Death and the Cornish Fiddler (25 page)

“Seen enough?” asked his lordship.

“Not quite. Can you spare another ten minutes?”

“Certainly. I shall doze. Wake me when you are ready to go.”

As Lord Lyle once more closed his eyes John hurried back to the place where he had seen the supposed ghost. There was nothing there, of course, but despite that the Apothecary started to search the building thoroughly. Then he dropped to his knees and hunted along the ground, running his fingers over the soil as he did so. It was painstaking and hard but eventually he was rewarded. His hand closed over a tiny stump of candle. Swiftly he picked it up and slipped it into a pocket.

It proved nothing of course as it could have been dropped by an earlier visitor to the Abbey. But nevertheless it was some indication that the ghost may well have been mortal. Slowly John made his way back to where Lord Lyle sat, eyes closed in the sunshine and loud snores emanating from the noble nostrils. But he woke at once and clambered into the boat, taking his turn to row back cheerfully enough. John sat facing him, watching the Abbey grow more distant, thinking about what he had seen and determining to go back to the place after dark to find out more about the creatures of the night.

Having been warned by Lord Lyles hostler that the grey horse with the unfriendly eye had an erratic temperament, John walked back, leading the creature by the reins. Having thankfully handed her into the care of The Lion’s stables, he made his way within. As usual, Tim Painter was recounting some yarn or other in the taproom. He turned as John entered and gave the Apothecary a meaningful wink.

“My dear chap, where have you been? I was about to organise a search party.”

John looked at him in amusement. “Last I saw of you was deep in the clutches of Anne Anstey. How did it go?”

Tim waved a hand in front of his face. “I cannot discuss it. Let me merely say that I feel utterly exhausted.”

John grinned. The fellow was such a reprobate and was clearly going to get worse over the years.

I’ve spoken to the blind fiddler,” he said.

“Have you, by God. Then our work here is done?”

“Not quite.”

And drawing Tim into a private corner, John told him his adventures since he had got up that morning. To give the man his due he listened intelligently and in silence, nodding occasionally. Finally he said, “So you think there’s something strange going on in the Abbey ruins?”

“It’s just an instinct I have. It’s not based on much but I feel compelled to go back at night.”

Tim scratched his chin. “Do you think Lord Lyle is involved?”

“I would imagine he is. Remember I saw a robed and hooded figure leave his house. He’s rich and idle and incredibly bored. In my view he’s either part of what goes on or is turning a blind eye.”

“Then let’s to it.” And Tim Painter rubbed his hands together.

“Tonight?”

“Why not. Anne Anstey is playing cards with friends so I shan’t be seeing her. I am at your disposal, Sir.”

“We’ll have to gain access to his grounds.”

“An easy task.” Tim was silent, then said, “Pity we haven’t got habits and hoods ourselves.”

John nodded. “I don’t see us finding any at this late stage. We’ll just have to wear black.” And suddenly he laughed, feeling incredibly young and reckless. “Tally ho,” he said.

Tim raised his glass. “To the chase.”

“Indeed,” answered John, and clinked his in response.

Chapter 23

T
he night had grown unseasonably cold and rowing across the lake in the little boat proved a thoroughly chilling experience. Entry into the huge parkland owned by Lord Lyle had been as easy as Tim Painter had predicted. They had simply chosen a place where the wall was in need of repair and climbed over it. John had stood for a minute, disorientated, then a glimmer of water in the moonlight had been enough to set him on track and the two men, keeping within the shadow of the trees, had made their way towards the lake.

Once on it, the Apothecary realised, they would be clearly visible. Not from the house, which lay back amongst the huge and sheltering gardens, but from any other pairs of eyes that might also be watching that night. Never the less to walk round the stretch of water would take rather a long time and might also place them in danger. After a whispered discussion, the two men decided to row across and take their chance.

Night on the lake was very different from its daytime aspect. Banks of reed, habitat of ducks and waterfowl, became inky black pools; while the water itself, by daylight quite blue and sparkling, turned into something dark and unfriendly. The small boat became wet round their feet and Tim was forced to bail while John rowed, the sound of his oars loud and clear in the silence of the night. Meanwhile the shape of the derelict Abbey reared tall and terribly menacing as they approached the jetty.

“What are you hoping to find?” whispered Tim.

John shrugged his shoulders and put his finger to his lips as the boat slid into the mooring spot and he leapt ashore. Tim, no doubt to prove his athleticism, followed suit but slipped on the dampness making an unmistakeable crash. Furiously, John glared at him and plucked him into the shadows of the chapter house wall where they crouched, side by side, waiting for something to react to the noise. But only silence echoed back at them and after a few minutes they both relaxed.”Nobody here,” Tim muttered.

“Not yet,” John answered meaningfully.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How long do you think we should wait?”

“At least an hour.”

“Thank God I brought a hip flask,” Tim answered, and took a swig.

They changed to a sitting position and stayed like that for a while, then Painter stood up. “I think I’ll go for a look round.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got some idea of the size of this place while I have none.”

“Then I’ll come with you. But for heaven’s sake be quiet.”

“Don’t be silly, man. There’s no one about.”

John replied, “I’m not so certain.”

Together they crept out of their place of concealment and began a moonlit tour of the Abbey, which was even larger than John had at first realised. Many of the buildings were minus a roof but still had four walls standing; others were crumbling into total decay.

“It must have been a powerful order in its day,” Tim commented, gazing up to where beautiful windows — now totally without glass - had dominated the rooms beneath.

But John did not answer, instead straining his ears to catch a faint sound.

“Listen. Can you hear anything?”

Tim relapsed into silence. “No, I don’t think so.”

“There. There it is again. You must be able to hear it.”

Painter turned a panic-stricken face towards him. “It’s chanting - and it’s getting nearer.”

“Quick,” said John, and seizing his companion by the elbow, hurried him into the great and gloomy ruined church.

“Is it ghosts?”

The Apothecary made a sound of disgust. “They’re as human as you and me.” And so saying he dragged Tim Painter

I into the dark recesses of a side chapel and crouched behind a tomb. Tim ducked down beside him.

“Who is it?” he whispered.

John shrugged once more and motioned him to be quiet, all his attention focussed on the church’s arched and doorless entrance.

Scarcely breathing, he and Tim watched fascinated as two figures dressed as monks, one of them bearing a lanthorn, came in. The other carried a censer swinging on a chain, which he shook as he proceeded along. Behind them came a procession of people all dressed similarly. But it was their chanting that sent a shiver through the Apothecary; low and deep, it was a chilling sound that seemed to penetrate through to his very soul. Stealing a glance at Tim he saw that the man was pale as a shadow.

Behind this initial procession, which numbered about two dozen, came people in ordinary clothes, their faces disguised by masks. For those who had none, the device of pulling hats well down had to suffice. John, watching them, was seized by an idea and as the last drew level and passed where he was hidden he, too, joined them at the back of the line, bending his face so that it was hidden by shadow. Tim Painter, clearly losing courage, remained where he was.

The leaders halted before the altar and threw back their hoods, revealing none other than Lord Lyle and a dark stranger, who produced a crucifix from within his robe and deliberately and slowly turned it upside down. John’s blood ran cold. He was about to witness the Black Mass.

He could not look. He was not a religious man but something in him rebelled against anything so profane taking part in a place that had once been used by deeply religious men to celebrate the love of God. Yet his eyes could not help but be drawn as a figure stepped out of the line and threw back its cassock, to reveal Anne Anstey, naked, her flesh overflowing. Without pausing she threw herself backwards on the altar and parted her legs, writhing about as if Satan himself were pleasuring her. From the chapel to his left John could hear Tim Painter gasping.

The smell of incense filled the air and the sound of chanting grew louder as the witches formed a circle. He heard words that he did not understand, saw the crucifix passed round so that the celebrants might spit on it, heard Christ denounced and the congregation swear fealty to Satan. Then one of the males did in fact copulate with Anne Anstey in full view of the rest of the coven. As he jerked on top of her his hood fell back to reveal Geoffrey Colquite. Sickened beyond words, the Apothecary attempted to move away but was forced to remain where he was because the man in front of him turned at the sound of John’s feet.

Eventually, though, all was done and pulling up their hoods, the coven processed out of the church and away, leaving Mrs Anstey, who appeared to be in some form of cataleptic trance, still lying naked on the altar.

John, who had loitered behind, hurried to Tim Painters side to find him sitting on the floor with an expression of horror on his face.

“By God’s life, I’ve never seen the like of it.”

“That was the Black Mass.”

“And
her.”
He pointed to the inert body. “Zounds, we’ve all been naughty in our time but that was utterly flagrant.”

“I think she was having some kind of seizure.”

Tim giggled loudly. “She had a seizure all right.”

It was a blessed relief to laugh and John did, enjoying the normality of it. “What shall we do with her?” he asked.

“Leave her, of course. Presumably one of her friends will return for her. I can’t see you and I lugging that mass of flesh back in such a little boat.”

The mental picture was so vivid that John had to suppress another fit of laughing.

“Come on. Let’s go while the coast is clear.”

Tim struggled to his feet, glancing as he did so in the direction of the altar. From it came the noise of low moaning.

“Oh rot the old bitch,” he said with contempt.

But John was already making for the arched entrance, moving quietly but with determination. Painter followed and they reached the landing stage without meeting anyone. But there a shock awaited them. Two cowled figures stood in readiness, guarding the boat, waiting for whoever it was who had rowed across in the moonlight.

“I’ll take the one on the right,” John whispered, and without further ado leapt on the man and wrestled him to the ground. Meanwhile Tim swung a mighty blow to the other man’s chin, rendering the fellow insensible, then he turned to assist his companion, jumping on his assailant’s back and pummelling him with his fists. In the end they overpowered him, though he was built like an ox and was equally as strong. Gasping, John Rawlings tied the man’s hands behind him with his monk’s girdle, then mopped his bloody mouth.

“I was utterly wrecked by falling from my horse — and now this.”

“A gallant endeavour, my friend,” Tim answered as they got into the boat and pushed off. He took the oars. “What do you think about what we have just witnessed?”

“Well, Lord Lyle is deeply involved, as are Anne Anstey and the brothers Colquite.”

“But what about the rest of that cosy nest of cousins?”

All of them I should imagine,” John answered gloomily.

A thought occurred which he did not speak aloud. Could Isobel’s disappearance be linked to the fact that a coven of witches had been in Helstone to see the Furry Dance? Surely they had not been into human sacrifice? But remembering the final scenes of the Black Mass he had just witnessed, when Anne Anstey and Geoffrey Colquite had lain shrieking on the altar, almost anything was possible.

As if he had read the Apothecary’s thoughts, Tim said, “You don’t think they captured Isobel do you?”

John looked at him out of an eye that was swelling up rapidly. “I believe it’s possible.”

“Then she’s dead,” Tim answered flatly.

“I’m afraid she is,” came the bleak reply.

They reached The Lion safely and despite their truly dishevelled appearance made at once for the tap room where they restored themselves with cognac, a particularly good French one John noticed, wondering how far the smuggling trade extended.