Death and the Cornish Fiddler

by Deryn Lake

  In his mind he could see his daughter, sitting in the bucket with the broken rope, greeting Wilkes with a joy that only a true animal lover knows. And he could picture the monkey, soft and compliant, allowing Rose to tie the useless cord to him.

  When he felt he had allowed enough time to elapse, the Apothecary, aided by Gideon, started to haul on the ancient handle and the bucket appeared in view. Inside sat Wilkes, shivering with fright but for all that triumphant, holding the piece of broken rope in his withered little claws. John immediately seized it and started to pull Rose up by hand, regardless of the rope burns on his palms.

  And then, eventually, he was rewarded by a flash of red hair some thirty feet below him. He sobbed, he couldn’t help himself, so that when finally his daughter came to the surface, pale and shivering and clutching a cotton nightgown around her small body, sitting in a bucket as big as she was, he was weeping with sheer emotion.

  She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh Papa. I was so frightened.”

  “My darling girl, I swear you will never suffer anything like that again.”

  “They were chasing me and I hid in the bucket, but the rope broke and I crashed down.”

  “Sweetheart, when was this?”

  “Last night, I think. But Papa…”

  “Yes?”

  “Isobel Pill is down there. That’s where she must have fallen.”

  The futility of all the searching, all the heartbreak looking for Kathryn’s daughter, bore in on John and he sighed a great sigh.

  “Poor child,” he said, and cuddled Rose close.

  They brought Isobel up at sunset. Tim Painter, looking suitably grim, witnessed the scene but found it hard to identify the body, other than for the dress she was wearing. She had lost the skin off her fingers and every bit of the child’s colour had drained away. Her face, already showing signs of the inevitable swelling which took place on contact with the air, was devoid of eyebrows, whilst the pigmentation of her eyes was gone. In their place were two glazed orbs gazing fishily into infinity.

  “Cover her up and get her coffined fast,” ordered the Constable wearily. “She’ll swell up like a bladder in half an hour.”

  At that Tim made a retching sound and hurried out of the courtyard and into the street. John, too exhausted to go and help him, merely turned his head away as the last mortal remains of Isobel Pill were removed from The Angel.

  Inside was his daughter, safely ensconced with Mrs King who had promised not to leave her in any circumstances whatever. Outside another child, not so lucky, was being taken away for burial. Another day was at long last over.

  Chapter 32

  Two days later the public stage left for Truro. This was a great event in Helstone and many people, especially those with relatives travelling to the big town, turned out to see it, though as yet the stable yard of The Angel was empty except for the coach itself, which was slowly being prepared for departure. This was scheduled for nine o’clock in the morning, but by eight John and Rose Rawlings, together with Tim Painter, looking incredibly handsome and finely dressed, were ready and finishing their breakfast.

  “So you’re off to see your lady friend, John,” stated Tim, putting down his newspaper.

  “I am going to call on Elizabeth but as you know I’m actually bound for London,” the Apothecary answered primly. “Oh yes, of course, you did say,” Tim said, grinning.

  The Apothecary would have liked to have asked him what he was smirking about but decided against it in view of Rose’s present company, full of ears and questions as she was. Looking at her he thought that his daughter had recovered completely from her ordeal, reinforcing his belief that the child had inherited his own resilience. He dropped a swift kiss on the top of her head.

  “You’re fond of her,” said Tim, still smiling.

  “Yes, indeed I am.”

  “I wonder if I’ll have any children, legitimate that is.”

  “I doubt you could ever settle with a woman long enough.”

  “I don’t know. I spent years with Kathryn - in a way. And now she’s rewarded me. I’m going to be rich.”

  Fortunately this line of conversation came to an abrupt halt as through the open window John saw the Gaffer, complete with all his band, haggling over the hiring of a cart. He turned to Tim.

  “Please keep Rose under your closest eye, Tim. I just want to step outside and say farewell to the blind fiddler.”

  “Very well - but don’t be too long. I wish to say certain adieus of my own.”Out in the yard momentum was beginning to gather. One or two passengers, complete with anxious relatives had arrived, while the horses — four jolly looking beasts — were being backed into the traces. John stood for a moment, watching the fiddler, thinking about what he had seen three nights before when the man had proved quite categorically that he was not blind at all. Silently he went up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

  The Gaffer jumped and whirled round. “Who is it?”

  “John Rawlings, but I think you know that.”

  The fiddler made no response and the Apothecary continued, “May I have a brief word in private?”

  “Well, Sir, I’m right busy with organising the cart to take us away.”

  “I’m sure that one of the others will be able to manage. What I have to say will only take a few minutes. Come.” And John put his hand beneath the Gaffer’s elbow and started to lead him away.

  Young Gideon came up, bearing the monkey. “Everything all right, Gaffer?”

  “Everything is well. Just tell the others to offer the man half of what he wants and we might reach a compromise.”

  Drawn by John’s persuading hand, the fiddler stepped into The Angel and into a small snug, empty at this early hour of the day.

  “Take a seat, Gaffer,” said the Apothecary. “There’s one right behind you.”

  The fiddler sat down and turned his black spectacles in John’s direction. “Now, what was it you wanted to say?”

  “I was in Meneage Street the other night and I saw you. You were looking for Wilkes the monkey.”

  The Gaffer nodded but did not reply.

  “I won’t waste your time, nor mine,” John continued, the ruthless side of his nature suddenly showing itself. “It was perfectly obvious to me that you could see. Gaffer, tell me, why do you adopt this pose? Is it to gain sympathy, perhaps?”

  Very slowly the fiddler removed his glasses and gave John a long dark look from deep blue eyes. “You’re a clever young man, aren’t you?”

  “Not really. It was pure luck that made me guess about you.”

  “But I’ve noticed you watching me from time to time with such a shrewd expression on your face. I thought perhaps you had worked it out long since.”

  “No, I was deceived. And yet I had the feeling that you were hiding something from the real world, and I’m not referring to your blindness.”

  The Gaffer laughed and John saw that underneath all the hair and grime he was really quite attractive. “Well, as you’re such a curious fellow I’ll tell you my story - except that I’ve already told it to you.”

  The Apothecary was frankly amazed. “You have? When?”

  “That night in Redruth. You remember me mentioning a certain game of cards which was played many years ago? A game of cards in which the Marquis of Dorchester lost everything but his title and disappeared that very night?”

  “Yes, I do,” John answered, as he recollected the incident. “Well, I used to be the Marquis before I was presumed dead and my cousin inherited. That night - the night I lost everything - I went away to blow my brains out but instead I picked up my violin and walked out of London and put the past behind me.”

  John sat amazed, not having anticipated anything quite so dramatic.

  “I’d had quite a talent for the instrument as a child and, indeed, as a young man. I went in to my home to find a pistol but instead I saw my violin. The rest you know.”

  “What an extraordinary tale,” said John. T
hen he added, almost as an afterthought, “You know that Lord Lyle is dead, by the way?”

  “Oh yes,” said the fiddler, and he chuckled. “You see, I killed him.”

  John was totally bereft of words. He sat staring at the Gaffer and for once in his lifetime could think of nothing to say.

  “Let me explain why. I thought for many years that he was another dull citizen with a penchant for gambling. But I learned in Redruth how wrong I could be. It was there that I discovered that he was the head of a coven, a disciple of Satan. He used that power to win everything off me at cards that night. But that’s all in the past. What concerns us now is the present. I hear a lot as people think I am blind and talk freely before me. And I heard in the alehouse that your daughter had been snatched. Knowing it was on his orders I went up to his house and strangled him with a scarf. And good riddance.” John shook his head. “Are you going to report these facts to the Constable?”

  “Are you?” asked the Gaffer, and in that question turned everything that John believed in on its head.

  “No,” the Apothecary answered after a long pause.

  “Well, let’s say no more about it.”

  “I’ve just one question. Why was Lord Lyle’s house empty?”

  “Because he was afraid. He was aware that it was only a matter of time before he was unmasked and probably arrested. He had sent the servants on to one of his many other residences. The rest of the coven have scattered and gone.”

  “But why was he particularly scared now? What caused that?”

  “Because, my dear young friend, I wrote and told him that I knew. I thought he was about to kill your child and it was too much for me to bear. So I sent him a letter and warned him off - and I signed it Dorchester.”

  John stood up. “May I ask your future plans?”

  “I shall take to the road again, playing hither and thither.” A blue eye gave a slow wink. “It’s a good thing I learned the violin, isn’t it?”

  “A very good thing indeed,” John answered quiedy

  Half an hour later he entered the coach with Rose beside him. As usual, it was jam packed with people, some sitting on the roof, others beside the driver. Tim Painter, who had made much of bidding farewell to Gypsy Orchard, squeezed in beside a large lady and politely did his best to bow in the cramped conditions, a salutation which she returned with much interest. Meanwhile the gypsy was calling something to John who couldn’t hear her and stood up and lowered the window.

  “Reckon Rose was protected by her charm,” she said, giving him a look from her clearwater eyes.

  John turned to his daughter and grinned. “Reckon you’re right,” he said.

  And then he saw something and his blood turned to ice. Coming into the inn yard, clad from head to toe in deepest black, was that most reprehensible of women, Anne Anstey. Large and pale, her lecherous gaze for once dark and resentful, she headed purposefully for the coach and raised her hand. The Apothecary stared in pure horror as she opened her fingers to display what lay within them. It was a waxen image of himself, there could be no doubt of it. Drawing back her lips in a travesty of a smile she made to wring its neck but was forestalled by the gypsy woman, who merely made a gesture with her hand and watched as the poppet fell to the ground from whence she scooped it up immediately. John, for no reason that he could possibly name, felt in his pocket and discovered in its depths the golden hare that Elizabeth had given him. Drawing it out he held it aloft. The effect on Mrs Anstey was quite remarkable. She turned away and was suddenly lost in the crowd who had gathered to watch the coach depart, vanishing totally from his sight.

  “Till we meet again,” called the gypsy, and the last view John had of her was waving one of her long tanned arms over her head, and laughing.

  Two days later, travelling slowly and doing a little sight-seeing as they went, John and Rose arrived in Exeter, where they hired a man with a trap to take them to the great house that towered above the river Exe, the home of Elizabeth, Marchesa di Lorenzi.

  Even as he approached it the Apothecary thought of all that had taken place within its walls, of the friendship that most remarkable of women had shown him, of the love of which she was capable but yet would never admit to.

  He turned to Rose. “We can’t stay here long, my dear. We must get back to London and to reality.”

  “Won’t you miss Mrs Elizabeth, Papa?”

  “A little,” he answered.

  But in fact he would miss her desperately, finding life without her presence empty and dull. Was it his fate to be alone? he wondered. Was he destined to meet and fall in love with wonderful women only for them to be snatched away from him?

  The trap dropped them outside the front door, situated as it was behind rising steps on either side. But no Elizabeth came out to greet them, only a footman answered John’s suddenly urgent ringing of the bell. He bowed before them, and John suddenly felt very small and unimportant, covered with the stains of travel, his little daughter similarly grubby standing beside him.

  “Mr Rawlings, Sir. We have been expecting you.”

  “Thank you. Is Lady Elizabeth in?”

  “No, Sir. Lady Elizabeth has been unwell and has gone to Bath to take the waters. She left instructions should you arrive that you could stay as long as you pleased. Kindly enter, Sir.” Suddenly everything seemed very sad and somehow dismal. John shook his head.

  “Thank you, but no. My daughter and I will return to Exeter. We catch the London stage tomorrow. Please give my kindest regards to her ladyship when she returns.”

  “She will be sorry she missed you, Sir. Do you have any message for her?”

  “Just send her my warmest greetings and thanks. Come Rose.” He was just in time to catch the trap’s owner who was turning his vehicle in the carriage sweep.

  “Exeter, if you please, my friend.”

  “Lady of the house not there, Sir?”

  “No,” the Apothecary answered sadly, “I’m afraid she wasn’t.”

  “Never mind, Papa,” said Rose. “I feel certain you will see her again.”

  The Apothecary hugged her, realising that in his daughter lay Emilia’s sound good sense and sweetness of nature. “Yes,” he replied slowly, “perhaps it is fated that some day I will meet Elizabeth once more.”

  And with those words the trap completed its turn and John and Rose Rawlings set off for London and all that lay ahead of them.

  Historical Note

  John Rawlings, Apothecary, really lived. He was born circa 1731, though his actual parentage is somewhat shrouded in mystery. He became a Yeoman of the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries on 13th March, 1755, giving his address as 2, Nassau Street, Soho. This links him with H D Rawlings Ltd. who were based at the same address over a hundred years later. Their ancient soda syphons are now collectors” items and are sold on the internet. Helston, that quaint old Cornish town, is, of course, the place where the Furry or Floral Dance is performed annually. I went there in January, 2005, and had a good look round, staying at The Angel Hotel - formerly known as The Angel Inn - and was very intrigued by the ancient well, now part of the saloon bar, which has been built over the old stabling area. As yet I haven’t seen the Floral Dance but I intend to put this right in May, 2006. It is heartening to know that these ancient traditions continue in this computer-ridden age.