Death and the Cornish Fiddler (12 page)

Chapter 11

T
he Constables search was over and the news was not good. He had gone to see Mrs Pill, finding her sitting in the parlour of The Angel, and had solemnly announced that they could not find her child anywhere in Helstone.

She had gone stiff with grief, her plain face taking on a mask-like expression. Are you saying that my girl has gone?” she croaked, out of drawn, white lips.

William Trethowan, looking acutely miserable, shuffled from foot to foot. “Yes, Mam, I’m afraid that is so.”

“Then she has been abducted?”

“Unless there’s been an accident at Loe Pool.”

“An accident? What do you mean?”

Totally lacking tact Trethowan blundered on, “They do say round these parts that every seven years or so the Pool claims a victim.”

Kathryn let out a low cry. “So that’s where she is. Oh God help me.”

“I’m not saying she is there Mam. It’s just a possibility.”

“Then you must send down a good swimmer. Someone who can look for her body.”

“Mam, have you see the size of the Pool? It would take a strong man several hours to walk round.”

“But surely you can organise something? We are talking about my child. My only child.”

With these words she started to weep copiously and unattractively while the wretched Constable shifted his weight from one side to the next, looking as if he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. His agony was relieved by the arrival of Tim Painter, who strolled in nonchalantly, smelling of ale.

“Found her?” he asked cheerfully. Then he stole a glance at the loudly weeping Kathryn and added, “Probably not then.”

“No, Sir,” put in Trethowan. “The child is nowhere to be seen.”

“Well, that’s a blow to be sure. What do you suggest, my good man?”

The Constable shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Sir. I must confess I’m in a spot.”

Tim turned to Kathryn, who was emitting low convulsive sobs. “Come on now, old girl. There’s no need to upset yourself.”

“There’s every need,” she answered in the grimmest tones. “My daughter, my Isobel, is probably dead and all you can do is make inane remarks. How can you be so unfeeling?”

It was at that moment that the Apothecary walked in, having left Elizabeth and Rose slowly walking round the shops. He took one glance at Mrs Pill and went straight to fetch his medical bag, returning with it a few minutes later and immediately giving her some physic. While he poured he spoke to William Trethowan.

“I presume your search was in vain?”

“You presume correctly, Sir.”

“Um. Wait outside for me a moment. I want to have a chat with you. I’ll just attend to Mrs Pill first.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“An apothecary.”

“Good as,” answered Trethowan, and went out.

Painter meanwhile was standing beside Kathryn looking and being totally ineffectual and as if he couldn’t wait to get back to the ale pot. John shot him a severe glance.

“Look after her for a moment or two. I just want to have a word with the Constable.”

“Very well. I’ll do my best.”

John, feeling uncertain about leaving his patient, stepped outside with a certain reluctance to where Constable Trethowan awaited him. Looking at the man, whose attitude had changed completely since the first time they had met, the Apothecary came straight to the point.

“Do you think Isobel is dead, because you know I saw her last evening, as did Miss Warwick.”

William looked grim. “I’m aware of that fact, Sir. Mr Painter told me. But I can assure you that she’s not hiding. She’s either been abducted or that’s what’s happened to her.”

“But surely she’s not been murdered? If she’s dead it must be accidental.” But the Constable’s unswerving stare made him add the words, “I imagine.”

“Truth to tell I don’t know what to think, Sir. The child is a stranger hereabouts so you can’t say she made any enemies. I’ve a mind to ask the gypsy woman what she reckons.”

John stared at him incredulously. “You don’t believe in all that rubbish, do you?”

The minute he had spoken he regretted it, for Trethowan frowned darkly and said, “I be Cornish, Sir. So don’t mock me about my beliefs.”

“I’m sorry. I meant nothing personal.”

“Don’t you want to come with me? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

And John had to admit that part of him was intrigued as to what Gypsy Orchard would say, though his sane sensible self refused to have anything to do with it.

He assumed a nonchalant air. “I’ll wait for you to report back to me. I must go in search of my companion and my daughter.”

Trethowan lowered his voice. “I’d keep a close guard on your maiden, Sir.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“There could be funny people about.”

John’s stomach lurched. “Are you referring to those strange individuals who love children above all other?”

“I am indeed. If Isobel has been abducted then like as not there may be one working down here.”

“Come to watch the lads and lasses who gather round on Flora Day.”

“Precisely.” The Constable pulled out a watch. “I’m off to try and find Gypsy Orchard, Sir. Goodbye.”

And John was left staring at his departing back, half wishing that he were going with him. He returned to the parlour to find Mrs Pill deserted by Tim, sitting on her own, gazing vacantly at the wall.

“Would you like to lie down?” he asked.

She stared at him listlessly. “I don’t care,” she answered. “I won’t sleep if I do.”

“I can give you a pill that will soothe you.”

“But I want to stay awake in case..
.
just in case..
.
there is any news.”

The Apothecary felt unable to answer her so merely cleared his throat. Mrs Pill put out a bony hand and seized his arm.

“Mr Rawlings, do you think Isobel is dead?” she asked, repeating his earlier question to the Constable.

John shook his head. “I don’t know what to say. It is possible I suppose.”

“But if she is not I tremble to think what might be her fate.” Determined not to go down that road, the Apothecary stood up. “I shall go and find Mr Painter for you.”

Mrs Pill sighed. “That wastrel. Don’t bother yourself. I think I am better off on my own.”

John, who was rapidly feeling that Tim was a total waste of everyone’s time, said nothing and was saved any further embarrassment by the entry of Rose and Elizabeth. His daughter, he noticed at once, looked tired and somewhat red about the eyes. He raised a mobile brow at the Marchesa, who said quietly, “She has been upset by Isobel’s disappearance.”

“But she didn’t like the girl,” he answered in an undertone.

“I know but that hasn’t stopped her feeling sorry.”

John, shaking his head with sad amusement, bent down and picked his daughter up into his arms. “You funny little thing,” he said.

“Oh Papa,” she said, and burying her head in his neck. Rose started to cry.

Mrs Pill sat motionless and Elizabeth, sitting down beside her, took her hands. John, seizing the moment, carried Rose out into the yard where they were uninterrupted except for the stamp and whinny of horses and the occasional plodding of an hostler. Sitting down on the wall by the well, John snuggled the child onto his lap.

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“Oh, Pa, what has happened to Isobel?”

He sighed. “I wish I knew.”

“I didn’t like her but I do feel sorry for her.”

“I experience the same emotion.”

“You’re sure she’s not hiding?”

John looked at his child very seriously. “I don’t see how she can be. The Constable is a local man and he would have found her if anyone could.”

Rose wept afresh and some of her tears fell on John’s hands, moving him profoundly. He held his daughter very close, thankful with all his heart that she had not gone missing, loving her as the last vestige on earth of Emilia, wondering what sex his unborn child, the child that perished with its mother, would have been.

His reverie was disturbed by the sound of someone approaching and, looking up, he saw that Diana Warwick was coming towards him. Putting Rose down carefully, he stood up and bowed.

“Mr Rawlings, I was thinking how sweet you looked holding your child. You are a most unusual and loving father.”

“I am all that Rose has got,” he replied honestly.

She looked at him with a bright smile. “But you will remarry, surely.”

John’s thoughts flew to Elizabeth and again he answered truthfully. “I am not sure about that.”

Diana smiled beautifully. “There’s many a woman who would like you for a partner, Sir.”

“It’s kind of you to say so.”

“I only speak the truth.”

And with that she curtsied and went on to the stables, enquiring audibly about hiring a horse. This put an idea into John’s mind and he turned to Rose.

“Would you like to go for a ride?”

“Oh, yes please Papa.”

“Then we’ll ask Mrs Elizabeth to join us.”

Half an hour later it was all done. The livery stables which worked in conjunction with The Angel had provided them with two stout mounts and a pony for the young person. Then the three of them clattered out of the stable yard and set off to the right in the direction of Loe Pool. Elizabeth, as was usual with her, led off at some speed, particularly when they reached the open country beyond the town. John and Rose followed at a sedate pace, suitable for the child, good rider though she was. So it was that they reached the Pool and stopped to marvel at its size and splendour. In the distance to the right, standing on high ground overlooking the lake, was a great house. But it was not to this that the Apothecary’s eyes were drawn. He looked instead at the horse that Diana had hired, grazing beneath a tree, its reins looped loosely over a branch. Beside it stood another horse, also cropping the turf.

John knew instantly that the lady in question was with her mystery man and felt his natural curiosity reach overwhelming proportions. Thinking to himself that it couldn’t possibly be Tim Painter — unless the man had moved very fast — he longed to get a glimpse of who it was. Yet his natural revulsion against Peeping Toms held sway. He said to Rose, “Shall we dismount or do you want to search for Mrs Elizabeth?”

Rose turned on him a stricken face. “She isn’t lost too, is she?”
 

John laughed. “Not she. She’s probably just ridden on a little. She’ll be back, don’t worry.”

“Then I’ll get off.” And she slid to the ground in quite an expert fashion before John could catch her.

He dismounted and stood beside her, looking at the enchanting vista. Then the thought came that if Isobel had vanished into the Pool it would be almost impossible to find the girl. He had seen many lakes but this one was particularly wooded on its shore line and would be almost impossible to search.

A low laugh coming from the group of trees to his right made him glance over, and there, to his great astonishment he saw Diana Warwick emerging accompanied by the red-headed aristocratic-looking Nicholas Kitto. So that was it! She must have met Kitto somewhere and they had formed a liaison, a liaison which was still continuing.

But why the secrecy? the Apothecary wondered. What was it that prevented them from announcing to the world that they were sweethearts? Then it occurred to him that Diana might be married despite her claiming otherwise, and with it came the certainty that she was a good deal older than young Kitto, possibly even as much as twenty years.

Rose, quite unabashed, waved enthusiastically in the manner of children and called out, “Good day, Miss Warwick.”

“Good day,” she called back, obviously extremely embarrassed.

John meanwhile was muttering at his daughter, “Just leave it, Rose. Don’t say any more.”

But she either didn’t hear him or was just being wilful because she called out, “The Constable couldn’t find Isobel.”

“I know, my dear. Isn’t it a shame.”

Meanwhile Kitto, who had been surveying the scene, decided to make the best of it and came forward with a grin.

“Hello, Rawlings. We meet again.”

“Yes, indeed,” said John over-heartily, attempting to appear nonchalant.

“Miss Warwick and I are old friends,” continued the young man, flushing despite his brave approach.

“Oh, excellent,” the Apothecary answered in the same vein.

“I must be getting back,” said Diana.

“Oh, really? Well I’ll see you as arranged then.”

And Nicholas bent down to assist his ladylove to mount, cupping his hands together to receive her foot as she climbed into the side saddle.

John was partly amused by the incident yet greatly puzzled. It seemed to him that there was something odd about the pair of them, but what it was totally eluded him. He felt certain, though, that he would discover it eventually.

Elizabeth rode up as Nicholas left, having given Diana several minutes start. John, observing the Marchesa closely, thought he had never seen anyone as beautiful. Her black hair was loose, flying out as she cantered along, and the colour was fresh in her cheeks. Today she rode side saddle, something she did not often do, but it suited her well. Only the ugly scar, the flaw in the diamond, detracted from her being totally lovely.