered, giving him a straight glance. “What was she doing in Helstone? Do you know?”

  “Apparently she had arrived to see her young lover, an enamoured youth called Nicholas Kitto. The story goes that she was once the kept woman of his father - an anonymous character who sired him in bastardy it seems. Anyway at some point she transferred her affections from father to son and, it would seem, was murdered for her pains.”

  All the while he had been saying this, his tone deliberately flippant, the Apothecary had been observing Lord Godolphin closely and had watched the range of expressions which had crossed the older man’s features with interest. Now he added, “Do you know young Kitto, Sir?”

  His lordship’s answer, when it came, was perfectly smooth. “Yes, indeed. I know all the inhabitants of Helstone. It is my town after all.”

  “And were you aware of the identity of his father?”

  There was a long pause, then finally he said, “Yes, I know him.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. The matter remains a secret I have no intention of sharing with a stranger.”

  John was at an impasse and knew it. Still he decided to ask one more question. “You never met the lady, did you?”

  “You mean Miss Warwick?” John nodded. “I think I saw her in the street once. She was, as you say, radiantly beautiful.”

  “A beauty that earned her her death,” said the Apothecary reflectively, and rose, following Lord Godolphin’s lead, to go into dinner.

  He arrived home at about nine o’clock to find Elizabeth sitting alone in the downstairs parlour, her amazing face alive with thoughts. Tonight, seen thus in repose, her scar stood out, highlighted from underneath by a candle which stood on a table beside her. A book lay open on her lap but she was not reading it, instead staring into the flames of the fire that had been lit in the grate. She looked up on hearing John’s entry, then she smiled at him slowly and laid the book down. At that moment he felt her to be the most important person living and, crossing to her, gave her a kiss.

  “Good evening, Marchesa.”

  She looked at him intently. “John, there is something you must hear?”

  “What is it?”

  “I have got into conversation with one of the maids. The maid who was on duty the night that Diana was murdered.” All the Apothecary’s inquisitive instincts rose. “Tell me what she said.”

  “No, I think you should speak to her yourself.”

  “Very well. Where is she?”

  “In her room. She snatches a few hours to herself before going on duty again.”

  “She’ll probably be fast asleep.”

  “No, I gave her a guinea and told her to stay awake until she’d told you her story.”

  So saying she took the Apothecary by the hand and led him up two flights of stairs to the rooms reserved for the servants who lived-in. They were small and mean as John discovered on entering the one at the end of the corridor. With no chair to sit on and no furniture other than for a single bed and a chest- of-drawers, he stood awkwardly in the entrance gazing at the girl within, wondering how much she was going to tell him.

  She was little more than fourteen years-of-age and was not particularly appealing to look at. She was more than plump, indeed was extremely large for one of her tender years, while the fatness had spread to her face, giving her several wobbly chins. Despite being thrust into a cap, wisps of her dark hair hung down, and she was presently toying with one of these whilst rhythmically sucking her thumb. John thought it had been a while since he had seen such a messy creature, then took himself to task for being so stern a critic.

  The girl looked up, removed the thumb, and said, “Evening, Sir.”

  “Good evening, may I come in?”

  The Marchesa spoke from the doorway. “This is the gentleman I told you about, Betty.”

  The girl looked bewildered and rather frightened. “As long as you’re quick, Sir. I’ve got the passageway to scrub out in an hour when everyone’s abed.”

  She twiddled her hair and popped the thumb back in, staring at him wide-eyed over the comforting digit.

  “We’ll be rapid,” John answered, stepping into the space which was no larger than a big cupboard. Elizabeth, meanwhile, stayed by the door which she had somehow closed behind her.

  “Now my girl,” said the Apothecary, deciding to try the masterful approach, “tell me what you saw on the night that Miss Warwick died.”

  The thumb came out, hovering moistly by the mouth in case it should be required. “Well, Sir, I was coming down the stairs the first time and I saw Miss Warwick climbing up with that handsome gentleman with the lovely voice…”

  “Mr Painter?”

  “Yes. Well, I stands back in the shadows and I sees them go into her room, and they was kissing and cuddling and everything.”

  “I can imagine,” John said, giving a lop-sided grin.

  “When they’d gone in I continues on my way down and I could hear ‘em inside.”

  “What were they doing, do you imagine?”

  “”It”, Sir. You should have heard that bed creaking.”

  “I see. Very interesting.”

  The thumb went back in for a couple of rapid sucks, then was removed. “But that’s not all, Sir.”

  “No?”

  “At two o’clock in the morning. I make my way upstairs to go to bed and this time I saw another man coming out of Miss Warwick’s room.”

  “Good God. It sounds as if she was giving a ridotto. So who was this one?”

  “It was the blind fiddler, Sir. I’d know him anywhere by his black spectacles. Though I must say that he went downstairs like he could see, which was strange.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that he took the steps like a sighted man. But then they’re very clever those blind folks.”

  The thumb went in again and there were several minutes of silence while she sucked contentedly away, twiddling her hair the while. Then she spoke again.

  “I hope you believe me, Sir.”

  “I do,” said John, meaning it. “Though what you have said perplexes me.”

  “Why, Sir?”

  “It’s just that she had so many male visitors. And one of them killed her. But which?”

  The girl took refuge in her thumb once more. Over it, she opened her eyes wide.

  The Apothecary, realising that he would get nothing further out of her, reached in his pocket and drew out a guinea. “This is for yo
u. Thank you for telling me what you saw.”

  Continuing to suck, the girl nodded. John turned to Elizabeth. “Shall we go?”

  “Indeed we shall.”

  As they walked down two flights to the Marchesa’s room he put his arm round her waist. “She is probably the most important witness so far. It was clever of you to find her.” Elizabeth said nothing, merely giving him her enigmatic smile.

  Chapter 18

  John woke early, feeling utterly alert. He lay on the bed for a while, his brain turning over the information he had been given late last night. According to the maid Betty’s story, the last time she had heard Miss Warwick speak had been to Lord Godolphin. Had he, then, snuffed out her life with a pillow? Or had it been the Gaffer? Or had, indeed, Tim Painter returned, unseen, and closed Dianas mouth for ever? Was it possible even that Nick Kitto’s storms of tears had been fuelled by regret for something done in love play?

  The Apothecary’s attention turned to the missing child. Was she, too, dead and gone? And, if so, where was her body? Or had she been abducted by some corrupt being for a purpose he dared not even think about? And, above all, were the two occurrences linked in some extraordinary way? Sighing, John turned over and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. So, reluctantly, he got up and washed in cold water, ran a razor over his chin, combed his locks - which had grown beyond wearing a wig - and tied them back with a ribbon.

  Going downstairs, having peeped in on Rose who was sleeping the profound and innocent slumber of childhood, he decided it was too early to break his fast and left the inn, turning left and surveying the scene. The town of Helstone lay before him, its cobbled streets and tightly packed houses presenting a charming vista in the early morning light. Yet somewhere, hidden, lay a murderer’s cold heart. Unless, of course, the perpetrator of Dianas death was the blind fiddler, the Gaffer, who had left the place the day before. Yet what could his motive possibly be? Or had he known Diana from long ago? Was his connection to her stronger than it would appear? Weighed down with his thoughts the Apothecary marched on, not really seeing where he was going.

  He became conscious of his surroundings as he approached the church where, despite the earliness of the hour, the Vicarwas already up and walking round the surrounding grounds, gazing at a neighbouring sheep field and muttering to himself. John swept off his hat.

  “Good morning, Sir.”

  “Oh, good morning,” replied the reverend gentleman, somewhat flustered.

  John regarded him closely, never having done so before, and found himself gazing at a good-looking man wearing a rather worn-out wig, beneath which was a fine pair of bright blue eyes fringed by a set of lashes of which a woman would have been proud.

  The Apothecary bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself I am John Rawlings, an apothecary of Shug Lane, London.”

  “Goodness gracious,” replied the other, “you are a long way from home. I am William Robinson, vicar of Helstone.”

  John bowed again, not too formally. “We met recently when we were hunting for the little girl who ran away during the Furry Dance.”

  “Yes, indeed. I hear the poor child has now vanished completely.”

  “It’s true enough. But no body has been found and I am beginning to wonder whether she has been abducted.”

  The Vicar looked thoughtful. “Of course we get people from all over the West Country coming to see the Furry. I’m afraid that what you suggest is not out of the question.”

  “Remember that I have come from London. So any villains could be here.”

  Realising what he had just said the Apothecary grinned broadly and after a moment or two Mr Robinson let out a circumspect giggle.

  “Yes, how funny. But news of the child is indeed serious. Have you no idea of her whereabouts?”

  “None at all. Her mother has gone to Wiltshire to get help.”

  “That gentleman you were with the other night. Was he by any chance the little girl’s father?”

  “Not he. He is her mother’s lover,” John answered unthinkingly, then wondered if he had been too frank before a member of the church. But the Vicar looked unperturbed, merely placing the tips of his fingers together and saying, “I see.”

  The Apothecary asked another question. “Have you lived in Helstone long, Sir?”

  “All my life, man and boy, except when I went away to study theology. I was curate to the late vicar, Mr Halsall, and then took over his living when he passed away. I am very fond of the place, but I suppose that is obvious.”

  “Indeed it is, Sir. Does Mrs Robinson care for Helstone as deeply as you do?”

  “Alas, she too has been called to God.”

  It was at that moment that John detected a movement in the distance and turning saw the door of Nicholas Kitto’s house open and a woman come striding out, heading purposefully for the church.

  Was this, the Apothecary wondered, Nick’s formidable mother of whom he seemed more than a little frightened.

  He watched her as she came resolutely up the path, then slowed her pace as she glimpsed the fact that the Vicar was not alone.

  “Good morning, Madam,” he said, bowing handsomely and sweeping his hat to the ground. “John Rawlings, at your service.”

  She eyed him suspiciously and John found himself thinking that she was shaped exactly like an egg, going outwards both front and back from her head to her thighs. It was quite some while since he had seen such an unattractive contour and try as he might not to do so, he none the less stared.

  Mrs Kitto, for that is whom he presumed her to be, said, “Ah Reverend, good morning to you. May I have a word?”

  “Certainly, Madam, if you can wait a moment or two. I am in the process of bidding farewell to Mr Rawlings here.”

  The woman gave John a sickly smile. “Good morning, Sir. I am Harriet Ennis.” She curtseyed, very fully, and had some difficulty in rising.

  The Apothecary bowed neatly. “Forgive me, Madam. I thought you must be Mrs Kitto and Nicholas your…nephew.”

  “That is partly correct,” she answered, just a shade too quickly as if what she was saying had been often repeated. “Nicholas is indeed my nephew, he is my late sister’s child. She was a Miss Ennis but married a Mr Kitto.”

  John put on his best sorrowful face. “And she has passed to her rest?”

  “Yes, indeed. I attended her at the birth but, alas, it was too much for her.”

  “And Mr Kitto senior?” asked the Apothecary in saddened tones.

  The Vicar cleared his throat. “He died before the child was born, Lord forgive us.”

  “What a wretched tale,” said John, and gave Nick’s female relation a beatific smile. He turned to Mr Robinson once more. “Well, Sir, I must be off. It has been so nice conversing with you.”

  “Likewise, my son. God bless you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Placing his hat onto his head with a flourish, John Rawlings started to walk away but not before he had taken a good look at the hair colouring of the ovate woman. It was, as he had known it would be, definitely red in shade.

  So that was it. She matched the description Nick had given him exactly. She was more than likely the erring mother. It was rather difficult, the Apothecary concluded, to imagine her being sinful with anyone, let alone ending up saddled with a bastard. But then he knew from long experience that people changed with time and imagined that in her youth she must have been reasonably pretty. He tried to picture Lord Godolphin with her and somehow that particular pairing refused to come into his head. There was something too precise about the aristocrat to warrant such an action. The beautiful Diana Warwick he certainly could envisage, but not Mrs Humpty Dumpty.

  As he neared Nick’s house John looked at his watch and saw that it was now time for work to start. He was therefore not in the least surprised when the front door flew open and the young man uppermost in his thoughts appeared in the entrance. He was clad from head to toe in deepest black and his eyes were red and puffy with weeping. The Ap
othecary thought that if this was indeed a show, then it was one of the best he had ever seen.

  He gave a short bow. “Good morning, Nick. Off to work?”

  “Yes,” came the abrupt answer.

  “May I walk with you?”

  “Of course you can. I’ll be glad of the company.”

  Now came the most difficult moment to contend with. He had not seen young Kitto since the discovery of the tell-tale feathers in Diana’s nose, the feathers which revealed a pillow had been pressed down on her face and held there until she could no longer breathe.

  John cleared his throat. “Nick, there is something I have to tell you.”

  A bleary eye regarded him. “What?”

  “It’s rather bad news I’m afraid.”

  Kitto slowed his pace and turned to stare at the Apothecary. “It’s about Diana, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick stopped dead in his tracks. “Oh God,” he said loudly. “Oh my God.”

  Surreptitiously the Apothecary felt for his salts and got his hand round them. “I’m sorry to have to tell you…”

  But he got no further. Nick let out a piercing scream and beat the air with his fists. “She’s been murdered,” he said, “murdered. Oh woe is me!” he added theatrically.

  Quick as a flash the salts came out of the pocket and were firmly implanted under Nick’s nostrils.

  “Breathe deeply,” the Apothecary ordered. “Come along now.

  Deep breaths.”

  Willy nilly, the poor young man had no option but to inhale, a fact which made him cough appallingly.

  “That’s the spirit,” said John. “There’s nothing like a good lungful of brackish odour to clear the head.”

  Nick produced a handkerchief and wiped at his streaming eyes and nose. “That’s enough, thank you,” he gasped.

  The Apothecary withdrew the offending bottle, holding it at arm’s length. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “What?” Nick asked, a touch belligerently.

  “That she had been murdered.”