Death and the Cornish Fiddler (3 page)

“Dance, Madam and Sir,” suggested the gruff-voiced barman as he brought their drinks. And the next second Elizabeth was on her feet and cavorting wildly. John, unable to resist the music’s insistent beat, got up and seizing her round the waist, began to improvise great leaps and bounds.

Jamaica Inn was transformed; transformed by the sound of that curious band of musicians who had so suddenly started to play. It was as if they possessed some kind of magic, so irresistible were the tunes they produced. Eventually both Elizabeth and John ran out of breath and collapsed into their chairs laughing, drinking their wine, flushed and feeling strangely happy.

Then a curious thing happened. The fiddle player came tap- tap-tapping in their direction and John realised that the man was blind. Of medium height and build, his long dark hair tied back with a bit of greasy ribbon, his clothes, which had clearly once been of quality stuff, now stained and disreputable. He wore a pair of spectacles, the lenses painted black.

“Penny for the band, Sir,” he said.

It was an unusual voice, heavily Cornish in its intonation.

John reached into his pocket and produced a shilling. “Thank you,” he said, giving the fellow the coin.

The man felt it, realised its worth, and gave a bow in John’s general direction. “Very kind of you, Sir. I do thank “ee.”

He tapped his way back to his companions and they struck up once more. Elizabeth looked at John.

“I wonder where they’re heading. Do you think it could be to Helstone?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it. But yes, I suppose you’re right. They’re certainly not resident here.” Elizabeth laughed; a warm sound. “I can hardly imagine Jamaica Inn boasting its own orchestra.”

John smiled as well. “No, I think not.” He stood up. “Come, we’ve tarried long enough. Rose will be waking up.”

“You love that child more than anything, don’t you.”

“Yes.” He was suddenly serious. “Could you love her as well?” Elizabeth gave him an enigmatic smile. “I already do,” she answered.

The bleakness of Bodmin Moor, in contrast to the warm valleys of Devon, brought an involuntary shiver to the Apothecary. He sat, one arm round Rose, who by now was fully awake, gazing out of the window, wondering about the beast that Elizabeth had described and whether it was reality or a creature of legend. In this gaunt countryside - where there was little or no sign of the coming of spring - it was possible to imagine anything.

Bad weather lay ahead for the sky was growing dark and sporadic drops of rain had started to fall. John and Elizabeth exchanged a glance.

“Why don’t we stop somewhere and make the rest of the journey in daylight?” he asked.

Elizabeth nodded. “A good idea. As soon as we’re off this accursed moor we can make for St Austell and spend the night there.”

“Shall I tell Jed?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

And once again Elizabeth put her head out of the window and shouted instructions. Back came Jed’s call.

“I’m glad you said that, Ma’am. This moor is terrible hard going.”

And John thought, as they bounced their way across cart tracks, that he had never known anything so uncomfortable and wondered at the bodily endurance of Rose, although until now she was clearly finding the whole thing a great adventure and had hardly noticed the rigours of the journey.

As the day darkened even further their ordeal finally came to an end. Leaving Bodmin behind them they picked up the old coaching road and journeyed to St Austell in relative comfort. Once there they made their way to The White Hart, a goodly sized inn, and booked three rooms for the night.

An hour later they dined in the parlour reserved for travellers of quality, Rose yawning and tired-eyed throughout. At the end of the meal, John excused himself temporarily and carried the child upstairs, where she went straightaway to bed. As he left the room, however, she spoke in a sleepy voice.

“Papa.”

He turned. “Yes, sweetheart.”

“Are you staying close by?”

“I have the room next door. Now, go to sleep like a good child.”

“Will you come and see me later?”

“You know I will.”

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

He went downstairs and found Elizabeth where he had left her, staring into the fire, a glass of wine untouched before her on the table.

“Tell me your thoughts,” he said, smiling at her.

She looked up. “I was thinking about my son,” she answered.

John did not know what to say so remained silent.

“Rose reminded me of him. He was so sweet when he was young, such a lovely child. I loved him with all my heart, you know.”

John merely nodded, not interrupting her flow.

“Dear Frederico, how they ruined my beautiful boy.”

The Apothecary thought then about the Society of Angels, who had once prowled the streets of Exeter and who had welcomed the Marchesa’s son into their ranks and introduced him to the delights of opium smoking.

“He was so changed in the end,” Elizabeth said, and for the first time John heard a catch in her voice, “that even I hardly recognised him.”

“You must put it behind you, Elizabeth. We all of us have tragedies to contend with. You really must let the memory go.” She looked up at him and gave a bitter little smile. “Yes, my friend, you have had your share of grief as I well know. Tell me, how are you coping. Really.”

“I carry on for the sake of my daughter. No, that isn’t quite true. I carry on for my own sake as well. Because I still want to taste life, to know its peaks and troughs. And there’s another thing as well.”

“Which is?”

“I carry on to see how we are going to end, Marchesa.”

She covered his hand with her own. “What do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well. Every day I am drawn a little closer to you.”

“Do I? Do I know that?”

“Well, if you don’t you should by now. Emilia has been dead for well over a year and.

He broke off, not quite certain how much more he should say.

“You miss her both mentally and physically?”

“I find it lonely, yes.”

Elizabeth leant towards him. “I long to kiss you,” she said with a smile, repeating something she had said to him a long while ago.

“And I you,” he answered, and bending his head took her in his arms.

Chapter 3

A
t long last she was ready for him, though why the capricious woman’s mood had finally changed John was far from sure. But he did not question it, gladly accepting her eagerness to consummate their long association. Going up the stairs she leant against him and, opening her bedroom door, led him inside. Once within, with the door securely locked, they kissed long and deep. And in this kiss was all the Apothecary’s pent-up loneliness and longing, together with his desire for Elizabeth which had been there from the moment he first saw her.

An unhappy memory came then, of the depths of his feelings for Emilia. Involuntarily, John sighed. Elizabeth must have heard for she put her hands on either side of his face.

“Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not. In fact I am extremely happy.”

For answer she lay down on the bed and, reaching up, pulled John down beside her. For a minute they remained like that, looking intently into each other’s face, then the waters of the dam broke as love finally came to them both and together they entered a world of magic.

He woke in the middle of the night, thinking he had had the most wonderful dream. Then, reaching out, he felt her, sleeping deeply but still warm and soft from loving. Lighting a candle which lay beside the bed, he took in every detail of her. The black hair was spread out like a dark veil, curling and tumbling round her head; her cheek was swept by long thick lashes; the scar which made her at once both ugly and arrestingly beautiful, was softened by the light. Silently, John wept. He wept for Emilia and the fact that his heart had moved on; he wept for Elizabeth that she had had such a hard and difficult life. Eventually though, when he had stared at her for what seemed like an age, he blew out the candle and, holding her close to him, slept better than he had for months.

He awoke early next morning and crept along the corridorto his own room where he got into bed. But he couldn’t sleep, his mind a strange mixture of peace and guilt. He knew that he had loved Emilia truly, yet now he felt completely absorbed by Elizabeth. And this gave rise to terrible feelings of regret. Yet at the same time he knew that he had fallen deeply in love with the Marchesa and that nothing could stop that passion from growing. And then, suddenly, he remembered something that he had once heard; that love was like a river that flowed into tributaries, and he knew that that was what was taking place within him. Though he would never stop loving Emilia, his flood of feeling had moved inexorably on.

He was just closing his eyes to sleep again when there was a tiny knock low down on his door.

“Come in, sweetheart,” he called, expecting Rose, and was astonished to see a very small chambermaid bearing a jug of hot water.

The Apothecary wondered whether to beg her pardon but decided to ignore it. Instead he asked, “Have you seen my daughter? She has the room next door.”

“Oh yes, Sir. She’s up and washing herself.”

John smiled. “I’ll go and help her.”

The girl bobbed a curtsey. “If you please, Sir, I can do that. It would be more suitable.”

“She has no mother,” John said by way of explanation. “My wife died some while ago.”

The maid looked stricken. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sir. I’ll go to the little girl immediately.”

The Apothecary, who had been trying to clarify why it was he and not a woman who looked after his daughter, bowed to the inevitable, said, “Thank you,” and ruefully shook his head as the maid left the room.

Half an hour later he and Rose sat at breakfast awaiting the arrival of Elizabeth. His daughter, the Apothecary was amused to see, had inherited his liking for a large repast in the mornings and was currently tucking into a sliver of ham. John was ravenously hungry and was just ordering more bread when the Marchesa swept up to the table. This morning - in his eyes at least - she looked radiant and his heart gave a disconcerting lurch at the sight of her.

He could not resist asking how she had slept.

“Very well, thank you,” she answered, and ordered tea and toast. She turned to Rose. “Are you looking forward to seeing the Furry?”

The child nodded, her mouth being too full to speak. When she had swallowed she said, “Tell me about it, Mrs Elizabeth.”

“Well, it’s very old, probably the survival of a pagan ritual dance to do with the rite of spring. It’s always danced on the 8^ of May, except when that date falls on a Sunday or Monday when they change the day.”

“Go on,” said Rose.

“Couples dress up and dance in and out of people’s houses and the whole town is decorated with flowers and greenery. Then as well as the Furry - or Floral Dance as it is also known - they do another strange ceremony called the Hal-an-Tow.” Rose looked enthusiastic.

“To start off with, the youths taking part go into the neighbouring woods and gather branches of sycamore. Then they perambulate the town, waving the branches over their heads and singing the Hal-an-Tow song at various places of vantage. I don’t know the words but apparently they are the survivors of a mediaeval sea shanty.”

“I told you it was Heel-and-Toe,” interrupted John.

“You’re probably right.” Elizabeth gave him a look in which lay a certain fondness.

He returned the glance equally then turned to his daughter. “So now you know some more.”

“It sounds very interesting,” she said in her advanced way, and returned to her breakfast.

An hour later they left The White Hart behind them and took the coaching road to Falmouth. From there Jed turned inland and they picked their way over rough lanes and cart tracks to Helstone.

Looking through the window, John studied the place with interest. There was one large main street with several houses and a building standing out into the thoroughfare. The other streets that he could glimpse were narrow and winding. The whole village was surrounded by pleasant hills and trees, and there was a fine church standing out to the right, while a river ran at the bottom of the town. He thought it rather enchanting and quaint.

“It’s a magic place,” said Rose suddenly.

John shivered, he had no idea why. “What makes you say that, sweetheart?”

“Because it is,” she answered, and refused to elaborate further.

They went downhill into the town, through the small streets, then turned left and found themselves in the broad thoroughfare. Elizabeth looked to her left.

“There’s an inn,” she said. “And it’s called The Angel.”

“That’s where we’ll stay, then.”

And John put his head out of the window and called up to Jed, who pulled the coach to a halt before the main front door. Rufus jumped down and pulled down the step for John to dismount. Having handed Elizabeth out, the Apothecary turned back to lift down Rose. She came willingly enough but he felt as he picked her up that she was trembling.