by Roz Southey
There were various other men in the company too of course, the scene shifters, prompter and so on. But I’d never seen one of them show any interest in the girl.
Except Ned.
It was time I talked to him.
16
Only disaster can result when men of the lowest sort get ideas above their station.
[Letter from AB to Newcastle Courant 15 June 1736]
My mind was full of Esther’s burglar as I started down to the theatre. He could not be a petty opportunist thief if he had come back. Did this have anything to do with the attempted burglary at the Mazzanti’s lodgings?
I was wishing that Hugh was back in town, and wondering whether to send him a letter asking him back again, when a man stepped out of an alley in front of me. I was on the lower reaches of Westgate, by St John’s church, and the only grace in the situation was that there were plenty of people about.
We stood stock still, staring at each other. He was not one of the ruffians but a poor labourer, with third or fourth-hand clothes on his back and a shirt that was more holes than material. He was perhaps twenty years old and too tall for his age, so he hesitated, bent over as if about to beg some favour of me.
“Mr Patterson.” His voice was a whisper. If this was a plot to persuade me close to him I was not falling for it; I strained to hear him from where I was. “I’ve a message for you.”
The lower sort like this man would not have been able to write so I did not ask for a note. “Say it then.”
The lad looked as if he was nervous enough to forget the message, certainly anxious that he would do so. “He says that if you want the girl’s killer, he can give you him.”
“He?”
“But he wants you in return.”
“To the devil with that,” I said shortly.
“But if the villain should kill again?” the lad said slyly. “How would you feel then?”
“I’ve got my wits about me,” I said. “I can find the murderer without help.”
Well, that sounded fine enough.
“You don’t understand,” the lad said laboriously. “If you don’t come to him, he’ll come to you. In force, with all his men. If you go to him, it’ll just be him and you.”
Did I believe that? “I’ll think about it,” I said shortly and strode off towards the Side. Damn the ruffians. When I had bested their leader back in March, I had not thought he would be so persistent in his search for revenge. But I would not dance to his tune. And I wasn’t going to believe any of his promises.
I thought I might be too early for the theatre company but many of them were already gathered in the stiflingly hot theatre. Mrs Keregan had thrown on an old dress in her hurry and had food stains on the voluminous shawl that covered it. Athalia was beautifully dressed but looked like a woman who had not slept well; her red hair was loose and tumbling about her shoulders. She came racing across the open theatre and seized hold of my arm.
“Is it true? The spirits have been going on and on, and not telling a sensible story… ”
“I resent that,” said the convivial spirit, swinging low on a cobweb – apparently his favoured lodging place.
“Oh, go away!” Athalia said in a frenzy. “Charlie boy, is it true? The girl’s dead?”
“It’s true.”
Mrs Keregan said, “Heavens!” faintly, and leant back against her husband’s arm.
“Raped and murdered,” I said. There is never any need to be delicate and roundabout in such matters with theatre women.
“Who was the malefactor?” Keregan asked, with real tears in his eyes. “That poor, poor girl.”
“He did the world a service,” Athalia retorted. “Where is he? I want to thank him.”
This was bravado; I could see the fear in her eyes. Perhaps she was thinking that she might have been the victim. “Alas, no one knows his identity.”
They made me sit down and tell them what had happened. In the middle of my recital, young Richard came stumbling into the theatre, still struggling to put on his coat; by the time I had finished, almost all the company had gathered. But none of my surreptitious glances spotted Ned.
There was silence when I had finished; I wanted to ask after Ned but under the circumstances I thought the request might be interpreted in the wrong way – or indeed, the right way. Richard, I noticed, was looking unhappy and would not meet my eye. Was that just natural distress at the death of someone he had admired? But he must have feared Julia too, because she had seemed to be the object of Ned’s affections. Had he taken action to remove her?
Richard a murderer? Never. And I’d lay odds he’d never so much as touched a woman, let alone lain with one.
But hadn’t I seen him around during that drunken indulgence with Corelli? Richard and Ned and some other man in a tavern on the Keyside? Or was it on Silver Street? I’d seen someone else too but I couldn’t quite remember who…
“Well,” Athalia said, at last. “I’d better go and con the lines, hadn’t I?”
Mrs Keregan sat bolt upright. “The play! Dear God, we’ll have to recast the play!”
Keregan stared at her. “Quite right, my dear. Where’s my book? Athalia will have to take Julia’s part of course. Now, what other changes will have to be made?” Kind-hearted or not, he was all business-like theatre manager at heart.
As the group broke up, I managed to accost Richard; he would not look me in the eyes but glanced round and mumbled something about being needed to fetch breakfast. Sweat was running down the line of his jaw.
“Where’s Ned?” I demanded.
“Somewhere – in the back, I think.”
“No, he’s not.”
He cast a quick half-glance at me. “Yes, yes, I forgot. He went out.”
“Where?”
“To – to see a friend.”
“Richard – ” I started warningly. But I was not quick enough; he darted round me and out into the sunny yard. Well, I could hardly have asked outright if he and Ned had been together all night; he would certainly have said no.
Dust motes danced in the sunshine flooding through the door, the shouts of the workmen outside filtered in, muffled and indistinguishable. The spirit swayed lazily on the cobweb above me and murmured appreciatively. “This is the life, eh?”
“The death, certainly,” I agreed.
“Uh-ho,” he said. “Here’s that preachy fellow again.” He chortled. “I had fun yesterday, I can tell you. Frightened the life out of him four or five times – easy prey. Reckon he’d be frightened of his own shadow.”
Turning, I saw Proctor the psalm teacher halfway across the theatre towards me. Red-eyed, dishevelled, distraught. Then his gaze lifted over my head and he stopped dead. The spirit said regretfully, “Too easy, ain’t it? I’ll have pity on the fellow and let him be.” And the spirit slid up the cobweb on to a roof beam and away.
Proctor was in a dreadful state, dark circles round his eyes emphasised by the pallor of his face. He had certainly been crying and looked as if he had never been to bed; he was dressed in the same clothes as the previous day, though that was hardly surprising – I fancied he was not well off.
“It’s true?” he said bleakly. “She’s – she’s – ”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. I quashed the feeling of irritation that I felt – how could he be so feeble? “Yes,” I said. “Julia’s dead.”
He stared at me a moment longer. Then he seemed to crumble.
“I killed her,” he said.
I took him by the arm, turned him about and led him out into the open air. There was a tiny breeze which relieved the worst of the heat. I found a shady corner and sat Proctor down with his back to a stack of newly sawn timbers. I eased myself down beside him; the beaten earth beneath me was hard and dusty but at least we were out of the way here and no one was likely to overhear us.
“I loved her,” Proctor said, tears coursing down his cheeks. “From the moment I saw her.” He was lost in the world of the pa
st; trying to rush him by asking questions would do him no good at all. I kept silent.
“I was in the Golden Fleece, bespeaking stabling for my horse when they arrived in town. I saw the servant hand his mistress down from the coach.”
The Mazzantis had brought no servants with them, according to William Wright; no doubt Proctor meant one of the Fleece’s servants. I did not bother to correct him.
“But I’d already seen her, leaning out of the coach window as they drove into the courtyard. Such golden hair, such delicate skin. Almost angelic and yet – ” He paused for a moment, lost in reverie. “So human. No one could be more beautiful. And when I told her so, so gracious.”
Proctor had evidently gone straight up to Julia, almost before her foot touched the cobbles of the yard, and murmured his adoring compliments. Julia had, he said, gazed on him with kindness and gratitude. Papa had hustled her away.
“I didn’t expect anything else,” Proctor said simply. “I am a poor psalm teacher – she deserves the highest in the land, a duke or prince at least. I could not have imagined she would be so kind as to notice me.”
His voice trailed off again. I left him a moment or two, then felt it necessary to prompt him. “Did you see her again? Outside the theatre?”
“I kept watch over her,” he said. “Night after night, hoping for a glimpse of her, not grieving if I didn’t. It was enough to be outside the house, knowing she was safe.”
It was Proctor I had seen, I realised, sometime last night. In my drunken stupor, I had registered his existence, though I could not recall where. I’d seen Ned too and Richard, and yes, it came back to me, albeit hazily – Ord as well.
“What time was this?” I asked.
He seemed to come back from a distance. “About nine – yes, nine o’clock. But he saw me.”
“John Mazzanti? Her father?”
He nodded. “He threatened me. Told me he’d call the watch if I didn’t move off. He accused me of wanting to harm her.” A low bitter laugh. “As if I could have injured such an angel.”
Alarm bells started to ring in my mind. What an odd thing to say when he had admitted not five minutes ago that he had killed the girl. I rubbed sweat from my cheeks. “You did hurt her,” I pointed out.
He was slow to react. He turned his head against the pile of wood, frowned, looked at me as if I had just said something extraordinarily stupid. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “I did hurt her, as much as if I had twisted the knife myself. I did as her father told me and went home.”
He stared off into the distance again. “If I had stayed,” he said. “If I had kept watch. I could have prevented this. I would have seen him – the murderer – and prevented him.”
I set my head back against the timber and could not help but feel a pang of bitter disappointment. The hope that this matter was almost over before it had begun disappeared. Proctor was racked by guilt, not at what he had done, but at what he had not done. He had not kept his love safe; he had betrayed her by leaving his watch. And if I needed anything more to convince me he was telling the truth, it was his apparent belief that Julia had been stabbed.
“I was afraid,” Proctor said. “Afraid of the consequences to myself, so I ran away. Scared. And left her to die.”
I could not think what to say and the silence lengthened in the hot yard. A sawyer stretched his aching back as he passed and gave us a curious look; a cart rumbled in through the gates. Someone called loudly for small beer.
“When did you talk with Mazzanti?” I asked as gently as I could.
Proctor seemed to come back from a great distance. “About – about ten o’clock. He saw me from the window and came out to me.”
“Did you see Julia herself?”
He stared at me blankly.
“Was she with her father?”
“No. She was in her room. I did see her,” he said reverentially. “When she heard me outside, she came to the window and looked out.”
“But you did not talk?”
“Her father came out,” he repeated.
“And you went off as he told you to.”
He nodded numbly.
“You did not see anyone else hanging around?”
No, of course, he had not. He had probably walked away backwards, straining for a last look at his love.
A silence fell between us. I wiped sweat from my temple. “There’s nothing else you’ve not told me?”
He hesitated, rubbed his fingers together, whispered, “No.”
“Nothing else you saw or heard?”
“No.”
“You don’t know who might have wanted to hurt her?”
He hesitated again. “No,” he said wretchedly. “If only I’d stayed.” Something like a sob escaped him. “If only I could have made her listen to me.”
I sighed. “How did you hear what had happened?”
I had to repeat the questions. He had heard in a tavern. He could not remember which tavern. I could guess how he had spent his night. Drinking, sleeping fitfully on a tavern bench, drinking some more.
“Go back to your lodgings,” I said gently. “Get some sleep.”
“Lodgings,” he muttered. “Yes, my lodgings.”
“Get some sleep,” I repeated. “And some food. You’ll feel better for it.”
I had to help him to his feet and he stumbled away as if drunk, shying away from the friendly spirit at the timber yard gate and almost staggering under the wheels of another cart. I watched him go with wry irritation. So much for an easy solution to the matter.
I was back where I had started. With Ned.
17
We hear that an engagement will soon be announced between Mr P—O and a delightful young lady of this town, known for her sweetness of character and her admirable musical abilities.
[Newcastle Courant 17 April 1736]
Dear Hugh (I scribbled) For God’s sake, I hope you are enjoying Houghton-le-Spring for I am not in the least enjoying this town. The Italian girl has been murdered and no one has the least idea who has done it
Bedwalters said: “May I have a word, Mr Patterson.”
I started and blotted the ink on the paper. Hastily, I turned. Bedwalters was looking at me with calm impassivity, although his face was red with the heat. I had stripped off my coat and had sat down in shirtsleeves to scribble my note. Around me, the members of the theatre company scurried; Athalia was prowling backwards and forwards with a book in her hand, muttering lines.
“A word?” I brought my attention back to Bedwalters. He looked uncomfortable and I fancied it was not entirely owing to the heat.
“I am looking for the Italian gentleman.”
“Mazzanti?”
“No, the gentleman who was with you last night.”
“Corelli?” Hell and damnation. “He was staying at Mrs Hill’s, I believe.”
“She says he paid his bill and went off to Shields for a ship.”
“Indeed?”
“As I believe she told you when you sought him out.”
Bedwalters’s tone was respectful but his eyes were sharp and watchful.
“Yes, she did,” I said. “I had forgotten.”
He waited but I knew better than to elaborate. The longer the explanation the more likely you are to dig a hole for yourself.
“You did not know him before he came to this town?”
“No, I met him the afternoon after Mazzanti was shot.”
“But you went drinking together like old friends.”
Yes, that was odd. Why had I done that? It was all lost in an alcoholic daze.
“I face a difficulty, sir,” Bedwalters started.
I finished for him. “If you can’t talk to Corelli, you can’t be certain my story was – ” I was going to say ‘truthful’ but did not want to put ideas in his head. “Accurate.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Was there anyone else who saw you?”
“Mrs Hill.”
“In the later part of the evening.”
<
br /> Ned, Richard: I could not draw them into the matter – not at least unless I found there was evidence against them. I didn’t know the man who’d been with them. And as for mentioning Ord!
“I can’t remember,” I confessed.
To my surprise, Bedwalters seemed to believe me. He nodded. “If you do recall anything later, sir – ”
“Of course.”
“It could be important.”
“Of course.”
“To yourself, particularly.”
And on that ominous note, he walked away, passing through the dazzling slanting sunlight out into the timber yard. I looked after him, very uneasy indeed.
Across the theatre, Keregan clapped his hands. “We must begin. Quickly, quickly. Mr Patterson, we will rehearse only the dialogue and movement today with the new players. Do not allow me to keep you. If you could return tomorrow?”
I seized my coat, crumpled my half-written note to Hugh into a pocket and made my exit. Behind me, I heard Keregan saying, “Now where is Ned?”
There were half a dozen things I wanted to do: find Ned, question Mazzanti, talk to Philip Ord, talk some sense into Bedwalters. I was too exhausted for all of it, and the overindulgence in ale the previous night was making my head ache. Besides, I needed to be rested if I was going to sit up watching for Esther’s intruder in the coming night. (And I was going to sit up, decorously, in the kitchen or the scullery, as far from Esther’s bedchamber as I could manage.) So I abandoned everything, went home, drew the curtains and, lulled by the raucous shouts of carters outside, went straight off into a deep undreaming sleep.
When I woke, the sunlight slanting in through the gaps in the curtains was low and reddening and the racket in the street was that of children. I washed, dressed and visited my friend on the Side for a shave. As the sun sank down below the roofs and spires of the churches, I walked down to the Cale Cross at the foot of Butcher’s Bank and bought myself a bowl of buttered barley. It was a foolhardy place to be, perhaps, as the day lengthened, for I was not far here from the filthy chares where the ruffians lived. But there were still plenty of people about and I felt safe enough.
