by Roz Southey
“And there was nothing about the book that struck you as odd?” he asked after I’d finished.
“Apart from his version of Winchester Old, no. Oh, and the tunes were the Old Version.”
“I don’t think we are dealing with ecclesiastical controversies,” Heron said dryly. “No marginal notes?”
“Not that I noticed. I need another look at it but I can only go to Newcastle a limited number of times before Edward Alyson decides I’m not value for money!”
“You need not concern yourself with that any more,” Heron pointed out. “You are after all marrying a wealthy woman.”
I gritted my teeth.
“I will, of course,” Heron said, “give the bride away.”
I went back to the harpsichord, to find the ladies and gentlemen lounging exhausted over refreshments brought in by Crompton and the footmen: macaroons, sweetmeats and wine. Hugh was chatting to a giggling Lizzie Ord but soon made his excuses and came across to where I was debating whether to follow Heron’s excellent brandy – obviously brought with him – with one of Alyson’s inferior offerings.
“I’ve been having a good gossip,” Hugh said, grinning. “Devil take it, Charles, you never told me you were having so much fun!”
I sighed.
Hugh nodded at our host who was whispering something in his wife’s ear. “The old uncle would have been horrified to see his nephew in charge here.”
“You knew the old man?”
“Met him a couple of times at the Blackett country house.” The Blacketts, I recalled, lived three or four miles nearer Newcastle. “He was a pleasant fellow, but he did have a biblical approach to behaviour. All thou shalt not.”
“Not married himself, I take it?”
Hugh grinned. “His sister – Alyson’s mother – soured him. She ran off with a ship’s captain. Got married in Calais.”
“I know – I saw the family Bible. Alyson’s quite open about it.”
Hugh looked surprised. “Not to his guests. I had it all from Ridley who knew the old man well. Strictly hush-hush, he said.” He looked disappointed. “Damn it, Charles, don’t spoil my surprises!”
“If the uncle didn’t want him to inherit,” I said, “he should have disinherited him in his will!”
“You don’t disinherit family, Charles! Not unless there’s something seriously wrong.” His expression sobered; he glanced round to make sure no one was listening. “So what are we going to do?”
“About the murderer? I don’t have the least idea.”
“Damn it, Charles!” He stopped to allow a lady to pass; she smiled archly and wondered if the dancing was about to start again. He went off with her, only pausing long enough to whisper, “Damn it, we have to do something!”
I didn’t need to be told.
I went to bed fretting. Nothing done, nothing learned. No way I could think of to get back to Newcastle to have another look at the book. And I was willing to bet Fischer would be back in a day or two, as innocent and honest as he’d always seemed.
My insistence that I would find Nell’s murderer was beginning to look very hollow.
25
Every man knows his own history and can recite his ancestors for six generations at least. It is all very dull.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his wife, Régine, 1 August 1736]
The following day began rather better. At the door of the breakfast room, Crompton handed me a note with a polite murmur. This time his gaze did not linger on mine – he moved off at once. I wondered if Fowler had said something to him.
I went into the library to read the note. It was from Bedwalters. I’ve always respected the man and the note only increased my admiration. He’d been making enquiries about the apprentice; the spirit in the lodging house (‘a very pleasant gentleman’, according to Bedwalters) had referred him to other spirits; one or two local merchants had had a thing or two to say... Etc. Etc.
I regret to say I have not uncovered a great deal, Bedwalters began at the top of two pages of closely written information. Some people believe the apprentice to be local but most do not. Many think he is a Londoner.
That, I reflected, was what people generally say of someone not local.
One person, Bedwalters wrote, believed him to be from Devon. He has an exceedingly bad reputation. Several local merchants suspect him of stealing goods.
Here Bedwalters had listed six local tradesmen and the goods they believed to have gone missing. Nothing surprising on the whole: food, clothing, candles and so on. But one tradesman had missed two knives, which was alarming, as it meant the murderer might still have a knife even though he’d discarded the murder weapon. Another shopkeeper had missed several books, including, of all things, a Book of Common Prayer. Defoe’s description of England had gone too – I wondered if the apprentice had turned straight to Defoe’s description of Newcastle. Did that suggest he was a stranger to the area?
Something nagged at me – something I ought to remember...
He first rented the room in the lodging house three years ago, Bedwalters continued; he paid his rent a quarter in advance and only once missed.
In advance? I pondered on this. That suggested he was not short of money. But if he’d money enough to pay his rent in advance, why should he steal other goods? Out of sheer devilment? For the fun of it?
He does not appear to stay long in the town, Bedwalters wrote, in his impeccable hand. He comes for a week or two, perhaps a month, then leaves once more. He told several people he had relatives in the area although he did not specify who or where. He has also said he has relatives in the Colonies and has been thinking of joining them.
The Colonies. That was what had been nagging at me. Fischer had been reading Defoe! And the Colonial accent might at times be interpreted as being from the West Country. Fischer himself might be too old to be the murderer, but could it be a relative? One of the cousins at Shotley Bridge, for instance? No, if they were born and brought up in this country surely they would have local accents?
The murderer could have been the right age to be a son of Fischer. His periodic presence in the town might be owing to travelling backwards and forwards to Pennsylvania. I wondered if Bedwalters had managed to accumulate enough information to list the dates the murderer had been in town. If he had, I could see whether there’d been sufficient time between visits to get to America and back. But it was hardly a journey one would wish to do on a regular basis.
Suppose Fischer, at some point in the past, had sent his son from Philadelphia to recover his legacy. That would explain the connection of the book with this affair; perhaps an innocent search had turned into something disastrous. Had Fischer come to rescue his son after the debacle with Nell? No, he must already have been in England – and I’d swear he’d been genuinely surprised and distressed when I told him about the book’s connection with Nell’s death.
It was all a muddle. I folded Bedwalters’s note, stowed it safely in a pocket and went for my breakfast.
I took one step into the breakfast room and stopped in surprise. The entire party of gentlemen were there, gathered round the table examining something I couldn’t see, and all talking at the same time. As I approached the group, Claudius Heron, at the far side, saw me, nodded. His movement revealed the gentleman behind him. Fischer.
The American glanced round. “Patterson! My dear fellow! Come and see what I’ve gotten.”
It was a sword. A gleaming, gorgeous, sparkling sword, plain but polished to within an inch of its life. No decoration on the hilt except for what looked like a small crest of intertwined initials. I bent to look more closely.
“MFF,” Fischer said proudly. “Melchior Friedric Fischer. My grandfather’s masterpiece. A little old-fashioned now, I agree, a little heavy, but still a fine piece of work.”
I gathered my wits. “How did you persuade your cousins to part with it?”
This was plainly a story he’d told before, and the other gentlemen drifted into groups
while he regaled me with the tale of his ride to Shotley Bridge, his confrontation with his cousins and his riding off with the sword, almost under the threat of attack, according to his account. He’d arrived back at Long End in the small hours of the morning evidently, and had been unable to sleep for excitement.
He broke off as Alyson lifted up the sword and hefted it experimentally. “Beautifully balanced,” Alyson said approvingly. He made one or two experimental passes, one of which came unnervingly close to my nose.
“Isn’t it?” Fischer agreed. “There was no better swordmaker in his time. I’m glad to have it, very glad. I have at least half my inheritance.”
“And the most valuable part,” Alyson said. “I know that book of tunes has sentimental value but better to lose that than this.”
“I’d prefer to have them both,” Fischer said ruefully.
“You went on your own?” I asked, as casually as I could.
Fischer looked surprised. “Indeed. Was that a problem?”
“The roads can be dangerous,” I said. “Robbers. And it’s easy to get lost, particularly when passing through Newcastle.”
“A fine town,” Fischer said enthusiastically. “I’m only sorry I did not have time to linger there. But I had excellent directions.” He spread his arms. “And here I am, safe and sound, back again.”
Alyson had reluctantly yielded the sword to Heron, who was looking at it with a critical eye. He made a pass with it and sparked off a technical discussion among some of the gentlemen. I looked at him in a new light; with the sword in hand, he’d looked positively dangerous.
“Well, my congratulations, my dear fellow,” Alyson said, grinning at Fischer. “It’s a prize worth having. I’ll give you a hundred guineas for it.”
Fischer was caught by surprise. “A hundred...”
“A hundred and fifty,” Alyson said, clearly thinking Fischer was trying to beat the price up.
“It’s worth twice that,” said another gentleman scornfully; a third broke in. “No, no, nothing like so much. Beautifully made and balanced, I grant you, but old-fashioned, much too old-fashioned.”
“I couldn’t sell it,” Fischer said. He was good-humoured but I fancied there was anger in his voice. “It’s all I have of my grandfather.”
“Memories,” Alyson said, persisting when a more thoughtful and observant man would have retreated gracefully. “You have your memories.”
“I never met him,” Fischer said sharply and, with more adroitness than Alyson, changed the subject. “I’m impressed with the country hereabouts, Mr Patterson. The fast-flowing rivers – the coal – makes it ideal for industry, I would say.”
Alyson was not in a good mood at breakfast. Fischer’s rebuff had hurt his pride, I fancied – I rather thought he was considering ways to change the Philadelphian’s mind. None apparently occurred to him; while I was dawdling over coffee, he accosted me and told me in a very curt manner that he wanted to rehearse the opera, and I should go into the drawing room and make sure the harpsichord was tuned. I went, but I did not rush. Given that not one of the ladies had risen from their beds, it was plain nothing was going to happen for an hour or two yet.
I tuned the harpsichord and played through the parts Hugh and I had copied, altering a few incorrect notes. Hugh, bleary-eyed, came down to breakfast, then took himself off for a walk in the gardens. Half an hour later, I heard him talking to one of the ladies on the terrace; half an hour after that, I heard the scrape of his kit fiddle from the library and the sound of women laughing over their own mistakes.
Then I heard another woman’s voice, surprisingly loud, just outside the drawing room on the terrace. “It is such a lovely morning. I shall take my book to the rose garden.”
Esther. I waited an impatient five minutes, closed and locked the harpsichord and hurried out to join her. Making sure no one saw me.
She had found a shady bower and was surrounded by white and yellow climbing roses. Her book was open on her knee but she plainly had no intention of reading it; she sat with her hands on her lap and her head cocked, listening for my approach. My heart turned over at the sight of her; the slender figure, the elegant neck, the cool amused look in her eyes. There were lines of age about those eyes – she was not a young woman after all – but they were lines which made me love her the more. If I had a free choice, if the world had been other than it was, if people were not so censorious and narrow-minded, I would have asked for nothing better than to marry her.
She held out a hand; I slipped my own into it, and sat down beside her. “If we’re seen...”
“Then we will tell them the truth,” she said composedly. “Do you think Alyson has not already told his wife, or that she will not pass the titbit on to Mrs Widdrington or one of the others?”
“She’s more likely to order me out of the house,” I said ruefully.
I felt a ridiculous urge to kiss the hand I held. And the mouth that was curving with amusement...
I took a deep breath and told her about Fischer and his sword.
“Ah,” she said. “So that is what it was. I saw them trailing through the hall excitedly insisting on ‘giving it a trial’ when I came down for breakfast. Even Heron was going with them.”
I remembered Heron with the sword. Another man entirely, I thought.
I enlightened Esther on my speculations about Fischer. “Supposing he has a son, who was detailed to find the inheritance? Remember, Fischer said a correspondent had told him the book was in Charnley’s shop? Suppose that had been the son – who found the task of retrieving the book too hard for him and called for his father’s aid?”
“Have you asked Mr Fischer about his family?”
“The right moment has not yet arisen.”
Esther laughed. “Then I will do it for you.”
“Don’t take any risks,” I said involuntarily.
She shook her head. “My dear Charles, it will seem the most natural thing in the world. People always expect women to ask about their sons and daughters, and grandsons and granddaughters. We are expected to have no other interests at all. Except, perhaps, a good recipe for beef gravy.”
She stood and I, naturally, rose with her. She took her hand from mine to smooth down her skirts. “Is there anything else you wish me to ask him?”
“Ask if he stopped for a while in Newcastle on his way to Shotley Bridge,” I said. “He might well have been there about the time the chapman was killed.”
Esther turned her book over in her hands. “I cannot imagine Mr Fischer as a murderer.”
“Nor can I ,” I said, adding ruefully, “It’s a measure of my desperation that I consider him at all!”
And then I did kiss her hand, raising it to my lips and touching the smooth, fragrant skin. Our eyes met...
Esther smiled and walked away, down the length of the rose garden, her pale gown rustling against the leaves of the plants. I turned to go back to the house –
And saw Mrs Widdrington regarding me with an arrested look.
There was nothing I could do but walk past her. She stood in the gap that gave access to the garden, and as I went steadily back towards her, she was patently waiting for me. She put out a hand and rested it on my sleeve. Her face was kind, like a woman who has children of her own and knows exactly how they think. She murmured, “A word of advice, Mr Patterson.”
I stared into her smiling, gentle face, wondering what I could say, thinking it best not to say anything at all. “It is not wise to think of her so,” she said, gently. “And if you are not careful, she will take offence and speak to our host about it. Then you will find yourself dismissed and without payment too.”
My cheeks burned – there was so much to embarrass in this speech. Not least the lady’s open acknowledgement that I was a mere tradesman dependent on the goodwill of my employers. And the suggestion that my attentions might be offensive to Esther. I had to remind myself that the warning was kindly meant.
“Besides which,” she said, �
�I fancy the lady will not be unattached for much longer.” Perhaps she saw my surprise; she added, “Mr Heron. I fancy arrangements are already being made in that quarter.”
I did not trust myself to say anything.
“It will ease,” she said, patting my arm. Her gaze shifted, as if she was looking into the past. “It will ease.” She sighed.
I played through my entire repertoire of Scarlatti and Corelli in an empty drawing room. It at least saved me from thinking too much, and gave me some much-needed practice. Hugh’s kit fiddle sounded still from the library; I saw gentlemen, talking excitedly, stride down the formal gardens into the distance, dogs yapping at their heels. Crompton came in to tell me luncheon was being served; I accepted his offer to bring me something to eat in the drawing room. Hugh’s voice accompanied chattering ladies to the dining room.
Alyson popped his head around the door, as affable now as he’d been curt earlier. “Ah, my dear fellow. I thought I’d find you here. We’re going to rehearse the opera this afternoon. Make sure the harpsichord’s tuned properly, will you?”
As if it had not been tuned properly before.
“Certainly,” I said.
I heard his footsteps receding in the hallway, sighed and reached for the tuning key. But I couldn’t find it, even though I knew I’d brought it down with me this morning. Someone could have come in and purloined it while I was in the rose garden talking to Esther, I supposed. But why?
Or had I brought it down earlier? I thought I had. But it wasn’t here now. The only thing to do was to check in my room. I climbed the deserted stairs, hearing laughter from the diners.
Something grated under the door of my room as I pushed it open. A fold of paper. I bent to pick it up.
Opened it on to seven words.
Return the book or the lady dies.
26
Decorum is the aim of all.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
