Death and the Cornish Fiddler (24 page)

“Where is Mrs Anstey?” he began.

A look shot between the duo together with an audible gigg
^le
-

“She has retired,” said Mrs Bligh, barely suppressing a laugh. “She had a megrim.”

“Dear me. And what of Mr Painter? Did he have a megrim too?”

Now they laughed aloud. “Oh, Mr Rawlings, you are so droll,” said Mrs Legassick, wiping her eyes. “What will you think of next?”

“Who knows, Madam,” John replied, laying a card. “Whatever fancy catches me, I daresay.” He changed the subject. “By the way, do either of you ladies know the name of a great house belonging to Lord Lyle? It stands just outside the town.”

Was it his imagination or did a frisson run between the two of them? After a few seconds silence Mrs Legassick spoke. “I know the place of which you speak but I do not recall its name.”

“It’s called Tryon House I believe,” said Tabitha Bligh.

He looked at her and decided to change the subject.

“And how are you enjoying your stay in Redruth?” he asked.

“Very well, thank you Sir. It is a most pleasant town.”

“Which reminds me,” said John, laying another card but at the same time watching their expressions. “I saw two of your many cousins, namely Herbert Reece and Eustace Sayce, tonight.”

“Oh really?” said Mrs Bligh. “And where were they then?”

“Strangely enough they were going into Tryon Place,” John answered, and was rewarded by the look of frozen horror that appeared on both their faces.

Chapter 22

T
hat night John slept particularly heavily and woke late. Putting a hand out to seize and look blearily at his travelling clock he saw that it was after ten and that he had missed his favourite meal of the day. Even getting out of bed was an effort, in fact every muscle in his body ached, as if he had been given a severe kicking. Yet he had done nothing more strenuous than play cards with the ladies and drink a little wine. Feeling ghastly, John washed and dressed and went downstairs. There was nobody about and his need to take some fresh air was critical. Hoping he did not look as bad as he felt, the Apothecary made his way into the street.

The town was particularly deserted and he walked along aimlessly, then found that his steps were leading him towards Tryon House, almost of their own accord. Suddenly he decided on the reckless venture of taking a closer look at the place. Of making an attempt to get into the grounds to see where it was that the hooded figure had been heading. As so often happened with the Apothecary, action followed immediately on the thought and he quickened his pace, walking with more determination.

As he made his way he thought of the word uttered by Gypsy Orchard. She had said Wicca and had appeared quite nervous at the sight of the Colquite Brothers. Could they really, thought John, be involved in magic? Apparently such a pair of harmless old duffers, they seemed stupid more than anything else. But was this an act? he wondered. Did their bland silly old-man act mask something far more sinister?

At last he was heading out of town and Tryon House appeared in the distance. Once again, the Apothecary gazed on its pillared entrance and the large courtyard that stood before it. Yesterday it had been packed with people while the Cornish fiddler played, but today it stood empty other than for a stable boy listlessly sweeping away the signs of recent habitation. Boldly, John approached.”Good morning, my man. Is Lord Lyle within?”

“No, Sir. He’m be gone for his morning ride.”

“Oh really. Whereabouts did he head?”

“Out to the countryside beyond. Shall I say you called, Sir?”

“Yes,” John called over his departing shoulder. “Tell him John Rawlings wants to see him.”

But the Apothecary was running, seized by an idea and determined to put it into action. He sped back to The Lion and round to the stables, where an hostler was idling round in the yard, sucking a straw and whistling.

“Quick,” called John. “Saddle up my horse, would you?” Looking slightly astonished, the man complied and fifteen minutes later the Apothecary was mounted and making his way out of town. How he would know Lord Lyle when he saw him, he had no idea. But he was determined to find the fellow and somehow or other get into conversation with him.

Countryside lay all round Redruth, it being a small town, though considerably bigger than Helstone. Further, there were several horsemen out and about and the Apothecary was beginning to think he had taken on a hopeless task when he spotted two riders in the distance. Somehow he knew that one was Lord Lyle, the lucky man who had won Tryon House gaming at cards. Indeed, he recognised the fellow from the crowd of people listening to the music on the previous evening. So certain was he that he had found his quarry that he urged his horse into a canter. However, he had not taken into consideration the temperament of the beast. Liking to go at its own pace, the grey horse with the uncertain eye sped off into a gallop leaving the Apothecary to be tossed about like a ship in a gale. Clinging on for all he was worth he shot past the two men, giving them a frantic look as he did so. They laughed, he heard them do it, but for all that they set off in pursuit, presumably to try and slow the horse up. And then the creature stopped short and John went sailing over its head, landing in the grass below with a thud.

“Are you all right?” called a voice, and John, looking up, saw that a tall man with a young but worldly face was dismounting and coming to his side.

“I think so,” he answered, heaving himself into a sitting position and feeling his arms and legs.

“You took a nasty tumble, Sir,” said the other, also getting off his mount.

“I’m afraid I’m not a very good rider.”

“Not local then?”

“No, I come from London.”

“Well, let’s get you on your feet and see what damage has a been done.”

They put a hand under each arm and hauled the Apothecary upwards.

“Can you stand?” asked the worldly man.

“Just about.”

“Nothing broken then.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

And then came the stroke of good fortune that John had been hoping for. The second man turned to the tall one and said, “Should we take him back to the house, my Lord?”

“Why not? I could do with a bit of company. Here, you get on my horse. I’ll ride that grey beast.”

And the next thing John knew was that his foot was in the stirrup and he had been half-lifted by the second man, presumably a servant, into his lordship’s saddle. With the effortless ease of someone who had been riding almost as soon as he could walk. Lord Lyle swung himself into the saddle, pulled the reins tightly, and said, “Don’t you play tricks on me, you brute,” before setting off at a trot towards civilisation.

Half an hour later they were back, seated in the drawing room, while several male servants fussed round the Apothecary looking for injuries. Meanwhile milord, draped languidly in a great chair, observed the process and sipped a morning glass of sherry. “You’ve had a lucky escape, my friend.”

John, thinking to himself that his lordship would never know how lucky, said, “I must thank you, Sir, for your gallant rescue. It was immeasurably kind of you. Allow me to present myself. My name is John Rawlings, Apothecary of Shug Lane, Piccadilly.”

Antony Lyle,” answered the other carelessly. “Would you like a glass of sherry?”

“Very much. Thank you.”

Lord Lyle waved a lazy arm. “Pour one, Simmons. And you can refill my glass at the same time.” He turned to John and laughed. “An apothecary, eh? Well, have you broken anything?” John felt his arms and legs once more. “No, I can honestly say that I’m in one piece, though I’ll be many shades of purple tomorrow.”

“A fine sight indeed. Good thing that I happened to be around. Where are you staying?”

“At The Lion.”

His lordship raised his brows and nodded, making no comment. “And what is your purpose in visiting Redruth?” Before waiting for a reply, he went on, “I come here for a month or two now and then. But our family seat is in Worcester and naturally I have a town house.”

John decided to be daring. “Is it true that you won this place gambling?”

Lyle let out a short laugh. “Perfectly. I was eighteen at the time and had staked all I had on the turn of a card. Fortunately it worked my way and I won everything, leaving the Marquis of Dorchester minus the place.”

“But surely he had other homes to go to?”

An extremely sly grin crossed Lord Lyle’s face. “He not only wagered this house.”

“Poor devil. You mean you took everything?”

“Everything. People said I had the luck of Satan himself that night.”

He laughed robustly and John, looking at him, thought the man a typical example of his class, a younger member of the aristocracy who would gamble his life away to relieve his perpetual boredom.

“You certainly seem to have done. Was Lady Lyle pleased with your new homes, Sir?”

Milord shrugged. “She moves from one to the other as she wishes, usually choosing a house where I am not resident.”

The Apothecary felt faintly amused that anyone could live such a shallow life. “You do not get on?” he asked boldly.

His lordship let out a snort. “Get on! We detest one another. She is thin and simple and was foisted on me by my father. I can’t stand the sight of her.”

“I take it there are no children?”

“There’s one sickly boy who follows his mother around as if he were tied to her. And that is that. I have provided the heir and done my duty.”

He held out his sherry glass which was duly refilled, crossed his ankles and grinned at the Apothecary. John, peering at him over the rim of his glass, wondered just how much emotion he actually felt about his current situation.

Lord Lyle seemed to come to a sudden decision. “I like you,” he said. “Come and look over my estate.”

Knowing that all of this had once belonged to the Marquis of Dorchester, John stepped out of a huge pair of French doors and into a vast garden. It was laid out in terraces full of yew hedges, rose borders brimming with buds, while over the balustrades climbed clematis, much of it in full bloom. A pillared folly, in which stood iron garden furniture, lay before them. This, in turn, led onto an alley whose lush green grass was bordered by Irish yews. Lord Lyle, glancing at his companion’s awe-struck face, led the way down to an ornamental lake on the banks of which was moored a little rowing boat.

On the far bank were some ruins, standing dark and strangely mysterious, contrasting with the beauty of the rest of the surroundings.

“What are they?” asked John, pointing.

“All that’s left of Roskilly Abbey. Do you want to have a closer look?”

“Yes. I’d like to see.”

“We’ll go by boat then. It will be quicker than walking.”

They climbed into the small vessel and John, almost automatically and despite the aching in his limbs, picked up the oars. Meanwhile milord dipped his fingers idly in the water and hummed to himself as they skimmed the surface. Coming to the other bank John saw a mooring post and a jetty, and somehow or other managed to scramble out and secure the craft. Lord Lyle, taking his time and clearly conserving his energy, followed at his own pace.

The Abbey had obviously been big and important in its day but the death blow delivered by Henry VIII meant that now only a skeleton of its former glory stood to tell the tale of a once proud history. John, looking up at what had been the chapter house, walked along decayed and deserted cloisters, staring at the remains of the great church. And then he had an optical illusion. He could have sworn that a hooded figure dressed in a monk’s habit had passed quickly round the corner of the church and vanished from his sight. He stared, then looked round for his lordship, who had sat down in the sunshine, taking his ease, his back turned. John stood uncertainly for a moment then made his way to where he had seen the apparition.

There was nothing and nobody there. The ruins of the church were deserted and empty. All that John could sense was a faint smell, like incense, permeating the brickwork. Yet there was nothing surprising about that, he thought. After all, this had been the place where the monks had prayed. Yet the ghost - if indeed it had been such - had made him uneasy. Involuntarily, there in the bright sunshine, something walked over John’s grave.

He made his way back to where Lord Lyle, apparently asleep, sat leaning against the stonework, eyes closed. He opened one as the Apothecary approached.

“Like it?” he asked.

“Yes, it’s a very fine ruin. Tell me, is it haunted?”

“Zounds, yes. The locals won’t come near the place. There’s talk of ghostly processions of monks, chanting and carrying lanthorns. It has a terrible reputation. Why?”

“I thought I saw something.”

“Did you, by Jove. Well, you aren’t the first and you certainly won’t be the last. What was it?”

“A hooded figure wearing a habit.”

Lord Lyle looked wise. “That would be Brother Mark. They say he was killed when Henry VIII ordered the Abbey to close. He died fighting before the altar, so legend has it.”

“Oh, I see.”

But the Apothecary was not happy. The story of Brother Mark gallantly losing life in the most holy place in the Abbey somehow did not match what he had seen. For there had been something furtive and almost sinister about the apparition. A something that made him shiver again despite the unexpected warmth of the morning.