Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  “How interesting,” said Tim unenthusiastically.

  “And now I feel obliged to solve this one. So tell me, Sir, how was Diana Warwick when you finally left her?”

  An unhealthy flush crept over the handsome face and Painter took a good draft of ale before he muttered, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that night you dined with her alone, then went to her bedchamber. The night she was done to death.”

  Tim looked up sharply. “I thought her death was accidental.”

  “Then you thought wrong, my friend. I have found incontrovertible evidence that she was killed.”

  Tim suddenly flared up. “Well, don’t put the blame on me. Alright, I did go to bed with her, and enjoyed it too. I am a man, after all. But I left her alive and that’s the truth.”

  “What time would that have been?”

  “About twelve or so. Why?”

  “Because Miss Warwick had several callers that night.”

  Tim looked decidedly relieved. “Really? Who?”

  “I don’t believe I should tell you that.”

  “You must do as you think best. But I’ll warrant one of them was the blind fiddler.”

  It was John’s turn to be surprised. “What makes you say that?”

  Tim leant forward confidentially. “He’s not all he appears to be, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Painter looked vague. “I’m not sure. But I’m certain I’ve met him before somewhere. And doing something entirely different too. Anyway, Diana Warwick knew him. I caught them when I was wandering around town, talking in a most conspiratorial manner.”

  “Did you now! Did you manage to hear what their conversation was about?”

  “No. They stopped as soon as they saw me - or should I say as soon as she saw me.”

  John sat silently, then said, “It’s a pity he’s left Helstone.”

  “He’s not gone far though,” said Tim helpfully.

  Once again the Apothecary was amazed and his svelte brows rose high. “You know where the Gaffer is?”

  “Yes, he’s in Redruth, playing at some gypsy gathering.”

  “So that’s where I can find him,” answered John slowly.

  An hour later, still having eaten no breakfast or midday repast, John rolled upstairs and fell on his bed and to sleep. But much had been achieved in that hour. Trusting his gut that Tim Painter, for all his bad behaviour and naughty ways, was not capable of murder, he had arranged to travel to Redruth in his company the next morning in order to question the Gaffer. They had decided to ride there, hiring horses from the Helstone Livery Stable. In fact just before he dozed off John felt a definite kick of excitement in the pit of his stomach. He was going adventuring and needn’t bother with pleasing any women, or rather one woman in particular.

  Two hours later he woke with a start. That particular woman and he were presently on bad terms and he was not going to make it up to her by being late for dinner. Hurriedly John pulled on a pair of fitted silk stockings, then dressed in a rich emerald green suit trimmed with delicate embroidery of pink and silver flowers. He completed the ensemble by putting on a pair of soft leather shoes with flat heels, rounded tongues and silver buckles. Then he examined himself in a long mirror.

  The new fashion for fitted breeches and short waistcoats left little to the imagination, but for all that suited the Apothecary superbly. His one fault was his hair which had grown so long that no wig would sit on it. He determined to go to the barber as soon as possible. Despite this he felt pleased with his appearance and set off confidently down the stairs.

  But as he entered the dining parlour and saw Elizabeth, gleaming in crimson, her low square neckline giving a tantalising glimpse of breasts, her skirt decorated with black ruched and pleated silk, his heart gave a lurch.

  Surely she had dressed to please him as much as he had dressed for her. Their eyes met and she gave him that slow tantalising smile that he loved so well. John bowed, then smiled crookedly. He approached her table.

  “May I join you?”

  “Is your humour restored?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Why were you so angry earlier?”

  He sat down, and leaning across the table covered her hands with one of his. “Because you were leaving me.”

  “But my darling I thought I explained. Your daughter was becoming bored and restless. I couldn’t bear to see it.”

  John looked serious. “Tell me, do you resent having to spend so much time with the child?”

  “Not at the moment, no. But as for the future I couldn’t say. I have always been free and unfettered. A longing for that time might return.”

  “But what about when your son was small? Surely you were tied down then?”

  “That was different. I loved him with all my heart. Besides he was all I had left after my husband was killed.”

  “Would you not consider having a husband again?”

  Again came that stupendous smile as Elizabeth answered, “No, never again. I have reached a stage in my life when I want my independence. I wish to be unattached to live and love as I please.”

  “I shall do my best to persuade you otherwise.”

  “That,” answered the Marchesa, “I look forward to enormously.”

  Chapter 20

  It was so exhilarating to feel horseflesh beneath him and to be cantering, wild and free, towards Redruth. Early that morning John had seen Elizabeth and Rose off in their coach, well protected by Jed and Rufus, then he had posted his letter to Sir John Fielding, written late at night. After that he had gone immediately to the livery stables where Tim Painter, looking stunning in riding gear, had been awaiting him, as arranged on the previous morning when the two men had decided to go in search of the Gaffer.

  “Have you been excused from the search for Isobel?” the Apothecary had asked.

  “Jasper wouldn’t let me within a mile of it. He is so convinced I murdered the brat that he thinks I would deliberately lead them in the wrong direction. So I told Kathryn I was taking off for a few days.”

  “Does she know where and for what purpose?”

  As he mounted Tim raised an elegant shoulder. “No, there was no need to tell her.”

  “She must trust you a great deal,” John answered, as he wrestled to mount a large grey mare with an unfriendly eye, considering that he was never really lucky when it came to hiring horses.

  “She is far too preoccupied with the search for her child to give me much attention,” had been Tim’s casual reply as he had clattered out of the stable yard, with John, presenting a somewhat awkward figure in comparison, following him towards the open countryside.

  But the small Cornish town was now no bigger than a thumb on the horizon and they were there, on the moor land, making for Redruth and feeling the morning air, sharp and somehow sweet, surround them. John felt glad to be out of Helstone’s confines, glad to be doing something positive even if the trail were to go cold and he found that the blind fiddler had moved on somewhere else.Everywhere he looked he could see sweeping green hills, with the occasional cluster of cottages, accompanied by fields of sheep contentedly grazing. To him this typified his beloved West Country and a part of him yearned to stay for ever more. Yet another side, the practical side which had made him sit for lonely hours silently studying herbs and books, told him that as soon as this case was solved he must head back for London and his shop in Shug Lane. But would this case be solved? The murderer of Diana Warwick he felt positive he could track down. Yet what of the death of Isobel Pill? And was she indeed dead?

  Tim was shouting something over his shoulder and John hastened to catch him up.

  “What did you say?” he asked, drawing alongside.

  “I said who’s that.” And he pointed.

  John looked along the line of his finger and saw a very distant but somehow familiar figure plodding along the narrow path that led from hamlet to hamlet.

  “I can’t say for certain but it a
ppears to be Gypsy Orchard.”

  “By Jove I think you’re right.”

  And so saying Tim Painter wheeled his horse and covered the distance at a gallop. John, doing his best to keep up, watched the man dismount and make a low bow before the Romany woman. Then he saw her nod her head and the next minute she was up in the saddle, basket and all, while Tim climbed up in front of her. John panted up to where they stood.

  “Look who I’ve found,” said Painter, epitomising charm.

  Surely, thought John, this clear-eyed intelligent woman is not going to be taken in by such an obvious performance. But to his disappointment the gypsy smiled and said, “It was most kind of’ee, Sir.”

  And then momentarily she caught John’s eye and he knew that she was fooling, that she knew perfectly well what Tim Painter was and that he hadn’t deceived her for a moment. Unreasonably glad of that, John gave her the merest hint ofa wink before he turned his horses head in the direction of Redruth.

  Two hours later they entered the ancient town and made for a tavern, the gypsy entering the place quite unselfconsciously with her basket of wares on her hip, regardless of the stares of the other occupants, all of which needless to say were men.

  Tim hovered over her. “What can I get you to drink, my dear?”

  “A draught of cider, Sir.” As soon as he was gone she leant forward to John. “So you’re here to search for the blind fiddler?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I want to question him about something, that is all.”

  “I see.” And John had the extraordinary feeling that she actually did, that she knew precisely why he was here and the reason for his wanting to see the man.

  “What do you know of him?” he asked.

  “The Gaffer? Oh he appeared at the Furry one year and has been coming regular ever since.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  She smiled slowly, shaking her thick plait of dark hair. “It would be about ten years or so.”

  And where was he before that? Do you know?”

  “No, Sir, I don’t. Some people said he come from London but nobody was quite certain.”

  “London,” repeated John, and became thoughtful.

  Tim Painter rejoined them with three foaming glasses. He raised his to Gypsy Orchard.

  “To the most charming gypsy it has been my good fortune to meet,” he said, his handsome eyes all over her.

  “Well met indeed, Sir. I was on my way to join the others but you saved me hours of walking.”

  “You were going on foot to Redruth?”

  “Yes, Sir. How else would I get there?”

  She said it so simply that John laughed but Tim creased his brow in a frown. “But you must walk miles.”

  “Oh I do, Sir,” she answered earnestly, though something told John that she was actually mocking.

  “How many miles a year?” Tim persisted, genuinely interested.

  “Hundreds, Sir,” replied Gypsy Orchard, and sighed.

  John was dying to laugh, enjoying the company of this intelligent woman and admiring her for the way in which she conducted herself. Tim, however, was determined to make himself memorable.

  “One day, when I have money, I shall buy you a small cart and horse.”

  “That will be nice, Sir. But surely you have money now.”

  “Er…yes. But not quite enough.”

  At this John did laugh, in fact was in the middle of letting out a great guffaw when he saw something that wiped the smile off his face. Into the tavern had come the brothers Colquite, of all people. Today they were dressed very similarly, in matching coats of a neutral shade of dun.

  “Good heavens,” he whispered, and indicated to the other two exactly what was happening.

  “What are that couple of old buggers doing here?” said Tim, clearly astonished.

  “For what purpose are they come?” Gypsy Orchard muttered, almost to herself.

  John looked at her, observing that she had lost colour while her hand had flown to her neck and was grasping something on a chain that hung round it. Obviously uneasy, she gazed with her great clear eyes to the place where the brothers had found seats.

  “I’m going to speak to them,” said Tim, showing off. And getting up he smoothed out his riding breeches, which fitted tight as skin, and sauntered over to where they sat.

  “How do, gentlemen? What brings you so far from home?” he asked jovially.

  They jumped guiltily. Then one of them smiled and said, “We’ve come to visit an ancient aunt.”

  “Ancient aunt,” echoed the other.

  “And have you brought the rest of your party?” Tim enquired blandly.

  “Mr Sayce and Mr Reece are with us. The ladies are at leisure.”

  Tim bowed. “Well, I’ll bid you good day, gentlemen.”

  “One moment, Sir. May we ask the reason for your visit?” Painter gave a broad grin. “Just surveying the scene,” he said, and bowed once more. John looked at him as he returned. “You treated that with great elan, Sir.”

  Tim, appearing mighty pleased with himself, whispered, “They say that they are here to visit an elderly relative.”

  “Is there any reason to disbelieve them?”

  Gypsy Orchard spoke. “They are not to be trusted.”

  John and Tim stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “What I say. There is something odd about them.”

  “In what way?” asked Tim.

  While John added, “Surely they are just a couple of harmless old eccentrics.”

  She uttered one word, but it was a word that made the Apothecary’s hair rise on his scalp. “Wicca,” she said.

  There was total silence, then Tim asked, “What exactly does that mean?”

  But Gypsy Orchard wasn’t going to answer. Instead she rose to her feet, tucked her basket on her hip and said, “Thank you for giving me a ride into town. Good day, gentlemen,” and left the ale house with her usual swinging gait.

  Painter watched her go. “A damn fine looking woman that. I wouldn’t mind taking a stroke with her.”

  John rolled his eyes. As long as it’s female it will do.”

  Tim appeared slightly annoyed. “That’s not true. I like my women good looking.”

  It was on the tip of John’s tongue to ask what he was doing with Mrs Pill in that case, but he simply hadn’t the unkindness. Instead he said, “Yes, of course. And do you want to know what Wicca means?”

  “Yes.”

  “It means witchcraft,” answered John, and had the satisfaction of seeing Tim look more than a little startled.

  They booked themselves into a coaching inn, The Lion. Tim, who had risen early and drunk a good deal, went to bed, presumably to sleep, leaving John free to roam. Knowing that there was to be a gathering of gypsies he went through the town looking for anyone with brown skin and dark hair. But though he saw several there was no sign of the Gaffer, his actual quarry. In fact he was getting a little desperate when very faintly, borne on the summer breeze, there came a distant but distinctly recognisable air. Following it, the Apothecary found himself in an open courtyard beyond which lay an important-looking house, built fairly recently judging by the architecture. Here were not gathered the gypsies but rather the gentry, sitting on chairs and listening to the music of the blind fiddler and his troop.

  They were all there: Gideon, James, George, Zachariah, Giles and, of course, the Gaffer. Today the blind fiddler was giving his all, indeed he seemed to have subtly altered his repertoire to suit the different type of audience. Holding the violin in his small and beautiful hands he coaxed out of the instrument a strange sobbing melody that held the listeners transfixed. Even John, with dark thoughts on his mind, felt himself uplifted by the wild song, and applauded heartily with the rest of the audience when eventually it came to an end. Next the band played a jig and Wilkes came out with the hat and danced a few sad steps, allowing several of the ladies present to embrace him. In this ma
nner the monkey raised a large collection and scampered back to his associates with the hat bulging. John followed him at a more leisurely pace.

  The first to see him was Gideon, who shook his tambourine in greeting and said, “Greetings, Mr Rawlings. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

  “I followed your music, of course.”

  “Now that, Sir, I don’t believe. Not all the way to Redruth.”

  “No, you’re right. But I heard that you were playing here and I came along on the off chance. And now I’ve found you.” Zachariah came up. “Well, Sir, this is a surprise.”

  “Indeed. But for all that I am delighted to see you all.”

  The mandora player let his hand wander over the strings, producing a delightfully quaint little melody. “And there we all were thinking how sad it was to leave our friends behind us in Helstone. And lo and behold, most of you are here.”

  John looked casual. “I have already seen the brothers Colquite. Who else has arrived?”

  “Their three ladies are in town.”

  “Are they,” said the Apothecary, surprised.

  Zachariah changed the tune to something sentimental. “One of them was asking about you.”

  “Oh, and who might that be?”

  “Anne Anstey, of course. I think perhaps she has a swingeing passion for you.”

  “Oh God forbid.”

  “She says you saved her life one night at dinner.”

  “She was choking; I assisted her. That is all. Anyway, it was Sayce who saved the day. But I must have a word with the Gaffer, if you’ll forgive me.”

  “Naturally, Sir.”

  Zachariah bowed and retreated but John could feel his eyes boring into his back as he crossed to where the blind fiddler stood alone, turning his head to where the crowd was slowly starting to leave, chatting to one another on the way.

  “Good evening, Gaffer,” he said quietly.

  The man jumped and wheeled round. “Do I know you, Sir?”

  “Aye, you do. My name is Rawlings.”

  The fiddler chuckled quietly, a sinister sound. “Ah yes, from Helstone. How kind of you to follow me, Sir.”

  “How do you know that I did?”