Death and the Cornish Fiddler (16 page)

His beautifully moderated voice had raised a little in anger and one or two other customers gave him a glance.

John thought carefully, then decided to be forthright. “Look Tim,” he said, “it would be better to make a clean breast of it to me rather than lie to those in authority. William Trethowan is far from stupid and you could be in serious trouble if you told him a falsehood.”

Painter turned away, banging his glass down on the counter. “Another pint of your excellent ale, if you please,” was all he said.

The Apothecary had been dismissed and he knew it. But for all that he believed little of what had just been said to him. Tim Painter was hiding something, of that much he was absolutely positive.

Nicholas Kitto was the next person he should call on but he hadn’t a notion where the fellow lived. However a few discreet enquiries at The Blue Anchor, plus the passing of a coin, provided him with the necessary information. It appeared that

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youngNick was studying to be a lawyer and currently had taken articles with the firm of Penaluna Brothers. Having

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received directions as to where this was situated, theApothecary walked to Meneage Street, wondering exactly how he was going to present himself. In the event, though, the situation was made easy for him. Nicholas was just being shown out, face pale as a cloud, with the firm direction to return home.

John bowed. “My dear Sir, allow me to escort you. You are clearly unwell and need someone to walk with you.”

Nicholas, barely recognising him, gave a feeble nod. “Kind of you, Sir.”

“Not at all. I am an apothecary and used to dealing with illness. Here, take my arm.”

“Gladly,” Nicholas replied, and they set off in sad procession, crossing the road and making their way up the street that led to the church. Somewhat to the Apothecary’s surprise, they walked up to the last house in the lane, a rather large and grand affair, and here they stopped.

“Thank you so much,” the young man said weakly.

John, seizing the moment, answered, “Oh I couldn’t possibly leave you alone. I must hand you into the care of your parents.”

Nick pulled a face. “I only have a mother and I believe she might be out.”

“Then I will come and sit with you until she returns. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

Once inside, the Apothecary looked round. The house was simply but expensively furnished in tasteful colours. Indeed it was the best dwelling he had been in since his arrival in Helstone. But he had little time to take more than a cursory glance for no sooner were they within than Nicholas turned the colour of a blanched almond and collapsed into a chair, his head swinging down between his knees.

John, wishing he had his bag of physics and potions, looked round the room and saw several decanters standing on a tray. Rapidly he crossed to it and poured brandy into a glass. This he guided towards Nicholas’s lips.

The young man s
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pped and looked up, then he burst into uncontrollable tears, weeping as loudly and mournfully asa child. Clutching at John’s coat, he murmured, “Oh my God, my God. How can I face the future without her?”

This was John’s cue and he took it, the ruthless side of his nature dominant.

“You mean Diana?” he said softly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you know she’s dead?”

“Yes, yes,” sobbed the wretched youth.

“How did you know?”

“Because I found her.”

“I see,” said the Apothecary, taking a seat beside him. “Now perhaps you would like to tell me all about it.”

There was a silence broken only by the chiming of a long case clock and the sound of a carter proceeding down the lane. Finally Nicholas spoke, his voice punctuated by sobs.

“How far back do you want me to go?” he asked tremulously. “To the very beginning,” John answered him.

“The first time I met Diana was with my father.”

“But I thought you said…”

“Yes, I did. I have a father but I always thought of him as my uncle, that is until recently.”

“Are you by any chance illegitimate?” John asked.

Nick looked at him, his eyes still pouring tears. “Yes, of course I am.”

“Then who is your father?”

“I’d rather not say.”

John immediately leapt to the conclusion that the man was a local dignitary and that was why his identity was being protected.

“Very well. Please go on.”

“I first met Diana when I was twelve. She was a few years older than I was…”

Probably about twenty years, thought the Apothecary irreverently.

“Anyway she was a poor young girl from Truro and my father rescued her, brought her to Helstone and took her under his wing.”

Well aware of the meaning of that, John checked himself for being so flippant when the young fellow telling the tale was obviously in extremis.

“And where was your mother at this time?”

Nicholas made a strange noise. “My mother has put it about that I am her nephew. She went away to give birth to me and returned, according to her, with her sister’s child. My father has set her up very nicely as you can see.”

John looked about him. “Yes, it is an elegant house indeed.” A strange expression crossed Nick’s face. “My father is quite an important man, you see.”

“I imagined he must be someone of substance.”

Nicholas looked as if he was longing to go further but had come to the conclusion that discretion must rule. “He is,” was all that he said.

John decided that he must return to the matter in hand. “Tell me about yesterday.”

“I had arranged to meet Diana early in the morning. At six o’clock, before my mother rises. I was going to leave the house and hurry to The Angel.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I got there a little late; at about a quarter past. I rushed upstairs to Diana’s room and knocked on the door. There was no reply so I tried the handle and it opened and I went inside. It was dark within but the curtains were not drawn and she was lying on the bed.”

Nicholas stopped speaking and his shoulders began to heave. John, terrified that the young man was going to be seized by another fit of weeping said, “Finish your story, I beg you.”

“I…I bent over her, and then…”

“Go on.”

“One of her arms fell over the edge of the bed and swung.” He shot the Apothecary a piteous look. “Oh, Mr Rawlings, she was dead.”

And the poor chap burst into tears once more.

Chapter 15

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bout half an hour later the Apothecary left Nicholas’s house and, being so near to the church, entered in order to think quietly. Taking a seat in one of the pews, he got his ideas in order. Firstly the disappearance of Isobel Pill had now taken on a decidedly sinister aspect. With no sign of the child or her body it was beginning to look more and more like a case of abduction, despite Gypsy Orchard’s graphic description of her death by drowning. Yet, he supposed, that somewhere in the dark recesses of Loe Pool the body might still be lurking. An unpleasant thought.

His mind moved on to the death of Diana Warwick. He completely believed Nick who, it seemed to the Apothecary, would be incapable of weaving such a web of lies and deceit. Yet when asked why he hadn’t reported the death to the Constable, the poor young man had admitted that he was slightly ashamed of the liaison and had been too afraid to go to the authorities. Tim, on the other hand, was patently lying. But had he murdered her? Indeed, had she been murdered at all? Or had she died of natural causes, due, perhaps, to overexertion? John looked grim at the last thought, his mind dwelling on what exactly Diana had been. It seemed to him that she was working as a prostitute when Nicholas’s father - whoever he might be - had picked her up in Truro and set her up in a little house somewhere. Then, at some stage, she had turned from father to son, presumably when the old man tired of her.

It suddenly seemed important to John to discover this unknown person’s identity and enquire discreetly whether he had seen the lady recently. Perhaps he might be able to throw some light on the matter of her death. But in any event, the Apothecary felt extremely curious as to who the man could possibly be. But how he was going to find out was an entirely different matter.

Sighing, he rose from his pew, still thinking hard, and at that moment the church door opened and the three women — Muriel Legassick, Tabitha Bligh and Anne Anstey - entered in a bunch, talking in whispers. Something made John sit down again and, occupying a back pew as he was, behind the entrance door, he knew he hadn’t been seen. From this vantage point, he watched them with interest.

They were supposed to be cousins but he had to confess that there was no family resemblance that he could observe, as they came in wildly assorted sizes and shapes. Mrs Anstey was the largest, oozing out of the top of her gown with an amazing decolletage that made John’s head swim. She had white hair, swept up under a vast hat, beneath which her lecherous eyes rolled as she cast them round the church, taking in all the artefacts. She was most like Mrs Bligh to look at, the Apothecary supposed, but even then the resemblance was not striking. Tabitha Bligh, who fancied her chance as greatly as Anne, was staring round to see if there were any men present and, not having noticed the Apothecary, had a bored expression on her face.

A reasonable place,” said Anne Anstey loudly, “for a church.”

“It certainly is,” responded Mrs Legassick, “but then I have known it a while.” She turned to Tabitha. “Do you remember when…” Here her voice dropped to an inaudible whisper.

Tabitha giggled and inexplicably raised the hem of her garment, revealing a short but shapely leg. Meanwhile Mrs Anstey had swept down the aisle as far as the altar rail where she paused before opening it and moving up to the altar itself.

John stared aghast. Though not a particularly religious man - not typical of his time - this behaviour was quite unacceptable. And then, quite unexpectedly, he coughed, not once but twice. Every head turned and each lady froze where she stood. There was nothing for it but to rise from his pew and make a bow. They all curtseyed in return and hurried towards him.

“Oh, Mr Rawlings, you naughty man. I’m afraid we didn’t see you,” chirruped Mrs Legassick.Dying to reply, “That was obvious,” John manfully smiled and said, “Truth to tell I dropped off to sleep,” thus covering his tracks.

Mrs Anstey had hastily retreated from the altar, leaving the rail undone. She now swept forward and curtseyed once more, revealing a great deal of cleavage in the process.

“Mr Rawlings,” she said in a deep voice, “what are you doing here alone? You are usually surrounded by a horde of females.”

“How kind of you to say so,” he answered, clutching his hat to his heart.

She stared at him suspiciously, wondering whether he was being facetious. John kept a straight face.

“I was just admiring the beauties of this church,” she said, just a little uncertainly.

“It is indeed very fine. Now, ladies, will you give me the pleasure of escorting you back to the inn?”

John had the strangest feeling that he should not leave them alone in the place.

Mrs Bligh smiled up at him, her eyes vanishing as she did so in a horde of merry creases. “We are quite capable of making our own way, Sir.”

“Then in that case,” John said firmly, “I shall wait for you.” He saw mouths forming protests and raised a hand, “I absolutely insist. I shall sit down again and await you. Please continue to look round and take no notice of me whatsoever.” He sat and they continued their perambulations though the Apothecary could not help noticing that Mrs Anstey stayed well away from the high altar. Ten minutes later they were done and John led his troop out into the open countryside in which the church stood. They all paused for a moment drinking in the fresh Cornish air, looking about them to where sheep grazed in the fields, and the hills rose beyond. It was such a peaceful scene to encompass so much recent unpleasantness, yet in the Apothecary’s experience this was often the way. His mind went

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back to the beauty of Gunnersbury House, standing in its own fine grounds, and he thought for a long moment about Emilia

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and how much he missed her. At that second he doubted he would ever marry again and he felt enormously saddened.

Realising that he was standing looking glum, John rallied. “Ladies, are you ready to return?”

Mrs Anstey’s voice drowned the replies of the others. “I think, Sir, that we will call on the Colquites and the rest of our cousins. As you know, the brothers live locally. It is only a short step from here.”

For no reason that he could think of the Apothecary felt a thrill of unease. Yet there was nothing harmful about the men: the Colquites were a silly old couple, like a pair of spinsters. As for Sayce, he beamed joviality at all and sundry, while Reece was so neat, so tidy, so minute in fact, that he could pose a threat to nobody. Yet there was something about them collectively that John found disquieting. However, he thrust the notion away.

“Of course. I shall walk home alone. Good day to you.”