Secret Lament

by Roz Southey

  Mazzanti shook off Bedwalters’s grip and, only a little unsteadily, made his way past Heron, into the drawing room. “Do not fear, my dear,” we heard him say. “We will not be penniless. I will find someone else to take Julia’s place.”

  He closed the door, very pointedly.

  Heron broke the silence. “She is not a woman of business,” he said. “I have recommended lawyer Armstrong to her if she and her husband require assistance.”

  I have become accustomed to hearing what Heron did not say; the Signora, he implied, was one of those women who sink thankfully into the metaphorical arms of a capable man; I suspected she had hinted that Heron might like to fill the part and he had recommended another. Thank God Esther was not of that kind.

  “There is little more I can do here, I fancy,” Bedwalters said. “It looks very much as if the girl was eloping and was attacked by a chance passer by. She had a little money and jewellery on her person and that was untouched, so robbery could not have been the motive. Whoever attacked was a villain of the worst kind. I will put the hue and cry in Thomas Saint’s paper on Saturday and I will attempt to find the man with whom she intended to elope.”

  He cast a glance at me. “Could it have been one of the theatre company, do you think, Mr Patterson?”

  Dear God. Ned.

  13

  Never be surprised at the unexpected vagaries of your acquaintances; it is not polite.

  [Instructions to a Son newly come of Age, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]

  Nobody is more suspicious than a man hovering on a doorstep at three in the morning, shivering in the unexpected chill of a cloudless June night. Behind me, I could hear the murmur of Mazzanti’s voice in the drawing room and Mrs Baker’s sharp protests. Bedwalters had just gone, striding off towards his house on Westgate Road; Heron’s carriage had been waiting for him, the coachman walking the horses up and down the street. He had driven off without a word to either of us.

  My own lodgings were not far away but I still lingered, going over in my mind the route Julia would have had to take to get from this house to Amen Corner. Not an easy one and she was a near stranger to the town too, with only two weeks’ acquaintance with it. And I warrant she would not have walked very far during her stay. Why had she gone to Amen Corner? Had she been attacked there or elsewhere? If elsewhere, why should her body have been taken to Amen Corner? And Amen Corner, as it turned out, had very few spirits in it; a three-year-old girl is no danger as a witness.

  Bright stars flickered over my head, the Great Bear swung slowly round the pole star, the full moon rode high down the street, making it almost light as day but washed of all its colour.

  Had Ned killed Julia? I did not doubt that he was capable of it – I had seen him in huge tight-lipped rages. But he had apparently wanted to marry the girl – why should he kill her? Had she spurned him?

  A lazy voice spoke above my head. Mrs Baker had relit the extinguished lantern on our arrival to light the way for the barber surgeon, and a spirit lodged on the hook from which the lantern hung.

  “Busy tonight,” the spirit said. A young man in life by the sound of him, and, I’d warrant, dissolute.

  “I didn’t know Mrs Baker’s house had a spirit,” I said.

  “Chambermaid,” he said. “Keeps herself in the attics. I’m next door.” I looked closely and saw the hook was indeed hammered into the neighbouring house’s masonry.

  “Pity,” he added. “She was just the kind of girl I like.”

  “The chambermaid?”

  “Nah,” he said. “The other one. Yellow curls, yellow ribbons. Kept her head down but gave you a sly glance out of the corner of her eye.”

  Those ribbons again. And something started to nag at me; I had seen something without properly noticing it…

  “You saw her come out of the house last night?”

  “Midnight,” he agreed, sliding down the lantern hook to hang on its lowest curlicue. Moonlight gives the gleam of spirits an odd greenish tinge. “The bewitching hour. She was certainly one to bewitch a man.”

  I did not disagree. “How did she leave the house?”

  Now he was surprised. “By the door, sir. How else?”

  Perhaps I had been infected by the melodrama we acted out at the theatre. I’d been imagining she’d climbed down a ladder into the arms of her lover – wasn’t that the traditional method for elopements?

  “She was alone?”

  The spirit chuckled. “Except for my good self.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “A word or two, sir. She was not in a good mood but I restored her humour with a compliment or two. She was – ahem – waiting for someone.”

  “Her lover?”

  “So she said.”

  “But he didn’t arrive?”

  “Never a sign of anyone,” he said. “She sighed, and she walked about, and she sighed some more, then she muttered, then she cursed. The entire history of a love affair in ten minutes, sir. Then she stalked off to the corner and was gone. Never saw her again till you brought her back dead.”

  “Did you see which way she turned at the corner?”

  “Right. Certainly right, my dear fellow.”

  Right? But to get to Amen Corner she would have had to turn left.

  “Are you going, sir?” the spirit asked with sudden querulousness. “I have told you everything and you have not reciprocated. I am annoyed, sir, annoyed.”

  Never offend a spirit; they can do you too much harm. I turned back to him. “If you like a good tale – ”

  “I do. I do.”

  “Then I promise to come back and tell you one – when I know it myself. In the meantime, I would be much obliged if you could ask your fellow spirits if they can trace the lady’s movements last night.”

  “Umm…” Heavens, but he was lazy; he sounded as if pondering if he had energy enough to stir from the lamp hook. Then: “It’s a deal, sir. Anything to beguile an hour or two. God, but it’s dull being dead!”

  The streets at night are unnervingly quiet and the sounds of carousal that come from every tavern on every corner only make the silence in the streets more complete. Lights are few and far between, even in those streets where householders are conscientious and put out their lanterns; in any case, in the early hours of the morning, many are guttering and dying. As I turned from street into street, the sense of being watched, of having a gaze steady upon my back, was almost tangible. I told myself that the ruffians would be out housebreaking or lying dead drunk in some house but could not quite convince myself.

  There was something I had to do before going home, something that made me brave the streets longer than I had to. I was going after Corelli. The hard-hearted villain who would leave a young girl lying dead in the street rather than get involved, who sought out the constable in the afternoon with some wild story of spies, but who ran off rather than face him in the evening. I knew what that meant. Corelli was a trickster with some sort of knavery in hand, involving money, no doubt; my only surprise was that Bedwalters had been taken in by his tricks.

  And the knavery must involve Mazzanti; two Italians in town at the same time was too much of a coincidence. The Mazzantis flaunted themselves as if they had plenty of money and that was what villains like Corelli wanted. Was he simply planning to rob Mazzanti? Or was he involved with the shootings? Suppose Corelli threatened to kill Mazzanti unless he was given money and the shootings were warnings that he meant business? Or was there something more complicated going on? Could there be an accomplice involved?

  I warmed to this latter idea. The unknown accomplice was part of a plot to kidnap Julia and hold her to ransom. A wild idea perhaps but I’d heard of that sort of thing happening in London. The accomplice had enticed Julia out of the house, perhaps by courting her, but something had happened; she had resisted perhaps, and he had accidentally killed her. That would account for Corelli’s horror on seeing the body – he had anticipated she would be sa
fe and sound in some hideaway; after all, a dead body is difficult to bargain with.

  No, no, none of this would work. Strangling was not an accidental way of killing. And the accomplice, if there was one, had not kept his appointment – Julia had had to go in search of him. Had her death been the result of a chance encounter after all?

  One thing was for certain, Corelli’s behaviour was suspicious and I wanted to talk to him. Even more importantly, he was the only person who could confirm that what I said about discovering Julia’s body was true.

  Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket was still open – only in the middle of the morning would it be quiet. I ducked in through the low door and found a cluster of butchers, still in bloodstained aprons, shouting drunkenly over a game of nine men’s morris. A youth of no more than twelve years old was drooling over a beer, and one of the serving girls looked inclined to encourage him. Mrs Hill herself, as fresh as morning dew, was chuckling over a conversation with a friendly spirit; I knew that spirit – never short of a good joke.

  The lady turned a smile on me. “Out late, Mr Patterson?” Mrs Hill was fifty at least but she wore well, one of those women whom maturity only improves. “Your usual beer?”

  Landladies, as well as spirits, should never be offended. Tiredness was beginning to make me feel heavy and weary but I made an effort to stifle my yawns. “Looking for one of your lodgers, Mrs Hill. The Italian gentleman.”

  She raised a knowing eyebrow at me. “Now there’s one who’ll never have trouble with the ladies. But he’s gone, Mr Patterson, paid up and left.”

  Damn, I should have guessed it.

  “When?”

  “An hour or two back. Said he was off to Shields for a boat. Had to catch the tide. He left you a note though. Mary!” She raised her voice. “Where’s the note for Mr Patterson?”

  The serving girl tore herself away from the leering youth with a scowl, and hunted through the rags and dirty tankards that surrounded her. Eventually, the note was found, stained with circles of beer and stinking of ale. A single sheet of paper of the cheapest kind, folded and sealed with a blob of red wax. Corelli had evidently been in a hurry and had inadvertently used too much wax so that little blobs clung to the paper all over. The ring, or whatever Corelli used as a seal, was engraved with a large ostentatious musical note – a quaver with a flying tail.

  I broke open the seal. Inside were scrawled six hurried words in a watery ink that was already fading.

  Don’t trust him, Corelli had scrawled. He’s a devil.

  Him? Damn it – who!?

  14

  Friday we went to the theatre and had moderate entertainment. One actress was tolerable-looking; the others were nothing.

  [Letter from Sir John Hubert to his brother-in-law on visiting Newcastle, May 1732]

  A bright light was slanting across the bedclothes – the June sun shining in through a gap in the curtains. The room was as stifling as it had been when I stumbled in at around four o’clock this morning. Downstairs, I could hear the tramp of miners leaving for work and my spirit landlady’s querulous complaints about dirt. I lay staring at the ceiling in blank incomprehension. It was early morning, I had slept very little and I had a huge hangover. And…

  And Julia Mazzanti was dead.

  I dragged myself upright. The movement set my stomach roiling. Julia Mazzanti had been raped and strangled and I had found the body. No, Corelli and I had found the body, and now he had left the town. That made him chief suspect in my eyes.

  There was no point in lingering in bed; I knew I would not sleep again. I threw back the blankets and waited for the room to settle. A white rectangle lay on the floor; I bent to pick it up and the room reeled around me. Damn all hangovers. Why had I drunk so much?

  The note was the one I had found at Mrs Hill’s; I must have dropped it as I crawled into bed. He’s a devil. Did he mean the murderer? I remembered the look of shock on Corelli’s face when we found Julia. It had been a surprise certainly. Surprise that she was dead? Or just that the body was not where he had expected it to be? And – a worse idea occurred to me – could it all have been part of a plot by Corelli? Had he arranged for me to be there when he found the body? Had I been as credulous as Bedwalters?

  The voice must have spoken two or three times before I registered it. My landlady, Mrs Foxton was outside the door, asking if she could enter. I grabbed for a blanket, for I had stripped before going to bed to try and cool myself.

  When I called entrance, the spirit came creeping in, hanging on one of the door hinges. There was a dullness about Mrs Foxton’s spirit these days, a lack of sharpness, a certain lack of caring; in the old days before the seamstress’s death, for instance, she would never have allowed miners to lodge in her house. Now she grumbled and argued but took them in nevertheless. “Money’s money,” she’d said to me not so long ago in a dull sort of way.

  So I was pleased to detect a note of disapproval in her voice, which reminded me of her old self. I had a clear conscience; I had paid the next quarter’s rent before times, thanks to the money beneath the mattress, and did not fear her annoyance.

  “You have a message, Mr Patterson.” One that had been passed from spirit to spirit across the town, clearly. “From a young person. By name of Catherine.” Mrs Foxton pronounced the name with disdain.

  I sat up, grabbed the blanket as it threatened to slip. We had agreed that if Esther needed to send me a message she could use her maid Catherine as courier to avoid speculation. There must be something wrong.

  “She would like you to call, urgently,” Mrs Foxton said coldly. “And if you don’t mind, Mr Patterson, I would request that in future you avoid implicating me in your affairs.”

  She probably thought Catherine was pregnant. I suspected something much worse than that. Had the burglar tried to gain entry again?

  I pacified Mrs Foxton and she slid out of the room again. I threw on some clothes, splashed my face with cold water and grabbed some music books to suggest a reason for my visit. A church clock was striking six when I tumbled out into the street; the air was already thick with heat and clamped itself around my aching head.

  Six o’clock. No one had a music lesson so early – I would have to hope that no one saw me arrive. But of course all the servants in Caroline Square were up and about, and half of them were on the doorstep shaking out cloths or looking for someone to gossip to; six or seven pairs of eyes followed my progress across to Esther’s door. There was nothing for it but to walk straight up the steps to the door and to tell Tom as loudly as I could that I had come to give Mrs Jerdoun her music lesson. I raised my hand to the knocker –

  The door swung open.

  Alarmed, I walked in – and was assailed by the sharp stink of mildew. A strong aroma of beer too. The sweeping stairs in front of me were chipped and cracked, the varnish on the curving banister scratched. Plaster had fallen from the ceiling and been casually kicked aside into corners; the old elegant wallpaper was curling from the wall, showing black mould underneath.

  I had stepped through into that other world.

  Cursing, I stood still to listen. I could hear voices distantly, and the barking of a dog. God knows, I was fascinated by this intersection of worlds; it was a puzzle and I have always been partial to puzzles. But for this to happen at this moment, when I was worried about what might have happened to Esther!

  The voices were sharp and angry. Two women. A high childish voice – that one I knew belonged to the young seamstress, and was subdued and humble. Then a lower voice, almost contemptuously amused. A grown woman who enjoyed impressing on her social inferiors how low they really were. A woman who was demanding information – I could hear the words ‘want to know’ and ‘tell me’ but beyond that nothing much more. I recognised the voice, however.

  Julia Mazzanti.

  A dead woman talking. The thought sent shivers through me in this cold house. I had to remind myself that I was not in my own world any longer; there, Julia Mazzanti lay dead
. Here…

  Here, a door opened, and Julia paused in the open gap, caught by surprise when she saw me. In her hands was a folded package wrapped in tissue; behind her, the young girl was curtseying with pathetic gratitude.

  “Mr Patterson,” Julia said, coyly. She waved a hand to dismiss the girl and the child obediently shut the door behind her. Julia strolled forward. “Have you come to see Flora too?”

  I reddened. There was no mistaking what she meant by that. Her gaze was fixed steadily, mockingly, on my face. The Julia in my world had been demure, all cast-down eyes and coy, darting glances; this Julia was taunting and direct, her mocking gaze meeting mine as equals. It was that kind of directness of gaze that attracted me to Esther. But there was something else there too, a kind of contempt.

  “Or her father?” Now there was something else; I saw a tension in her, a watchfulness.

  “Flora’s father.” Dear God, yes, yes, Flora had said he was a musician. “Yes, indeed. Have you seen him?”

  Her gaze flickered over the music books I held, which I suppose gave credence to my story.

  “Not for several days,” she said. Her manner was strained; I frowned and she smiled sweetly on me. “I believe he has gone out of town. But I do not keep watch over every poor musician in Newcastle.” She reached out a daring hand and drew a caressing finger across my shoulder. “Only the rich ones… ”

  One of the less welcome aspects of this world is the knowledge that my counterpart is a wealthy man, far more successful than I. I reflected wryly that this Julia at least was plainly not an inexperienced girl; no innocent could have infused her voice with just that perfect edge of invitation – sufficient to make her meaning clear, yet not sufficient to make a withdrawal, if spurned, embarrassing for either party.