Death and the Cornish Fiddler (2 page)

John rode along beside Rose, thinking what a beautiful daughter he had, of how Emilia had been in the early stages of pregnancy when she had been killed, robbing him of both his wife and his second child. He had a sudden longing to see her grave again, to kneel beside it and talk to her. He knew then that only a change in Elizabeth’s feeling towards him could make him stay in Devon much longer.

He turned to Rose. “You love being in the country, don’t you my darling?”

“Yes, Papa. But I like it where Grandpapa lives too.”

“Do you want to go and stay with him for a while when we get back?”

His daughter looked at him solemnly. “Best I’d like it if we came to live in Devon.”

“I don’t think that is going to be possible.”

“Then Grandpapa’s would be nice.”

How easily pleased she was and how amenable; characteristics inherited from her mother, no doubt. He looked at Rose and she at him, and suddenly he saw Emilia peeping out at him, and was glad and sorry simultaneously. Glad that in a way his wife was still alive, that she had passed on her looks and her character to her daughter; sorry that he was going to be constantly reminded of how much he had loved her.

He slowed his horse. “Shall we go back now?”

“Let’s have a race first.”

“Very well.”

He held his wayward mount back so that Rose won easily, laughing and tossing her hair about and smiling at him.

“That was lovely. Papa.”

“Come along, sweetheart. It’s time to go.”

“What about Mrs Elizabeth? Should we wait for her?”

John gave a wry smile. “I don’t think so. She’ll probably be some hours yet.”

They made their way upwards through the height of the morning, past trees burgeoning with heavy buds, and bluebells not yet out but already showing their colour. Once more John felt uplifted by the essence of spring, and breathing in the scented air, relished every second. It would indeed be difficult to return to London but he knew that it was an inevitability that he had to face.

Later that evening, after he had seen Rose safely tucked into bed, he broached the subject with Elizabeth. As with all spring nights it had grown a little cold and she had ordered a fire lit in the parlour where they sat after dinner, both reading. He, looking at her covertly, thought how comfortable he was with her, how at ease, and knew that he was falling in love all over again. Which, given the loneliness he had felt since the death of his wife, was understandable. He fell to thinking where it was all going to lead, trying to imagine her living in London and not really succeeding.

She looked up suddenly. “What did you say?”

“Nothing. I didn’t speak.”

“Yes you did. You muttered something under your breath.”
 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“John, what is it that’s bothering you?” she asked in that frank way of hers.

He decided to be honest. “Elizabeth, I feel that I ought to get back to London. I’ve been away long enough. I’ve a life to lead there. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do,” she answered. “A man of your character could only stay inactive for so long. When do you plan to go?”
 

“In about two weeks.”

“Not before?”

“No. As you know it’s Rose’s birthday on the 28th of April and I am certain she would enjoy spending it here.”

“And so she shall. I shall give a party for her and invite some other children. And John…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve a mind to go to Cornwall shortly and I would consider it an honour if you would come with me.”

“How could I refuse an invitation put like that?”

Elizabeth’s scarred face smiled, making her suddenly beautiful. “Very easily I imagine. But I have a motive in going. “

“Which is?”

“I want to visit Helstone and see some ancient dances they perform there.”

“Dances?” asked John curiously.

“Yes. They’re both as old as time; in fact one is certainly pagan. That one is called the Furry and the other Hal-an-Tow.”
 

“How do you spell that?”

Elizabeth did so, pronouncing Tow to rhyme with No. John listened carefully.

“Probably originally Heel-and-Toe, don’t you think?”

“You’re likely right. But it is the primitiveness of the occasion that appeals to me. The dance has its roots in pre- Christianity. Though the church wisely embraced it, it was originally to welcome spring. Don’t you find that exciting, John?”

Not as exciting as I find you, the Apothecary thought, though he nodded and smiled enthusiastically.

“The Furry celebrates an expression of joy at the triumph of Life over Death. It is one of the oldest customs preserved in the country and I have always promised myself that I would go and see it on some occasion. And to watch it with you can only enhance the pleasure.”

What a way she had with her, John considered, taking in her coil of dark hair and the glance of her eyes. But he kept his voice quite even as he answered, “Then I will accompany you gladly, Madam. I am sure that London can wait another three weeks or so.”

She smiled. “Good. The dance is always held on the 8th of May. So we’ll leave on the third if that is convenient.”

“And what about Rose? Should we take her?”

“Of course. It may be the only chance she ever gets to see the Furry.”

“Who knows?” John answered, and spread his hands.

Chapter 2

T
he Marchesa’s coach was drawn up outside the front door and several servants were hurrying backwards and forwards loading the top with luggage. John, who normally would have lent them an unconventional helping hand, was on this occasion fussing over his daughter who was standing, large-eyed, wrapped in a travelling cloak, a hat on her head, a favourite toy clutched in her hand.

“Are we going to Helstone, Papa?” she asked for the twentieth time.

“Yes, darling. We are going to see the Furry Dance.”

“Does everyone dress in furs?” She giggled, laughing a child’s noisy laugh at her own joke.

John smiled obediently. “It’s also known as the Floral Dance. But Furry is its proper name.”

He turned, as at that moment Elizabeth swept out, looking dramatic in an enormous feathered hat, the rest of her ensemble a mysterious shade of green, very elaborately finished. John felt that she was dressing in accordance with the seasons, preparing herself, no doubt, for the primitive pleasures of the dances they were going to see.

She smiled at the Apothecary and his child. “We leave in ten minutes so make your final preparations.”

“How long is the journey going to take us?” he asked.

About eight hours if we stop for dinner. The coachman says there is a reasonable track as far as Falmouth but it still means crossing Bodmin Moor.”

“What about Dartmoor?”

“He says the road, or what laughingly passes for one, circumnavigates that.”

And what do we do after Falmouth?”

“Pick our way across country.”

John pulled a face. “I hope Rose is going to be all right.” Elizabeth gave him a rather disapproving stare. “My dear friend, you are not attempting to mollycoddle the child, are you?””No, of course not.”

“Then consider that she will have your pistol and mine to protect her, to say nothing of the coachman and Rufus the guard. She will be utterly safe I assure you.”

“And as I remember you are rather a deadly shot, Madam.” Elizabeth raised a dark eyebrow. “You recall that, do you?”

“I recall every detail,” he answered solemnly.

Just for a moment the Marchesa looked disconcerted and John knew that she was remembering, amongst other things, the one occasion when they had so nearly made love. Then she blanked her features, even though just for a second she had smiled a secret smile.

“Most retentive of you, Sir.”

“I am famous for my sharp memory, Madam.”

“How fortunate,” she said, and went back into the house. Rose, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, looked at her father. “Is Mrs Elizabeth cross, Papa?”

“No, my darling,” John answered, and he too smiled. He turned to his daughter. “Would you like to use the water closet before we go?”

“Yes, please.”

“Right.” And he led her away to the somewhat smelly cubicle into which she insisted on going alone.

A few minutes later she emerged and she and John boarded the coach, sitting expectantly side-by-side, awaiting the arrival of the woman known to Rose as Mrs Elizabeth. With a servant accompanying her, the Marchesa appeared and, kissing her hand to the retainers who had gathered to bid her farewell, she, too, got on board.

“You’re not taking a lady’s maid?” asked John surprised.

“No, I shall have to care for myself,” she answered.

The coachman gave a crack of his whip and started the team and they went down the drive at a good pace, then turned towards Okehampton and the mysterious county of Cornwall that lay beyond.

Elizabeth had changed drivers since John had last travelled with her to Gunnersbury, her new man being young and extremely handsome.

“What’s his name?” he asked, indicating the fellow with a pointing finger.

“Jed Ryall. Why?”

“I was just wondering what happened to your other chap.”

“He took a post with Lady Cadogan, who called on me one day and coveted him. I believe he was required for both driving duties and other things.”

John looked at her quizzically, saying “Ah.”

Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Lady Cadogan is a widow and on her own. Does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly. If I were you I’d keep young Ryall under lock and key though.”

“Oh I will, don’t you worry,” Elizabeth said airily.

They stopped at Okehampton for refreshment and comfort, then made their way to Launceston, where they crossed the border into the brooding county of Cornwall. Now the terrain grew rough and wild.

“Is this Bodmin Moor?” John asked the Marchesa.

“Indeed it is and a bleak and lonely place. They say a wild beast wanders about, slaying cattle and sheep. That’s why I brought an extra shotgun.” And she indicated the toughlooking individual whom John had noticed clambering up to sit beside Jed.

Are there any inns?”

“One or two. Do you want to stop?”

“Yes, for a short while. I could do with a drink.”

Elizabeth put her head out of the window. “Jed, can you draw up at the next inn?”

“That would be Jamaica Inn, Ma’am. I wouldn’t recommend it,” John heard him shout back.

“Why not?”

“It’s a haunt of smugglers, Ma’am.”

“Then I insist on seeing it. John, are you game?”

“What about Rose? Will she be safe there?”

“We can leave her in the coach under the protection of Jed and Rufus.”

“Rose, would you mind that?” John asked, but the child made no answer and, looking closely, the Apothecary could see that she had fallen fast asleep.

A few minutes later the coach rattled over the cobbles outside a wayside hostelry. Looking round John saw a two- storey slate-tiled building with another construction at right- angles to the main part. It had a sinister, sombre air as if it could well hold the secret to dark deeds. The Apothecary hesitated but Elizabeth was already at the carriage door.

“Well, are we going in?”

He was about to ask if she thought it safe but could vividly imagine her snort of derision. Instead he opened the door and, getting out, handed the Marchesa down.

They entered a long low room, a fire burning in an inglenook to their right. Round this were huddled various figures, all appearing to be in a somnolent state. Yet despite this, John noticed that eyes appeared to open momentarily and a cough rang out, as did a prolonged fart. Automatically, he took Elizabeth’s arm and tucked it through his.

“Can I help you?” growled a rough voice from a dark recess on the left.

Peering, John perceived a wisp of a fellow standing behind a bar, looking as out of place as it was possible to be. In fact so slight was the man that it seemed as if even Elizabeth could have thrown him with ease. Never the less, he was the owner of the voice from hell.

Somewhat startled, John replied, “A glass of Bordeaux and a glass of… “ He turned to Elizabeth.

“Claret, if you please.”

“Claret.”

He was half expecting the wisp to say that they didn’t have such things in stock but the gravel voice answered, “Take a seat and I’ll bring you your order.”

Elizabeth and John sat in a dark corner and, exchanging glances, absorbed the extraordinary atmosphere. And then, most unexpectedly, one of the figures snoozing by the fire stood up and, producing a fiddle, started to play. Instantly everything changed. His fellow sleepers shook themselves awake and from hidden recesses more instruments appeared. Suddenly the air was full of sound as the fiddle joined with a flute, a drum and a tambourine.