by Roz Southey
Young Mr Wright is one of those gentlemen who never picks up his instrument to practise but nonetheless fancies himself a great expert. The instrument itself, needless to say, is to blame for every fault; it is badly made, the bow-stick is too light or too heavy, the strings will not speak properly, &c., &c. But the prospect of losing our only tenor, no matter how erratic his playing, filled me with alarm.
“How odd,” I said swiftly. “I was only just reflecting how greatly improved you are upon the instrument.”
He turned on me a startled expression and a hopeful one. “You think so? I thought, from the way Monsieur le Sac sighs over me, I was as bad as ever.”
For once, I sympathised with the Swiss. But I merely said, “If I may be so bold as to offer a suggestion?”
“Yes?”
“A small alteration in the position of your hand upon the bow-stick.” I demonstrated what I meant; he copied my instructions, then tried it upon the strings.
“Good heavens! Why, that is much easier!” And he ran off a passage with a great deal more pleasure.
We resumed and went through the remaining pieces with such ease that we finished long before our usual time. The rehearsal broke up in as high spirits as it had started, though in considerably better humour. I was even more pleased to be accosted by Jenison just as I was about to leave, and asked to put in a solo of my own.
“The audience expects some fire, Patterson,” he said. “Play something to take their fancy.”
Something like Le Sac’s vapid, showy pieces, he meant. Over ale in Nellie’s coffee-house, I contemplated what I might play. I could not compete with Le Sac for virtuosity, and in any case I would prefer to play something with more heart. Yet a slow piece, no matter how moving, would not please an audience. Finally, I decided upon a piece I had written some years before – a lightweight piece intended to amuse rather than edify, based upon some popular Scotch tunes. Perhaps, in the audience’s enjoyment of recognising favourite melodies, my lack of virtuosity would go unnoticed.
I drank my ale and contemplated the prospect with pleasure. At least Lady Anne’s petty games had produced an unexpected result in my favour. I must make the most of the opportunity and show the gentlemen there was more than one musician in the town. As for that other matter – well, no doubt there was some perfectly rational explanation. All things are susceptible to explanation, or so the Steward of the Assembly Rooms insists.
I had told George to get himself some small beer and a pastry, and to keep out of my way (for I had no wish for company while I considered my music) but I heard a commotion at the door and he came pushing through the crowd to reach me.
“Have you heard the news, master? About the dancing fellow?”
I was seized with a sudden fear. “Which one? Nichols?”
“The other one, master.” I recognised George’s look, the way he leant upon the table, the way he rushed at his words. The eager gossip. Telling tales that he knows will be unwelcome, and greedy for the effect he hopes to produce. He really was an obnoxious boy. “You know him, don’t you, master?”
Even as Le Sac’s apprentice, he must have seen me about the town with Demsey a dozen times. “Slightly,” I said. “Go on.”
“Caught them red-handed, they did!”
“A full tale, George,” I said. “And now, before I send you back to your father with a letter like Le Sac’s!”
He drew back at my vehemence and hurried on. “There’s another word for it, a French one. Mr Sac used to talk about it. Her mother walked in on them.”
Dear God, what was he suggesting?
“He was giving a lesson.” The stench of George’s breath washed over me. “A private lesson at the lady’s house. And the young lady’s ma walked in. Kissing and cuddling, they were.”
“Rubbish!” I said sharply. “Where was the chaperone?”
“The what, master?”
“The governess! The married sister!” Two or three fellows nearby glanced round curiously at my raised voice. I said more quietly, “No one would leave a young woman alone with any man, let alone one who is personable and unmarried. Where did you hear this?”
“Everyone’s talking about it, master.”
“Damn it, it’s mere gossip!” I did not believe it, could not believe it. If it were true, Hugh was ruined. No parent would allow their daughters to be taught by him.
“No, it’s true, master. Really.”
I sent him off with a flea in his ear and a threat that if he spread the rumour further, I would turn him off straightway. The story was preposterous. Demsey was no scoundrel to take advantage of a girl’s innocence, nor a fool to be trapped into a compromising situation; he had nothing but contempt for the silly girls he taught. Moreover (I had reassured myself greatly by this time), even if the governess had been got rid of on some spurious excuse, even if Hugh had been trapped into some indiscretion, no family would allow the story to become known. The girl’s reputation would be lost for ever.
The obvious explanation occurred to me as I got up to leave. This was Nichols’s revenge for the attack upon him. He had spread these rumours to discredit Demsey. Well, it was none of my business. Demsey had brought this trouble upon himself and he must deal with it. He had made it amply clear it was nothing to do with me.
So I went off to the concert; the gentlemen played with spirit, George acquitted himself well and my solo piece was well-received and much complimented.
“All in all, not a bad night,” said Mr Jenison, handing me my wages and George’s. He felt it necessary to point out that he had rewarded my services that day with an extra payment of two shillings and sixpence. He was, after all, although he did not say so, saving ten shillings on the Swiss’s wages that night. I thanked him but he waved away my gratitude.
“And thank goodness,” he said, “Mr Le Sac will be well for our next concert.”
12
CATCHES AND GLEES
As I entered the Printing Office the following morning I encountered Nichols, counting through some coins as he walked. He sneered when he saw me. “In alt this morning, eh, Patterson? Think a good deal of yourself now, do you? Applauded by all the ladies and gentlemen? Well, enjoy it while you can.”
“Le Sac is on the mend, I take it?”
He looked me up and down. “Compared to him, you’re a nobody.”
“Oh, I quite agree,” I said cordially. “But at least I know my own limitations.” I smiled with meaning. “Some people never recognise their inferiority.”
I was feeling, I admit, very pleased with myself and life. I had woken, late, to hear from Mrs Foxton that a lady had called for me and left her card. The card, on the table at the foot of the stairs, read Mrs Jerdoun in flowing script; underneath, the lady had written in an elegant copperplate: Mrs Jerdoun much enjoyed the Scotch airs last night. I laughed at this reminder of our argument over the value of music.
Then Mrs Foxton had offered me the second-floor room at the end of the week when the present lodger vacated it. It would be a shilling a week extra but was a great deal bigger. So I had come out in a good mood, determined to forget that parting comment of Jenison’s.
Nichols leant closer. “I got Demsey and I will get you, Patterson. Make no mistake about that.”
Suddenly chilled, I caught at his sleeve. “Is that an admission that the accusations against Demsey are untrue?”
He laughed and shook himself free. “Ask the young lady.”
Thomas Saint, the printer, watched him go, shaking his head. “I try to be Christian, Mr Patterson, but there’s a man I can’t abide.”
“An acquired taste,” I said lightly. “Mr Saint, I wish to put an advertisement in your paper.”
He lifted the sheet I gave him to the light, reading it barely an inch from his face.
Proposals for Publishing. That favourite harpsichord piece played lately at the Subscription Concert, the Subject of the Rondeau, the favourite Song of Lewie Gordon.
He stared into the ai
r for a moment while his lips silently performed calculations, then named me the price. “I like a good Scotch tune myself.”
Outside again on the Key, I paused. I had some time before my first lesson of the day and I was tempted to go down to Westgate to see Hugh. Nichols’s certainty of success made me uneasy. Surely he did not have the girl’s co-operation in the matter? While I stood irresolute, I heard the rattle of carriage wheels on the cobbles of the Key and was surprised to hear my name called peremptorily. Turning, I saw Lady Anne framed in the window of a carriage door. As I made my bow, she flung open the door and jumped down. Her servants, I noticed, made no attempt to offer assistance but began to root under the box for a number of parcels.
“I called upon you at your rooms, sir,” Lady Anne said gaily, “and was told you had come this way. My compliments on your performance last evening.”
“You are most kind, my lady.” I bowed once more. “I did not see you in the audience.”
She laughed. “When you sat with your back to us, sir? I am not surprised. Of course I was there – to see the results of my plotting.”
“I fail to understand –”
“Had you not guessed, sir? I sent Monsieur le Sac home in the worst of the rain without offering a carriage.” The breeze drifted a strand of hair across her face. Behind her, the river glittered in the sunshine; her servants carried parcels into the Printing Office. “Did you not know he was susceptible to chills and fevers?”
“He has never confided in me, madam.”
How odd to find myself suddenly indignant on Le Sac’s behalf. Lady Anne had behaved abominably towards him. And for what? Merely her own mischief. She stood as if expecting me to comment further, a vision in a gown of severe cut, burgundy-red touched with white lace; jewellery of gold and diamonds hung about her neck and wrists. She seemed extraordinarily overdressed for a mere ride about town.
I would not let her go unchallenged. “I do not understand, Lady Anne, why you should disadvantage your protégé in my favour.”
She smiled at me impishly. “But you know what we fashionable idlers are like! Always in search of novelties. We are wild for one thing today and tomorrow are looking for some new distraction.” She turned to her servants and instructed them to drive to the coaching inn to send the remaining parcels on to London. “I have an appointment at the Guildhall,” she said. “Walk me there, Mr Patterson.”
No, I refused to be a distraction, or a novelty. Musicians must always be polite and fawning to the gentlemen and ladies who pay their wages, but against this I rebelled. “I have a lesson to give here, madam.”
“Come, you will be only a little late.”
I drew back. “I regret, my lady, but a prior engagement must always take precedence.”
She regarded me coolly and I thought for a moment that my favour with her would be short-lived in the extreme. Well, so be it. But she smiled again and said, “Very well. But come to me for tea again tomorrow. This time I will promise you no surprises.”
Tea? In Caroline Square? But before I could refuse, she walked away.
It was a trying afternoon. I could not get the lady out of my mind. I was irritated by her games and by her arrogant assumption that I would do as she wished and be grateful for it. And the invitation to the house in Caroline Square! I had decided that I would not go there again, but how could I refuse? If I found some excuse to stay away, the lady would merely issue another invitation.
Then, as I was about to go off to another lesson, I discovered that I had left at home some music-books I needed. To go to the lesson without them would be more than inconvenient, for I had intended to introduce a good pupil to a new composer, but to go home for them would make me late. There was nothing for it but to rush back – and I dashed up the stairs to my room, only halting as I came to the last landing and saw Hugh Demsey standing against the railing, looking down at me.
“I have been waiting for you, Patterson.” His voice sounded strained but his face was calm and composed. “I would be grateful for a word; I will not keep you long.”
I performed my sleight of hand with the door wedge. “I am late for a lesson.”
He followed me into the room. The grey daylight was somewhat dim (the houses opposite blocked out much of the brightness) but the room was still clearly untidy. I snatched George’s abandoned blanket from the floor and tossed it upon the bed, then started looking through the volumes on the table for the books I wanted. Demsey did not speak but I was damned if I would prompt him. But as he continued silent I turned, books in hand. He was staring down at the floor and I saw only the top of his black head and the bow in his hair at the nape of his neck.
“So,” I said, irritated by his silence, “you’ve come for my help, have you? You want me to speak for your character, against this accusation dreamt up by Nichols?” I waited but he stood still. “It’s nonsense, man, and everyone will know it. The girl will protest her innocence!”
He lifted his head but still said nothing. Stung further by annoyance, I said, “You have only yourself to blame –”
He said in a low voice, “I came to apologise,” turned upon his heel and walked out.
I sank down upon the bed. I cannot express how poor an opinion I had of myself at that moment. To take out my own frustrations upon him… I leapt up and hurried after him.
As I started down the stairs, I heard the street door slam.
A succession of pupils on Pilgrim Street kept me busy until the evening. In this, the smartest end of town, the rich shopkeepers and tradesmen believe that their sons and daughters will be taught better if their teachers are given a proper sense of their place – that is, if they are kept waiting in a draughty hall for an hour or more. The young ladies and gentlemen have rarely put fingers to harpsichord or violin since their last lesson and can be heard running furiously through the piece (skipping the most difficult passages). A man has plenty of time to sit and contemplate how abominably he has behaved. To abandon a friend in need is unforgivable; I could not imagine that Hugh would abandon me. How could I have allowed my own preoccupations to affect me so?
So I found myself, not long before midnight, climbing down the hill from Northumberland Street towards Westgate and Harris’s old dancing school. I had no expectation of finding Demsey at home – even if I did find him, it was unlikely he would talk to me – but I had a note of apology in my pocket to slip under his door.
The house was quiet as I climbed the stairs to the dancing school. It was that rare thing – an unspirited house. As indeed, now I came to think of it, was Lady Anne’s house. The silence was almost palpable, and made me uneasy. Such loneliness, such emptiness, seemed almost unbearable. How could Demsey tolerate living here, constantly alone? Even the floor above was silent; the widow and her children were clearly not at home.
The door to the school room stood ajar. The lock had been turned but had failed to catch, as if it had been done in a hurry. A stray streak of moonlight laid its finger across the floor and showed dim shadows of chairs lined against the walls. I bent to pick up a curl of orange peel. Something about the room disturbed me; I stood for several minutes before realising what it was. The floor was unpolished. Surely it should have been readied for tomorrow’s lessons?
I climbed to the top floor, almost expecting what I saw. The door to Demsey’s attic room was closed and locked but I knew where the key was kept, prised up a length of broken floorboard and found it. It turned smoothly; I ducked inside the room, nearly banging my head on the low ceiling. A table, an unsteady chair, a bare bed beneath the oddly shaped window in the eaves – nothing else.
Demsey had gone.
13
CONCERTO FOR SOLO VIOLIN
Movement 1
By the time I reached home, I was too low in spirits to be annoyed at seeing Bedwalters the constable and Le Sac outside the door, arguing with Mrs Foxton. Of the neighbours, only Phillips the brewer hung out of his window with a guttering lamp, to advise Bedwalters not to all
ow dead women to interfere with the law.
“Mr Patterson,” said Bedwalters formally, “I must again ask your indulgence but I am investigating a most serious matter.”
“What is it this time?” I asked wearily. “More music disappeared?”
“Mon violon!” Le Sac cried hoarsely.
My heart turned over. I think there are few people in this world who can understand the attachment a musician has towards his instrument. That black violin of Le Sac’s would have been worn to his hold, fitted snugly upon his shoulder. His fingers would instinctively have known their places upon the strings; his ear would recognise its every tone. It would have travelled with him from town to town and country to country, lying on the seat by his side like a companion; its surface would have been polished lovingly by his hand. To lose it would have been like losing a child. I know the fondness I have for my own fiddle, though I am principally by nature a keyboard player. How much more violent then must have been Le Sac’s emotions?
He was shaking and red-faced; by the light of Phillips’s wavering lamp, I could see sweat dripping down his round cheek. Even from this distance, I could feel the heat burning from him. “You have it stolen,” he croaked. “You want I should leave this town. I will leave – only give me back my violon.”
I knew it was not a bargain he would keep, even if I had been in a position to agree to it. Once he had the violin in his hands again, he would refuse to go. And, oh God, why had I not thought of it before – the violin was gone and Demsey was gone. Had he stolen it, in some obscure plan to punish Nichols by attacking his friend? Or did he intend to trap Nichols as Nichols had trapped him with the young lady? Would the thing be found hidden in Nichols’s lodgings? No, surely not. It made no sense. But my tired, befuddled mind was beyond making sense of anything.
Bedwalters was regarding me mildly. “I regret to have to ask you this again, sir, but it would be most amiable of you to agree that your rooms be searched.”
