by Roz Southey
“Stranger things have happened,” he said.
“And what was she doing out of doors at this time of night!?”
Bedwalters sent for two labourers and they bore the girl back to Mrs Baker’s lodging house, five or six streets away. Bedwalters went ahead like the chief mourner; I stumbled behind like the drunken village idiot. And somewhere in the dark streets, Philip Ord came running up to us and let out a great gasp of horror that turned into impotent rage. In heaven’s name, had he really felt that strongly about the girl?
At last we reached the door of Mrs Baker’s lodging house; Bedwalters hesitated then rapped the knocker twice, sharply, almost wincing at the loudness of the noise. It did seem disrespectful. Mazzanti himself opened the door, reeking of drink and looking befuddled; Bedwalters was forced to repeat his dreadful news three times. When the message finally sank home, Mazzanti stared down at Julia’s limp body with something akin to desperation. Quite apart from the natural love a father must bear his daughter, the girl had been his sole secure source of income; he was looking at the certainty of poverty.
Finally, he said, “He took her instead of me.”
Bedwalters was confused. “Who would that be, sir?”
Mazzanti gestured helplessly. “There was a woman,” he said, “In London. And some noble lord. I didn’t know…” He put a hand to his face, hiding his eyes. “Patterson will tell you.”
Hurriedly, I outlined the story of the courtesan Mazzanti had laid siege to and the anonymous aristocrat who had taken offence. Bedwalters’s face grew longer with disapproval and set hard. I could not blame him; if it was true, it was hardly a story that rebounded to Mazzanti’s credit. When I had finished, he turned his calm gaze on Mazzanti; in a voice that oozed incredulity, he said, “And you think this lord has killed your daughter in order to warn you off trifling with his mistress?”
Mazzanti burst into tears.
We all stood around, looking at the door, the walls, the ground, in helpless embarrassment.
The clock chiming brought me back to the present, to Mrs Baker’s comfortable drawing room. I heard footsteps on the stairs and glanced out of the half-open door. Philip Ord was hesitating on the bottom step of the stairs, as if he didn’t know whether to leave the house or not. He was wearing drab clothes, fashionable but dull; at some point in the evening he must have lost his wig, and his scalp, freshly shaved that day, gleamed in the fitful light of candles on a small table in the hall. He half-turned, turned back, turned again. With a sudden burst of energy, he took the stairs in bounds of two and three. They creaked loudly. From across the hall came a fresh burst of wailing.
I got up from the too comfortable chair and walked about in front of the empty fireplace. My back still ached, but the first sharpness of the pain had gone. All this noise – Mazzanti’s shouts, his wife’s wailing, Ord’s rants: it was as if I was still at the theatre, listening to the comedians strut their parts. When my own mother died, I was twelve years old; I did not speak to a soul for a week. That was uncomprehending grief – not this weeping and wailing fit to wake the whole street.
A knock at the street door. In the flurry of disbelief, no one had thought to take the knocker off the door or to mute it. A scurry of footsteps in the hall, a murmur of conversation. Then Mrs Baker’s little maid, no more than fourteen years old, appeared in the doorway with a scared little bob.
“Mr Heron, sir.”
She fled. Claudius Heron shut the door and came across to the fireplace where I stood. He knew what had happened, that was certain, for he was dressed in respectful dark colours.
“Mrs Baker sent for me,” he said without preamble. “Signora Mazzanti is apparently uncontrollable with grief; Mrs Baker thought I might have enough influence to calm her.”
We listened to the wailing, still loud even through a closed door. “Foreigners,” Heron said, without heat, “tend to indulge their emotions.”
The mantelpiece clock chimed two in the morning as I explained to Heron what had happened. He was not as credulous as Bedwalters or perhaps knew me better, for he had the true story of the ruffians out of me, with a few deft questions.
As we talked, we heard the sound of John Mazzanti and Philip Ord, shouting at each other upstairs.
“Is the girl’s body up there?” Heron asked.
I nodded. “Gale the barber surgeon has been sent for to examine it but the merest onlooker could see what was done to her. Raped and strangled.”
“And they are arguing over whose fault it was, no doubt.”
The door of the drawing room opened and Bedwalters came in, looking wearier than ever. The shouting from upstairs did not cease. He was plainly disconcerted to see Heron.
“This idea of Mazzanti’s,” I said, “that some lord in London must have had Julia killed as punishment for her father flirting with his mistress – it’s preposterous.”
“Indeed,” Bedwalters said.
“But the shootings are real enough. I was there when the last shot was fired and Mr Heron knows someone who saw the incident in York.”
Heron nodded.
“He’s justifying his neglect of her,” I said. “If he hadn’t been drunk, if he’d kept a better watch on her, she wouldn’t have got out of the house.” I remembered how the stairs creaked; had Mazzanti been too drunk to hear that?
Bedwalters lowered himself wearily into a chair. “This fellow you saw bending over the body, Mr Patterson. Did you recognise him?”
I shook my head. “Much too dark.”
“Could it have been the Italian fellow?”
“Corelli?” I said, startled. “No, not in the least – he is a much bigger man.”
“The attacks on Mazzanti himself, the burglary, and the death of the girl would suggest a feud against the family,” Heron pointed out. “And who more likely to be the perpetrator than another Italian?”
“Corelli could not have killed the girl,” I said. “He was with me all evening.” But then I stopped because there had been a little while between our parting at Mrs Hill’s and Corelli’s rescuing me. But surely that had been not long enough for Corelli to rape and murder Julia? And how could he possibly have known the girl would be out of doors and an easy target?
“I automatically suspect someone with so obviously an invented name,” Heron said.
Bedwalters shook his head, eased his shoulders against the back of the chair. “It is an invented name, certainly, but for a reason.”
“You know him?” Heron asked sharply.
“He came to me yesterday,” Bedwalters said. “He is a government agent. Looking for spies.”
I stared at him incredulously. But why not? Newcastle is a port, regiments are stationed at Tynemouth and the political situation in the Indies is perilous –
“But why invent an Italian name?” I demanded. “The fellow could pass for English – he speaks without an accent, perfectly fluently. If he had an English name no one would notice him. But to draw attention to himself with a foreign name!”
“He thinks Mazzanti is a spy,” Bedwalters said.
To me this was perfectly ridiculous. To Heron and Bedwalters, apparently, it was at least possible. They discussed political implications at length. I listened and posed questions that were never answered. Bedwalters had evidently seen Corelli’s papers and had no doubt as to their authenticity. I wanted to know why, in that case, Corelli had so obviously wanted to get away and refused to fetch Bedwalters. Heron speculated that a musician of some international stature (or married to one) was ideally placed to travel and examine sensitive areas without rousing suspicion. I asked why, if Mazzanti was a spy, his daughter was the victim. And why had Corelli been open about his real purpose with Bedwalters, who was after all a mere constable? How could that have benefited him? But I didn’t voice that last question – it was hardly complimentary to Bedwalters.
I let the two talk, rearranging the ornaments on the mantelshelf. There was, of course, the usual way in which deaths were resolved. In
three days’ time, or thereabouts, Julia Mazzanti’s spirit would disembody and could be questioned about the circumstances of her death. But the victims of violent deaths are often traumatised and confused by the experience and their testimonies are not always reliable; besides, we had found her face down, with a wound to her temple. Had she fallen, been dazed, perhaps knocked unconscious? Had her attacker raped and strangled her while she was unconscious? Julia might have seen or known nothing.
Perhaps her testimony would clear up the mystery but it was unwise to count on it. And any help she could give us was three days away, at least, and meanwhile the murderer could still make another attempt on Mazzanti’s life. Did I care? I wasn’t sure I did. But I cared about Julia – or rather, I cared about the woman I’d seen in the other world. She had had an edge of something extra about her that drew my sympathy. But she had not died; her counterpart – an altogether more unsympathetic person – had.
Damn it, why didn’t I just leave it to Bedwalters?
He was looking at me intently. “I understand,” he said, “that you left Signor Corelli at Mrs Hill’s?”
“Yes – ”
“And the attack did not occur until some time later.”
The sentence hung in the air. I stared at him; he looked back wearily. It was a moment or two before I took in his meaning. I had been wondering all this time if Corelli had had time between our parting and his rescue of me to attack Julia; Bedwalters had turned the matter around and was wondering if between our parting and Corelli’s rescue of me, I had had time to attack the girl.
My God, he suspected me.
12
We shield our daughters from the perils of this life and this is only proper; it is the duty of a good father.
[Instructions to a Son newly come of Age, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
I was abruptly aware how tired I was, how far from sober. I took a deep breath. Bedwalters was obliged to ask questions about the girl’s death – it was natural that he should want to know what I had been doing. But before I could speak, Heron snapped, “Are you accusing Patterson of this foul crime?”
Bedwalters was plainly as weary as I. “I am investigating whether – ”
“It is patently obvious,” Heron said, with a voice like steel, “that it is the work of some ruffian who came across the girl by chance.”
“Like the ruffians chasing Mr Patterson for instance?” Bedwalters suggested. “Do you wish Mr Gale to examine you, sir?”
Lord, now he was suggesting I might be faking my injuries.
I began to think Heron was just making matters worse but he wasn’t finished yet. He was obviously making a great effort to control his temper. “Patterson is hardly likely to have called for your assistance if he had perpetrated the crime!”
“He might have, if he thought the girl’s spirit might accuse him.” Bedwalters might be weary but he was proud of his office and he would not compromise it. And he would not be less than civil, whereas Heron, usually so cool and collected, was showing signs of being heated.
I hurried to defuse the situation. “It’s my opinion Julia will accuse no one,” I said and outlined my theory. “And I think it looks like the villain took the precaution of attacking her from behind in which case she will have known nothing. Why was she out so late? Do you know?”
Bedwalters hesitated; Heron turned away, poured himself wine and downed the glassful in one gulp. “She was eloping,” Bedwalters said.
We stared at him.
“With whom?” Heron demanded.
Bedwalters shook his head. “We do not know.” He reached into a pocket and unfolded a note, looked at it for a moment then held it out to me. I took the note to the single branch of candles on the sideboard; Heron looked over my shoulder.
Dearest father [the note read] Love cannot be denied. I am flying to my love despite your refusal to entertain his proposals. Your ever loving daughter, Julia.
Heron snorted in derision. “Dramatic twaddle.”
“It is somewhat melodramatic,” Bedwalters agreed. “It is not a quote from a play, Mr Patterson?”
“Not that I know of. But Keregan would be a better man to ask.” The wording of the note made me uneasy. Dearest father? And your ever loving daughter. What odd phrases to use in such a note – I would have expected something a little more defiant. And was the word proposals significant? Did she mean a formal request for her hand in marriage?
“You think the writer of this note might have killed her?” Heron asked.
“He would have had no need to do anything of the sort,” I said. “She was ‘flying’ to him – he could have borne her off and taken advantage of her somewhere warm and comfortable.”
“Unless she changed her mind,” Bedwalters pointed out. “He might have tried to force her to go with him.”
“But to rape her in the street? What kind of man tries that?”
“A fool,” Heron said. “I presume there is a chance some spirit overheard the whole?”
“Alas, no,” Bedwalters said. “There is a chambermaid in this house who died in the attics; I asked her spirit to enquire for me. No spirit apparently heard or saw anything. He may have forced her into an unspirited alley.”
I turned the note over. The paper was worn and dog-eared; the folds had dirt in them and had plainly been made some time before. On the reverse side, the word Papa had been written with a great flourish; below, something had been crossed out vigorously. I angled the note to better catch the light. It was a date. After a struggle, I made it out: 26 March 1736.
I stared in disbelief. “It is an old note.” I showed Bedwalters the date.
“She had tried the trick before,” Heron said contemptuously.
Bedwalters looked tried almost beyond endurance. “If she had,” he said, “the note would have been in the hands of her father.”
“Maybe it was,” Heron said dryly.
“You’re suggesting Mazzanti left it out?” I said, incredulously. “To persuade us that Julia was eloping? But why?”
Heron laughed shortly. “Perhaps he killed her himself.”
Bedwalters and I exchanged glances. This was just Heron’s innate cynicism talking, but nevertheless it was undoubtedly true that the note was puzzling.
“Perhaps she intended to elope in London but was prevented,” I suggested. I recalled that Ord had been in London in March. “She kept the note and used it here for the first time.”
“Intending to elope with the same man both times?” Heron asked sceptically.
“It’s too much to believe surely that she had plans to elope with two different men?”
Bedwalters nodded. “If it’s the case that her inamorato murdered her, then at least we have narrowed down the possibilities. The man must have been in London in March and here now.”
This of course eliminated me, I thought with some relief, but I could not avoid saying again, with some reluctance, that it was unlikely her lover would have needed to attack her in the street. Heron said nothing; Bedwalters merely stood silent for a moment then turned back to the door. “I believe I need to talk further to Mr Mazzanti.”
We followed, of course.
The house was small; upstairs were only three rooms and the stairs to the attic. Philip Ord and John Mazzanti were trading insults at the foot of the attic stairs; on either side the doors to the rooms were firmly shut. Ord was accusing Mazzanti of exploiting Julia without regard for her welfare, Mazzanti was accusing Ord of trying to seduce his daughter. I thought both accusations were probably true.
Bedwalters said, in a quiet voice, “Gentlemen.”
Both men looked round; Ord glowered at me, sneered at Bedwalters, then flushed when he saw Heron’s cool gaze.
“I believe you have no more business here, Mr Ord,” Bedwalters said implacably. “Mr Heron will let you out of the house – he is going down to comfort Mrs Mazzanti.”
It was a masterly stroke, getting rid of both gentlemen at onc
e. For a moment, I thought neither would co-operate; Ord was red with fury, Heron tight-jawed. But the laws of civilised behaviour, inculcated in us all, and in particular the gentry, since birth, won; Heron drew back to usher Ord ahead of him, which was strictly impolite, as Heron was the older, wealthier and better-connected, but it established at once who was the master. Ord clattered off in a great rush and could be heard furiously tugging at the bolts of the door.
Bedwalters apparently had no intention of requiring me to go, which I took as a compliment, and as a tacit admission that his question to me earlier had been a matter of form. He regarded Mazzanti steadfastly, the note in his hand. “Where did you find this?”
Mazzanti looked half-drunk, half-dazed. “On her bed,” he said thickly. “I told you.”
“When?” I said.
“When we laid her body there.” He might be half-dazed but he was still capable of guile. “The labourers were there,” he said. “They saw it.”
“When did you put it there?” I asked.
He swung a fist at me. I was half-expecting it and ducked, but stumbled against the wall. The muscles in my back groaned in pain.
Bedwalters took hold of Mazzanti’s flailing arm. “If you would leave this to me, Mr Patterson. You have seen the note before, I believe, Mr Mazzanti.”
Now Mazzanti looked more confused than ever. “Before?”
Bedwalters showed him the crossed-out date. “She eloped once before in March – in London, I presume.”
“No.” Mazzanti put a hand to his head. “No.” He swayed. “Never. She was a dutiful daughter.” He drew himself upright with some difficulty. “She would never run away. I was going to make her the best actress in London. The richest.”
He started to weep, a thin keening sound; he stood at the foot of the stairs, his face contorted, a thin mewling sound drifting from his half-open mouth. A single tear trickled down his cheek. Bedwalters reddened with embarrassment; I hovered, without the slightest idea of what to do.
“Come downstairs, sir,” Bedwalters said at last, and, hand on Mazzanti’s arm, helped him down the stairs to the hall. I limped behind, stumbling on one of the stairs, which creaked alarmingly. Mazzanti was still weeping. Our descent was noisy and brought Heron out of the drawing-room. Through the half-open door behind him, I could hear the women conversing, Mrs Baker in soothing murmurs, Signora Mazzanti in broken, helpless phrases. I had a brief glimpse of the Signora, holding a crumpled handkerchief; she seemed no longer to be sobbing. Heron’s presence had apparently had a calming effect.
