Death and the Cornish Fiddler Read Online Free PDF Page A

he was devastatingly handsome and well aware of it. The woman, by contrast, was plain as a poppy seed, and had made no attempt at all to enhance her looks by the use of powder and paint. Shorter than her companion, she was slim but that was about all that could be said in her favour. She wore a small pair of spectacles perched on an unexceptional nose, while the mouth beneath was thin and closed like a trap. Her eyes were so nondescript as to be almost colourless, and she gazed at the world unsmilingly.
    Her child, on the other hand, was quite pretty but spoilt by the most ferocious scowl. Aged about seven, or so John reckoned, she peered out belligerently at the passers-by froma rather attractive pair of eyes beneath a mop of dark hair. The Apothecary stole another glance at Painter to see if he was the father but felt fairly certain that the man was not responsible.
    Isobel, aware that she was being observed, grasped Painter’s hand and hid her face in his breeches, an indelicate move to say the least. Rose simply gaped, open-mouthed, at the performance.
    “Mr Painter, Mr Painter,” came the muffled voice. “Stop them staring at me.”
    Painter made a bow as best he could with the child burrowing into him, and flashed his green eyes in Elizabeth’s direction.
    “Forgive me, Ma’am. Fact is the child’s highly strung. Do apologise.”
    He had a simply stunning voice, well modulated and pleasant to listen to. He was obviously a product of a first-class education, John considered.
    Elizabeth laughed. “Makes her sound like a fiddle.”
    At this Mrs Pill entered the conversation.
    “There’s no need to be personal, Ma’am.”
    “I had no intention of so being. I apologise if my remark caused offence.”
    “Not at all,” said Painter, eyeing the Marchesa up. “Apology accepted. Kathryn meant no harm, did you dear? Where are you staying?”
    “At The Angel. We’ve just arrived.”
    “Splendid, so are we - staying there I mean. Allow me to present myself. I am Timothy Painter.”
    “How do you do? My name is John Rawlings.”
    The men bowed. Then Tim went on, And this is my fiancee, Mrs Pill, and her daughter Isobel.”
    Kathryn Pill bobbed a somewhat grumpy curtsey.
    Elizabeth spoke up. “I am Elizabeth di Lorenzi. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
    Tim looked at her with a sparkle in his eye. “You are Italian, Madam?”
    “No, I am English, Sir. My late husband was a Venetian.”
    “I see,” he said, and put a wealth of meaning into the two words.
    Mrs Pill, clearly noticing that her companion was more than a little distracted by the exquisite Elizabeth, said, “We must continue our promenade, I fear. Good day to you both. No doubt we shall meet again.”
    “We certainly will,” said Tim Painter pointedly.
    John gave him an amused look. “It has been most interesting, Sir, Until next time.” And with that he and his party made their way up the street.
    Rose turned to look at him. “I didn’t like that girl, Papa.”  
    “Why, darling? She didn’t do anything to you.”
    “Nonsense,” said the Marchesa briskly. “She was a horrible child and there’s an end to it. All that hiding her face and burying herself in the young man’s leg. She’s far too old for such a caper.”
    John burst out laughing. “I see that I am hopelessly outnumbered and I concede victory immediately. From now on little Isobel shall be held up as an example of what not to be.”  
    Rose suddenly took Elizabeth’s hand. “I am glad we came here. It is going to be unusual.”
    “Why do you say that?” the Marchesa asked curiously.
    “Because I believe it is,” Rose answered, and releasing her fingers, went skipping up the street.

Chapter 4

    T hat evening, quite late, while John Rawlings embraced Elizabeth di Lorenzi before making his way back to his own room, a sound of music came from the streets below. Raising his head, John listened, then he looked at the Marchesa, who lay propped up against the