Death and the Cornish Fiddler Read Online Free PDF Page B

answered simply, “It’s hard to love a monkey but I must admit to having certain feelings of fondness for it.”
    “Then that’s as well.” The Marchesa put a shilling in the hat, as did John. The sad monkey’s face contorted into something resembling a grin before it scampered away to its next customers. The fiddler shuffled up to them. “Thank’ee, Sir. I’ll play again.”
    He picked up his bow once more and the Apothecary, at close quarters now, studied the man. He was unkempt, that much was certain. A great tangle of black hair, streaked here and there with grey, was visible beneath the battered hat he always wore, which was an amazing creation, sporting a selection of dilapidated feathers at one side. It reminded the Apothecary of drawings of Robin Hood he had seen from time to time, and he could not help wondering whether the fiddler ever removed it.
    Beneath this fantastic head of hair were a pair of black spectacles, worn no doubt to hide his sightless eyes from the world, which sat atop a hawkish nose. His face, stained a deep brown by constant exposure to the elements, was pitted with the scars of smallpox, and indeed one could have declared him to be a regular vagabond had it not been for his mouth. For this was passionate and well-formed, the mouth of a sensualist. It was, the Apothecary concluded, the one thing that betrayed him to be a musician, speaking as it did of finer feelings.
    Apart from this unusual quality the fiddler was thin, reasonably tall, and despite his lack of flesh, strong and wiry. Yet again, his hands were exquisite; small and beautifully shaped as well as being nimble, one running over the strings like a bird in flight, the other guiding the bow to produce beautiful sounds. John, watching him, felt drawn to the man despite his strange appearance.
    Elizabeth meanwhile was stamping her feet and clapping, and when a strange young man bowed before her and led her off to dance, John could only smile half-heartedly as he watched them whirl down the street. It was then that he felt a tug at his hand and, looking down, saw Rose.
    “What are you doing up?” he asked, somewhat crossly. “Isobel woke me,” she answered, her great eyes awash with tears.
    John crouched down. “What do you mean?”
    “She came into my room and stood staring at me. Don’t be cross, Papa.”
    He was filled with tenderness. “I’m not, sweetheart. I just want to know what happened.”
    “I told you. Isobel entered my room and stared at me.”
    “Did you speak to her?”
    “No. But, oh Papa, it was the expression on her face. It was as if she wanted to kill me.”
    “Well, stay up for a bit then I’ll go back and sit with you. And tomorrow morning I’ll speak to her mother.”
    “What will you say?”
    “I shall tell her what occurred and ask for an explanation. Don’t worry, darling, it won’t happen again I promise you.” Elizabeth, breathless and laughing, was brought back by the young man, who was in very much the same condition. Seeing Rose’s unhappy face she stopped short but at a silent signal from John, said nothing. His daughter, meanwhile, having cried a little, was being cheered by the atmosphere in the crowd.
    “It’s exciting, Papa.”
    “Isn’t it. Now, listen carefully. The blind fiddler is just about to start again. And, see, he’s got a tame monkey with him.” They stood enthralled while the tatterdemalion band struck up once more and played their music to the ever-growing group of people. Rose, John noticed, could not take her eyes from the small simian, which walked round and round with the hat, collecting quite a goodly sum in the process. Eventually, though, they played their final chord, took a bow, and wandered off in the direction of The Blue Anchor. Elizabeth smiled at Rose.
    “Are you tired?”
    “Yes. But Papa said he would sit with me while I go to sleep.”
    “Well then, so he shall.”
    They went back into The Angel and John carried the half- asleep child