Death and the Cornish Fiddler (18 page)

“I would rather Dr Penhale agreed.”

“That means a wait of several hours.”

The Constable hesitated, weighing up the pros and cons, then finally said with a sigh, “Oh very well. But I insist on accompanying you.”

Glad that he had been given the opportunity of a second examination, John nodded with an enthusiasm he did not feel.

The mortuary was attached to the workhouse, situated in Meneage Street, a mere stone’s throw from Trethowan’s place of work. Walking side-by-side, John carrying a small medical bag with him, the two men made their way there, walking through the May sunshine in silence.

As always it was the overpowering smell of substances, used hopefully to counteract the stink of corrupting flesh, that the Apothecary disliked. Putting a handkerchief to his nose he walked amongst the slabs, each bearing a shrouded white figure, to the one that the mortuary keeper had indicated.

Turning back the cloth, Diana Warwick’s face came into view.

She was still beautiful, even in death, though now - rigor mortis having been and gone - her cheeks had a fallen-in look and her features were drawing together round her mouth. John couldn’t help but notice that the Constable turned away as the Apothecary leant over the body and peered into Diana’s nostrils. If she had fought for breath as she died then surely some small particle of what had been pressed over her face would have been inhaled. And there it was, three tiny white feathers, indicating surely that a pillow had been held down. Giving a small cry of triumph John fished in his bag and produced a pair of tweezers. Inserting them gently, he pulled out the feathers and dropped them into a box. Then he turned to Trethowan.

“She was smothered all right.”

“How do you know, Sir?”

“Here’s the evidence. See.” And he showed him the tell-tale feathers.

The Constable nodded his head slowly. “This entirely alters the case. I will inform the Coroner immediately.”

“I think,” said John thoughtfully, “that every man who saw her on the night she was killed should be interviewed.”

“But just who were they?”

“Tim Painter for one. And young Kitto, of course.”

“I’ll see them directly.”

“And try Lord Godolphin,” the Apothecary added.

The Constable gave him an anguished glance. “I wouldn’t dare do that. Why, it could cost me my job.”

“Is the man so powerful?”

“He is in charge of a great deal of Helstone, that’s for sure.”

“Would you like me to question him?”

“If you can get within a mile of him you’re welcome to try.”

“Well, I can only do my best,” the Apothecary answered, none too confidently.

As it transpired he did not have far to look. John had crossed the road and was making his way back to Dr Penhale’s house. hopefully to catch the man in, when a familiar carriage drew up in front of him. A servant leapt to the ground and pulled the steps down, and out got the familiar figure of his lordship, who proceeded, with a swagger, to make for the physician’s front door. Seizing the opportunity John followed in his wake and arrived just a step behind him as the man rang the bell. He turned as he became aware of the Apothecary’s proximity.

John bowed courteously. “We meet again, Sir.”

The steely eyes regarded him. “So it would seem.”

John, sizing the man up, decided he was arrogant and would probably respond to flattery. “I hope your lordship is not in ill health,” he said.

“I am perfectly well, thank you.”

The Apothecary made a self-deprecating move. “I thought as you were here…” His voice trailed away and he gestured to the doctor’s name plate.

“I’ve come to see the quack for something for gout, if you must know.”

“May I suggest the juice of germander drunk over several weeks,” John replied smoothly. “I have always found it extremely efficacious when prescribing to my patients.”

Lord Godolphin’s eyebrows shot up but he was spared from making a reply by the door being answered by a woman servant. She curtseyed on seeing who stood there.

“Oh, my lord, the doctor is still out, I fear. I am expecting him soon, though. Would you care to come in and wait?”

“No, I would not.” Lord Godolphin turned away and was about to leave when he stopped abruptly and asked John a question. “Are you a physician, Sir?”

“I am an apothecary, Sir, with a practice in London. I can certainly prepare you a concoction of germander to tide you over, should you so desire.”

His lordship hesitated, then said, “Very well, I shall try some. I shall send a servant round this evening to collect it.”

“Not a bit of it, Sir. I insist on bringing it myself. Where do you live?”

“At Godolphin in Breage,” the other replied grandly.

“Very good, my lord. Shall we say six o’clock?”

“Yes. As good a time as any,” answered his lordship, and stepped into his carriage without further ado.

The servant, still standing in the doorway, stared at John questioningly.

“Could you tell your master that Mr Rawlings called with some information for him. I will return later,” he said, then turned on his heel and headed back purposefully for The Angel inn.

Elizabeth and Rose had gone for a drive to the sea which gave the Apothecary time to seek out some wild germander growing on an old ruined cottage. This he compounded using a small pestle and mortar which he had brought in his medical bag. Then he drained it as best he could and poured the juice into a clean empty bottle.

Having some time to kill, the Apothecary decided on a walk and found his feet leading him in the direction of the Loe Pool, that place of mystery and occasional tragedy, according to local legend. But he had only just got close to the bottom of the street when a familiar voice said, “Buy my heather for luck, Sir.”

He turned and found himself looking into the clearwater eyes of Gypsy Orchard.

“How much?” he said, putting his hand into his pocket.

As much as you care to give me,” she answered, and smiled at him.

There was something immensely attractive about the woman, John thought, and he wondered about her personal life; wondered whether she had a man or even children. He extended two shillings.

“Will that be enough?”

“More than plenty, Sir. I’ve charmed the heather for extra good fortune.”

“It will make me lucky, eh?”

“It helps to ward off evil spirits.”

“Surely there can’t be any of those in Helstone,” he said, continuing to smile.

The look on her face removed his grin. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Furry Dance attracts all sorts of people to see it.”

“Who exactly?”

“People who serve the Earth Goddess and also those who serve the Dark Master.”

“Do you mean witches?”

“I do, both white and black.”

John was silent, thinking about what she was saying, not consciously having realised before that there was a difference. “Could you explain that?” he asked.

A cautious expression crossed Gypsy Orchard’s face. “No, it’s not good to say too much, Sir. Remember, they hang witches still.”

And John did remember, and asked no further questions. Instead he said, “Why should they be attracted to the Furry Dance, to Flora Day?”

“Because of its origins. It’s pagan, don’t forget. Some might think it is a form of devil worship.”

“What nonsense,” he exclaimed loudly. “It is a tribute to the coming of spring, that is all.”

“And its roots are pre-Christian,” she answered with a secretive smile.

The Apothecary decided that further conversation on that particular subject was useless. He looked serious.

“Tell me again, do you truly believe that Isobel Pill drowned?” Those amazing clear eyes gazed at him. “I would stake my own life on it.”

“Then where is she?”

“That I cannot tell, Sir.”

He nodded. “And now Miss Warwick is dead.” He decided to test her. “Has she been murdered do you think?”

“I told her fortune the other night and all I could see was darkness. I felt that all was not well but I denied it even to myself.”

“I see”.

“No, Sir, I don’t think you do. Being a Charmer, having clear-sight, is not always easy. There are certain people who scoff…” She gave him a pointed glance. “…but fortunately not many round these parts. But the worst comes when you know that someone is going to die. Then you’re hard put to it to know what to say.”

John’s mind went back to the old crone who had foretold Emilia’s death. She had had no trouble spilling out the dread words. At the time he had thought it was a friend playing a practical joke but now he could see that the gypsy woman had been absolutely right. Emilia had died as she had described and he had been left a widower. With a wrench he brought his mind back to the present.

“So you have nothing further to say on that matter?”

“Not at present. I shall consult my crystal and let you know what I see.”

John’s curiosity overcame him. “Tell me, Gypsy Orchard, where do you live?”

“In a little cottage not far from Loe Pool. Many think I dwell in the hedges but that life would be too unsettling for me. It’s in that cottage that I keep my cats and my crystal and people know where to find me.”

“But your name suggests someone who spends a lot of time outdoors.”

“I do. But I was named after the place in which I was born. Does that answer your question?”

“Very adequately.”

“Then I’ll be on my way, Sir. You know where to come looking should you need help.

And with that the gypsy picked up her basket, smiled, and was gone.

Chapter 17

G
odolphin was a truly magnificent house. John, having borrowed Elizabeth’s coach together with Jed and his accompanying guard, could not help but feel impressed as they turned into the half-moon carriage sweep and a pillared white building, gracious and elegant of line, and bearing much in its architecture of the reign of William and Mary, stood before him.

The light in the sky was just beginning to fade and thus the beautiful place seemed to languish in its dark parkland like a lily that had been plucked and then discarded. The Apothecary, enraptured, called up to Jed, “Stop a minute. I want to look.”

Candles had been lit and appeared to shine from every window so that the place had a fairy-like quality; a glittering breathless charm that left the Apothecary almost devoid of his senses. Indeed he felt quite weakened by the house’s spell as the carriage moved forward again and deposited him at the front door. In response to the tolling of a bell a liveried footman appeared.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Lord Godolphin is expecting me. John Rawlings of Shug Lane, London.”

Much to his surprise the servant answered, “Oh yes, Sir. If you would follow me.”

The Apothecary was led through an elegant and richly appointed hallway to where, in a library full of books, his lordship sat reading a newspaper, a pair of spectacles on his nose. He looked up and actually had the good manners to rise from his seat.

“Oh Rawlings, how nice of you to call. Do you have the physic with you?”

“I do indeed, Sir.” And John produced the bottle of juice from his coat pocket.

Godolphin held it up to the light. “This will do me good, I feel certain of it. Now, tell me, have you dined?”

“No, I was returning to the inn but…”

He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands.

“Then you can do so with me. Truth to tell I could do with a little company.”

John looked through the spectacles at the steely eyes behind. They were as hard as ever but a telltale flush had risen in the nobleman’s cheeks.

“I should be delighted,” the Apothecary answered, glad that Elizabeth was a woman of resources who would not complain if he did not put in an appearance.

“Fact is,” Lord Godolphin continued, “that her ladyship is away visiting relatives. Something she frequently does.”

John remained silent, unable to think of a fitting reply.

“I was hoping that you would tell me something of your life in London. I visit the capital from time to time but it is not the same as dwelling there in my opinion.”

“I would be delighted to do so, Sir. May I sit down?”

“By all means - how remiss of me. What can I get you to drink?”

“A sherry would be splendid, thank you.”

Lord Godolphin poured from a glittering decanter and passed John a glass, which he raised.

“Your health, Sir.”

“And yours. Now tell me of London.”

The Apothecary drew breath then started on a somewhat rosily painted version of the capital. He talked about the theatres, the pleasure gardens, the gaiety, the cutting fashions, but eventually he turned the subject to the whores of Covent Garden.

“Do you know the area, my lord?”