by Roz Southey
But I remembered how I’d felt while Margaret Alyson was tearing me apart with her scorn and her unshakeable confidence in the way the world ought to be run. I would not subject Esther to that kind of experience.
“I don’t think we should be seen together,” I started awkwardly and saw her face darken at once.
And at that moment, William Ridley drove by in a carriage drawn by two of Alyson’s best horses and driven by Alyson’s London coachman. Ridley was staring along the drive but his head turned slowly, irresistibly, as he caught sight of us standing side by side. I saw him register Esther’s clothes and something else dawned in his eyes – a smile that started to curve his lips. Then he was past and Esther, to my amazement, was swearing.
“Damn – ”
And she swung herself on to her horse and urged it into a trot. It – and she – were out of my sight round one of the curves in the drive, in seconds.
I walked across the park towards the canal so I could approach the house from a different direction from Esther. The encounter with Ridley was unfortunate but he had made my point for me. What a devil of a tangle it all was! What was there in the August air to produce this madness of unhappy couples? Nell and Bedwalters, Edward and Margaret Alyson, Philip and Lizzie Ord, Esther and myself... I itched to be back in town. Damn all this pretentious artificiality, all this idleness; what really mattered was to find Nell’s killer, to bring at least some measure of comfort to Bedwalters. What could the Alysons know about that kind of pain? I certainly hoped Lizzie never came anywhere near such distress.
There was no sound of music from the drawing room as I climbed the steps to the terrace but I heard a confusion of eager voices discussing something. When I went in, Lizzie was seated at the harpsichord, looking nervously at a music book on the stand, and Edward Alyson was leaning over, pointing something out as if asking her to play. From what I could see it was an opera book, where the singer’s melody has only a single bass line to accompany it and the harpsichordist must invent the chords from those notes.
Half the houseparty was in the room, it seemed – certainly all the ladies, chattering excitedly. Mrs Widdrington and the other musical lady were straining to see the music over Lizzie’s shoulder. Mrs Alyson hovered behind her husband, looking bored. Beyond was Philip Ord, silent and hostile, as if he suspected Alyson was making an advance on his wife. Three or four of the other gentlemen (Heron not among them) were admiring the ladies.
What on earth was going on?
Alyson glanced up; Lizzie instinctively followed his example. Her face cleared. “Mr Patterson! Oh, pray do come and play. It is a figured bass and you know how difficult I find that.”
She jumped up and made way for me. I took her place, and flicked to the front of the book to see what I was about to play. An opera. Or a pastorale, rather, like the one Dr Greene, master of the King’s music, is allegedly writing at present.
Alyson was giving me advice on how to accompany a singer; it transpired his wife was to be the soloist. I glanced up at Mrs Alyson; her face was stony. There was one piece of advice of which Alyson did not need to remind me: if a mistake is made, the accompanist is always at fault, even if the singer has patently caused the problem.
I played the opening symphony. Mrs Alyson took an imperceptible breath and opened her voice and her throat, and let out into the warm sunny air of the drawing room tones of exquisite beauty and sweetness. Every onlooker was silent. She had a natural voice, totally without artifice, a voice that could touch high notes with the clarity of a bell and low notes with the warmth of sunshine. And, unlike most musical amateurs, she sang not only the notes, but the emotion behind them too.
Engaged in sight-reading the music and nodding to Lizzie when I needed the pages turned, and listening with great enjoyment to Mrs Alyson’s beautiful rendition of the simple air, it was not until I struck the last chord and glanced up that I realised the effect the song had had on the others. The two musical ladies had sunk down on the couch in simple pleasure. Alyson was staring enraptured at his wife. Fischer was just inside the door, nodding in appreciation, and Heron – whose musical judgement is exacting – stood behind him with a distinct look of approval. I saw Esther come quietly in; she had changed into an elegant hooped gown of pale green and one of those absurd caps with lace lappets hanging down behind. Looking round, I saw only one person left unmoved; Philip Ord’s gaze was fixed on his wife.
Lizzie was excited. “Oh, that was wonderful, wonderful!”
“My dear,” Alyson said reverentially, taking his wife’s hand and kissing it. “That was magnificent!”
In the murmur of agreement, the younger musical lady said wistfully, “Oh, I would love to hear you sing it all.”
Alyson swung round. “Madam – so you shall,” he cried exultantly. “We shall perform it all – the entire opera!”
There were cries of agreement, demands for a proper performance with costumes and props. Hurriedly, I glanced back to the beginning of the score. It was all very well to propose a performance but did we have sufficient singers? More importantly, did we have sufficient good singers?
It was already too late to protest. Alyson was explaining the plot: shepherd meets shepherdess, father locks shepherdess up until she agrees to marry his elderly crony, her friends lament. Shepherdess falls ill with heartbreak and shepherd threatens lifelong celibacy. Fortunately, the wise counsellor – usually the most infuriatingly sententious of characters – persuades the father to relent in the most unlikely fashion.
Alyson proceeded to allocate parts, making everyone laugh by giving them to the most unlikely people, then withdrawing the honour and passing it to someone else. We accumulated a hero and heroine: Alyson and his wife. Two friends of the heroine: the musical ladies of course. The heroine’s irascible father: the tall gentleman with wandering eyes. I doubted he knew what a musical note was, but he certainly knew his character had at least two scenes in which he physically restrained his ‘daughter’ from flying to her lover. And – Alyson reached into the crowd and pulled out Lizzie Ord, with her too-perfect hair and her rouged cheeks. “And you, my dear, will be the pert young maid!”
That dreadful word: pert – with all its connotations of impropriety! I saw Lizzie’s scared look fly at once to her husband’s face. Ord looked furious.
I intervened before he could say anything. “I would appreciate Mrs Ord’s help at the harpsichord. I’ll need someone to turn the pages.”
Alyson was straight on to the next matter – appointing a host of non-singing nymphs and shepherds to ‘dress the scene’. With a face of thunder, Philip Ord gripped the back of his chair. Then he gave me the briefest of nods. It was more than I had expected.
Alyson was trying to press Heron into service, insisting, not entirely tactfully, that the scene required an older man in it. Heron was apparently not insulted; he merely said, “I have already decided my role – I am to play the audience.” Esther assured Alyson she was also very content to watch.
I let the hubbub rage, flicking through the pages of the score. There was nothing in the accompaniment to worry me; a little rehearsal would be all I needed. But one thing struck me at once and I anticipated what was about to happen – a fraction of a second before Alyson leant over the harpsichord, smiling.
“As for the parts – Mr Pattinson, how soon can you distribute them to the singers?”
I met his guileless gaze, the open boyish smile. Dear God, he didn’t even understand what he was asking. We had only one score of the pastorale; Alyson wanted me to write out each character’s part so they could take it away with them to practise, and he was probably expecting them all within an hour. Had he any idea how long it took to write out music?
“Is this the only copy?” I asked carelessly.
“Certainly. I picked it up only a few weeks ago in London. Shall we say we will have a little rehearsal tonight after dinner?”
Choruses of approval.
“Just the first act?” I said, h
oping to limit the task.
“The entire opera!” said one of the ladies eagerly.
“Very well.” Alyson clapped his hands. “Let’s leave Pattinson to his own devices. Ladies, what are we to do about costumes?”
I gathered up the book. There was nothing to be done in this chaos. If I was to write anything at all I must retreat to my room. Writing out the entire opera before dinner was an impossible task – I must think of a way to satisfy Alyson without appearing uncooperative. And just when I needed to concentrate on the matter of Nell’s murder!
As I went into the hall, the butler approached me with a note on a salver. I’d hardly taken the note when he bowed and retreated – I didn’t even have the chance to thank him. I stared after him in surprise. A servant not waiting for a tip?
The note was from Bedwalters, brief and to the point. He’d questioned his contacts and there were no missing apprentices, either in Newcastle or in the towns immediately round about. I went upstairs thoughtfully; that suggested the murderer was staying close by, trying to brazen it out.
In my room, I leafed through the score to see the magnitude of the task Alyson had set me. Page after page of arias. The two musical ladies would happily share a part; Alyson and his wife would no doubt be pleased to sing their songs off the same part too. All the same – I threw the book down in disgust. The whole thing was beyond belief – I would not have time to write out half of it!
And there was the matter of paper and ink. I might be able to find sufficient ink in the household to complete the task, but I’d only brought a handful of the raven quills I usually use for writing music. And paper! I’d never anticipated writing out an entire opera – I’d brought only a few sheets.
I seized paper and pen, scribbled a desperate note to Hugh and went off to find the butler again. He was just coming out of the drawing room and took the note with a murmur and a bow. This time he even turned down the coin I offered him. I made a mental note to ask Fowler if he had managed to glean any information about him.
I took the stairs back to my room two at a time, pondering where to start. The Alysons’ parts of course – I’d start with the hero and heroine.
Esther Jerdoun was waiting on the landing outside my room.
In the dimness, she was like a light; her pale skirts took up almost the entire width of the narrow landing; her fair hair glowed. Those ridiculous lappets swung as she turned her head. I caught my breath.
“You need someone to draw the staves for you,” she said.
“I buy ready-ruled manuscript paper,” I said. Regretfully.
She laughed. “I’ve seen it advertised in the papers. Then I will copy out parts for you.”
“No,” I said.
She shook her head. “I will not be dissuaded, Charles.” She stood back to let me unlock my door, walked forward as soon as I had it open. I instinctively stood back to let her go in first, then cursed. Surely she must see she couldn’t enter a gentleman’s room – a single woman and a single man in a bedroom alone. Dear God, what would people think!
She was already walking towards the window, looking about with some annoyance. “This is a ridiculously small room. And the curtains could do with a wash.” She gave them a twitch and dust flew out.
I went to the table, busied myself unpacking the few sheets of ruled paper I’d brought with me. “I’m sorry, but I’ve very little time.”
She held out a hand. “Give me a pen then.”
I stared at her. A little smile curved her lips. “You will not finish in time if you have to do it all yourself, Charles, as you very well know.”
“You cannot stay,” I said forcibly. “In heaven’s name, think what talk it would give rise to!”
“Let it,” she said, still holding out her hand for the pen.
“I will not let you risk your reputation!”
There was a brief scratch and the door opened.
And there was Claudius Heron, a red-bound book under one arm, and his mouth already opening to say something. Then he saw Esther, and his mouth snapped shut like a steel trap.
16
Morals are lax here, but woe betide you if you are found out!
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother Georges, 11 July 1736]
There was a storm of an argument. Heron shouted; Esther was icy in return. I tried to intervene, to explain; Heron snapped at me to be quiet. He called Esther a stupid female with all the intelligence of a cat. Esther lost her temper and screeched at him. I hurried across to close the door. Half the servants in the house were probably eavesdropping.
It all subsided in the end, of course. Heron stood red-faced and breathing heavily in the centre of the room; Esther had gripped the curtains in her rage and was as white as ice. I stood between them, looking from one to the other, desperately trying to think what to say.
Heron was not looking at either of us. “No one must hear of this.”
“We were not anticipating advertising it,” Esther said. “Not until you chose to shout loud enough for the whole village to hear!”
“No one can hear,” I said, trying to soothe the troubled waters. “Everyone’s downstairs.”
“The servants are not,” Heron snapped.
“If they heard anything, the blame is at your door,” Esther said.
“No one will hear!” I said in desperation. “I know this looks bad but – ”
“Damn it!” Heron said furiously. “If this comes to Alyson’s ears, he’ll throw you out of the house and the story will be round town in days. What gentleman will employ you?”
“Thank you for your concern about my reputation,” Esther said in a friendly fashion so false as to be highly offensive – as it was clearly intended to be.
“If you cared so much for it,” Heron snapped, “you wouldn’t be up here. Leave this room at once.”
“This is my room – ” I began. “No,” Esther said at the same time.
“Then there is only one thing for it.” Heron took a deep breath. His mouth twisted in distaste. “You must – you must marry.”
“Indeed,” Esther said, brightening. “I would be delighted.”
“Oh, God,” I said.
17
Sunday is a day of rest and must not be defiled. Or, at least, not visibly so.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
Four hours later, in mid-afternoon, I was furiously copying out music when I heard the clatter of footsteps on the stairs. The door flew open, banging against one of the cane chairs, and Hugh staggered in, laden with parcels and grinning broadly.
“An entire ream of ruled manuscript paper, a hundred ravens’ quills and enough ink to float a coal barge. And – ” He saw my face; the grin faded. “All right, Charles,” he said, sighing. “What trouble are you in now?”
“I’m betrothed,” I said hollowly.
Hugh burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny!” I protested and told him what had happened. He dumped the parcels on the floor, dragged up the cane chair and sat grinning even more broadly.
“Esther was only here to help me copy out the music,” I said. “And Heron had to find another copy of the damned opera in the library and come up with it.”
“Well, there is one good thing about it, Charles,” Hugh said, still grinning. “If there are two copies of the book, you won’t have to copy out all the parts.”
“Hugh...” I said warningly.
“And,” he said. “You love her.”
Silence. Outside someone called; a dog barked.
“What’s done is done,” Hugh offered at last. “All you can do is make the best of it.”
He was right, though it didn’t make the situation any more palatable.
“We’re not telling anyone,” I warned. “Heron tried to insist we marry at once but Esther would not be rushed – she said we’ll marry when we get back to town. We all agreed it would be best to marry fi
rst then announce it.”
Hugh nodded. “Avoid all the arguments. A good idea. But don’t dare forget to invite me, Charles.”
“I’m counting on you for moral support,” I said gloomily.
Hugh slapped his hands together. “Well, I have some good news for you.”
“Impossible. Hugh, I have still pages and pages of arias to copy out and not even time to eat!”
“We’ve got a description of Nell’s murderer.”
“What!” I sat up. “Are you sure? Who saw him?”
“A chapman. He’d been down to the Keyside to pay a few bills and was walking back home when this fellow came running out of Mrs McDonald’s. He didn’t think much of it at the time. He left town at dawn next day on a tour of the local villages and only got back last night. He heard about Nell and went looking for you – when he heard you were out of town, he came to me instead.”
“He didn’t go to Bedwalters?”
“You’re the one with the reputation as a solver of mysteries, Charles.”
“And he’s sure this person was the murderer?”
“The time’s about right. And the lad was carrying something under his arm. A brown-paper-wrapped parcel. Book-sized, the chapman said.”
I took a deep breath. “What did he look like?”
“Young. Maybe twenty. But the chapman thought he might even be a year or two younger. Soft complexion, not a boy who’d been in the open air much.”
I could imagine the chapman’s complexion; it would be weatherbeaten from years of tramping through sun and wind.
“He had dark hair, tied back, and an open face.” Hugh scowled. “Whatever that means. Untroubled, the chapman said.”
I began to doubt this was our murderer. “Could anyone be untroubled after killing a girl?”
“The book, Charles,” Hugh insisted. “He must be the murderer.”
“Not necessarily. He could have been a thief wandering in off the street. He saw the book, picked it up to steal, saw Nell’s body, and took off in fright – ”
