by Roz Southey
Heron knew all about it, as I’d suspected he would – he’d evidently listened to William Ridley’s rambling diatribes, and elaborated in detail as Fowler shaved me. There were ten acres of woodland, apparently, split into two by a stream; the woodland lay at the point where three estates joined. Ridley owned one of the estates, Alyson had just inherited the second; they claimed half of the woodland each. But the owner of the third estate claimed the entire wood was within his land, as the result of a marriage settlement a century ago.
“It’s all the fault of bad maps, of course,” Heron said. “If the parties concerned had employed a professional to draw up the map with the marriage settlement, there could be no dispute. Instead, some lawyer’s clerk who had never seen the land did a rough sketch, put the stream in the wrong place, misnamed a field, and as a result has caused fifty years of wrangling.”
“Is there any possibility,” I pondered, as Fowler paused to sharpen his razor, “that this third landowner might have some reason to remove Alyson?”
“But it is Ridley who is the prime mover of the court case, and therefore the more likely target,” Heron pointed out. “And I am certain that if he also had been attacked, we would have heard of it. Several times.”
“If I may interject – ”
We looked at Fowler, who was standing beside me with the slightest of deferential stoops. Heron nodded.
“I understand,” Fowler said, “that the third landowner died last year. The claimants on that side are two ten-year-old girls. I was wondering if a more likely motive for the attack on Mr Alyson would be a jealous husband?”
Heron said, “I doubt Alyson is looking at any woman other than his wife at this moment. He is a newly-married man.”
Fowler looked at me. I said nothing. There was no proof, after all, that the Alysons were not married. And Heron was strait-laced; if he suspected some irregularity, he would not feel able to keep silent. Would he even stay in the house? It was ignoble, and dispiriting, but some part of my mind was thinking that if the houseparty broke up, I’d never get paid the fifteen guineas I’d been promised.
“I don’t think this is about philandering. There’s that damn book. I swear the book Nell kept for her murderer is the same one Fischer’s looking for.”
I related my researches of the previous day while Fowler silently finished shaving me and Heron leant against the door jamb with a neutral expression.
“You must tell Fischer about the book and the part it played in the girl’s murder,” he said finally. “The book is his – he has a right to know. Moreover, he may have information he has not yet thought to tell us, that might throw light on the book’s significance.”
I contemplated this idea. I’d been very dogmatic with Alyson yesterday – of course I would solve the crime, nothing would stop me – but that had been mere bravado. I’d known all along that my chances of locating Nell’s murderer were slight; despite my reluctance to distress Fischer, I couldn’t afford to neglect any possible source of information.
Where, I wondered, had the Philadelphian been on the night of Nell’s death? The book was his, after all.
“If you are ready,” Heron said as Fowler packed up his shaving gear. “We may find Fischer in the breakfast room.”
Fowler gave me an amused look. There’s no stopping Heron once he’s decided to take a hand in something.
Fischer was indeed in the breakfast room, sipping coffee and eating eggs, ham and kidneys, while perusing Daniel Defoe’s book describing his tour of England some ten years ago. He’s an author I’m partial to myself; he has some complimentary things to say about Newcastle. I helped myself to eggs while Heron poured coffee, waving away the services of the magnificent butler. A footman came in and out replenishing the food and drink. I would have preferred to wait for privacy before speaking to Fischer but Heron, with casual indifference, behaved exactly as if we were alone and plunged straight in.
“With regard to your inheritance, Mr Fischer.”
“Ah yes.” Fischer set the book aside, pushed his empty plate away. “I’ve been investigating the possibility of visiting my cousins at Shotley Bridge. It’s rather further than I anticipated.”
“The sword and the book,” Heron said. “Patterson was asking after them for you in town yesterday.”
Fischer looked at me eagerly. “Indeed – and did you hear any news?”
I was not pleased that Heron left me to deliver the bad tidings. I outlined what I’d discovered. Fischer was amused to hear that an antiquarian had liked his inheritance so much as to want to print it but had balked at the expense; Charnley’s behaviour reminded him of a cordwainer at home in Philadelphia. He was bewildered, however, by the behaviour of the young man who’d stolen the book.
“But why?” he demanded. “What is so important about a book of psalm tunes? I understand from Mrs Ord that the book is much damaged. Why should anyone steal such a poor specimen?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’d hoped you might throw some light on the matter.”
He shook his head. His old-fashioned wig bobbed. “I’ve never seen the book, only had it described to me. There’s nothing valuable about it, except to a musician.”
Not even to a musician, I thought. I took a deep breath and told him about its presumed connection to Nell’s death.
He was distressed, as of course he was bound to be. He kept repeating, “Killed for it. Dear God, killed for it.”
“We don’t know that for certain,” I said, trying to soften the blow. “She had it in keeping for her murderer, certainly, but whether he killed her for it is not so clear. I’ve spoken to her spirit – she says there was no conversation between them, no threats, no explanation. The murderous attack came entirely without warning.”
“If it had been the sword,” Fischer said, still distracted. “Now that I could understand. But the book!”
“Has the sword disappeared too?” Heron asked.
Fischer thought on this. “I believe not. The terms in which my cousins have written suggest they still have it.” He sighed. “There is an element of revenge in this, I regret to say. My father prospered in Pennsylvania and my cousins, I understand, are struggling. That’s why I believe they disposed of the book – petty revenge, but it satisfies some people.”
“But would they not have sold the sword too?” Heron asked. “For the money it would raise?”
Fischer shook his head. “By no means. The sword was my grandfather’s masterpiece, made to show his skill – it is a kind of advertisement, sir, a demonstration of the work the family produces. And there is some considerable pride in it.”
“So,” I said, “was there anything in the description you were given of the book which suggests anything unusual about it?”
He fingered his coffee dish absently. “It’s evidently a black book, longer than it is tall, with hand-drawn staves for the music and the words written in an immaculate hand. There is an inscription on the fly leaf at the front and an index of tunes at the back.”
“It is probably in the river Tyne by now,” Heron said. “The murderer would surely want to get rid of anything that tied him to the girl’s death.”
I shook my head. “He asked Nell to keep it safe for him – he valued it and thought it might get lost or stolen. Why kill a girl for the book then throw it away?”
“He killed her to prevent her talking about it?” Fischer asked. “But how can you keep a spirit silent?”
“You can’t,” I said, comprehension dawning. “That’s not why he killed her. He killed her so she would not be able to identify him as being in possession of the book. She can describe the murderer to us but the description could fit a hundred men, and otherwise she cannot identify him unless she sees him. And, as a spirit, she cannot move from the place of her death. All he has to do is avoid that house and he’s safe.”
“Besides,” Heron pointed out, “the testimony of a spirit cannot be accepted in a court of law.”
The footm
an came in, lifted a few lids on the sideboard and took an empty dish out to be refilled. The butler stood stoically in a window embrasure. I was startled to catch his eye; he’d been watching me, I realised. Was it something I’d said?
The footman came back and I gave myself up to wondering how the devil I could question Fischer about his movements on the night of Nell’s death without giving offence.
“All this must give you a very bad view of Newcastle,” I said at last.
“It’s a city,” Fischer said heavily, “and all cities, alas, have their bad parts.”
Newcastle is merely a town but there was no point in correcting him. “And to think you must have been in the town at exactly the same time as your book.”
Fischer was startled. “Indeed, I haven’t seen the place. My ship docked at Whitehaven and I rode to Carlisle and thence across country. And a worse road I have never seen!”
“There is no road between Carlisle and Newcastle,” Heron said dismissively. “It is nothing more than a cart track. After two days’ rain, moreover, it becomes a stream.”
Fischer’s thoughts, inevitably, had gone back to Nell and the book.
“Devil take it! That a man should kill for my book! Do you think it would help if I offered a reward? Damn it, yes, a reward. I cannot let this matter drop.”
He required a great deal more persuasion than Heron to abandon the idea. And only, eventually, at the cost of my assuring him I could catch the villain without the aid of a reward.
A promise I regretted the moment it was out of my mouth.
As I left the dining room, I was accosted by the musical ladies who wanted to practise their songs. So we repaired to the cramped harpsichord, and the ladies spent some time arranging their music while I ran through a few scales. The harpsichord, thankfully, had remained more or less in tune – one advantage of the corner was that it was not in the direct line of sunshine through the window.
It became borne in on me that the ladies had something on their minds. They looked at each other over the top of the harpsichord; one – the elder – shook her head; the other looked mulish and obstinate.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked.
“No,” said the elder. “Yes,” said the younger at the same time. They stared each other out. The younger said, “It is no good, Amelia, I must speak.” She turned to me with an air of kindly reproach.
“Mr Patterson. I understand that of course we do not move in the same social circles, that you do not have the – er – advantage of polite society, generally speaking. But this matter of the – ” She struggled for the right words. “Poor unfortunate,” she said after a moment. “My dear sir.” She became animated. “One cannot pretend that such creatures do not exist, but really, one cannot extend sympathy to them. They do not deserve our consideration.”
“She was God’s creature,” the elder lady said. “However fallen, she did not deserve to be killed.”
“But to bring such sordid affairs into polite society, Amelia! It is simply not appropriate.”
The other lady started, “Perhaps not – ”
But at that moment, Mrs Alyson walked into the room. She was dressed magnificently, in a plum-red dress that defied all the fashionable conventions that ladies should dress in pale colours. Her jewellery sparkled at throat and ears and wrists; lace draped her sleeves and skirts and her low neckline. A fortune on her back and she proceeded, in a coldly efficient way, to demolish the character of a girl whose last sixpence, literally, had been taken from her along with her life. Like a true clergyman’s daughter, she quoted portions of the sacred texts to me, designed to show how all decent God-fearing men and women should shun those whose morals are ruined beyond all retrieval. The younger musical lady nodded agreement at this, but the elder broke in sharply.
“It is my experience,” she said cuttingly, “that more morals are ruined by poverty than by any other cause.”
Mrs Alyson flushed but rallied. “My husband and I have been poor, Mrs Widdrington,” she said. “I am not afraid to admit it. But our morals have not been ruined.”
Given that I believed the Alysons to be unmarried, I thought this hypocrisy of the highest order.
“Moreover,” Mrs Alyson said repressively. “Your investigations into this matter, Mr Patterson, have brought my husband into danger. He was grazed by a shot intended for you. I will not have this, Mr Patterson. This behaviour must stop.” She brought her gaze to me; her eyes, the darkest of browns, flashed almost as much as her jewels. “If it does not, I will take steps to rectify the situation. In short, you will be dismissed. You will go back to Newcastle with your tail between your legs and you will never set eyes on that fifteen guineas you have been promised. And then, presumably, you may well find yourself in the same position as that whore!”
The younger lady murmured a horrified protest at Mrs Alyson’s last word; the elder started to say something. They were both interrupted by Edward Alyson walking in with Lizzie Ord on his arm, saying to her, “Here you are, my dear. I told you we’d find music in the drawing room.”
The change in Mrs Alyson was remarkable. All the anger slipped away; the woman that moved to her husband’s side was lithe and eager, welcome lighting up her face. Alyson smiled down at her and, regardless of the company, drew a loving finger down her cheek.
In the middle of my anger, and humiliation, something else stirred. Nothing is more bitter than jealousy. To see others sharing what you can never hope for with the woman you love is galling. And when one of the happy parties is a woman whom you’ve just realised you despise – indeed, come close to hating... I could hardly stay in my seat.
The younger lady was welcoming Lizzie, asking her if she played or sang. The elder – Mrs Widdrington – leant over the harpsichord and spoke quickly and softly. “There are times, Mr Patterson, when it is impossible to close our eyes to the unpleasant things of this world. Do what you must.”
And she turned to greet Lizzie, who was just admitting that she played the harpsichord.
I made my escape on to the terrace as Lizzie slipped on to the harpsichord stool to accompany the musical ladies. From the terrace into the formal garden. My cheeks were burning. The hypocrisy of the woman! To be unwed and yet condemn a street-girl – some of her guests would think there was precious little difference between Mrs Alyson and Nell.
I wondered if I’d be so anxious to solve the crime if it had been Margaret Alyson killed. I hoped I would have, but at this moment, I could not guarantee it.
One thing was for certain. Mrs Alyson could threaten as much as she liked. Whatever the difficulties, I would not let Nell’s murderer go free.
15
There are areas of the countryside which are delightful, in which one may know the sort of peace unequalled anywhere since the Garden of Eden.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his sister, Agnés, 21 May 1736]
I walked down the steps on to the sunlit path. From the rose garden hidden behind the hedge on the right, I heard women’s voices and the barking of a dog. I strode past the overgrown flowerbeds and the neglected fountain, down to the grass border that separated the garden from the ornamental canal. In daylight, I could see that the water in the canal was stagnant, covered with a green mat of weed; the stone bridge with its wide parapet was cracked and spotted with lichen.
Through the woods, to the kitchen garden, down to the drive and the road to the village, trying to walk out the humiliation and the annoyance. There was no point in being distressed at the strictures of a woman who’d probably been shielded all her life against the evils of the world. A clergyman’s daughter from some safe cathedral close. I wondered how she’d come to be Edward Alyson’s mistress. The two of them seemed deliriously in love – was there some impediment to prevent their marriage? Had one of them contracted an alliance before?
One thing I knew for certain: Edward Alyson would regard it as a great game to pass off his mistress as his wife.
I found myself at the
gate into the park, with the pompous lions posing on top of its pillars. I could hear a horse’s hooves clip-clopping in the clear air, coming towards me along the road though still hidden by a bend and the tall overblown summer hedges. Then the horse came into view and I saw the rider.
Esther. Sitting astride her horse, covering the immodest breeches with the skirts of a large greatcoat. I was too pleased to see her to be cautious. I smiled up at her. “Did you enjoy your ride?”
“Very much.” She swung herself out of the saddle, shaking her head as I moved to help. Taking the horse’s reins, she led him towards the park gates; I fell into step beside her.
“Did you go back to the wood?”
She nodded. “But I did not hope for a great revelation and indeed found none. There is a patch of mud roughly where I saw the two horsemen meet and a few hoofprints, but beyond that nothing. I went a mile or so in the direction they took but it is open country. I saw a few farmhouses but nothing of any significance. They could have gone anywhere.”
I glanced up into the trees that overhung the drive as a greenfinch flitted across my view. “Including here?”
She frowned. “By a roundabout route, yes. Charles – do you suspect one of the guests?”
Could I imagine plump William Ridley wielding a cudgel and striking me down at the foot of the terrace steps? Or that severe fellow who was still paying too much attention to Esther?
“Not necessarily.” I glanced around to make sure we were not overheard. “Our murderer may simply be lurking in the grounds, keeping an eye on my comings and goings. Esther – ”
She gave me a smiling look. God, perhaps she thought I was going to propose here and now. Looking down at her slim figure, in those outrageously attractive breeches, at the hair that escaped the pins and hung about her pale neck – looking at her, I felt a sudden urge to do just that. To damn all the scandalised looks there’d be, all the gossip, all the insinuations –
