by Roz Southey
“You mean – ”
“A few of his silver spoons gone already. And a couple of miniatures.”
“The servants?” I asked, suddenly alert.
“Well, I never caught anyone yet,” the spirit said, “but I have my suspicions. That butler for instance. Oh Lord...”
And to my annoyance Hugh yelled for music, and the spirit shot off, presumably to take refuge in the attics.
Just before dinner I accosted Fowler outside Heron’s room, and asked him to find time to go down to the village tavern and ask if they’d seen any strangers in the past few days. I couldn’t make up my mind whether the notes had been left by Fischer or Crompton or someone else entirely, but one at least of the plotters was outside the house. The man who’d killed Nell and the chapman, and who’d attacked me in town, had freedom of movement and was neither servant nor guest.
Fowler agreed to the errand with such alacrity I wondered if there was anyone in the village who’d caught his eye. But when I warned him to be careful, he merely looked exaggeratedly patient and said, “How do you think I got to be this old?”
“Have you spoken to Crompton about whoever’s threatening him?”
“In my own time, Patterson.” A wolfish grin spread across his face. “In my own time.”
“That man could be our murderer!”
Fowler shook his head. “It’s one of the servants and none of ’em was missing yesterday while you were off enjoying yourselves in town. Think I didn’t ask?”
And he sauntered away with a swagger.
I was distracted during dinner, which suited Casper Fischer very well; he had a fine time laughing at his cousins’ peculiar ideas about Pennsylvania. Lizzie Ord enjoyed his tales; Philip Ord, who’d manoeuvred himself into the seat next to his wife, glowered and continually tried to distract her attention with titbits of food. From time to time, he cast fulminating glances at Mrs Alyson, whose weary air led her to murmur more than once about ‘provincial’ lack of sophistication.
Heron was not pleased when I told him, in a quiet moment over the brandy, that Alyson was intent on helping us. He had strong words about the naïveté of youth, and I almost recommended he chat to Mrs Alyson. Then I had to explain our plans to Hugh who was rather too eager for my liking.
“Devil take it,” he whispered – we were surrounded by adoring ladies in the drawing room – “Once I get my hands on him, he’ll wish he’d never set foot in Newcastle.”
“Hugh – ” But the ladies were wanting more of Hugh’s tales about his last trip to Paris. Was the court as magnificent as everyone said? Were the fashions really better than English fashions? I watched him flirt outrageously with every one of them. At least, I reflected, he was, like most dancing masters, an excellent fencer, and Heron had looked dangerous with the American’s sword.
Maybe tonight would not be a disaster after all.
28
I rose this morning to find the house in an uproar – some chambermaid had lost a shilling or something of the kind. What a fuss!
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother, Georges, 11 July 1736]
The man who’d sent me that note knew nothing about the gentry. Expecting a houseparty of gentlemen to go to sleep before dawn was about as likely as expecting them all to give six guineas to a beggar at the door. Or welcoming a musician as the husband of a lady with money and aristocratic connections. When I went softly down the stairs and hesitated at the door to the servants’ quarters, there were at least five or six gentlemen still roistering in the dining room, including Alyson who, in the splendour of a midnight blue coat and breeches, was either looking for something on the floor or had fallen down dead drunk. It looked unlikely he’d be sharing the shrubbery with Hugh.
I pushed open the servants’ door as quietly as I could; it was well-oiled of course – no servant must make any undue noise. The lively chatter drifted to me from the kitchen, and a quieter conversation nearer at hand – from the steward’s room, I thought, or the butler’s pantry.
The door to the stable yard stood ajar. To peer round it cautiously, then hurry out with a wrapped parcel under my arm would seem suspicious in the highest degree. So I took a deep breath, pushed the door wide and strode out across the cobbled yard to the gate to the gardens.
The gate led into the walled kitchen garden with its neat rows of vegetables stretching into the moonlit distance. I stared gloomily at the brightly lit paths. Moonlight is wonderful for travelling but the very devil if you’re trying to conduct an illicit encounter. My opponent would be glad of it, I supposed; it would enable him to see if I was being followed. Hugh and Heron had both retired early and must, I hoped, already be concealed in the bushes.
An ornate gate from the kitchen garden led on to a path of beaten earth. Rose bushes flaunted fragrant blossoms on every side, subtly different shades of grey in the moonlight. Choosing a path leading directly ahead, I came eventually into the great formal garden in front of the house, with its tiny box hedges and complex patterns of flowerbeds.
To my left the old house displayed its silly little corner turrets and multiple windows. Candles gleamed behind windows on the upper storey; on the ground floor, the dining room was ablaze – I could see the gentlemen there, still carousing. The door was open on to the terrace and one man, blurred against the bright light, came out on to the terrace, pissed into an ornamental flowerpot and went back in again.
I walked down the path to the bottom of the formal gardens. The water of the canal gleamed pewter in the moonlight as I approached; the trees of the wood beyond were dark and impenetrable. As I crossed the grass, I almost slipped on a patch of mud, and paused, heart thumping, to regain my balance. Somewhere far off a sheep bleated in panic, followed by the bark of a fox.
I started off again, taking more care where I walked. The grass had been recently scythed and stood up in little spikes. Ahead of me, the stone bridge gleamed in the moonlight; its parapet was wide but had a rounded top. How the devil was I to get the book to balance on top of that?
It was ludicrous. The whole thing was ludicrous. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Esther had been threatened, and the fellow had killed twice already, I’d have gone straight back to the house –
A hand landed in the small of my back, pushed. I slipped, flung out my hands to regain my balance. The book was plucked from under my arm.
Then I was plunging into stagnant, stinking water.
29
Highway robbers can be very audacious.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
I pushed myself on to hands and knees, coughing, and spitting out water. Someone was running over the bridge. The slightest of figures, dressed in black – a flapping greatcoat, a cloth of some kind draped round head and face, a hat.
I splashed about, trying to get free of the trailing weed. A second man ran across the bridge, the sword in his hand flashing in the moonlight. Heron. For a man in middle-age he was fast, sprinting off the bridge, leaping a mess of mud and water and coming within touching distance of the attacker just as he reached the margins of the wood.
The attacker stumbled – I heard a gasp, high and incoherent. Heron shouted in rage, brandished the sword –
A second greatcoated figure stepped from the wood, tall, slim, masked. Something was raised in his hand – a club or cudgel. I yelled but it was already too late. The club came down hard. At the last moment, Heron twisted, tried to take the blow on his left shoulder but the club glanced off his temple.
He went down as if poleaxed.
I struggled across the wide deep water – it came up to my thighs and made walking like wading through mud. The second attacker tossed down his club which looked broken – he stooped to take up Heron’s sword, hefted the elegant blade in his hand.
I shouted, thinking he intended to run Heron through. For one moment, his eyes, behind the folds of black cloth, met mine.
&nbs
p; He was laughing at me. I knew he was. He was laughing, and challenging me to catch him.
He lifted an arm – and tossed the sword away.
He took off like a hare behind his accomplice, greatcoat flapping. I knew even then that I couldn’t catch them.
I dragged myself over the crumbling edge of the canal, crawled a yard or two. I staggered upright, sodden clothes dragging me down. The water poured off me. I stumbled across to Heron.
He lay face down, blood pouring from a wound on his left temple, matting his fair hair and running down into his eye. It looked worse than the injury I’d received the night I was attacked. But I could still hear his breathing, ragged and uneven. Next to him lay the two pieces of the branch he’d been hit with; it had been rotten in the core, thank God – that must have lessened the force of the blow.
Someone was calling my name. Hugh was racing across the bridge, in shirtsleeves, pistol in hand.
“Where the devil have you been!”
Hugh gasped for breath. “Heron told me not to come! He said the plan was off.”
“Why the hell should he tell you that?” I dragged at my cravat – something had to be done to staunch the flow of blood. It was sodden. Hugh wrenched off his own dry cravat.
“He left me a note, I tell you! Pushed it under my door. I found it when I went back to my room tonight.”
I wadded up the cloth, pressed it to Heron’s head, tried to tie it on. Heron groaned. “Have you ever seen his handwriting?”
“No, but – ” Hugh swore. “The villain got wind of the plan, didn’t he? Took steps to reduce the odds against himself. And I fell for it – in heaven’s name!”
“Themselves,” I said. “There were two men, Hugh.”
“You got a good look at them?”
“Not a chance. All wrapped up in greatcoats with scarves about their faces.” I dragged myself upright and tried to squeeze some of the water out of my coat. “We’ve got to get Heron back to the house.”
He was a dead weight. We heaved his arms over our shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged him across the bridge, staggering under the burden, then up the formal gardens. My sodden clothes were becoming unpleasantly clammy.
“Front door or back?” Hugh asked.
“Whichever’s quickest.”
“Dining room window’s open.”
We manhandled Heron up the steps to the terrace. The wad about his wound had slipped. Blood was blossoming across Hugh’s shirt sleeve.
Alyson stared at us from the terrace. He looked befuddled, clearly drunk; his hands hesitated at his breeches as if he’d come out here to piss. Then he seemed to come to his senses; he ran back into the dining room, yelling for servants. We stumbled in, brushing past him without ceremony. I left grimy marks on the curtain that fell against my arm, and footprints on the expensive rugs.
In the dining room, two gentlemen were fast asleep with their heads down on the table; a third was being sick in the chamberpot that was kept in the sideboard. Alyson yelled again for Crompton. The butler hurried in from the hall, stopped dead when he saw Heron hanging between our arms.
“Send for the sawbones, man!” Alyson yelled. “Quick!”
Crompton hesitated, then swung back for the servants’ door. We struggled out into the hall. A clatter of footsteps. A great shout, and Fowler came racing down the main staircase. He thrust me aside, grabbed Heron’s arm, hauled it over his shoulder. “I’ll sort him.”
“You’ll need help – ” Hugh began.
Fowler shouted him down. “I said I’d do it! Get out of my way!”
And he dragged Heron up the stairs, yelling down all the curses of hell upon us.
We stood at the foot of the stairs looking up. “Now I remember why I don’t employ a servant,” Hugh said.
“Heron’ll be safe,” I said. “Which is more than can be said for the rest of us, when the murderer discovers that book is not the one he wanted.”
Damn the conventions; I scratched on Esther’s bedroom door. She had to be warned she was in danger. But it was Catherine who slipped out.
“She’s asleep,” she whispered.
“Then lock the door and put a chair behind it,” I said, “and make sure the pistols are loaded. And she’s not to go out of the house tomorrow. Understand?”
She nodded silently.
“And if anyone tries to get in,” I said, “shout the place down!”
30
Never tell any complicated tale – for if it can be confused, it will be. Within two hours you will not recognise it.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
There was a furore among the ladies at the breakfast table. I helped myself to eggs and ham and bread and listened to their tales. Heron had apparently been ambushed by six men while he was engaged in an amorous encounter with a chambermaid from the local inn. Fowler had evidently been procuring the lady’s services – Heron was of course too well-bred to approach the maid himself – and had fought off the villains with Heron’s sword, Heron being incapacitated by a blow from a duelling pistol.
All this was of course couched in delicate language. The chambermaid was ‘a certain person’, Fowler was ‘Heron’s man’, Heron’s supposed purpose was ‘dalliance’. As the only man in the room – apart from the servants, of course – I was applied to for my supposedly greater knowledge of the affair. I sat down opposite Esther, saw her lips set in a thin line of anger.
“And why should Mr Patterson have knowledge of the affair?” she asked in a voice so tight I hardly recognised it.
“Oh, my dear Mrs Jerdoun,” an elderly lady said in girlish reproach. “Gentlemen are told the truth of these matters – the ladies are always protected from the worst of it.” She cast a significant glance across the table at Lizzie Ord, who was nervously biting into a piece of toast as quietly as she could. “And quite rightly, too.”
Esther looked contemptuous. Lizzie hesitated then said, “But how are we ever to develop strength of mind if we are to be forever protected from anything unpleasant?”
A horrified silence reigned. I waited for Esther to say something in Lizzie’s support but she merely looked, if possible, even more severe.
A lady tittered. “You will be suggesting next that we play our part in such things!”
I glanced at Esther, who had played her part more than once in a desperate situation.
“Oh no,” Lizzie said with serious earnestness. “Quite apart from anything else, men are so much stronger than we are. But I do not think we should ignore such things and pretend they do not exist. And things like politics too – ”
Several ladies started talking at once, disclaiming all interest in such boring topics.
“I don’t think it’s boring,” Lizzie said. “I think Mr Walpole – ”
I intervened hurriedly. Whether Lizzie approved of Mr Walpole or not, she was certain to offend someone. “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I was there.”
There was uproar. All the ladies exclaimed at once. Lizzie said anxiously, “You were not hurt?”
I laughed. “No, just very wet!”
Amid more exclamations, I spun them the tale I’d carefully fabricated overnight. I’d been unable to sleep, I said; I’d gone for a walk in the gardens and met Heron who was pursuing an interest in astronomy. The ladies nodded sagely; this clearly seemed the idiotic sort of hobby a gentleman like Heron would have. We’d strolled down to the canal, I went on, and had been ambushed there by two villains apparently intent on robbery. I’d been pushed into the canal; Heron had gone at them with his sword, and Hugh had run out to help, having seen everything from his bedroom window.
At the end of my tale, the ladies took it into their own possession. Someone remembered the attack on me on the first night of my stay, someone else mentioned poachers. A third had heard of a highwayman. Five minutes later, a new arrival was told I’d been held up by a giant who’d tried to drown me by
holding me underwater and who’d been run through by Heron. Lizzie’s faint protests went unheard.
Esther remained silent, breaking up toast with tiny angry snaps and drinking coffee as if she could hardly bear to swallow. Under cover of the ladies’ chatterings, I said softly: “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” she said. She signalled to a servant who poured her more coffee.
“I thought – ”
“It is none of my business,” she said cuttingly. “Men’s business.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said her next neighbour approvingly. “But – ” in a sudden change of mood, “Seeing it was Heron, my dear – ”
Esther and I both looked at her blankly. She said coyly, “Oh, my dear, you cannot deceive me. I know how you feel about the gentleman. Indeed, when you went off to Newcastle together, I was quite convinced you would come back married.”
“There is nothing between Heron and myself,” Esther said with such vehemence that the lady tittered. Her neighbour on the other side immediately wanted to know what was going on; watching the two ladies put their heads together, I suspected that by the time the tale reached the other side of the table, Esther and Heron would have been married six months.
I went upstairs to enquire after Heron’s health. I scratched on his bedroom door; after a long wait, it was pulled open with some force. Fowler glared at me.
“Oh, it’s you.” He looked as if he was about to deny me entry, then grimaced. “You’d better come in.”
The heavy shutters had been closed over the windows and the room was almost completely in darkness, except for one candle on a table by the unlit fire. A glass of wine and a newspaper also stood on the table; a chair beside it had been pulled back – presumably that was where Fowler had spent the night. The bed curtains were closed and there was no sound from within.
“Has the doctor seen him?”
“I won’t have him,” Fowler snapped. “What will a doctor do but bleed him, and he’s bled enough. He’ll be well enough if he has rest and quiet. No thanks to you.”
