Death and the Cornish Fiddler by Deryn Lake

serenely in its own grounds.
    “Do we go in?” asked Tim.
    “Of course. She might well be hiding inside.”
    Removing their headgear, which both men had thrust on before they started to run, they proceeded in through the door in the porch. Immediately the atmosphere of the church made them walk quietly and speak in subdued voices. There was no one in sight but a step behind them had them spinning round hopefully.
    An elderly cleric stood there, sweet-faced and very kindly in appearance. He seemed astonished to see anyone and John realised that after the morning service very few people must visit the church on Flora Day. He made a formal bow.
    “Good day to you, Sir.”
    “Good day, young man.”
    Tim Painter gave a lazy bow. “How do?” he said.
    “Have you by any chance seen a young girl, aged about seven? She has a mop of dark hair and was heading for the church when last observed.”
    “Yes,” said the vicar surprisingly. “A child answering that description was hiding in here but ran out when she saw me.”
    “How long ago was that?” This from Tim Painter.
    “About fifteen minutes or so. She can’t have got far.”
    “Thank you a thousand times,” said John. “If you don’t mind we ll go in pursuit.”
    “I’m glad I was of service. I hope to see you in church some time.”
    “Oh, you will,” the Apothecary called over his departing shoulder.
    Tim Painter, on the other hand, raised his hat but said nothing.

Chapter 9

    T hey ran out and back to the Guildhall as quickly as they had come. John, panting somewhat, looked at Tim and thought to himself that the fellow was in the peak of condition, lean and fit and not in the least out of breath. Painter, aware that he was being stared at, gave the Apothecary the familiar idle smile and said, “When I get my hands on that little bitch I’ll give her a lesson she won’t forget in a hurry.”
    John slowed his pace. “You don’t like the child, do you?”  
    Tim chuckled, sounding quite human. “I can’t stand her. In fact I’ve disliked her ever since I first saw her.”
    “Then why…?”
    “Money, old boy. Mrs Pill is damnable rich. Old man Pill was a wealthy merchant and when he shuffled off, his widow gained the lot. Now I’m quite happy to admit I am delighted to be a kept man. It seems to me that work is something to be avoided if at all possible. By the way, you surprised me today. I had no idea you were an apothecary.”
    “Really? Well I have been since I was sixteen.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “That’s how old I was when I began my indentures.” John allowed a small smile to cross his features as he thought of his old Master. But Tim was continuing to talk.
    “Anyhow that wily old bird Pill left a clause in his will that means his widow loses all her money should she remarry. So I have to remain the perpetual lover, which is wretchedly tiring let me assure you.”
    John could not help but grin by the frankness with which it was all said. Then he thought of Elizabeth, of her strangely beautiful face with its ugly scar, of her strong, almost masculine, body, of the thrall she held him in, and determined to regularise their situation.
    As if reading his thoughts, Painter said, “That’s a handsome piece you’re involved with. What exactly is your relationship?”
    John gave him an amused glance. “Were close friends - that is all.”
    “All?”
    “Yes,” the Apothecary answered shortly, and let the matter drop.
    They had been searching while they spoke, going up to the top of the town until it vanished into trees and countryside. There was no sign of Isobel but undeterred, knowing that she could not be far away, they came back and searched the length of Meneage Street. The crowd had now thinned and the dancing had ceased in this particular spot. John, looking at his watch, saw that it was three o’clock and realised that the gentry folk had all gone to tea. Distantly he could hear the sound of the Cornish fiddler - as he