by Roz Southey
“In which case, he would have looked terrified,” Hugh pointed out. “And no one could wander into Mrs McDonald’s unseen! That woman would never let a potential customer get away.”
“What clothes was this man wearing?”
“The sort you’d expect an apprentice to wear. Neat, clean, tidy, poor quality and gaudy. A brown coat, a waistcoat with too much embroidery – silver on puce evidently – white stockings under his breeches. The stockings were embroidered too – white clocks, badly done. The chapman has an eye for that sort of thing; it’s his business after all. Puce-coloured shoes, with a fashionable heel and big buckles.”
“Typical apprentice,” I grumbled. “Aping his betters.” I’d had an apprentice last year and it had not been a happy experience. “Height?”
“Medium.”
“What the devil’s that supposed to mean?”
“The chapman said about his own height. Which is a couple of inches shorter than me.”
Hugh is around six feet tall, an inch or so taller than myself. Our apprentice was not a runt, then.
“Fat? Thin?”
“Slender. Well-nourished, the chapman said.”
I contemplated all this. It was good to have a description, but did it get us any further forward? “He’s sure the apprentice came out of Mrs McDonald’s house?”
He nodded. “The chapman frequents the house himself so he wouldn’t have made a mistake.”
“And did he see where the lad went?”
“Down towards the Keyside.”
I groaned. “Towards the centre of town. We’ll never trace him.”
Hugh nodded sympathetically. “I’ve paid the fellow a shilling to wander around the Keyside for an hour or two, to see if he can spot our man.” He overrode my objection. “Don’t worry, I’ve told him not to approach the lad. And I know it’s another long shot, but what else is there to do?”
A servant appeared in the doorway, a young lad himself, looking embarrassed and reluctant. “Message from Mr Alyson, sir. He was wondering if you’d finished copying the music.”
I gave Hugh a speaking look but curbed my temper. “Pray assure Mr Alyson it’ll be ready for this evening.”
The servant hesitated, looked as if he wanted to say something more, changed his mind. “Yes, sir.” He withdrew.
Hugh grabbed his parcels from the floor. “All hands to the deck, Charles. Tell me what you want me to copy.”
“But you’ll need to get back to town before dark, surely?”
“Brought my bags with me and bespoke a room at the local inn.” He leant closer and whispered, “The barmaid’s a sight for weary eyes.” He put sheets of ruled paper beside him, looked for a knife to sharpen a quill. “Come on, Charles. I can spare an hour or two to help a soon-to-be-married man.”
We scribbled away, while I filled Hugh in on the attack on Alyson and myself in the wood. Hugh was of the opinion Alyson was probably the target. “And unmarried, you say?”
“In heaven’s name, don’t shout that abroad! There’s no evidence.”
“But?”
“But I’d lay odds on it. Fowler thinks the same.”
“Then Alyson is the target – the attacker’s a jealous husband.”
“Then why not challenge Alyson to a duel? Or tell the guests the truth – that would ruin his reputation and be very satisfactory revenge. Why all the secret attacks?”
“Maybe he’s trying to blackmail Alyson. Pay what I want or your life is in danger.”
“It’s the book,” I said morosely. “It’s all about the book. I know it is.”
Unbelievably, we got all the copying finished, though at the cost of scrawling some bars rather untidily towards the end. I planned to give the Alysons the second book that Heron had found, to sing the main parts from; I’d have the original at the harpsichord and everyone else would have their parts on paper.
My eyes were smarting and my wrist was painful but I got through dinner somehow. Heron was distant and did not so much as look at me; Esther smiled to herself occasionally, like a woman with a happy secret, and several times apologised to her neighbour for being distracted. William Ridley regaled everyone with the details of his court case; Fischer was preoccupied and twice asked if I was sure a reward for the arrest of Nell’s murderer would do no good.
At the lower end of the table, Mrs Alyson was sour and silent for the most part. She spoke only once, when an unlucky lull in conversation meant that a harmless, naïve remark of Lizzie Ord’s rang out to all the company. Mrs Alyson said loudly: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, have you no sense at all?”
Philip Ord started up. Heron, sitting next to him, said something quietly. Ord sat down again. Casper Fischer intervened; he waved a hand at Lizzie’s hairstyle. “I do admire the fashions over here. It makes our ladies in Philadelphia look sadly behind the times. Tell me, Mrs Ord, is there a special name for that colour ribbon?”
Lizzie, looking shaky, managed a reply. Fischer, who must certainly have a great deal of experience with young people, jollied her into a discussion of fashion.
I retired to the drawing room in company with Fischer, shortly after the ladies had repaired there. I’d left the copied parts, labelled clearly, on the tea table and the musical ladies, I saw, had seized upon theirs and were sitting in a window embrasure, humming through the tunes. I saw Mrs Widdrington look up sharply as Esther came up to me with a dish of tea and gave me a private smile.
“Do you know the reason for my presence in this select gathering?” she asked. “According to lawyer Armstrong, I am the best person to instruct Mrs Alyson in the ways of the Newcastle ladies. I am beginning to think my task impossible.”
“Her remark to Lizzie was unforgivable,” I said. “That’s not a matter of social conventions – it was bad manners and cruelty of spirit!”
I kept my voice low as I spoke and noticed that Mrs Widdrington was watching me even more closely. The last thing I wanted was gossip so I nodded at Esther and moved towards the harpsichord.
At which point, Mrs Alyson picked up one of the scores of the opera, and said very loudly, in a bored voice, “It really is impossible to get interested in such ridiculous trifles. I cannot be troubled to sing tonight.”
The musical ladies were disconcerted. “Tomorrow, perhaps?” Mrs Widdrington said brightly.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Mrs Alyson said. “It would not be devout.”
“Of course,” Mrs Widdrington said. “I had forgot. How silly of me.”
The evening was very long and dull.
Sunday was equally tedious. We all went to church of course. Hugh was in the congregation too, sitting towards the back with a big bluff man, very red-faced, and a young woman in a very gaudy dress – the barmaid, no doubt. Hugh winked at me. The ladies yawned their way through the service, the gentlemen ogled the young women of the village. William Ridley snored his way through a sermon which was actually rather good.
The luncheon back at Long End was cold, as the servants were required to be at church too. That was followed by a very slow afternoon. Fischer looked over a book of architectural drawings of Italian ruins with Heron, who answered his many questions – Heron of course had seen all the ruins in the flesh, so to speak. Esther read what she said was a book of sermons, but the print looked not quite right for so serious a subject. Several of the gentlemen went to sleep; several more yawned constantly.
I wandered into the library to look for any music that had previously escaped our attention, hoping to find something of a sacred nature that would be unexceptional for Sunday performance. One of the library windows looked out the side of the house, and in the sunshine I saw Alyson chatting to his London coachman. Perhaps he was thinking of an expedition. A picnic would be nice, a lazy afternoon on a sunny bank with a bottle or two of wine and good friends... Would Esther worry over her complexion?
I returned to the drawing room, to find that Alyson had already returned and was leafing through a newspaper in a bored manner. The
younger musical lady enquired whether I’d found any suitable music. I said I had not.
At the word music, Alyson’s head snapped up. “Of course! We will rehearse the opera!”
All devout scruples went immediately out of the window in a scramble for parts.
I opened the opera book on the harpsichord music-stand, and Lizzie Ord came with anxious alacrity to sit by my side, ready to turn the pages. I smiled reassuringly at her. She looked hot. I was not the only one who thought so; a moment later, her husband brought her a fan. As he turned to go, he dropped a hand on her shoulder, gripped firmly. Lizzie seemed to relax, managed to smile at me. I flicked a glance at Ord, but he’d already turned away.
Behind Lizzie’s head, I glimpsed Claudius Heron, moving to take an empty chair beside Esther. She looked startled, but nodded politely at something Heron said. More conversation. Esther smiled, and reached to offer Heron a dish of tea. He accepted politely. It looked as if they were making peace.
Alyson hung over the harpsichord, smiling with boyish charm. “Pattinson, what do you think we should do? Start at the beginning and work our way through – or play the big scene at the end of the first act? I think we should start at the big scene, don’t you? Give us all a chance to warm up our voices.”
“Of course,” I agreed, turning pages. Given that Alyson had nothing to sing for at least ten minutes after the beginning of the opera, I was hardly surprised at his suggestion.
There was considerable confusion as the singers leafed through their parts looking for the right page. By the fireplace, Heron and Esther talked on, Esther nibbling at a small cake, Heron occasionally gesticulating, as if explaining a point. A servant came into the room, looked about, and squeezed through to me.
On a silver platter sat a note, showing signs of haste – it was badly folded. I was getting more correspondence in two days than I’d had all year. I nodded thanks at the servant, dropped a coin into his hand; he edged back out of the room. The letters and the servants were going to bankrupt me.
I snatched a look at the note while Alyson was still helping Ridley find his place. The note was in Hugh’s handwriting; the red seal was of poor quality, already crumbling – all, presumably, that the inn could furnish. I unfolded the paper.
Charles, Hugh had written. The chapman’s sent me a message. Get here as soon as you can and come prepared for a ride into town. He’s found the apprentice.
18
A hunting expedition is generally greatly entertaining.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
That evening I sat through the longest rehearsal of my life. Alyson’s enthusiasm was so infectious it looked likely to carry us on to the small hours of the morning. Come as soon as you can, Hugh had written but it was impossible to leave until everyone had gone to bed. And did he propose travelling at night? I’d had my fill of that!
Alyson’s idea of a rehearsal was simply to sing through the music from beginning to end. If someone mangled a tune, he thought it a good laugh and carried on. When the younger musical lady asked if she could try a difficult passage again, he waved her away with a “You sound lovely, my dear”. It was obvious that he and his wife had sung the piece many times before, and equally obvious that the whole evening had been designed to show off their talents. They performed magnificently and movingly. Lizzie, conscientiously turning pages for me, was lost in rapt wonder at the way their voices melted together, complimented each other effortlessly. I was looking at the way they unashamedly smiled at each other, even in public; they were certainly in love. I did not think that ‘Mrs Alyson’ would find herself cast off in the near future. Or perhaps at all.
After a while, enthusiasm inevitably waned among the rest of the company. Some of the gentlemen went off to the dining room, allegedly to talk, but in reality – to judge by the laughter and shouts that soon arose – to play cards, in defiance of Sunday conventions. Esther sat in a chair by the window and read; some of the other ladies retired early. After a while, Heron laid down the newspaper he’d been browsing through and nodded goodnight. All that were left were myself and Lizzie, the Alysons, and Esther, who was still reading. And Philip Ord, who’d turned a winged armchair so he could stare fixedly at us.
Lizzie started to fidget. Under cover of the music, I whispered, “Are you all right?”
She turned a gaze to me that verged on tears. “He – he is always watching me.”
“Of course he is,” I whispered back. “That’s because he’s so proud of you.”
She stared at me bewildered, remembered just in time she had to turn the page, did so, and sat back down again. Her face lit up with hope. “Do you think so?”
“I’m sure of it,” I said. It was a lie but I didn’t regret it – she was at once much more at ease. She cast a glance back over her shoulder, with a shy smile for her husband. I saw Ord’s lips twitch. Well, he was at least trying to smile.
And still the Alysons sang on.
It was gone midnight by the time the singing stopped; Esther had gone up to bed an hour or more before. Ord rescued us. He waited until an air had finished, got up briskly and said loudly: “Madam, it is late.”
Lizzie was looking very tired. She got up at once with a fine assumption of surprise. “Heavens, is that the time? Yes, certainly I will come.” I was left alone with the Alysons. Edward kissed his wife’s hand. “Shall we, my dear?” Her face was glowing. In a moment, they too were gone.
Leaving me with dozens of sheets of music, scattered about the room.
I shut the harpsichord and locked it. I was weary, and the thought of a long ride into town was not appealing. Leaving the trip till morning would be wiser, but every hour lost was an hour in which the apprentice might escape. Alyson had already lost us too much time. And if we went now, and suffered no real delays, I might be back by midday tomorrow; the chances of anyone of the company being up before then were slight and my absence might go unnoticed.
As I bent to pick up the papers, the butler, Crompton, came in to secure the windows. “If you would care to leave that for the maid, sir?”
I met his gaze. He seemed about to say something, but clearly changed his mind.
“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I need to put them in order.”
He bowed.
In my room, I tossed the papers in an untidy heap on the table, scrambled into my oldest clothes and riding boots, seized my greatcoat and cautiously crept down the stairs into the hallway below. The front door was bolted and I balked at trying to unlock it without being heard. So I went swiftly past the dining room where the remaining gentlemen were still drinking and laughing over obscene jokes, to the servants’ door. A narrow flight of stairs led down to a huge bare kitchen; three female servants were chattering over a pile of dirty dishes, their backs turned to me. I slipped through into the scullery.
The back door of the house was open. Across the stable yard, grooms were lounging on stone benches, drinking ale between weary yawns. They were not pleased when I demanded a horse.
“What for?” one said bluntly.
“I’ve urgent business in Newcastle.”
Another laughed coarsely. “Plenty of ’em here.” He jerked his thumb at the scullery door. “Don’t need to go to town. Maids or mistresses, take your pick.”
I was weary and short of time. I snapped at him. “Don’t argue with me. Saddle the damn horse!”
The groom straightened instinctively at my tone of voice; he said uneasily, “I’ll have to ask the master first, sir.”
“That’s all right, Hawdon,” a voice said behind me. “I know all about it. Saddle up Mercy for Mr Pattinson and I’ll have Black Boy.”
Edward Alyson, grinning broadly, strolled across the yard. He was dressed almost entirely in black, except for a white cravat mostly hidden under his buttoned-up waistcoat. He waited until the grooms had bustled into the stables then whispered, “I’m coming with you. Can’t
miss the chance of laying my hands on a murderer!”
“Sir – ”
“No, no.” He was having great difficulty in containing his excitement. “Come on, Pattinson, don’t deny that’s where you’re off to.”
“Patterson.”
“They’ve found him, haven’t they?” Alyson slapped his gloves against his thigh. “Come on, Pattinson,” he said, a wheedling note in his voice. “It’s unfair to disappoint me! I haven’t had so much excitement for years. You can’t expect me to sit quietly at home while you dash about the country having fun!”
I gave up. There was plainly no chance of dissuading him. With a clatter of hooves, the grooms led out the horses. “How did you know what I was going to do?” I asked curiously.
He laughed. “You receive a note and then creep out of the house and ask for a horse? Well – certainly it could be an affaire d’amour but I very much doubt it.” He made it sound as if he thought no woman would find me attractive.
The groom boosted him on to the back of his horse. He looked down at me. “I envy you, Pattinson,” he said. “Envy you more than I thought I’d ever envy any man. Life can be so damn dull.”
And he cantered for the gate.
Hugh was waiting impatiently outside the inn, absent-mindedly patting his horse, a placid pale grey. His expression when he saw Alyson would have been, in other circumstances, a pleasure to behold – I’ve never seen him so taken aback.
“Come on, man,” Alyson said, leaning down from his horse and grinning. “Don’t dawdle. We’ve work to do. Bringing a murderer to justice! That would be a good night’s work, wouldn’t it?”
Hugh looked at me; I remained impassive. Hugh sighed and swung himself up on to his horse.
“Now,” Alyson said. “Tell me all about this murder! I’ve heard so many rumours and you know how unreliable the gossips are.”
The moon was full, the first part of the road broad enough for two riders abreast but not three. I dropped back and let Hugh tell the tale, which he did, briefly and succinctly. By the time he came to the chapman, we were trotting through the first of the trees and the bright moonlight was only fitful; the horses picked their way carefully. I pushed my animal closer, so I could hear Hugh more clearly.
