Secret Lament

by Roz Southey

  “Why do you wear such shabby clothes?” she murmured and lifted a contemplative gaze from my coat. The sharp intelligence in her eyes was alarming. “It’s almost as if – ”

  “Yes?”

  Now she was frowning in puzzlement. “Sometimes, Mr Patterson, I think you are quite a different man altogether.”

  “I – I can’t imagine – ”

  “I like this version better,” she said meditatively. “The other you is all politeness and genteel manners and ‘don’t you worry your head, my dear’. As if I was still a child. Do you think I am a child, Mr Patterson?”

  She was talking as if I was quite a different person from my counterpart. Surely she could not suspect the truth?

  “Not in the least,” I said, my mouth dry.

  “Then why do you sometimes treat me as if I am?”

  I foundered. “Nothing but the good manners a gentleman is taught to show to a lady.”

  She laughed softly. “A lady, Mr Patterson? Not in the least. I am nothing but a singer and an actress, and you know what society thinks of such creatures.”

  It thinks that they are prostitutes; all too often young women who wish to pursue a singing career can only get apprenticeships by being ‘friendly’ to their teachers. First society offers only one course of action, then it condemns.

  “But we are flesh and blood,” she said. I almost imagined I saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “We hurt when we are insulted. We fear when we are forced against our will.” She must have caught my frown. “Oh yes, Mr Patterson,” she said with a nod. “Yes, that is what I mean. And the most unexpected of men too. Can you blame me for having a low opinion of your sex?”

  I could not stand for that. In that mildewed, sour-smelling hall, I went as far as I could and said, “We are not all cut of the same cloth.”

  She stood, head on one side, contemplating me. “Indeed.”

  “I am a musician myself. A mere tradesman. I have suffered some small indignities.” But how, I thought, reddening, could those compare with what she had suffered?

  The door opened behind her. The young girl, Flora, came out of the room, with her basket over her arm and a shawl thrown about her shoulders. Julia Mazzanti cast a quick look back at her, then leant towards me. Her whole body, her smile, her knowing look suggested flirtation. What she said, however, was a desperately urgent: “I must talk with you. Please. Tonight, midnight, outside Mrs Baker’s house.”

  “But…” I saw the girl looking at us. Was that contempt in her expression? I said lightly, “People will think we’re eloping!”

  Now she raised her voice so the girl could hear. “Elope? Me? Now, Mr Patterson, you know I am a respectable young woman.”

  And she swept past the girl with head held high and a smile of wicked mischief.

  The girl stared after her with a private little smile of contempt. Even the poorest members of society can find reasons to despise their social superiors; all too often, I reflected wryly, they are given just cause. “Do you want to see Papa again, sir? He is not back yet.”

  I had no wish to see her papa, whoever he was, but I did not wish to rouse too much suspicion so I entered into the conversation dutifully. “Do you know when he will be back?”

  “No,” she said bluntly. This time I was certain I saw tears; she bit her lip. A child in distress, plainly, not knowing what to do – could it be that the father had abandoned her? I started towards her but she gasped and fled into the street.

  I stood irresolute in the hall, at the foot of the battered stairs. In truth, I did not know what to do. On previous occasions, the chill and the darkness had briefly taken hold of me and transported me back to my own world. But on this occasion, they did not. I merely stood, waiting for something to happen.

  It did not.

  I walked about a few steps, wondering if there was a spot I must stand on for the stepping through to take place, as if there was an invisible door in the air which I must find. Then I stood still and closed my eyes and tried to conjure up the cold and the darkness. No, that did not work, either.

  Was I to be stuck here for ever?

  In growing desperation, I tried again, several more times. I walked to the door, opened it, stared out into the drizzle-dampened street that in my own world was replaced by Caroline Square. It obdurately remained a street. I closed the door, went to the door of the girl’s room, came back to the foot of the stairs. I willed something to happen.

  It did not.

  Cursing, I threw open the street door again and went down the steps to the cobbles. And shivered and foundered in darkness, and found myself staring out into Caroline Square, bathed in early morning light, and hearing Tom saying urgently behind me.

  “Mr Patterson – thank God you’ve come!”

  15

  Sir, only a few days since, an innocent young girl was sadly killed in the street by ruffians of the lowest kind. It is time to clear the streets of all such dangers…

  [Letter from AB to Newcastle Courant 15 June 1736]

  I knew the worst the moment I turned to face him. A huge purple bruise disfigured Tom’s temple on the left side, the eye was swollen and almost closed. He was so agitated that he had come to the door in shirt sleeves and breeches, a breach of correctness which would normally have horrified him. In the house I could hear the clatter of pans, the calling of women. And Esther’s voice, unusually sharp.

  I pushed past Tom into the house.

  “He came back!” he said, following me breathlessly. His voice had more than a trace of glee. “But we saw him off!”

  Catherine was just leaving the drawing room, ushering a flustered chambermaid before her. She looked relieved to see me, but said warningly, “She won’t be cosseted.”

  “She was magnificent!” Tom said.

  I flung open the door of the drawing room. The curtains were still half drawn and for a moment I had difficulty in seeing Esther. She was sitting on one of the delicate fashionable chairs, a glass of wine between her fingers although she was not drinking. She had set her head back against the chair and had closed her eyes.

  She must have thought me one of the servants back again for she said without moving, “I told you to let me be!”

  “What the devil is going on!?”

  Her eyes snapped open. She started up and was in my embrace before I was halfway across the room.

  Behind me, I heard the door click closed and Catherine’s voice in the hall, ushering the servants away. The drawing room was perfectly quiet except for the sounds of our breathing – Esther’s slow and steady, mine coming far too unevenly for decorum. She was warm and fragrant against me; her pale hair drifted against my cheek, her head was heavy against my shoulder. And she sighed with deep contentment.

  Dear God, what folly was this? I eased her away from me and lifted her face. A bruise lined her jaw on the right, an ugly line of purple. It looked like the result of a punch.

  “I wasn’t quick enough on my feet,” she said ruefully. “My night robe tangled around my legs and I half-tripped. He lashed out wildly and caught me on the chin. I wished I’d thought to put on my breeches – much more convenient in such a rough and tumble.”

  I made her sit down and sip her wine, resisting as well as I could the temptation to hold her hand. “Tell me from the beginning.”

  “The spirit woke me,” Esther said, with a weary sigh. “George. He had heard someone in the garden. So I told Catherine to wake Tom, and I came down myself to see what was going on. I had my duelling pistols,” she added ruefully, “but such things are to no purpose if you are not prepared to use them. And I’m afraid I baulked at shooting him, Charles.”

  “I would have shot him,” I said, tartly.

  She smiled. “In the dark? Knowing that at least two servants are up and about? In any case, I never got the chance of a clear shot. By the time I got down to the scullery he was outside the back door trying to pick the lock. Tom hopped out of the kitchen window, I flung open the back door and
we both grabbed for him.” She sipped the wine. “It was so dark neither of us could see a thing! The fellow was swinging his arms wildly. I tangled myself in my night robe and one of his fists hit me on the chin. Poor Tom took a couple of blows too.”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  Esther was clearly beginning to see the amusing side of the affair. “I cried out, Tom screamed for the watch, Catherine shouted to Cook to go for the surgeon and Cook fainted! In the meantime, of course, the burglar got away! Really, Charles, you would have enjoyed the scene enormously. Better than any ballad opera. I was tempted to burst out singing!”

  I breathed a hidden sigh of relief. In truth, I had known her injuries to be slight, and Esther was more than capable of looking after herself, but my instinct was still to worry. If the burglar had been armed, he might not have been so reluctant to fire, and I could have arrived to find Esther dead or dying.

  The horror of the idea made me shake. I gathered my wits, said, “What time was this?”

  She considered. “Gone one this morning, I think. Charles – ” She was as expert in reading my expressions as I was in reading hers. “What is the matter? Something else has happened.”

  “The Mazzanti girl,” I said. “She has been raped and murdered.”

  I told her what had happened as best I knew it, omitting only to tell her the full extent of my drinking with Corelli. Esther was silent, out of a kind of respect, I think. The morning sun crept into the room through the half-drawn curtains and touched the back of Esther’s chair, as I relived that half-hour spent in Amen Corner in the near-darkness, with only the girl’s silent huddled body for company.

  At the end of my tale, Esther asked for more wine; I refilled her glass and poured a glass for myself. I pulled back the curtains to let the light flood in, as if that could dispel the horror of the night.

  “What was Julia like?” she asked, curiously. “I never met her, you know, although I encountered her parents at one of Jenison’s dinners a week or so ago.”

  “What did you think of them?”

  She considered. “He was all bombast and self-importance. She was more intelligent, or at least she could converse intelligently on musical matters. But she was – ” She thought carefully. “I think the Signora is afraid of her husband. He was very disparaging about her, and to her face too. Saying things like you always talk nonsense, dear and really, Ciara, why must you be so stupid? I heard that he was very dogmatic on political matters over wine after dinner.” She gave me a wry look. “But we ladies were of course discussing fashion over the teacups at the time.”

  I sympathised though I felt the gentlemen had probably got off lightly. Esther can be very decisive in political discussion too, and makes me greatly ashamed of my ignorance.

  “And their daughter?” she asked.

  “A mere girl. Pretty, demure, respectful.”

  Esther waited.

  I added, “Sly, manipulative and vain.”

  “And as a musician?”

  “She didn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Esther contemplated her wine. She was more at ease now; seemingly distracted from her aches and pains by the tragedy of Julia Mazzanti. “Philip Ord was at the dinner too. He eulogised the girl. A great find, he called her. An enchanting performer.”

  “Philip Ord’s musical tastes are not sophisticated.”

  “Indeed,” Esther agreed mischievously. “He admires Vivaldi.” (She knows Vivaldi is a pet hate of mine.)

  “And I think,” I added unrelentingly, “that a man engaged to be married – or as good as – should not be thinking about actresses!”

  “He is promised to Elizabeth Saint, is he not? The printer’s daughter?”

  “She’s barely sixteen and head over heels in love with him.”

  “And he is a man of near thirty,” she mused. “Fourteen years between them.”

  A little silence fell, for that was only a year or two more than the difference in age between Esther and myself. Only she was the elder, and that made a great deal of difference.

  “So who killed the girl?” Esther said finally.

  “There are two possibilities,” I said, pondering on my wine which glowed ruby in a stray ray of sunshine. “Either it was a random attack – she was unlucky enough to be caught by a passing villain – or the fellow Corelli was the culprit. Although I can’t quite see that he would have had sufficient time. He would have had to seize her in the time it took me to get from Mrs Hill’s to St Nicholas…”

  I stopped. No, it was not possible; there was simply not sufficient time. And it was not possible that Corelli had killed her earlier in the evening – the spirit had seen her leave her lodgings around midnight. (Though of course a spirit cannot give evidence in a court of law.) No, Corelli must be innocent; he had fled for some reason of his own, because he was a trickster and was afraid of being found out.

  So who did that leave? Only Ned.

  “Charles,” Esther put a hand on my arm, and I started. “I asked who Julia was eloping with.”

  “God knows!”

  Esther reached out and tugged the bell for the servants. Her weariness seemed to have completely dissolved; she looked lively and determined. “Let us be systematic. Who would benefit from Julia Mazzanti’s death? Ah, Catherine, pray bring some tea and something to eat for Mr Patterson. A piece of pie or some cold meats. Whatever there is in the kitchen. And some hot chocolate for myself. And make sure Tom takes care of that eye.”

  Catherine went off, grinning.

  “If it was a random attack,” I pointed out, “no one would benefit from Julia’s death – not in the sense you mean.”

  “I don’t believe in chance,” Esther said firmly. “Now, what about the father?”

  “He wouldn’t kill her!” I protested. “She was his only sure source of income.”

  “Her mother killed her from a motive of jealousy?”

  “Julia was raped,” I pointed out.

  “Philip Ord?”

  “Ord! He wanted to bed her – ”

  “She was raped,” Esther pointed out. “Perhaps Ord encountered her in the street eloping with another man, lost his temper and attacked her.”

  “While the other fellow stood by and watched?”

  She considered. “The would-be lover ran off in fear.”

  “A poor fellow to abandon the woman he loved!”

  “Such men do exist,” she said, with unwonted cynicism. “Someone from the theatre then?”

  So we came back to Ned.

  The maid brought the food and drink and we ate and drank in pleasurable near-silence. I thought that I was becoming dangerously at home in Esther’s house, and that I was coming dangerously close to not caring. It occurred to me that if I had succumbed to temptation the previous night, and stayed, as Esther had hinted I should, she might not have been injured.

  “There must be something in this house he wants,” I said aloud.

  Esther apparently had no difficulty in following my train of thought. “The burglar? I should imagine the spoons would be attraction enough to a poor man. But I am not the only householder with silver spoons – why does he so persistently want mine?”

  “He might try again tonight.”

  Esther sipped at her chocolate. “I should imagine so.” She did not look at me.

  I speared a piece of beef on to a chunk of bread. “Particularly if he has realised there is only one man in the household.”

  “I don’t want Tom hurt again,” Esther said severely. “I have ordered him to keep to his bed. And after so disturbed a night, he will of course be very tired.”

  “Perhaps you need someone else to help. A friend… ”

  Dear God, what was I doing?

  It was too late to back out now; I agreed to return in the late evening and left the house in a hurry before I could commit more folly. I did not like the amused look Esther gave me just before I left.

  On the doorstep, I paused. To begin a secret liaison with
Esther – could I do that? Could I pretend indifference in public? Could I keep the secret without fear of inadvertently letting it slip? Could I deny my feelings for her and hide them as if I was ashamed of them, or her? But what else was I doing now?

  I fanned myself with my hand. The sun was already warming the day to the limit of what was comfortable, and it would certainly become hotter in the middle of the day. The theatre would be unbearably stuffy.

  The theatre. The company. There was still a production to be put on; Keregan could not afford to cancel Race Week performances – they would finance the company for the next three months. He would have to replace his leading lady of course; Athalia would have to play the part.

  The servants were still the only people around; the ladies and gentlemen in these genteel squares would not be up and about till nearly lunchtime. Once I was out on Westgate Road, however, I saw more of the tradespeople and working sort about. A chapman tried to get me to buy ribbons – cheap dull things compared with Julia’s gaudy embroidered possessions. How odd the differences between the two worlds, I thought; both Julias had the same ribbons. The ribbons were identical but the Julias were not. And there was something else too – for a moment I was haunted by that sense of something missed, or overlooked. No, I could not think of it. Perhaps I would remember later.

  I trudged through the stifling streets towards the theatre, reviewing the possible culprits. Athalia benefited from Julia’s death but of course could not have raped the girl. To think of gentle Mr Keregan – courteous, contented, happily-married Mr Keregan – as a rapist and killer was preposterous. Richard? No, he had adored the girl in a platonic kind of way; he was starstruck – he would never have considered her carnally. Matthew Proctor? He had been as admiring as Richard but was the least violent man I knew; I didn’t think he could have brought himself to hurt the girl he loved. Philip Ord? Now that was the most ridiculous idea yet! Ord would consider himself perfectly capable of seducing the girl without having to have recourse to violence. And Julia would probably have been willing enough, considering his wealth.