Death and the Cornish Fiddler (35 page)

The three men stared at his retreating form as he panted up the street towards St Michael’s.

“Can’t you arrest him?” Tim asked Pascoe.

“Not really, Sir. After all, he did his best to save Miss Rawlings. Of what does he stand accused other than beinga repentant member of a coven?”

“Of being a foolish old cock-brain, that’s all,” Tim put in.

John turned to the other two. “Listen, Tim knows who the coven members are. Let him go with you, Pascoe. I feel I must see what the other searchers have come up with.”

“Very well, Sir.”

John ran back to The Angel, the sweat lively on his face. As he ran he found himself saying words inside his head.

“Rose, can you hear me? Just give me a sign that you are alive, sweetheart, and I swear I will find you.”

And clear as a stream as he entered the doors of the inn, he heard - though only in his mind - Rose’s voice say, “Help me, Papa.”

There was no one around, everyone had gone out searching and John was quite alone. “Mrs King,” he called out - but nobody came.

“Oh Rose, if only I knew where you were,” he muttered, as if by saying her name he could conjure her up.

And then of their own volition his feet turned to the yard lying beside the hostelry and he was out there and looking round him. An hostler worked in the deep confines of the stable block, mucking out and laying fresh straw. An unusual white dog lay asleep in the morning sun, ignoring the hens who wandered about it pecking at seeds. It was a calm scene, quiet and peaceful, and yet John was in turmoil.

“Where are you?” he said silently.

And then, suddenly, he knew. Sprinting to the well that stood there, the well that supplied water for the inn, he gazed down into its inky depths. One of the buckets had been lowered on the rope which, he noticed, had fractured, so that only one pail was in use. It hung nearby, idle and unused.

“Rose,” he called, leaning over the wall and cupping his hands. “Rose, are you down there?”

He heard nothing but inside his head her voice said, “Yes.”

His heart leapt wildly. “Be steady, darling. I’ll find someone to help. You stay exactly where you are.”

He turned round desperately and then, to his amazement, he saw Gideon come into the yard carrying the monkey. John hurried to him.

“Gideon, my daughter is down the well but the rope of her bucket has broken and I can’t bring her up. What am I going to do?”

The tambourine player stared at him. “I don’t know, Sir. Nobody would dare climb down. It’s so deep.”

“The monkey might go if we lowered him in the other pail,” John said slowly.

“He might at that.”

“But how will he know to carry up the broken rope?”

“If your little maid were to tie it on him. He won’t be able to do it otherwise.”

“Please let’s try. Otherwise I’ll have to be lowered down myself.”

“You would never succeed, Sir. You’re too big - as are we all.” John leant over the well’s side and shouted, “We’re going to lower Wilkes in the other bucket. You’re to tie the broken rope on to his coat. Do you understand, my darling?”

Yet again, in his head, he heard the word, “Yes.”

With Gideon standing beside him they placed Wilkes in the pail and started to turn the ancient handle and slowly, slowly lowered the wretched animal into the terrifying darkness. All the while John kept staring into the black circle of the well whose bottomless depths rose and fell in accordance with the weather.

In his mind he could see his daughter, sitting in the bucket with the broken rope, greeting Wilkes with a joy that only a true animal lover knows. And he could picture the monkey, soft and compliant, allowing Rose to tie the useless cord to him.

When he felt he had allowed enough time to elapse, the Apothecary, aided by Gideon, started to haul on the ancient handle and the bucket appeared in view. Inside sat Wilkes, shivering with fright but for all that triumphant, holding the piece of broken rope in his withered little claws. John immediately seized it and started to pull Rose up by hand, regardless of the rope burns on his palms.

And then, eventually, he was rewarded by a flash of red hair some thirty feet below him. He sobbed, he couldn’t help himself, so that when finally his daughter came to the surface, pale and shivering and clutching a cotton nightgown around her small body, sitting in a bucket as big as she was, he was weeping with sheer emotion.

She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh Papa. I was so frightened.”

“My darling girl, I swear you will never suffer anything like that again.”

“They were chasing me and I hid in the bucket, but the rope broke and I crashed down.”

“Sweetheart, when was this?”

“Last night, I think. But Papa…”

“Yes?”

“Isobel Pill is down there. That’s where she must have fallen.”

The futility of all the searching, all the heartbreak looking for Kathryn’s daughter, bore in on John and he sighed a great sigh.

“Poor child,” he said, and cuddled Rose close.

They brought Isobel up at sunset. Tim Painter, looking suitably grim, witnessed the scene but found it hard to identify the body, other than for the dress she was wearing. She had lost the skin off her fingers and every bit of the child’s colour had drained away. Her face, already showing signs of the inevitable swelling which took place on contact with the air, was devoid of eyebrows, whilst the pigmentation of her eyes was gone. In their place were two glazed orbs gazing fishily into infinity.

“Cover her up and get her coffined fast,” ordered the Constable wearily. “She’ll swell up like a bladder in half an hour.”

At that Tim made a retching sound and hurried out of the courtyard and into the street. John, too exhausted to go and help him, merely turned his head away as the last mortal remains of Isobel Pill were removed from The Angel.

Inside was his daughter, safely ensconced with Mrs King who had promised not to leave her in any circumstances whatever. Outside another child, not so lucky, was being taken away for burial. Another day was at long last over.

Chapter 32

T
wo days later the public stage left for Truro. This was a great event in Helstone and many people, especially those with relatives travelling to the big town, turned out to see it, though as yet the stable yard of The Angel was empty except for the coach itself, which was slowly being prepared for departure. This was scheduled for nine o’clock in the morning, but by eight John and Rose Rawlings, together with Tim Painter, looking incredibly handsome and finely dressed, were ready and finishing their breakfast.

“So you’re off to see your lady friend, John,” stated Tim, putting down his newspaper.

“I am going to call on Elizabeth but as you know I’m actually bound for London,” the Apothecary answered primly. “Oh yes, of course, you did say,” Tim said, grinning.

The Apothecary would have liked to have asked him what he was smirking about but decided against it in view of Rose’s present company, full of ears and questions as she was. Looking at her he thought that his daughter had recovered completely from her ordeal, reinforcing his belief that the child had inherited his own resilience. He dropped a swift kiss on the top of her head.

“You’re fond of her,” said Tim, still smiling.

“Yes, indeed I am.”

“I wonder if I’ll have any children, legitimate that is.”

“I doubt you could ever settle with a woman long enough.”

“I don’t know. I spent years with Kathryn - in a way. And now she’s rewarded me. I’m going to be rich.”

Fortunately this line of conversation came to an abrupt halt as through the open window John saw the Gaffer, complete with all his band, haggling over the hiring of a cart. He turned to Tim.

“Please keep Rose under your closest eye, Tim. I just want to step outside and say farewell to the blind fiddler.”

“Very well - but don’t be too long. I wish to say certain adieus of my own.”Out in the yard momentum was beginning to gather. One or two passengers, complete with anxious relatives had arrived, while the horses — four jolly looking beasts — were being backed into the traces. John stood for a moment, watching the fiddler, thinking about what he had seen three nights before when the man had proved quite categorically that he was not blind at all. Silently he went up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

The Gaffer jumped and whirled round. “Who is it?”

“John Rawlings, but I think you know that.”

The fiddler made no response and the Apothecary continued, “May I have a brief word in private?”

“Well, Sir, I’m right busy with organising the cart to take us away.”

“I’m sure that one of the others will be able to manage. What I have to say will only take a few minutes. Come.” And John put his hand beneath the Gaffer’s elbow and started to lead him away.

Young Gideon came up, bearing the monkey. “Everything all right, Gaffer?”

“Everything is well. Just tell the others to offer the man half of what he wants and we might reach a compromise.”

Drawn by John’s persuading hand, the fiddler stepped into The Angel and into a small snug, empty at this early hour of the day.

“Take a seat, Gaffer,” said the Apothecary. “There’s one right behind you.”

The fiddler sat down and turned his black spectacles in John’s direction. “Now, what was it you wanted to say?”

“I was in Meneage Street the other night and I saw you. You were looking for Wilkes the monkey.”

The Gaffer nodded but did not reply.

“I won’t waste your time, nor mine,” John continued, the ruthless side of his nature suddenly showing itself. “It was perfectly obvious to me that you could see. Gaffer, tell me, why do you adopt this pose? Is it to gain sympathy, perhaps?”

Very slowly the fiddler removed his glasses and gave John a long dark look from deep blue eyes. “You’re a clever young man, aren’t you?”

“Not really. It was pure luck that made me guess about you.”

“But I’ve noticed you watching me from time to time with such a shrewd expression on your face. I thought perhaps you had worked it out long since.”

“No, I was deceived. And yet I had the feeling that you were hiding something from the real world, and I’m not referring to your blindness.”

The Gaffer laughed and John saw that underneath all the hair and grime he was really quite attractive. “Well, as you’re such a curious fellow I’ll tell you my story - except that I’ve already told it to you.”

The Apothecary was frankly amazed. “You have? When?”

“That night in Redruth. You remember me mentioning a certain game of cards which was played many years ago? A game of cards in which the Marquis of Dorchester lost everything but his title and disappeared that very night?”

“Yes, I do,” John answered, as he recollected the incident. “Well, I used to be the Marquis before I was presumed dead and my cousin inherited. That night - the night I lost everything - I went away to blow my brains out but instead I picked up my violin and walked out of London and put the past behind me.”

John sat amazed, not having anticipated anything quite so dramatic.

“I’d had quite a talent for the instrument as a child and, indeed, as a young man. I went in to my home to find a pistol but instead I saw my violin. The rest you know.”

“What an extraordinary tale,” said John. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “You know that Lord Lyle is dead, by the way?”

“Oh yes,” said the fiddler, and he chuckled. “You see, I killed him.”

John was totally bereft of words. He sat staring at the Gaffer and for once in his lifetime could think of nothing to say.

“Let me explain why. I thought for many years that he was another dull citizen with a penchant for gambling. But I learned in Redruth how wrong I could be. It was there that I discovered that he was the head of a coven, a disciple of Satan. He used that power to win everything off me at cards that night. But that’s all in the past. What concerns us now is the present. I hear a lot as people think I am blind and talk freely before me. And I heard in the alehouse that your daughter had been snatched. Knowing it was on his orders I went up to his house and strangled him with a scarf. And good riddance.” John shook his head. “Are you going to report these facts to the Constable?”

“Are you?” asked the Gaffer, and in that question turned everything that John believed in on its head.

“No,” the Apothecary answered after a long pause.

“Well, let’s say no more about it.”

“I’ve just one question. Why was Lord Lyle’s house empty?”

“Because he was afraid. He was aware that it was only a matter of time before he was unmasked and probably arrested. He had sent the servants on to one of his many other residences. The rest of the coven have scattered and gone.”

“But why was he particularly scared now? What caused that?”

“Because, my dear young friend, I wrote and told him that I knew. I thought he was about to kill your child and it was too much for me to bear. So I sent him a letter and warned him off - and I signed it Dorchester.”