by Roz Southey
“Patterson’s no expert on singing,” Heron said sourly.
I had to admit the truth of this although I wished he’d phrased it more diplomatically. “You need to visit Durham Cathedral, sir, there are excellent singers and teachers there. You may tempt one of them to travel.”
The talk at the top of the table had turned to politics. In time of war, such talk is inevitable and we are on the verge of war. I was silent for a moment, trying to calm myself. If I started every time someone mentioned a book, I’d have a hard time of it. I was tired; I told myself a good night’s sleep would make a great deal of difference.
“Don’t blame all the trouble on the French!” Alyson said, laughing, to the severe-faced man who’d escorted Esther in to dinner. “I’m French myself, you know.” He chuckled at the horrified faces around him. “Well, technically, at least – I was born in Calais. My parents married and lived there for some years. My father sold out of the army when he married and took to the wine trade.”
I looked into the brandy again, thinking that father had not passed his expertise on to son. I glanced up and caught Heron’s sarcastic glance, which nearly made me burst out laughing.
“The French!” the plump gentleman said. I fancied I’d seen him in Newcastle once or twice but didn’t know his name. “Never mind the French, sir! It’s the Americans to blame...”
A silence fell. Gazes drifted and settled on Fischer. He held up a hand humorously. “Don’t look at me, gentlemen. It’s the Georgians you need to question. I’m a law-abiding Pennsylvania man.”
Alyson called for more brandy. Heron pushed away his glass, said, “I have a letter to write,” and walked from the room. I glanced at Fischer. “Do you care to join the ladies, sir?”
“Indeed,” he said, abandoning the brandy almost untouched. “And I think I might have another attempt at persuading you to join us in Philadelphia.”
“I believe – ”
“No, no,” he said in good-humour. “Don’t give me an answer now. Later.”
I searched for a diplomatic answer. And heard myself saying: “I’d be interested to know more about this book...”
5
Marriage here is a flexible institution; as long as the partners in any affaire d’amour are married, no one cares much if they are not married to each other.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother Georges, 10 August 1736]
The ladies are always said to be eager to see the gentlemen after dinner. The ladies were not pleased to see Fischer and myself. Mrs Alyson was standing by the fireplace, straightening ornaments on the mantelshelf – she gave us a cold hard stare. Another lady was slouched back in her armchair, rubbing her distended stomach; she sat up suddenly with a grimace and assumed a look of polite boredom. An elderly dowager dozed over a book of drawings; two middle-aged ladies were laughing over an anecdote.
“Patterson,” Mrs Alyson said, as if I was a servant. “Play some music.” She jerked her head towards the harpsichord in the far corner of the room.
A dozen gazes turned to me. Well, this was what I was here for, after all; time to start earning my money. I excused myself to Fischer and went to open the harpsichord.
The room was so small there was hardly space enough to edge round the instrument; the stool was hard up against the wall and I suspected I’d bang my elbow every time I played the lowest notes. I knew too, by the dust when I lifted the lid, that the instrument would be out of tune. Nor was there any light to read music by; only one candle burned on the end of the mantelshelf and was worse than useless, casting my shadow across the black keys.
Fortunately, any musician worth the name knows a hatful of tunes by heart. I launched into a minuet, wincing at the out-of-tune notes. Playing by heart did at least give me leisure to look about. I spotted Esther at once, seated behind the two gossiping ladies. She was staring at me expressionlessly. When she met my gaze, she coolly returned her attention to her book.
What in heaven’s name brought these people here, I wondered. Only the two middle-aged ladies were gaining any pleasure from the gathering – and Fischer, who was browsing along the pictures on the wall. The hostess was making no effort to entertain her guests – Mrs Alyson was restlessly moving backwards and forwards, glancing into the glass of pictures as she passed, putting up a hand to push a stray strand of hair back into place.
The gentlemen came in at last, and crowded us out, jolting the harpsichord as they pushed past. I carried on playing, though I was sure not a note could be heard in the hubbub. Close by, Alyson accosted Fischer at the corner of the mantelpiece.
“A sword and a book,” I heard Alyson say, smiling.
“Alas,” Fischer said. “A sword only. The book seems to have been sold.”
I played a wrong note, and saw Esther glance at me sharply. No one else appeared to notice.
“It was in the family’s possession ten years since,” Fischer mused. “But two or three years back, a correspondent of mine came across it in a bookshop in Newcastle. A shop owned by a man called – Chartwell?”
“Charnley?” Alyson asked, smiling. He could apparently get names right when he chose.
“Indeed,” Fischer said. “My friend asked the shopboy to put the book aside until he could write me about it. But the boy forgot and it was sold.”
“You don’t know the purchaser’s name?”
“No one seems to know! I can’t imagine why anyone should want it. My friend said it was in a very bad condition – the spine was evidently broken.”
“But you’re in no doubt it was your book?”
“It is distinctive,” Fischer said, nodding. “A black binding, an inscription inside in German, and my grandfather’s signature dated 1722 – the year before his death. I was asking Mr Patterson if he knew of it.”
Alyson’s gaze settled on me; he raised an enquiring eyebrow. I stopped playing. “I’ve not seen it but I do have friends who might be worth asking.”
“Then you’ll oblige me by asking,” Alyson said. “You don’t know our Mr Pattinson well yet, Mr Fischer, but he has quite a reputation for solving mysteries. Now, do come and meet my friend, Ridley.”
He bore Fischer off across the room. ‘Our Mr Pattinson’ indeed. You’d think Alyson had lived in the area all his life!
His wife swept by again. “Play, Mr Patterson,” she said. “That’s what you’re here for.”
I played, while the ladies gossiped and the gentlemen talked about hunting. The severe-faced man plumped himself down beside Esther; she closed her book and greeted him with a look of cool politeness. I played on, until I spotted Heron making his way through the party with an assurance that cleared his path without his needing to ask. He presented me with a folded note.
“A letter for you, Patterson. Sent by messenger from Newcastle.” He turned away, took two dishes of tea from a passing gentleman and handed one to me before sipping at the other himself. An heroic gesture; Heron loathes tea.
The note was warm from Heron’s hand and was addressed to me in Hugh’s writing. I broke open the seal.
There’s the very devil to pay here, Hugh had written without preamble. Bedwalters is refusing to leave Nell’s room. Mrs McDonald wants to turn him out and install another girl in the room but he’s bringing down all the force on the law on her and saying nothing can be done until Nell’s spirit disembodies. And Mrs Bedwalters has descended on the house not once but twice to tell her husband to come home but he’s adamant he will not. He’s saying he will never go home, that he will live there, with Nell, permanently – he’s even offered Mrs McDonald rent. (Which she is inclined to accept.) I can’t keep going down there to stop the arguments, Charles! What will it do to my reputation to be seen in a place like that? For God’s sake, come back. Or at least write to Bedwalters and persuade him to go home.
Yr Obedt Servt
Hugh Demsey
Hugh didn’t care to be seen in such a house but he didn’t seem bothered about my reputation. He wasn’t t
hinking sensibly – how could I leave here within hours of arriving? Especially when I wanted permission to go back to town when Nell’s spirit disembodied. I could write to Bedwalters, certainly, but I hardly thought a note from me would persuade him.
“Trouble?” Heron asked. I gave him the note. He read it, considered, gave it back. “The man has more courage than I gave him credit for.”
That made me pause. He was right; Bedwalters’s behaviour was courageous – I’d not seen it in that light before. To throw away respectability, home, reputation for the sake of love – I’d not realised I was staring at Esther until I met her gaze. Still icy.
My situation with Esther was entirely different, I told myself. Poor Nell had had no reputation to lose; she could not have been damaged by Bedwalters’s devotion. Esther stood to lose a great deal by any selfishness on my part.
“What will you do?” Heron asked.
I went upstairs to write a letter, not sure if that last question of Heron’s had been about Bedwalters or Esther.
Of course, there was no notepaper or ink in my room, so I went downstairs again to find the library, where considerate hosts usually keep such things. I got lost, inevitably, and was on the verge of calling out for a servant, when I glimpsed bookshelves through an open door and went in to find a room shrouded in twilight; a single candle burned on a large central table. A few books were scattered on the table; I turned one over idly and found it to be music in a strange old notation. Written by a man called Dowland, evidently. How quickly composers are forgotten, I thought – maybe one day my own music would suffer the same fate.
Pen, paper and sealing wax were on a small shelf in one corner and I took them to the table, where I could have the benefit of the candlelight. I’d hardly sat down when a voice said: “Good day, my son.”
A faint brightness slid across the tarnished wood of the table-top; its feebleness suggested the spirit must be very old, eighty or more, which meant the living man must have died around 1666. He must have lived through Cromwell’s Commonwealth and King Charles’s days.
“I am Monsignor Collins,” the spirit said with great dignity, lingering at the foot of the candlestick. “Pray do continue. Do not let me disturb you.”
“Monsignor?” I echoed, startled.
“You’re not prejudiced against the church, I hope, my son.”
“No, no, not at all.” I hesitated. “You mean, the Church of Rome.”
“Oh, indeed.” The spirit was positively cheerful about it. “I’m the black sheep of the family. Everyone else has followed the Protestant faith since Good King Henry brought it to England.” He sounded rueful. “I’ve always been one for being different. But don’t let me stop you writing your letter.”
“It’s a private matter.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll read it and pass the details on? Never fear, sir – I never learnt to read!”
A churchman who couldn’t read? I began to think the spirit had been less a churchman and more a rogue.
“It’s very cheering to have so many people in the house,” the spirit murmured as I hunted for a knife to sharpen the quill. “The old master liked his solitude. And his money.”
I plainly wasn’t going to be rid of him and I’ve found, through painful experiment, that it’s wise to be friendly with spirits. “A miser, was he?”
“Careful. Didn’t like spendthrifts. Turned his nephew down more than once when he came applying for a loan.”
“He’s got everything now,” I pointed out.
“Everything comes to he who waits,” said the spirit sententiously.
The door opened; the spirit was gone in an instant. Edward Alyson hesitated on the threshold. His bright blue coat was rumpled, his face red, and he walked unsteadily. But he talked sensibly enough.
“This business with the girl,” he said, with good humour. He supported himself on the edge of the table as he eased into the chair opposite me. “Surely it’s not worth pursuing? The girl was a whore.”
It was unlikely he – or any man of his class – could be brought to regard Nell as a human being, rather than a mere convenience for gentlemen’s worst urges, so I merely said: “As your guest suggested, a man who kills once may kill again and next time he may choose someone of – ” I chose my words carefully “ – more standing in the community.”
Alyson lounged back in his chair, grinning. “I’ll not persuade you, I see. You’re a man who finishes what he starts.”
“Always,” I agreed.
He jumped up, wandered round the room, trailing his fingers across the spines of books. “I’m told you’ve dealt with three or four matters of this kind.”
“Three.”
“It must be devilishly exciting!”
I contemplated the past. “A little frightening at times. But satisfying to bring someone to justice.”
His hand settled on a book’s spine, hesitated. He hooked his finger over the top; I winced as I heard the binding tear.
“I thought it must be here somewhere,” he said in delight, and brought the volume across to show me. It was a large Bible, of the sort most commonly seen on lecterns in churches, and when he lifted the heavy front cover, I saw a long list of names handwritten on the fly leaf. Browning ink recorded the names of children as far back as 1649. The last entry read:
Jany 13, 1713. Maria married this day in Calais to Richard Edward Alyson. The tastes of women are ever mysterious.
“He didn’t approve,” Alyson said unnecessarily and with great glee. He tapped the page. “You note he didn’t add my birth!” He grinned. “I was born in August, sir. Care to work out the implications?”
I made a show of calculating the dates, wondering why he felt obliged to wash his dirty linen in front of me. “You were born seven months after the marriage.”
He grinned again. “The impetuosity of love! The passion that cannot bear to wait for a piece of paper!”
I said nothing. Passion that cannot bear to wait for a piece of paper often never gets the paper at all. Maria could so easily have been left unmarried with an infant son, ostracised by both family and society.
“Are you married, Pattinson?”
“No,” I said, gritting my teeth against the urge to correct him.
“It was the best day of my life when Margaret said she’d be mine,” he said. “Is she not beautiful, Pattinson?”
“Very.” What else did he expect me to say?
He was off on a rambling discourse, speaking of his wife in an obviously besotted way, extolling her many virtues. And, as if on cue, the door opened once more; Mrs Alyson stood on the threshold, her hair and dress perfectly in order, her jewels sparkling at throat and ears. I’d thought her beautiful but cold; now, as her gaze lighted on her husband, I saw a brightness in her eyes and a gleam of gladness.
Alyson went to her and slid his arm round her waist. As I was about to avert my eyes, he turned her round and led her into the hall. The next moment, I glimpsed them slowly climbing the stairs; his lips were on the nape of her neck, she was laughing.
“What is the world coming to?” the spirit said, sliding on to the table again. “I was all for the pleasures of the world, when I was alive, but a little decorum is necessary!”
“I think they must be newly married,” I said. In truth, I felt more than a little envious.
Dear Hugh [I wrote].
If Bedwalters is as you’ve described him, I don’t see what I can do. You know that once he sets his mind on something he’ll not be moved. You count his staying with Nell, even past death, as folly – well, I have a certain sympathy with that view, but it takes courage to do something of that sort. Let him stay.
In the meantime, you can put about town that he suspects the girl can give him her murderer’s name and he stays for that reason. No one will believe you but it will safeguard his reputation. Besides, the first shock and determination will soon wear off; such intensity never lasts. Once he’s spoken to the girl’s spirit and laid his hands on
the murderer, he’ll start to pick up the threads of his life again. All you (and Mrs Bedwalters) require is a little patience.
I read over what I’d written and found it more than a little sanctimonious and full of hints to myself. Such intensity never lasts. Did I hope my feelings for Esther would wane, given no hope to feed on? And that remark about courage: Heron’s comments had affected me more than I’d thought. Bedwalters had courage to stay with his love; I needed courage to stay away from mine.
I felt I owed Hugh a more courteous and friendly ending, so I scribbled:
I seem besieged by mysteries concerning books today. First there was the tome poor Nell was holding for her customer, now there’s an American gentleman staying here hunting a book that’s part of his inheritance.
I gave Hugh a description of the book and suggested that if he wanted a distraction, he might like to visit Charnley’s bookshop, and see if he could find out what had happened to it.
I’d be pleased to do the American gentleman a favour, I wrote, For apart from Alyson and Heron, he’s the only one here who thinks a tradesman can be a human being too.
And I added: How odd to find two such puzzles on one day. And totally unconnected too.
6
The lower orders are kept so much in subjection that there is no telling what they might do.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his wife, Régine, 16 July 1736]
