Sword and Song

by Roz Southey

  “I agree,” Esther said.

  “To Long End?” Alyson said brightly. “Good idea.”

  “I agree,” Hugh said. “I’ll stay here and see if I can find the fellow.”

  “Hugh – ”

  “You’re not going to talk me out of it, Charles,” he said obstinately. “I was the one who asked the chapman to keep his eyes open for the apprentice. I should have known how dangerous it would be. And now a good man lies dead and a woman and three children have no means of support. It’s my fault, Charles! And I’m damn well going to do something about it!”

  “What I don’t understand,” Alyson said, “is how the attack on Pattinson at Long End fits in.”

  “Patterson,” Heron said.

  “I’m in danger wherever I go,” I said. Events suddenly seemed to be running away from me. I didn’t want to leave Newcastle. This was where the book was (albeit in another world). I badly wanted another look at that book. “This town is where the heart of the mystery lies – I need to be here.”

  “Is there anything you are not telling us, Patterson?” Heron asked.

  “No, of course not.”

  “There are no other witnesses to the murder?”

  I thought of Maggie in Mrs McDonald’s house. “None that can identify the man. Unless we can get him into the house for Nell’s spirit to look at.”

  “No one else you have asked to look into the matter?”

  I thought of Bedwalters. Of course!

  “No. No one.”

  “Then it seems to me,” Heron said, “that there need be no other victims. He has killed to protect himself and if there is no danger, then there will be no more killing. Therefore you may go to Long End with a clear conscience.”

  “You cannot guarantee he will not kill again,” I protested.

  Heron nodded. “There is certainly one person he will seek to eliminate. You. Which brings me back to my original point. You will be much safer at Long End.”

  He would not be moved from this logic. It was clear that it appealed to Hugh too, and to Alyson, who was becoming excitable again. “Heron’s absolutely right,” he said. “Newcastle’s much too dangerous. There are too many people here, too many byways where you could be ambushed. At Long End we can control what happens. We can trap the villain!”

  “That’s a damn good idea,” Hugh exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. “I’ll come with you. I can prowl around and keep watch for anyone suspicious haunting the park.”

  “The justice will probably take you for a poacher and transport you,” I said, wearily.

  “Come and stay at the house,” Alyson cried. “You can teach us the latest dances and keep an eye on Pattinson at the same time.”

  “Patterson!” Heron said.

  Hugh struggled for a moment then gave way to his principles.

  “What will the fee be? For teaching?”

  I left them haggling over terms and stepped out to find the landlord. It was plain I was to have no choice in the matter. I bought pen, ink and paper and scribbled a note to Bedwalters, telling him I was going back to Long End.

  I hesitated before penning the last paragraphs.

  It’s plain, I wrote, that the murderer has a good source of information, or perhaps several, because he’s been one step ahead of us, more than once – he knew about the chapman for instance. So, I beg you, do not put yourself in any unnecessary danger – Nell has need of you now more than ever.

  I reconsidered that last sentiment, aware that it would only confirm Bedwalters in his decision to stay in Mrs McDonald’s house. But I thought he was already determined on that, so I let the sentence stand.

  He has lodgings in Pandon Chare – the lodging house on the corner – in rooms accessed by the back stairs. There’s a spirit there – the spirit of the former landlord of the Old Man inn. He’s of good character, and may be able to give you more information about the murderer. But do not, I say again, do not put yourself at risk!”

  I was hugely frustrated as I rode out of town behind the others. I could not drag my thoughts away from the murder scene. I could picture the murderer waiting where Hugh and I had stood under the wrecked roof, hand poised above the wooden peg that secured the slate. Watching the chapman walking up the last few steps to his death, seeing him glance aside as he smelt the fish cooking, waiting for him to pause and peer in. And then the heavy slate grinding down the roof and dropping vertiginously. The chapman must have heard it, he must have turned, lifted his head to look up and – Alyson dropped back alongside me, nodded at the violin bag that lay across my saddle. “Weapon, Patterson?”

  I wondered why he got my name right sometimes and not others. “A few clothes.”

  We were going to the country, to idle through plentiful breakfasts and dinners, to play a few songs and deal a few cards, to read the latest marital scandals in the papers. And meanwhile the murderer swaggered free in Newcastle, free to kill. Nell went unavenged, and the chapman’s widow had three children to raise and no wage to do it on. My only consolation was that the book was out of harm’s way.

  I stared at the passing countryside, blurred with the oncoming dusk. In front of me, Esther and Heron were riding side by side, talking quietly. They’d been talking a great deal at the rehearsal yesterday. They were plotting something – I was certain of it.

  Probably arranging the wedding.

  Esther was intent on behaving conventionally; was her departure from Long End in company with Claudius Heron – even chaperoned by Catherine – a conventional act? It would certainly have raised a few eyebrows.

  Hugh brought up the rear of our party with a bag stuffed full of his best clothes and a kit fiddle slung over his shoulder. He’d not hurried over his packing – one reason we’d set out later than expected. He was still blaming himself for the chapman’s death. And that picture came back into my mind. What kind of man would kill someone that way? So cruel, so extravagantly risky, and yet so completely successful.

  The evening was gloomy as we clattered into the stable yard; torches had been lit. Grooms rushed to take the horses’ reins, and to pet and cosset the tired animals. No one troubled themselves about us. Alyson escorted Esther into the house, with the gallantry of a man twice his age; Heron followed without a word.

  Hugh heaved his bags over his shoulder; he’d decided to collect his other belongings from the inn tomorrow. He stepped back out of the way of a groom, eyed me perceptively.

  “I know you’re not happy with this, Charles. But he’s going to make another attempt on you, and we’ll have a better chance of catching him here. A stranger is always noticeable in a country district – he’ll be far more conspicuous than if he was in town.”

  “You’re underestimating him,” I said. The book. The book was at the heart of the mystery; there was something among its tunes that made it so valuable a man would murder for it. I should have had a better look at it while I had the chance.

  But I knew I’d looked long and hard at it and seen nothing.

  It was late and I was too tired to think clearly. I went to my room, stripped off my clothes and fell into bed. I slept fitfully and was awake before Fowler scratched on the door. He came in with his shaving gear and a pot of green stuff that looked disgusting.

  “My grandmother swore by this,” he said. “Cures every wound imaginable.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Marigolds.”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  I submitted, of course – Fowler has a tendency to assume that no means yes. I let him smear the ointment on a wad of cloth and bandage the scratch on my side, then submitted to being shaved. He had every word of our adventures pat and only one person could have told him.

  “Heron’s asked you to keep an eye on me, hasn’t he?”

  “Did you expect anything else?” Fowler’s lean face twisted into a grin. “Or anyone better qualified for the task?”

  “Or more modest?” I murmured.

  “You’re not in the good boo
ks of the guests, you know,” Fowler said, standing back to take a critical look at my face. “Wanted music and where were you?”

  I couldn’t imagine I’d been missed by anyone but the musical ladies. “If I’d been here, they’d all have been out massacring the local birds and hares.”

  “And the colonial gent has gone off.”

  I sat up sharply, to Fowler’s annoyance. “Casper Fischer? Left? Permanently?”

  The book was his. And I’d only had his word that it was had been lost...

  Fowler was obviously enjoying my consternation. “Gone off to this Shotley Bridge place.”

  I sank back. “To his cousins? Are you sure?”

  “That’s what he told Crompton.”

  “The butler?”

  “Said he’d be back tomorrow. Staying overnight with them.”

  “His servant’s gone with him, I suppose?”

  “What servant? He doesn’t have one.”

  I frowned. “Then who shaves him?”

  “Never asked,” Fowler said surprised. “None of my business.”

  “Has he left his belongings?”

  “Don’t trust anyone, do you?” Fowler said, finishing off his shaving with swift sure strokes. “Think he’s done a runner?”

  “Has he left his belongings?” I repeated.

  “Don’t know.” He sighed. “I could ask, I suppose.”

  “Without raising suspicions,” I said quickly.

  I pondered on the implications of Fischer’s disappearance. He was much too old to be the apprentice but Esther had seen the attacker in the wood meet another man. There were two men in this business, and there was no saying Fischer was not the second. I wondered where he’d been when I was attacked in the garden the first night at Long End.

  Fowler started to pack up his shaving gear. “Crompton’ll know. He’ll tell me. Tell me more than he’ll tell anyone else.”

  Wiping the last soap from my face, I stared up at him. “You? Oh God, Fowler, don’t tell me – ”

  His grin was huge. “I won’t tell you anything you don’t want to hear. You know me, soul of discretion. Just say he’s a friend of mine.”

  I remembered the looks the butler had given me, his quiet determination to do me favours – to make sure my notes were delivered, for instance. “Fowler! You didn’t happen to tell him I was a – friend of yours too?”

  “I said you were to be trusted.”

  Dear God, the fellow had probably got entirely the wrong idea about me!

  “Knew him in London,” Fowler said, “when he was working for Sir George Ellison. He’s a good man. Honest,” he added, “unlike me. And I don’t take kindly to my friends being threatened.”

  “Someone’s threatening him?” I didn’t need to ask over what. “Has he told you who?”

  “He’s not said anything about it.” Fowler lounged against the back of the ancient armchair. “But I know the signs. You learn ’em quickly,” he said dryly.

  “Any idea who it could be?”

  “One of the other servants, for sure.”

  “But you don’t know which one?”

  He shrugged. “Could be any of ’em. They’re all new barring the London coachman they brought with ’em.”

  “A servant,” I mused, my thoughts suddenly skittering off in another direction. Esther had said that the second attacker in the woods was poorly dressed, like a servant. A servant would have found it easy to attack me in the grounds. Servants go everywhere and are never seen – ladies and gentlemen treat them as part of the furniture. And it was surely unlikely that there were two criminal servants on the staff – lawyer Armstrong had interviewed each of them himself. He was a shrewd man; it would be odd if he had been deceived once, out of the question that he should be deceived twice. So the servant involved in the plot against me was probably the one threatening the butler...

  “Do you think you could get a name out of Crompton?”

  Fowler shrugged. “Possibly.” There was a reserved look in his eyes that made me wonder if he would tell me if he did know. “He’s a good man, Crompton, but he doesn’t have staying power. He can’t endure. Troubles wear him down quickly. He’s had to run from something like this before and there’s going to come a time he doesn’t have the spirit to do it again.” He pushed himself from the back of the armchair. “Still, it won’t happen this time. And when I know the name, I’ll have the fellow in his grave in minutes.”

  “Not before I’ve had a chance to talk to him first, I hope.”

  He laughed softly.

  24

  We have been confined to the house now for three days by the rain, which has left miniature lakes in the roads. I suppose rain is the reason the country is so fertile, but it is so lowering to the mind!

  [Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his sister, Agnés, 18 June 1736]

  It was a frustrating day. It rained from morning to night, a thin fine drizzle from overhanging grey clouds. Occasionally, the day grew even darker and rain battered at the windows. The servants brought in candles but the effect of lighting them in daylight was to make the day seem gloomier still. The ladies languished in the drawing room casting their eyes over magazines and novels in a desultory way before tossing them aside. One or two pondered on why Esther had dashed off to town the previous day. “And in the company of Heron, my dear! Of course her maid was with her, but...”

  The gentlemen repaired to the dining room to play cards; from time to time, one would wander in to stare morosely out of the window at the rain then wander back out again. Mrs Widdrington suggested some music; Mrs Alyson pressed her hand to her head. “I simply could not bear it!”

  They bore it after a light luncheon. Hugh had been off to the inn to fetch his belongings; I glimpsed him entering the hall on his return, shaking the rain from his greatcoat and hat. By the time he arrived at the luncheon table, he was dressed in his favourite blue coat with a darker waistcoat enlivened by a hint of embroidery, of such quality that he put every other gentleman in the shade, including Alyson who’d come down in one of his favourite bright colours, an oddly green shade of yellow. Within minutes, half the ladies were swooning over Hugh; another half hour, and it was firmly fixed that the afternoon should be spent in dancing.

  So the furniture was pushed back in the drawing room and I was ensconced at the harpsichord all afternoon, playing dance tunes as Hugh instructed the ladies in the latest imports from Paris. I reflected wryly on his instant success; he made a fine figure in his turquoise coat, with stockings whiter than any stockings have a right to be, and his black hair gathered at the nape of his neck.

  Some of the gentlemen either thought Hugh too dangerously handsome to be left alone with the ladies or recognised an opportunity to get near the ladies themselves. Within a few minutes we were forming sets so large we had to open the drawing room doors so the dancers could gallop out into the hall and back. I was startled at one point to see Ord dancing with his wife – an unusual proceeding for any gentleman. But Lizzie was looking particularly fine in her enjoyment of the dance; her eyes were sparkling, and her hair had come loose and was trailing round her neck.

  Midway through the afternoon, I gave the harpsichord up to the younger musical lady and went upstairs to my room for a piss and a few moments’ rest. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard my name called and turned to see Fowler’s head poking out of one of the doors to the servants’ stairs. He beckoned me; I followed him into the narrow musty servants’ passageway running behind the reception rooms.

  He eased the door shut, so we were lit only by a single candle in a sconce on the wall. The air seemed immediately more stuffy; I sneezed. Fowler grinned.

  “The American gent,” he said. “He’s left his bags. A big trunk and half a library of books, evidently. And a package of business letters too.”

  I was relieved – I rather liked Fischer. “Looks like he’s coming back then.” Not that that necessarily cleared him of involvement; he would have ridden through Ne
wcastle to reach Shotley Bridge and might have found an opportunity to attack us.

  “This weather’ll hold him up but he could be back tonight,” Fowler said. “Depends how chatty he gets with his cousins.”

  I nodded. “Had a word with Crompton yet? About the other matter?”

  He gave me a reproachful look. “As if I’m going to raise the subject in the servants’ hall!” He grinned. “I’ll deal with it later.”

  “Tonight, no doubt,” I said dryly.

  “No doubt.”

  “In the butler’s pantry.”

  “Not his pantry, no,” Fowler said wickedly. I suddenly realised I must change the subject; the less I knew about this the better.

  “Where’s Heron? I’ve not seen him all day.”

  “Writing letters and reading some dead fellow that wrote poetry.”

  “Virgil?” I asked, recalling Heron’s preferences.

  “How should I know?”

  A few minutes later I was scratching at Heron’s door and hearing his voice call entry. I opened the door on to a room bright with candles. Heron was comfortable in a large winged armchair, browsing through a volume of what did indeed seem to be Virgil; a large, filled brandy glass stood on a table at his fingertips. He waited until I’d closed the door, then said, “Are you going to tell me what happened yesterday morning, before we met you at the Fleece?”

  I laughed, accepted a glass of brandy and a comfortable chair opposite him.

  Heron knows all about the world that runs alongside our own; on one occasion, he accompanied me there. He listened as I related my visit to the apprentice’s lodgings, was grimly amused by my tale of being chased by cleaver-wielding butchers and nodded approvingly when I said I’d left the book in All Hallows churchyard in that other world.