Death and the Cornish Fiddler (5 page)

The young man answered simply, “It’s hard to love a monkey but I must admit to having certain feelings of fondness for it.”

“Then that’s as well.” The Marchesa put a shilling in the hat, as did John. The sad monkey’s face contorted into something resembling a grin before it scampered away to its next customers. The fiddler shuffled up to them. “Thank’ee, Sir. I’ll play again.”

He picked up his bow once more and the Apothecary, at close quarters now, studied the man. He was unkempt, that much was certain. A great tangle of black hair, streaked here and there with grey, was visible beneath the battered hat he always wore, which was an amazing creation, sporting a selection of dilapidated feathers at one side. It reminded the Apothecary of drawings of Robin Hood he had seen from time to time, and he could not help wondering whether the fiddler ever removed it.

Beneath this fantastic head of hair were a pair of black spectacles, worn no doubt to hide his sightless eyes from the world, which sat atop a hawkish nose. His face, stained a deep brown by constant exposure to the elements, was pitted with the scars of smallpox, and indeed one could have declared him to be a regular vagabond had it not been for his mouth. For this was passionate and well-formed, the mouth of a sensualist. It was, the Apothecary concluded, the one thing that betrayed him to be a musician, speaking as it did of finer feelings.

Apart from this unusual quality the fiddler was thin, reasonably tall, and despite his lack of flesh, strong and wiry. Yet again, his hands were exquisite; small and beautifully shaped as well as being nimble, one running over the strings like a bird in flight, the other guiding the bow to produce beautiful sounds. John, watching him, felt drawn to the man despite his strange appearance.

Elizabeth meanwhile was stamping her feet and clapping, and when a strange young man bowed before her and led her off to dance, John could only smile half-heartedly as he watched them whirl down the street. It was then that he felt a tug at his hand and, looking down, saw Rose.

“What are you doing up?” he asked, somewhat crossly. “Isobel woke me,” she answered, her great eyes awash with tears.

John crouched down. “What do you mean?”

“She came into my room and stood staring at me. Don’t be cross, Papa.”

He was filled with tenderness. “I’m not, sweetheart. I just want to know what happened.”

“I told you. Isobel entered my room and stared at me.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“No. But, oh Papa, it was the expression on her face. It was as if she wanted to kill me.”

“Well, stay up for a bit then I’ll go back and sit with you. And tomorrow morning I’ll speak to her mother.”

“What will you say?”

“I shall tell her what occurred and ask for an explanation. Don’t worry, darling, it won’t happen again I promise you.” Elizabeth, breathless and laughing, was brought back by the young man, who was in very much the same condition. Seeing Rose’s unhappy face she stopped short but at a silent signal from John, said nothing. His daughter, meanwhile, having cried a little, was being cheered by the atmosphere in the crowd.

“It’s exciting, Papa.”

“Isn’t it. Now, listen carefully. The blind fiddler is just about to start again. And, see, he’s got a tame monkey with him.” They stood enthralled while the tatterdemalion band struck up once more and played their music to the ever-growing group of people. Rose, John noticed, could not take her eyes from the small simian, which walked round and round with the hat, collecting quite a goodly sum in the process. Eventually, though, they played their final chord, took a bow, and wandered off in the direction of The Blue Anchor. Elizabeth smiled at Rose.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes. But Papa said he would sit with me while I go to sleep.”

“Well then, so he shall.”

They went back into The Angel and John carried the half- asleep child upstairs and put her to bed.

“Rose, do you want me to lock you in?”

“No, I wouldn’t like that. Just sit beside me.”

But something made him stay even when Rose’s breathing deepened until he, too, dozed off in the chair beside the bed. How long he remained like that he couldn’t say but he woke suddenly to find that all was dark, the candle which had been burning having guttered out while he slept. John froze in the darkness, aware of a sound over by the door. There could be no doubt of it. Someone was entering the room.

He stood up silently, crossing the small space as quietly as he could, but a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. Realising that the other person would now be aware of his presence, he sprinted to the door and threw it open. There was nobody there but hurling himself up the corridor he spied a small figure clad in a nightgown. It would appear that Isobel had decided to torment his daughter once more.

The next morning at breakfast John once again signalled to Elizabeth not to ask any questions, though he could see that she was longing to know exactly what was happening. He did say, however, that he was anxious to talk to Mrs Pill and her daughter.

“I don’t believe they are down yet. The only people I have seen so far are the two ladies, Mrs Legassick and Mrs Bligh. They went out early to perambulate.”

“Wait a minute. I can hear someone coming now.”

They turned their heads to the door but the vision that entered was nobody that either the Apothecary or the Marchesa had seen before. However, this did not stop either of them staring roundeyed. For the woman was indeed a sight to behold.

Dressed to the inch in the very latest fashion, her head covered by a superb hat, her jewels glittering in the morning light, she waved at them nonchalantly before drifting across the dining parlour to take a seat. John frankly could not take his eyes off her.

He guessed her to be in her forties but she had that timeless quality of all great beauties. The setting of her face was stunning - or had once been so - though the Apothecary could see a certain hardness about her visage which made him wonder exactly what her antecedents were. Her hair, though vividly blonde, was beautifully arranged beneath her hat, and the rest of her features were perfect, everything from her great, luminous eyes to her sweet little mouth which was superbly placed. Feeling John’s gaze, she turned politely.

“Good morning to you, Sir. A nice day, is it not?”

He was thoroughly nonplussed. Rising from his chair he made his very best bow. “Indeed it is, Madam. May I present myself? My name is John Rawlings.” He bowed again.

She returned the salute graciously, bowing from the waist. “And I am Diana Warwick. How do you do.” Her gaze swept down and took in Elizabeth. “And this is Mrs Rawlings?”

“No, Madam. I am Elizabeth di Lorenzi, widow of the Marchese di Lorenzi of Venice.”

“I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.”

“As I am yours.”

“This is my daughter, Rose Rawlings,” John added somewhat lamely, frankly daunted by the combined power of these two extraordinary women.

Diana Warwick’s glance took in Rose as if she were preparing to sketch her. Eventually, she said, “You have very beautiful hair, child.”

John’s daughter smiled dutifully. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

It was at this juncture that Mrs Pill and Isobel entered the room, Tim, a lazy grin on his face, bringing up the rear. He cast his eyes round, saw Elizabeth, and gave a magnificent bow.

The Apothecary fixed Isobel with a meaningful glance to which she responded by pulling a face. Furious, he was about to go over and have it out there and then, but Elizabeth laid a restraining hand on his arm.

But more was happening. Diana Warwick had noticed the handsome man bowing to Elizabeth and was making little movements at her table in order to attract attention, which, after a few moments, she succeeded in doing. Tim Painter, on the point of sitting down, saw the dazzling woman in the corner and was frankly making a banquet of her with his eyes. Kathryn Pill’s momentary look of annoyance was rapidly overtaken by a somewhat phoney smile. She gave a small curtsey in Miss Warwick’s direction, then sat down and took to ordering her breakfast in a business-like manner. Tim, after bowing fulsomely once more, also took his seat.

“It would appear that the lady has made an impression,” murmured John.

Elizabeth gave a cat-like smile. “Mrs Pill covers her anger well,” she whispered back.

The Apothecary dropped his voice even lower. “How old do you think Miss Warwick is?”

The Marchesa ran her eye over the woman who was by now glancing at a newspaper as she sipped her tea. “Same as me. In her late forties.”

John stared at her. “I never think of you as that age. To me you will always be young and alluring.”

Elizabeth laughed aloud. “Maybe, but how does the rest of the world see me, that is the question?”

“Well, if our Mr Painter is anything to go by I would imagine very much as I do.”

She did not reply but instead stretched out her hand and laid it on John’s arm. For a moment there was silence, then Rose spoke.

“That horrible Isobel is looking at me.”

“Well stare at her, do. You’ve nothing to be afraid of Rose. She can’t hurt you.”

His daughter looked up at him. “I’m not so sure of that, Papa.”

Breakfast over, John went to tackle Mrs Pill. Crossing to her table he gave a formal bow and said, “I wonder if I might have a word, Madam?”

Kathryn regarded him icily. “Pray do.”

“I would rather it was in private.”

Tim Painter looked up, the expression in his eyes one of amused laziness. “I’ll leave you then.”

“I feel you should be present, Sir. But I really meant could we speak somewhere else, not in so public a place.”

Isobel spoke in a whining tone. “What does he want, Mama?”

Mrs Pill looked at her lovingly. “Nothing, my sweetheart. But I think it best if you go for a walk with Mr Painter.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Neither do I,” added Tim.

Mrs Pill pursed her plain lips together but instantly gave in. “Then in that case you must both remain. Shall we step into the other parlour?”

“Certainly,” said John.

Once inside the other room, deserted except for an elderly gentleman scanning a paper, he came directly to the point.

“Mrs Pill, your daughter is terrorising mine. She came into Rose’s room, waking her up, and stood there silently staring at her.”

The unprepossessing features worked, then she said, “That is not possible, Sir. I think your child is fabricating the whole story. Isobel sleeps in my room and was with me the entire night.”

“But I saw her with my own eyes. After Rose told me what had happened I waited in her room and heard the intruder for myself. I rushed to the door and witnessed your daughter disappearing up the corridor.”

Mrs Pill’s mouth tightened to a trap. “I cannot credit what you are saying, Sir. You must have seen someone else. Isobel did not leave my side.”

It was hopeless and John knew it. In the face of such a staunch denial he had no option other than to make a stiff bow, bid the trio an abrupt good morning, and angrily withdraw.

Chapter 5

T
o say that John was angry was understating the case. He fumed his way back to the breakfast room, banging the parlour door loudly behind him. Starting to speak to Elizabeth before he could even see her, he discovered to his chagrin that the room was empty. Standing for a moment or two, feeling utterly foolish, shuffling from one foot to the other, he eventually made his way out of The Angel and into the street.

To the right of the inn stood an open courtyard beyond which were the stables and coach house. In the distance the Apothecary could see the Marchesa, holding Rose’s hand, talking to Jed the coachman, together with their guard, Rufus. He started to make his way towards them, then stopped, intrigued by a well which stood in the stable yard. Its outer wall was about three feet in height, not nearly high enough in view of the well’s enormous depth which, when he peered down into the darkness, seemed to him to be about forty feet. Indeed it was so deep that it was impossible to glimpse the bottom. Above the well was a device for lowering buckets on a rope, at present hanging idly. Intrigued, John leant over once again, but even though he allowed time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness he caught but the merest glint of the water below.

“Trying to see the bottom, Sir?” It was one of the inn’s hosders who spoke.

“Yes. It seems very far down.”

“That’s because the water level is low. It rises and falls according to the weather, y’see.”

“Well, well,” John answered, then realised what he had said and grimaced.

The hostler chuckled. Ah, the old ones are always the best, Sir.”

“Indeed.” The Apothecary straightened up from leaning on the wall. “Nice to speak with you, my friend.”

“I’m always around the yard, Sir, if you need to know anything about the old place. Worked here since I was a lad, like.”

“We’ll have a chat about it some time but presently I can see my friend and my daughter. Good day to you.”

“Good day, Sir.”

They parted company, John joining Elizabeth. Rose immediately turned to her father.