by Roz Southey
“I cannot agree!” snapped Mrs Foxton.
“See – he has it!” Le Sac cried and fell at once into a fit of coughing so loud we had to wait until the fit died away before we could hear each other speak.
I was too weary to argue. “Come up, then,” I said. “Have your search and be gone. I need to be up early tomorrow.”
We climbed the stairs, Le Sac panting and wheezing like an old man. By the time we reached my room, he was a flight behind us and Bedwalters stood at the banister with a candle to light his way. I rapped upon the door and a sleepy voice said, “Master, is that you?”
“Yes. Let us in.”
I heard the soft pad of footsteps and the click of the wedge being removed from the inside of the door. The room was in darkness and little of Bedwalters’s light from the landing seeped in. I felt my way across to the table. It took me three attempts to make a spark from the tinder-box but when the candles were alight, they showed me George, seated upon the edge of my bed, yawning widely, his feet kicking at the rumpled blanket on the floor. Then his eyes widened and he scrambled back upon the bed towards the corner of the wall.
“He’s come for me!”
“You!” Le Sac declaimed from the doorway. He stood with one hand upon the jamb, a picture of scorn. “What use are you to me? You have no musical Genius! Give me my violon and I will not care if I ever see either of you again.”
“I haven’t got it!” George quavered. Tears squeezed down his face, glittering in the candlelight.
The search did not take them long. A glance in the few cupboards, a turning over of the mattress, a shifting of the books on the table. George huddled in a corner, shivering in his nightshirt, while I leant against the table and tended the candles to prevent them from being blown out by the draught of their movements.
“I don’t have your violin,” I said at last as Le Sac prowled restlessly about the room. “I am sorry for its loss – ”
“Hypocrite,” he spat and turned on his heel.
By mid-morning, the theft was posted all over the town; Le Sac must have persuaded Thomas Saint to open up early to print the bills. I first came across a copy on the wall of Barber’s bookshop in Amen Corner behind St Nicholas’s Church, and stood reading it in the spit of a cold rain that was already staining the paper.
Whereas an old Violin, black, without a Maker’s Name, and the Bow of spotted Wood, fluted from one End to the other, in a black Case, has been stolen from the Home of its Owner, in Low Friar Street, this 16th Inst. Whoever will deliver it whole to any of the undermentioned Persons shall receive one Guinea Reward and no Questions asked. At M. Le Sac in Low Friar Street; at Mr Barber’s, Bookseller and Stationer; at the Golden Fleece in the Sandhill. NB No greater Reward will be offer’d.
The matter of the violin and Demsey’s disappearance weighed heavily on me all day, so I walked down to Caroline Square in an uneasy state of mind. I was not inclined for company, and I did not trust Lady Anne not to spring another surprise. But it was undoubtedly true that her favour could do me great service professionally; and I found myself anticipating with some pleasure the opportunity to talk again with Mrs Jerdoun.
Still there was that other matter, which endlessly troubled and mystified me. At the entrance to the square I hesitated, looking across to the house with elegantly proportioned windows, sweeps of expensive curtains just visible through the glass. I did not wish for the repetition of the strange events that had happened to me there, yet I found myself thinking that perhaps only by such repetition would I find out their true significance. If such an event did occur again, I resolved I would face it in a rational manner, calmly looking for an explanation. So I hesitated, but went up to the house with resolution.
Nothing happened.
The footman showed me to the library to await the tea tray. I occupied the few minutes I was kept waiting by browsing through some of the volumes absentmindedly, still distracted by the one puzzle when I came upon another – an inscription in a commonplace book, in manuscript. The book looked very much the sort of thing an organist might keep to record short pieces or to note down the works of other composers. In the front was inscribed: Thomas Powell, organist, St Nicholas, 1725.
I had never heard of such a man. Unless, of course, the name of the church misled me. There was also a St Nicholas church in Durham, but surely it had no organ. The book was much the same size as the book Lady Anne had lent me and I stood for a moment, fingering the cover, wondering. And then, inexplicably, shivering with sudden cold.
I looked up and saw in front of me a door standing open into a small room, very elegant in pale golds and blues, the sort of room in which a lady might sit. A book was laid closed on a small table, needlework beside it as if the lady had only just laid her work down and got up. I stared blankly at the room, knowing it had not been there before. Taking a deep breath, I moved forward. The carpet was thick beneath my feet; the delicate scent of dried herbs drifted from a bowl on a mantelshelf over an unlit fire. I reached down and opened the book on the table. It was a prayer book, of the kind often used for private devotion, and inside the cover had been listed the names of children with the dates of their births. Lady Anne was there, but not Mrs Jerdoun. The old paper was darkened where fingers had stained the pages.
A glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye. I glanced up and saw, through the window, a carriage pass down the street.
For a moment, I stared out into the street where there should have been a square. Then I thought I heard a voice; I turned and went back into the library. And as I passed through the door between the two rooms I shuddered again, as if with cold – and turned to see no door, no blue and gold room, only a wall behind me.
The ladies came out of dinner together, amiable and talkative, although I sensed some constraint on Mrs Jerdoun’s part. Lady Anne was anxious to ask after my health, having heard from Mrs Jerdoun that I had felt unwell on my last visit to the house. “I do trust,” she said wickedly, “that you have not caught Monsieur le Sac’s chill.”
“Not at all, my lady,” I returned, choosing not to rise to her bait. “I have been admiring your library. I had no chance to look closely on my previous visit but I had thought there was another room, there.” I indicated the wall behind us. “In that corner of the library.”
She stared at me, astonished. “No, never. Only the servants’ stair. Are you certain you are quite recovered?”
Somewhat irritated, I reassured her. She then asked after my apprentice, whose playing at the concert she commended. “Though I fancy, if he intends to make a living out of his skill, he will need to grow up a great deal more handsome than he promises to.”
The lady herself, of course, was exquisite as usual, the splendour of her gown and jewels and the subtlety of her rouge almost making me forget that she was remarkably plain. Something in the animation of her face and the glow of her skin in the brilliant light of many candles was infinitely becoming.
Esther Jerdoun said consolingly, “Children often grow out of spots. Once he does, he may not be so bad.” She too was elegant in a silvery white gown and her fair hair glinted in the lights. Her manner was cooler than her cousin’s; I both preferred it and trusted it more. There was a frown between her eyes as she regarded me, before flicking her gaze towards the corner of the room I had indicated. I was tempted to raise the matter again, but Lady Anne was already speaking.
“If Mr Patterson can but persuade the boy to wash more often, I shall be pleased. Tell me, sir, what do you make of this business of the stolen violin?”
Suspecting Demsey as I did, I did not wish to discuss the matter. I made some bland remark about how grievously musicians feel such losses.
“That must be it, then,” she said thoughtfully. “I offered to buy him another but he rejected the idea so vehemently I feared for his health!” There was an edge to her voice which suggested she had not liked Le Sac’s manner. “Well, Mr Patterson, this may work in your favour. You may yet direct more conce
rts.”
“I would dearly love the chance to direct the Concerts, madam, but I would like to earn the place through merit, not at the cost of another man’s misfortunes.”
“Regrettably,” Mrs Jerdoun said, “we often prosper at other people’s expense.”
Lady Anne laughed and tapped my arm. “That is a jibe at me, sir. I was very ill when I was a girl, and if I had died Esther would have inherited my father’s wealth.”
Flustered by her frankness, I glanced at Mrs Jerdoun. “My cousin likes to tease, Mr Patterson,” she said imperturbably. “She is fond of games.” And I fancied she cast me a warning glance.
What the devil was I to do about Demsey, what indeed could I do? The more I considered the matter, the less likely it seemed that he would have taken the violin. His quarrel was with Nichols, not Le Sac; if his intention had been to place the blame on Nichols (by secreting the violin in his rooms, for instance), surely something would have been heard of it by now? But if it had been an attack on Le Sac, the only enemy I could attribute to the Swiss was myself; and I had not taken the violin nor asked anyone else to do it for me. So was it merely a simple matter of a thief making off with the instrument? And why did I feel that there was something deeper – something as yet unknown – about the affair?
As to the matter of the house in Caroline Square…
Early on Sunday evening I went out with determination, as if I was merely taking the air, walking with my prayer book in hand to give myself an air of respectability. The ladies were out at church; I saw them walking sedately down to St Nicholas together. Few of the servants remained, by the look of it, and the square was altogether quiet.
I walked round the square twice. Nothing happened. I walked past the house, turned and went back again, to no purpose. The square remained silent, the chill was merely the chill of the first hint of frost and the flickering lanterns remained in place. Even the spirit was silent.
On Monday, I received a kind note from a Mr Parry, player of the treble harp, who was evidently visiting the town.
Sir,
Your Name has been mentioned to me as one of the musical Gentlemen of this Town, who may do me the Honour of accompanying me on the Harpsichord at the benefit Concerts I intend holding in Hoult’s Rooms at the Turk’s Head on the 22nd and 25th Inst. I would of course offer the customary Rates, &c. I would be much obliged if you could send me at the Turk’s Head, whether you are able or no.
Yr. Obt. Servt.
Thomas Parry.
I scribbled a note, dragged George from the copying upon which he was engaged and told him to take the note to the inn. He looked at me with big anxious eyes.
“I haven’t finished the concerto, master.” He was copying one of the pieces from Lady Anne’s book.
“There is no hurry. You can finish it later.”
“I don’t feel well, master. I think Mr Sac passed on his illness to me.”
He was clearly making excuses. “You have nothing to fear from Le Sac, George,” I said wearily. “He cannot make you go back to him.”
He took the note unwillingly and went out, dragging his feet. But he came running back before long, out of breath and more eager than before. “The gentleman asked if I played too, master, and when I said yes, he said to bring my violin and he’d hear me and say if he wanted me to play! Oh, and he sent this note –”
Parry’s brief note appointed a time on Wednesday the 21st, two days hence, for a rehearsal. I folded the paper into a book where I generally keep such things and George went back to his copying.
We neither of us slept well that night. As I lay in the darkness, I could hear George wriggling upon the floor, constantly turning over. It seemed strange to me that he should still fear Le Sac. To be honest, I thought the less of him for it; he must know that Le Sac had no legal hold over him any longer. As for myself, I was preoccupied by puzzles that nagged at me night-long: Demsey, the violin, the strange room I had seen, the games Lady Anne insisted upon playing. And a growing conviction that all these things were somehow connected.
And – the last thing I recall before an uneasy sleep claimed me, just as the sky was lightening into dawn – that peculiar inscription in Lady Anne’s music book. The elegant flourish of an unknown signature: Thomas Powell, organist, St Nicholas, 1725…
14
CONCERTO FOR SOLO VIOLIN
Movement II
I woke the following morning in a determined mood. I might not be able to do anything about the strange events I had experienced in Caroline Square, or Lady Anne’s games, but on some matters I could take action. Fortunately, one of my pupils sent word that she was taken ill, so I had time and leisure to act. George was sullen and sour-faced; I could not bear his fidgeting and sent him off to Akenhead’s, the stationers, to fetch more paper and ravens’ quills.
In the affair of the violin at least, I could see my way clearly. How could any thief have imagined he might dispose of it? It was a Cremona fiddle and would fetch a pretty penny, but only if sold to some person with musical knowledge. And such a person would at once be suspicious, particularly if the violin was offered by someone down at heel. Of course there were unscrupulous gentlemen who would accept goods without asking questions, but then the payment offered would be much lower.
And where might the thief offer the instrument for sale? Not in Newcastle or Durham or even Sunderland, in all of which places Le Sac had played; the violin might be recognised there by its unusual colour. Somewhere further afield, then – Edinburgh or York? London would be the safest place of all, but a thief would surely want to dispose of his booty as quickly as possible and not sit in a post-chaise with it for days on end.
I inscribed my first letter to Mr Ambrose Brownless, organ-builder of the City of York, reminding the gentleman of his kindness to me a year or two before, when I had been travelling north from London, and thanking him for his hospitality on that occasion. “And if I may trouble you further, sir,” I wrote. “I am in search of a violin which has gone astray, (no one is quite sure how)…”
Finishing the note, I added the address and sealed it, then wrote another letter to an old acquaintance in Edinburgh. When George returned, I gave him both notes together with a shilling, and told him to make haste to the Post Office to send them off. He laid the bundle of quills upon the table. “Out again, sir?”
“Now,” I said sharply. “And then meet me on the Sandhill. It is time you had your lesson.”
He hung back. “Why not here, sir?”
“Because I have no instrument, fool! We’ll use the harpsichord belonging to the Concerts – the one stored at Hoult’s.” (I was not sufficiently aforehand with the world to afford such an expensive instrument.)
His face fell further; he hated the keyboard and played it only under protest, because I told him no musician could hope to earn a living knowing one instrument alone. I planned to start him on the German flute, too; it is an instrument many gentlemen play, and can be very profitable. I said nothing of that, however; he was surly enough already.
“Go,” I said.
He went, although it was plain he was mutinous.
After putting ready the books I needed for George’s lesson and the practice of my own which I intended afterwards, I walked to the foot of the Side, to the office of Mr Jenison’s agent, who keeps the key to the Concerts’ instruments, feeling a good deal better for having done something about at least one of the matters that besieged me. There was a great bustle about the Golden Fleece next to the office. A coach stood ready for departure and I found George already gawping at the preparations. I left him there while I went up the stairs to the agent’s for the key; perhaps letting him gaze his fill on the commotion would put him in a better temper.
I came to the foot of the stairs again just as the coachman climbed into the box of the coach and decided to stay where I was rather than struggle through the crowd. And while I was standing there, my attention was caught by an ostler leading out a glossy chestnut horse; beh
ind him came a lady, striding out to mount the animal, flouting the proprieties outrageously by wearing breeches (although a long, full greatcoat somewhat disguised the fact) and flinging herself astride a man’s saddle. Surely only one woman could scorn convention like this and face down any criticism – Lady Anne.
But as the lady turned to send her horse trotting along the Key, I saw that I was wrong. Not Lady Anne but her cousin, Esther Jerdoun. I hardly knew whether to admire her or condemn her. The women in that house were altogether out of my common experience. As was the house itself.
Fortunately, George was full of the joys of the coach. We made our way to the Sandhill in silence; I was thinking of one thing, George was talking of another, and he was in such good humour that he submitted to his lesson upon the harpsichord with at least tolerable willingness. I felt giddy; my head was full of Esther Jerdoun’s figure, still most shapely for a woman of forty. But after all, a man may admire where he chooses, provided he keeps his admiration a secret to all but himself.
Our rehearsal with Mr Parry the following day went well. He was a large man, fair in his colouring though I had imagined all Welsh quite dark. He was also blind, or very nearly so, but a casual observer would not know it, for he found his way about easily by keeping very near to the wall and running his fingertips lightly along it. Those hands were huge yet very delicate, and to see such large fingers plucking the finest of harp strings and producing soft tender tunes was disconcerting. He had adapted some violin airs of Handel and Purcell to his instrument and required us to provide the accompaniment; he himself played all by heart, and was very clear in what he wanted and very complimentary when we provided it. All in all, we had a merry time of it, playing happily for several hours.
But, alas, when it came to the concert itself, Parry’s better judgment deserted him. We played two pieces by Handel which went very well, and the first solo airs Parry performed were Scotch and very pleasant. But an entire concert filled with airs and jigs, and reels and strathspeys, and strange Welsh tunes the like of which I had never heard before and never wish to hear again (and which I suspected Parry of fabricating himself, though he claimed they were so old that their origins were lost in the mists of time) – well, there are limits to how much one wishes to hear of such short pieces.
