Death and the Cornish Fiddler (13 page)

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

T
he 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 back 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.

“He wandered off, did he?” said the tambourine player, laughing.

Taking the creature from John’s arms he handed him his instrument which the monkey began to play haphazardly. “Well, now, Wilkes, be taking my place, will “ee?”

John laughed. “Is that his name? Wilkes?”

“Yes, after that evil politician. But we meet again, Sir. As you know, I’m Gideon.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The rest of the mob have names too. The mandora player is Zachariah, and the fagotto, Giles. The kettledrums man is George and the flautist is John.”

“And your leader, the blind fiddler? What is he called?” Gideon chuckled softly. “He’s just known as the Gaffer.”

“Doesn’t he have a name?”

“Reckon he did years ago. But he’s probably forgot it.”

“Good gracious. Anyway, allow me to introduce myself. I’m John Rawlings.”

“Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Let me buy you all a pint of ale before I go.”

“Obliged to you, Sir. We’d like that, wouldn’t we boys?”

The members of the band nodded and winked to show their approval, not missing a note of the music as they did so. The Gaffer, meanwhile, was jigging about in time to his own playing, thoroughly enjoying himself. John stared at him, thinking him a jolly good fellow but wondering what it was about the chap that seemed somehow familiar. It was probably, he concluded, because the blind fiddler was a type, an unusual one but for all that a type. The sort that one associated with country fairs and gatherings, and dances organised by farming folk.

Reluctantly, because he was enjoying the music and the general atmosphere, John made to go but was stopped in the doorway by Gypsy Orchard. Her white teeth flashed disconcertingly.

“Take care of your son when he comes, Sir,” she said, then laughed, and hurried off down the street, her hips swinging, her basket still balanced on one of them, her doorknocker plait woven with flowers from the hedgerows.

John stood, shaking his head, and at that moment William Trethowan, the Constable, who had been delayed within, came out of the hostelry. He had changed since their first meeting, the Apothecary thought, now having an air of humility where first he had appeared overbearing. He approached John and cleared his throat.

“Should I tell Mrs Pill what Gypsy Orchard said, do you think, Sir?”

“I think best not. Though she’ll probably find out from someone.”

“Poor soul. I pity her. Tell me, is Mr Painter the child’s father?”

“Not he. I think he drifts through life trying to have a good time and he considered little Isobel a hindrance.”

“Um.” The Constable rubbed his chin. “Sufficient to murder her maybe?”

“Do you know,” John answered thoughtfully, “you could well be right.”

When he got back to The Angel it was to find that dinner was being served in the dining parlour. Hastily going to his room to change into something more fanciful, a black and silver ensemble somewhat reminiscent of his father’s mode of dress, John joined Elizabeth downstairs only to discover that Rose was missing.

“Where is she?” he asked, suddenly panicking.

The Marchesa smiled reassuringly. “She was tired out, poor little thing. I put her to bed and she fell asleep immediately.”

“But she hasn’t dined,” said John, genuinely worried, unaware of how amusing he looked in his fine fancy rig with such a perturbed face.

“Oh my dear, look at you! You possess all the qualities of a fine mother hen. A missed meal won’t kill the child. Lack of sleep is far more dangerous.”

The Apothecary grinned sheepishly. “You’re right. Being a sole parent is very difficult.”

“I’ve told you before — you will remarry.”

“Not until the day you say yes, Elizabeth.”

She gave no answer but tapped him lightly with her fan, then she took his arm and went in to dine.

Mrs Pill was absent and so were Mrs Legassick and Mrs Bligh. Anne Anstey, however, was present, sitting alone. She gave him a rapturous smile as he entered but turned her nose up at the sight of Elizabeth. The four male cousins, who were not staying at The Angel, had come in anyway and were tucking in heartily to their vittals, particularly the melon-faced man who considered himself a sure card and was, as usual, holding forth between chews. Diana Warwick, looking ravishing in a gown of palest blue, also sat alone, wistfully sipping soup. John made much of bowing to her but gave only the smallest salutation to Mrs Anstey. Elizabeth, inclining her head graciously to the assembled company, allowed John to help her into her chair, then sat serenely while he ordered wine.

“Mrs Pill must be resting,” she said in an undertone. “Clearly, yes.”

But they were not able to pursue this topic of conversation for at that moment the door of the dining parlour was flung open to reveal Tim Painter, looking for all the world as if he had stepped straight out of a fashion plate, his dark hair tied back in an exquisite bow, his lilac suit glittering with embroidery in deep blue. He bowed to the entire room.

“Good evening,” he said, his delicious voice filling the empty corners. Then he saw Miss Warwick and in one stride had arrived at her table. “Madam, may I join you?”

Nicholas Kitto or no Nicholas Kitto, Diana was clearly attracted to the gorgeous man standing before her.

“Mrs Pill is not with you, Sir?”

“No, she’s taken to her bed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Yes, of course you may. I shall be pleased with the company.”

“Then I will gladly oblige.”

And snatching up her hand which had been resting on the table top, Tim kissed it long and lingeringly.

The entire room, which had gone silent during this exchange, now burst into conversation.

“Well, I reckon he’s onto a winner,” said Sayce, the melon man, and burst into guffaws of laughter despite the fact that he still had food in his mouth.

“Shush,” whispered one of the Colquites.

“Damned if I will,” Sayce roared, and wiped his eyes with his napkin, meanwhile stealing a glance round the room to see if others were watching him.

Elizabeth raised a brow at John. “Tim wasted no time I see,” she whispered.

“He’s a randy lad for sure,” the Apothecary murmured back. “I wonder how far he will get.”

John raised a suave eyebrow back at her. “Her heart is supposedly taken by another.”

Elizabeth leant forward. “Really? Who?”

“A young local blade called Nicholas Kitto. You saw him depart - at least I think you did - from Loe Pool this afternoon.”

The Marchesa’s eyes glistened. “Tell me all that you know.”

“Not much really. Simply that Miss Warwick - who I would estimate is several years his senior — met the young fellow somewhere or other and they have set up a clandestine affair.”