Death and the Cornish Fiddler (28 page)

“Are you expecting a large number at the funeral, Sir?” he asked.

“A mere handful if we’re lucky,” came the rather sad reply.

“Well I shall be there,” said John, rising somewhat shakily to his feet.

“My dear boy, allow me to walk with you.” And Mr Robinson stood up too.

True to his word the Vicar escorted John up the street, then on to The Angel. There was no sign of Nick Kitto anywhere and the Apothecary rather imagined that his mother must be holding him under lock and key. If it hadn’t been for the aching in his head he almost could feel sorry for the wretched young man.

“Well, good afternoon, my friend. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“You will indeed,” answered the Apothecary, as he and Mr Robinson bowed to each other and parted company.

A far bigger crowd turned up than John or the Vicar had anticipated. Mrs Pill, accompanied by her brother and the entire retinue of servants, came. There was Lord Godolphin and Nicholas Kitto, of course. Tim Painter arrived, a few minutes after Kathryn, sitting in a different pew and smiling amiably at the world. These people together with the landlord of The Angel and several of the regulars made quite a goodly collection, John thought, as he made his way to his customary place at the back of the church, where he could observe everyone but not be seen himself.

Mr Robinson, rather pale, his blue eyes like glinting sapphires in his face, began the customary funeral oration. Today his voice seemed weak and he cleared his throat several times until he finally got a grip on himself and began to speak in normal tones. John thought over the story he had heard of the Vicar saving Diana from begging on the streets of Truro. Then the other tale of Nicholas Kitto’s father doing exactly the selfsame thing.

Lord Godolphin was sitting almost directly in front of him, dressed to the inch, his face emotionless. In fact it looked almost deliberately blank, as if the man were trying to disguise what he was feeling. Across the way from him was Tim Painter, no longer grinning but managing for once to appear quite serious. John stole a look at Mrs Pill who seemed bowed with grief, her head in her hands as people rose to sing a hymn. All in all the Apothecary supposed they were pretty typical of a bunch of people attending a funeral. And yet there was something wrong, as if everyone were playing a part, trying to appear something that they were not.

The service came to an end and it was time for the committal to earth. Six burly village lads carried the coffin in the absence of male relatives while the Vicar led the way to the graveside, walking slowly and sorrowfully. John followed the rest of the doleful procession trailing along behind. Mrs Pill was leaning heavily on Jaspers arm, weeping copiously and staggering slightly as she threw in the obligatory handful of earth. Lord Godolphin cast a large portion but Nick Kitto, by now in floods of tears, threw in a red rose and glared defiantly out of moist eyes at the rest of the company. Tim Painter, looking quite shaken, emptied some earth from stiff fingers, while John Rawlings passed by, never sympathising with the ceremony and not feeling moved to do so on this occasion.

The dismal walk from the graveyard to the church began. The Apothecary, proceeding alone, felt a tug at his elbow and saw that a shame-faced Nick Kitto had joined him.

“I’m sorry I attacked you, Sir, and I hope I did no damage.”

The Apothecary smiled as best his damaged lip allowed. “Other than for giving me a thundering headache, no harm done.”

“I wanted to ask
you..Nick
started, but there his voice was drowned by a much louder sound. From beyond the church came the noise of a band playing a funeral march at full volume, above the rest of the cacophony rising the sweet, sad voice of a violin. He knew even without seeing who had gathered there, that the blind fiddler had heard of Diana’s funeral and had come to pay his respects.

He turned to Nicholas. “The Gaffer is here with his band. Now I beg you to restrain yourself. Ask him questions by all means but pray do so in a civilised manner.”

But young Kitto had already broken into a run and was heading along the path that went round to the front of the church. John, following at a slightly more leisurely pace, concluded that the young man had quite literally gone mad with love. But when he got round the corner he saw that even wild Nick had been halted by the sheer sobbing beauty of the fiddler’s music. The rest of the band were playing softly beneath the soaring notes of the violin, which seemed to be offering a prayer direct to God, far more effectively than those just said in the church, the Apothecary thought. The rest of the funeral party, coming up from the graveside, were also stopped by the sight of the blind fiddler, in fact everyone stood in silence until the air was concluded, when one or two people burst into spontaneous applause.

The Gaffer lowered his bow and turned his head. “I hear we have company lads.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Gideon. “It’s the funeral party.”

The blind man took a step towards them. “How de doo, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve come to pay my respects to Diana Warwick.”

At that Nicholas broke ranks. “What did you mean by going into her bedroom in the small hours? It was me who found her dead, not you.”

There was a stunned silence, broken by the fiddler saying, “I knew Miss Warwick when you were still a twinkle in your fathers eye, young man. And I felt free enough with her to visit her in her room at any time I pleased.”

Nicholas literally ran towards him, fists raised. “I’ll have you for that.”

“No you won’t,” the Gaffer responded and sidestepped so adroitly that Nick fell flat on his face in the churchyard.

The Apothecary could not resist it. He chuckled under his breath. The fiddler looked over in the direction of the sound. “Mr Rawlings, is it?”

John stepped up to him. “Yes, it’s me.”

“I thought I recognised that laugh.”

“So you’ve concluded your business in Redruth?”

“Aye, “tis all done. Is yours?”

“Yes,” John answered briefly, his attention drawn by the fact that Lord Godolphin had gone to assist Nicholas Kitto and was helping him to stand upright.

The Gaffer put a hand on John’s arm. “There’s dark doings there, my friend.”

John could only whisper, “I know,” before the figure of Nick charged up once more.

“You dirty blackguard,” he said.

The blind fiddler turned on him. “No, Sir, that I am not. In fact I Ve probably done more honourable things in my life than you can conceive of. Now you listen to me, young sir. The woman whom you have just seen buried was a great friend of mine. She was also a whore. If you can’t accept that, if you want to put her on a pedestal, then that is entirely your choice. But one day reality will creep in and you must accept her for what she was. Until that happens, I bid you good afternoon and I take my leave of you. Goodbye, Mr Kitto.”

The unexpected happened then. Nick collapsed into a sobbing heap on the breast of the blind fiddler who held him as tenderly and tightly as if he had been a wayward son coming home to learn a lesson at the hands of his father. John stared amazed.

“You’re very patient,” he said, somewhat daunted, to the Gaffer.

“Aye, Sir. I’ve learnt how to be.”

And with that the fiddler passed the boy gently to the Vicar, who had approached meanwhile, and putting his bow to the strings started to play a wonderful and soul-stirring lament.

There was no wake, as such, though several of them - including the Gaffer and his band - got together in the parlour ofThe Angel. The Vicar, who had joined them, particularly, or so it seemed, to keep an eye on Nick, took a little sherry. But the fiddler’s men drank ale by the pint, then burst into spontaneous playing, so much so that other people wandered in to listen. Lord Godolphin, who surprisingly had graciously attended for a half hour, took his leave at that point, bidding his fellow mourners farewell.

John, observing him closely, found himself puzzling more and more as to whether he was the natural father of Nicholas or not. Because, ever since that extraordinary embrace in the churchyard, he was wondering if the blind fiddler could possibly be the man. Yet a conversation with his lordship regarding Mrs Warwick was essential. As Lord Godolphin left the room, John slipped out also.

He caught up with him in the street, waiting for his carriage to come round.

“Excuse me, my Lord,” he said politely, “would it be possible to have a word with you?”

“By all means. When did you have in mind?”

“Now, if that would be convenient.”

“My carriage is about to take me home.”

“May I ride with you? I can find my own way back.”

“Yes. It will help pass the journey if nothing else.” Wondering exactly how he was going to handle this somewhat supercilious being, John clambered aboard, taking a seat opposite that of his lordship.

He decided to pander to the man’s vanity. “It was very kind of you to see me at such short notice, my Lord.”

Lord Godolphin waved a deprecating hand. “Think nothing of it. Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“The woman whose funeral we have just attended.”

“Miss Warwick? What about her?”

“How well did you know her, Sir?”

Milord’s face became a study in careless insouciance. “I remember now that I knew her, something I did not recall when last we spoke of her. She came here when she was a young girl. I believe she was rescued by the present Vicar before he was promoted to the post.”

“Rescued from what?” John asked innocently.

“Oh God knows. One of those things that men of the church are concerned about. She lived in Helstone for a while.” Lord Godolphin’s voice became suddenly warm. “She was such a beautiful creature, you know.”

“I suppose a great many people were in love with her,” John said quietly.

“The future Vicar, certainly. And one or two others beside.”

“The Vicar!” the Apothecary repeated in astonishment.

“Oh yes, it was perfectly obvious. His wife was alive then; a sickly creature. Robinson worshipped the ground the girl walked on.”

“And you?” The words were out before John Rawlings had time to control them, and he instantly regretted what he had just said.

Lord Godolphin gave him a steely glance and looked out of the window. When he turned back John saw that he was smiling.

“I was young and foolish and I adored beautiful things. Yes, I admit it. I fell in love with her as well.”

The Apothecary knew the rest of the story and felt no need to pursue the matter. But there was one thing he desperately needed to find out. He leant forward, his expression earnest.

“Sir, you can throw me out of the coach on the instant but there is one further question I have to ask.”

“Yes?”

“Did you visit Miss Warwick on the night she was murdered and was she alive when you did so?”

His lordship looked down the length of his aristocratic nose. “What right have you to ask those questions of me?”

“None at all, Sir.”

“You’re an impudent rogue, Sir.”

“Indeed I am, my Lord. But the question is burning at my soul.”

“I suppose you have a witness who saw me.” John nodded mutely. “Well the answer, my friend, is yes to both. Diana was alive when I went to see her. Are you satisfied?”

John nodded. “I certainly am. Thank you, my Lord.”

“And now you can get out of the coach. The walk back should put some colour in your cheeks. You’re looking terrible by the way. Have you been in some sort of accident?”

The Apothecary grinned painfully as Lord Godolphin banged on the ceiling with his stick and shouted instructions to the coachman.

“It would be fair to say that I have, Sir. Good day to you.”

Chapter 26

W
hen John returned to Helstone after walking briskly for an hour he found that at last the post boy had delivered the long awaited letter from Sir John Fielding. It read as follows:

My dear friend Mr Rawlings,

What you say to me gives me Cause for Concern. I had Imagined you taking your Ease in Devon but I read that Instead you are Involved in a Series of Strange Events. Take my Advice and Do Not Confuse one with the Other.

For it seems to Me that two Separate Hands are at Work.

I Would send You the assistance of two Brave Fellows but Alas all are Out About their Business. I Fear for the Child but Fear More the Murderer of the Woman. At this Distance I can offer no Further Advice but I do Caution You to be careful.

Your very respectful Servant,

J Fielding.

It was rather disappointing, John thought, giving no real advice but offering instead a warning. He had rather hoped that in consulting Sir John he might be given some assistance but even this was to be denied him. He must hunt for the murderer of Diana alone. And then, as he sat deep in thought, an idea occurred to him that began to take root in his mind and refused to go away. So he missed the hour to dine and continued to brood over his latest notion until the shadows began to lengthen.

He awoke next morning feeling refreshed and went down to breakfast ravenously hungry. There was no one about and John was able to catch up with a local newspaper. Having read it through, however, he put it down and gazed into space, deciding on his plan of action.