Death and the Cornish Fiddler (27 page)

“Not very pleasant I admit.”

“Poor Diana,” said Tim, and fell to musing over his ale.

John was silent, thinking hard. If the door had opened while Tim and Diana had been
in flagrente delicto
and a jealous man had stood there, then look no further for the murderer. But who, that was the question? What pair of eyes had observed them and decided to act later that night?

Full of uncertainty, the Apothecary decided that he must see the two remaining witnesses, namely Lord Godolphin and Nicholas Kitto - probably father and son in his opinion - as soon as possible.

Nick was obviously going to be the easier subject to find so, without ado, John Rawlings set out from The Blue Anchor and made his way up Coinage Hall Street, past the building that had given the place its name, then along Church Street until he came to the house at the top. Here he rang the bell which was answered by the usual servant.

“Is Mr Kitto in?” the Apothecary asked, adding crisply, “I do not have an appointment.”

“I will see if he is at home, Sir.”

And the maid, who was elderly, disappeared into the depths of the house. A few minutes later Nick himself, looking older and dressed entirely in black, came to the front door.

“Oh it’s you, Rawlings. Come in, come in.”

He led the way into the drawing room and said without preamble, “It’s Diana’s funeral tomorrow. The Coroner has agreed on it. The delay has been caused by an abortive attempt to find her relatives. But none have come forward and no further waiting can be brooked.”

“Indeed not,” said John, thinking of the state of the body. “Will you be attending?” Nicholas continued.

“Yes, of course. Do you know who else is going?”

“I have no idea. A mere handful I expect.”

“And where is it to be held?”

Nicholas looked surprised. “Here, in the local churchyard. The ceremony will be conducted by the Vicar. It is at half past ten in the morning.”

“I shall make a point of being there.” John cleared his throat. “Tell me, my friend, are you coming to terms with her death?”

“I have accepted the fact that I shall not see her any more but it has not made life any easier to bear. To tell you the truth I am missing her terribly.”

“I’m sure,” the Apothecary answered soothingly. “Now tell me again, you went to her room at about six o’clock in the morning, is that correct?”

“I’ve already told you, yes.”

“And you saw no one about as you ascended the stairs?”

“I passed some little maid with her thumb in her mouth. That was all.”

“And you found Diana dead?”

“Yes. Why do you want me to repeat everything?”

“What would you say if I told you that someone else had discovered the body some four hours earlier?”

Nicholas looked utterly astonished. “Who for God’s sake?”

“The blind fiddler,” John answered slowly.

Kitto’s face was a picture of disbelief. “The blind fiddler?” he repeated. “Why him of all people? What was he doing there?”

“Much the same as you I imagine.”

“What are you inferring?” snarled Nick Kitto, his face suddenly white and savage.

“I am saying that you were not Diana’s only visitor that night.” The attack was as unexpected as it was swift. The Apothecary, covered with bruises and with a cut lip and black eye to boot, was suddenly knocked to the floor by a hammer blow to his jaw.

“Oh God help us,” he bellowed, holding his face.

But Nick was on top of him and pounding his head on the wood repeatedly. Every tooth the Apothecary had shook violently and his senses had started to swim when there was a sudden shout from the doorway.

“Nicholas! Whatever are you doing? Stop it at once, do you hear me?”

It was Mrs Ennis, looking formidable in a purple gown with which her hair clashed violently. Her son, however, continued to crash away regardless. John felt himself to be on the point of losing consciousness when the rough treatment suddenly came to an end and he was vaguely aware that Nick had been hauled to his feet and sent to stand a good few feet away. The Apothecary had never been so glad to see anyone as his extremely unlikely rescuer. He looked at Nick’s mother, glassyeyed.

“Thanks,” he managed from a mouth totally swollen.

“My dear young man, whatever happened? Why was Nicholas attacking you?”

Nicholas rolled his eyes at John, a pleading in their depths.

“A slight argument over a game of chance,” the Apothecary muttered inaudibly.

This reply was treated with contempt as there were no cards or dice visible. “How about the truth,” said Mrs Ennis fiercely.

Nicholas growled from the corner in which he had been sent to stand, “It was my fault. I attacked him.”

“Why for heaven’s sake?”

“He was maligning a friend of mine.”

“I was telling the simple truth,” answered John from the floor.

Mrs Ennis swelled up, resembling an egg more closely than ever. “Now what is this all about? Mr Rawlings, please explain.”

She helped him to stand and he collapsed into a nearby chair, very much the worse for wear. Shooting a look at

Nicholas he saw that the young man was standing in the corner like a truculent little boy, sticking out his lower lip and generally pulling a sour face. No wonder he hadn’t been man enough for Diana, John thought cruelly.

Mrs Ennis turned to her son. “Well, Sir, as your friend will not speak, what do you have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“A fine how-do-you-do indeed. Both remain silent when it comes to the cause of the quarrel. Well you can leave my house, the pair of you. Go and fight in the street for all I care.”

“What about the neighbours?” muttered Nick.

“Oh they must take their chance,” Mrs Ennis snapped in reply. Weakly, John got to his feet and staggered towards the front door. Holding his somewhat crumpled hat in his hand he made his way out, then turned towards the church, desperately needing somewhere quiet to sit for half an hour. But he had got no further than a few yards when a voice said, “Oh my dear Sir. You seem fit to drop.”

He looked up and into the clear eyes of Gypsy Orchard.

“I don’t feel too good,” he replied weakly, before everything went black and he lost consciousness, seeing nothing but the stars whirling round his head. He came round lying comfortably on a chaise, a cooling bandage on his forehead, some soothing ointment applied to both his eye and his lip. Watching him anxiously were the Vicar and the gypsy, a rather odd combination thought the Apothecary wryly.

“Ah, my dear Sir,” said Mr Robinson, “you are back with us.” Struggling, John sat up. “Yes, I apologise. I’ve had rather a harsh time of it in the last few days. It all started when I fell off my horse and everything has grown progressively worse since then.”

Gypsy Orchard smiled. Ah, the things you men get up to. Anyway, Sir, I’ll give you a little pot of my special ointment for your eye and your mouth. Apply morning and night and you’ll soon be feeling better. Now I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Mr Robinson. I must be on my way.”

“Where are you going?” John asked, genuinely wanting her to stay.

She shrugged. “Wherever the fancy takes me. Goodbye,” and she turned and left the room.

John propped himself upright. “How did I get here, Sir?”

“The gypsy rang the doorbell and told me there was a sick man in the street. I carried you in with the aid of a servant.”

“Thank you very much, Sir. Mr Robinson…” John hesitated, not quite sure whether he should tell him.

“Yes, my son?”

“Sir, I have reason to believe there is a witch’s coven based in a house near Loe Pool.”

The Vicar sighed wearily. “So I understand. The trouble is, catching them at it.”

“There,” said John, “I might be able to help you.”

“Really? Good heavens! What do you know of them?”

The Apothecary pointed to his swollen eye and lip. “One of their number gave me these. I attended a ceremony of theirs in the ruins of Roskilly Abbey. Only as a hidden observer,” he added hastily as he saw a look of panic rise in Mr Robinson’s eye.

“Really? How did you get there?”

“It’s a long story,” said John. And suddenly he felt a great deal better to be discussing the matter with a clerk in holy orders.

“First I shall get us a glass of cordial each and then you can tell me everything,” Mr Robinson answered.

He rang a bell and an ancient servant answered and took the order.

“Now,” said the Vicar, seating himself opposite John, “tell me all you know.”

“Gladly, Sir.”

And John launched into his tale, leaving out nothing, despite the fact that Mr Robinson lost colour at some of his more lurid descriptions and once went so far as to put his hands over his ears, his expression one of total disgust.

Chapter 25

T
he story was told and John, seeing the look of both horror and fear on Mr Robinson’s face, regretted telling it.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said. “It is rather a ghastly tale.”

The Vicar made an effort to pull himself together. “Well, I’m glad you related it for all that. Now, I don’t usually imbibe at this time of day but I feel on this occasion a small sherry might not come amiss.”

“I think that sounds like a very good idea,” said the Apothecary, reviving somewhat.

Despite Mr Robinson’s words two large helpings were poured from a decanter standing on a side table. Handing John a glass, the Vicar took a seat opposite his.

“The point is, my friend, short of doing what you did in Redruth, how do I catch them at it?”

“I think you should involve the Constable, Sir. After all those who practice witchcraft are breaking the law of the land.”

“And of God.”

“Indeed,” John replied solemnly. He drank his sherry and began to feel a great deal better. “Forgive me, but you have lived in Helstone all your life, have you not?”

“Yes indeed. As I have already told you I was curate here until the Reverend Halsall passed to his rest when I secured this place for my living.”

The Apothecary looked round him. “You have a fine house here.”

“Yes, but it is not the vicarage house which I considered unsuitable.”

“Oh,” said John, longing to ask why but not daring.

As if in answer to his unspoken thoughts the Vicar said, “Mrs Robinson did not care for the other place. But she liked this house very much.”

“Oh I see. How long has she been dead, Sir?”

“Twelve years at least,” the Vicar replied gloomily.

“And you have no children?”

It was a natural enough question but Mr Robinson looked slightly irritated and replied, “No, none,” rather shortly.

John, observing him, wondered why.

“Have some more sherry,” said the Vicar, refilling the Apothecary’s glass without waiting for a reply.

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll have this then I really must be getting along.”

“My dear chap, do you feel up to walking back?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. As long as I can get past the house of my assailant without being attacked.”

“You didn’t tell me who it was.”

“Nicholas Kitto.”

A very odd expression came over the Vicar’s face. “That young scoundrel,” he said. “I don’t know why he behaves so badly. I truly cannot think.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Sir. I was telling him an unpleasant truth about the love of his life.”

“The woman I am to bury tomorrow?”

“The very same.”

Mr Robinson was silent for quite a while, then said, “I knew her, you know.”

“Did you?” asked John, intensely interested.

“Yes. I found her wandering the streets of Truro and brought her back to Helstone to give her a decent Christian education. But alas she caught the eye of a certain noble gentleman, though what the arrangement between them was I was never quite certain. For Diana, set up by him no doubt, spent some of her time in London, going to theatres and so on. But she always came back here and when Nicholas was about seventeen he met her and fell in love with her.”

Even while the Vicar was saying the words they were striking the Apothecary as odd. For surely Nick had told him that his father, Lord Godolphin, had rescued Diana from Truro. So somebody wasn’t telling the truth and it could not possibly be the reverend gentleman. Or could it? John listened avidly.

“What did the noble gentleman do in that situation?” he asked.

Mr Robinson shrugged, quite elegantly for a man of the cloth. “I have no idea. Perhaps she saw them both, perhaps she dropped the older man for the younger. Who knows?”

And John, his head in a whirl, thoroughly agreed with the last statement. For why should Nick tell him a tissue of lies unless it was to protect someone. But it was no use bombarding the Vicar with questions. The Apothecary decided to change the subject.