Free Death and the Cornish Fiddler by Deryn Lake

town and watch the Faddy.”
    “What’s that?”
    “It’s what they call the line of dancers. I should imagine it comes from old English, when fade meant to go.”
    Rose spoke for the first time. “Well, I’m glad Isobel has faddied. She won’t come and stare at me at night now.”
    “She’ll probably be back before bedtime, but I will make sure she leaves you alone.”
    “She’ll be too tired by then anyway, Papa.”
    “Very true,” said John. He bent down and kissed his daughter. “Look after Mrs Elizabeth for me.” And he was off, heading purposefully for The Blue Anchor. Somewhat to his surprise, he found the Constable straight away. The chap was in the taproom holding forth about something or other and was clearly as drunk as a lord already. Having bought himself a pint of ale to steady his nerves, John approached with certain trepidation. The Constable, who was enormously tall and broad, a veritable giant of a fellow, bent his head down and said, “What do you want, little man?”
    “To speak to you if I may, Sir.”
    Trethowan roared with laughter. “Well, of course you can speak. The question is, will I listen?”
    This brought a chorus of belly laughs from the other occupants of the bar, all of whom were well the worse for drink. John decided that the only thing to do was to act mysteriously.
    “I’ve a tale to tell, Sir. A tale of a terrible child and what might have befallen her.”
    “Taken off by a bad man, was she?” said somebody.
    “Shush,” demanded Trethowan. “I want to hear.”
    Well at least he’d caught his attention, thought John.
    “This girl is a stranger to these parts and went to see the Hal- an-Tow this morning. Anyway, little monster that she is, she insisted on joining in and when the men remonstrated with her she bit one of them on the hand. Then, when they turned on her, she ran down the street in the direction of the fields, possibly towards Loe Pool and hasn’t been seen since. So I thought, Sir, as you are the Constable, you ought to be told.” There was silence in the room for a second and then the blacksmith burst out laughing.
    “So a child has gone missing, has she. I’d like a sovereign for every young “un that gets lost on Flora Day, so I would.” He paused, drank half a tankard of ale in a swallow, then bent down to the Apothecary once more. “Tell you what, my friend, if she’s still lost tomorrow morning then come and see me and I’ll organise a search. Meanwhile, may I suggest that you go and enjoy the rest of the day as I intend to do. Goodbye.” And he turned his large back.
    John felt utterly deflated. His mysterious ploy had failed dismally and now he was left with no alternative but to limp back to The Angel with his tail between his legs. He bought himself another pint of ale for consolation and went to sit in a dark corner to think about the situation. But he had no time to get very far for the door to the taproom opened and there were the brothers Colquite with the two other men the Apothecary had noticed earlier. Snatches of their conversation drifted towards him.
    “…there’s enough to form a…” This last word said very low so that it was impossible to hear.
    “.. .but what about th…” John could not catch the rest. “Nonsense.” This from Geoffrey Colquite. “Let us proceed as planned.”
    “Oh, well you always were…”
    At that moment they were disturbed by the arrival of a potboy and that particular conversation ceased, though one voice continued talking loud and enthusiastic rubbish. John drank up and walked out past the quartet. They greeted him as if he were a long-lost brother, calling him over and bowing most politely.
    “My dear Sir, how very nice to see you.”
    “Nice to see you,” echoed Gregory.
    “May I present even more cousins, Eustace Sayce and Herbert Reece?”
    A couple of males rose and bowed. One was short and round with a face like a grinning red melon. He was the one who had been conversing