by Roz Southey
The audience, which was happily large, applauded enthusiastically; many hurried forward at the end of the concert to chat to Parry who towered over them all. I saw Nichols hanging about with a request that Parry might play for his class the following day. And Mr Jenison was also there, hands in pockets, frowning.
“That boy of yours, Patterson,” he said suddenly. “Very tolerable player. I warrant it was you who taught him to play an adagio like that. That French fellow just rushes at adagios – I’ve always said foreigners can’t play them well. Haven’t the sensibility for it.”
He did not meet my eye. That French fellow – hardly the way to refer to a favoured employee. (I prevented myself just in time from murmuring ‘Swiss’.) Had Le Sac offended Jenison in some way? I caught Claudius Heron’s gaze instead as he walked past; “Very good,” he said, and walked on.
Esther Jerdoun came up to me with a smile as Jenison turned away. The lady was dressed in grey but the light caught the shiny fabric and turned it to shimmering silver; sapphires glittered in her ears and around her throat.
“I enjoyed the Handel greatly, Mr Patterson,” she said in a tone of voice I thought rather loud. “Tell me, what opera was that overture from? I had not a handbill – they were all gone before I arrived.”
But she did not allow me to answer; she lowered her voice and spoke swiftly. “You need not concern yourself about the violin. It is recovered.” She raised her voice to its former pitch. “I have always thought Handel’s instrumental music much under-rated. Do you not agree?”
I answered mechanically, hardly knowing what I said. Her mouth smiled; her head nodded, her elegant hand drifted across the decorated lid of the harpsichord. And her eyes were sharp and warning.
“Now it’s to the bottle!” Parry said suddenly and swept his arm round George. The contrast between the giant and the child was ludicrous. “Shall we introduce this lad to the pleasures of fine wine, Mr Patterson? Oh, I beg your pardon, madam.”
Perhaps he had caught the soft sound of the lady’s dress sweeping the floor as she turned. Mrs Jerdoun inclined her head. “I merely lingered to express my pleasure at your playing, Mr Parry.”
She was an astonishing woman, I thought, as Parry, George and I went down the back stairs of the inn into the parlour. She was capable of surprising me in a way that, oddly, her cousin did not. I supposed outrageous acts were expected of Lady Anne. But I longed to ask a host of questions. Where had the violin been found? Was it known who had taken it? Why did she clearly intend its discovery to be kept a secret? Or was it merely the manner of its discovery? I had a sudden recollection of her riding out the previous day; had she herself found it?
And, above all, was Demsey implicated in the matter?
I was in a fever to know what had happened. But it was not until mid-morning of the following day that I had any further news. I was not in a good temper and the first lesson of the day had been with a recalcitrant unco-operative girl who had grown up sufficiently to discover the benefits of charming men into doing as she wished but not sufficiently to be able to work the trick. The day was sunny, although a chill breeze blew a hint of winter into the brightness, and after the lesson I went down to the Key to the Printing Office to buy a copy of the last week’s Courant, which I had missed. Thomas Saint, in handing me my change, said, “I hear that French fellow has his fiddle back.”
“Swiss,” I said automatically. Then, recollecting that I was not supposed to have heard of the matter, I added, “Indeed? How?”
“One of the grooms belonging to Lady Anne found it.” The breeze took hold of the outer door and gently tapped it against the jamb, sending quivers of sunshine across the papers stacked on the office floor. “Lady Anne’s cousin had sent the fellow on an errand to Darlington. He stopped for a bite at the Post House and saw them carrying out the parcels for the coach. The wrapping on one of them was torn and he thought he saw a violin case within. Of course, he raised the alarm and they opened the parcel and there it was. Addressed to some rogue in London, I hear.”
I was astounded. “Do you mean to say the thief put it on the coach as if it was an ordinary everyday parcel?”
Saint chuckled and seized at some bills that lifted from his desk in the breeze. “Some folks have a good helping of audacity, do they not? That’s the top and tail of it. Of course the groom brought it back with him, the French fellow parted with the reward without a murmur and Lady Anne rewarded the groom as well. Everyone’s happy – except the thief, of course.”
I listened to the tale with mounting incredulity. I had never heard such nonsense. If the thief had rid himself of the instrument as soon as possible, which would have been sensible, it would have got much further south than Darlington. Five days since it had been stolen – almost time to reach London. And to send such a delicate item by a coach was unthinkable. The instrument would have been smashed to pieces before Doncaster or Newark; ostlers and inn-keepers have clumsy hands. But if the tale was not true, what had really happened? I knew of only one person who might be able to tell me.
I begged a piece of paper from Saint and penned a letter to Esther Jerdoun.
Madam,
At our last conversation you referred to a matter about which I would be grateful to have further information. I would appreciate your being so amiable as to indicate the truth of matters which are currently the subject of much unreliable gossip in the Town. I remain, madam,
Yr most obt. Servt.
Chas. Patterson.
I sent Saint’s boy with the note; when I returned home that evening, a reply was waiting for me.
Sir, it read, I do not believe there is any advantage in discussing the matter further. It was signed E. Jerdoun.
With such a curt dismissal I was, I supposed, meant to be satisfied.
I was not.
15
CONCERTO FOR SOLO VIOLIN
Movement III
Before I went to bed, I scratched out letters to two or three acquaintances whom I thought might know Demsey’s whereabouts. Mr Hesletine, for one, organist of Durham and a man whom it is well nigh impossible to avoid offending. His temper was like an ague – swift to come on and slow to mend again. Seven or eight years ago, he was nearly dismissed his position for abusing one of the prebendaries of the Cathedral. But he and Demsey, for some reason, have always dealt very well together, which is more than might be expected from the disparity in their ages (Hesletine is near fifty) and the similarity in their tempers. Last time I was in company with both of them, a year back, the whole afternoon was occupied by them shouting at each other with the greatest goodwill in the world. They parted the best of friends.
So one letter went to Hesletine asking if he had seen Demsey in the last week. Another went to the Post House in Durham, in case Demsey had passed south. A third to the Assembly Rooms in Sunderland, in case he lodged in that town, and a fourth – I considered briefly – to the publisher Hamilton in Edinburgh. My request in this last letter I mixed in casually with an enquiry over publishing terms for my Scotch Songs for the Harpsichord, performed at the last Concert. I left the letters on the table with a note to George to dispatch them and went to bed, if not satisfied, at least content I had done all I could.
The next day was the day of Parry’s second benefit and I rose early to be done with all my errands before the evening. We had rehearsed our pieces the day of the first concert so there was no midday rehearsal to distract me. I went first down to Caroline Square, with some considerable trepidation but equally with determination, to see Esther Jerdoun, tucking Lady Anne’s book of concerti under my arm as an excuse for my visit.
It was a dull grey day and the spirit in the square was muttering morosely. That particular patch of ground upon which I had twice stumbled looked like every other part of the road; I stood looking at it for some time. Then one of the other gentlemen who lived in the square came out and gave me a measuring look, plainly wondering if I was a thief. Heart pounding, I walked up to Lady Anne’s doo
r. Yet again, nothing happened.
A footman answered my knock but before he could speak, I heard a shout from within the house. Lady Anne, berating some unlucky servant. An object crashed to the floor. The footman flinched.
“Is Mrs Jerdoun at home?” I asked.
“She has gone out, sir. And –” Another shout arose behind him. “Lady Anne is not receiving visitors.”
“I’ll return another time,” I said, and made a relieved retreat.
Thwarted in my attempt to press Mrs Jerdoun for an explanation, I went about my other business of the morning, walking down to Thomas Saint’s to find out whether there had been any replies to my advertisement for subscribers to my Scotch music. Without at least two hundred or so, I could not hope to raise the money to have it engraved and printed. Eight subscribers had kindly put their names down. I put a brave face on it and told Saint to run the advertisement a second week, but I was plainly going to have to call upon the ladies and gentlemen personally to obtain their patronage.
As I walked back along the Key, through the busy bustle of carts and yellow-waistcoated keelmen, the smoke drifting along the river caught in my throat and made me cough. I climbed up to Fleming’s shop on the bridge – I had yesterday snapped the topmost string on my violin and used the last of my stock to replace it – and at the door, stood back to allow a lady to leave the premises. It was Mrs Jerdoun, in a sensible if drab gown of a chocolate-brown colour. She clutched a parcel of books.
“Mr Patterson,” she said coolly, and made to walk on.
“Madam.” I stepped forward. Her quick frown of annoyance was not encouraging. “I have heard wild tales about grooms and Darlington Post House, and I had hoped you at least would tell me a true tale.”
“A true tale, Mr Patterson? Do any of us know the truth?”
I thought she was trying to avoid answering me. “I would have thought you would, madam, better than anyone.” She hesitated. “You recovered the violin yourself, I believe,” I added.
“Very well, Mr Patterson,” she said curtly. The wind – it is always windy upon the bridge – whipped her hair about her face. “I did indeed find the item in question, in Darlington Post House where it had, most fortunately, been overlooked for several days without being sent on to London. The landlord of the Post House had been somewhat exercised by the handwriting upon the label. I, on the other hand, recognised it at once.”
She glanced round as two gentlemen walked past and waited until they were out of earshot. Then she turned her cool grey eyes upon me once again.
“It was your hand, sir.”
I could think of nothing to say. I had not even wit enough to protest my innocence.
“I felt it wisest to disguise the matter as best I could,” she said. “I told the landlord the instrument had been sent on by mistake, bribed the fellow into silence and brought the violin back with me. The label – I daresay you will be relieved to hear – I tore into pieces and buried deep in the bogs of Gateshead Fell.”
She glanced away to the shops on the other side of the bridge, her cheeks flushed. “There is, I assure you, sir, no reason to fear. My cousin’s groom is a reliable man and does and says as he is instructed, and acts the fool if he is challenged. He will not say anything outside the script I gave him. You may rest easy – your name will never be associated with the matter.”
I found my breath at last, though I felt my cheeks blanching. “Madam…” I began, but she turned away.
“There is nothing more to be said, Mr Patterson. I would be obliged if you do not refer to the matter again.”
She walked quickly away, crossing the bridge towards Gateshead Bank. I could only stand and stare after her, my clothes tugged by the river breeze and my mind in a turmoil. She thought I had stolen the violin.
I shifted as another customer came from the shop, and numbly went in to complete my own errand. Fleming is taciturn; I think I left without exchanging more than a dozen words with him. I walked down from the bridge and up Butcher Bank towards Pilgrim Street, hardly noticing the passers-by. Esther Jerdoun’s opinion of me distressed me but I did not find it strange that she should suspect me. Everyone associated with the Concerts must be aware of the argument between Le Sac and myself. My friend was known to quarrel with his. But the label – that was the puzzling thing. I knew, as Esther Jerdoun could not, that it was a forgery.
Kicking at the leaves that had fallen from the trees in the gardens between the houses, I contemplated Light-Heels Nichols. He would have had access to Le Sac’s lodgings and might have been able to contrive a means of carrying the violin off even with Le Sac lying ill there. But why should he do such a thing? To implicate Demsey, since Hugh’s disappearance at the same time as the violin must inevitably have lent credence to any such tale? But then why my handwriting on the label?
And – I halted beside a garden wall – what proof did I have that the label had ever existed? Or that the violin had ever been in Darlington? Lady Anne was plainly playing games with me for her own pleasure; why not her cousin too? Were the ladies cut from the same material?
I was not at my best during the lessons that day and my pupils came off rather easy. Nor was I in a good mood for Mr Parry’s second concert. I had made a firm decision. That house in Caroline Square, and the ladies in it, was the centre of all my present woes; its owner was intent upon setting me at odds with Le Sac, Mrs Jerdoun either believed me a thief or was playing a game of her own, and even the house itself was playing tricks on me. I would certainly go there no more, whatever invitations I might receive. I would avoid the ladies, except for the demands of common politeness when we met, and that would be the end of it.
Old Hoult sensed my black temper as I climbed the back stairs to the upper room of the Turk’s Head. “Cheer up, lad,” he said from the banister at the head of the dark steps. “His tunes aren’t that bad – although some of them may be a bit outlandish.”
The thought of two hours of reels and laments set my spirits plummeting.
The Long Room was brightly lit, every candle in the glittering chandeliers flickering gently in the draughts. Some of the audience were already gathered in clumps in window embrasures and around some of the most comfortable chairs. George stood near to the music stands, frowning at a handbill; I was pleased to see that the boy had dressed in his best and had managed to desist from scratching his spots. He smelt rather better, too, so he must have followed my orders to wash. He started when I came up to him and was clearly only a little relieved when he saw who I was. His irrational fears still annoyed me, but I chose to ignore them for the sake of peace.
“Is that the bill for the night?”
“No, master.” He held the paper out to me. “Mr Nichols gave it me at the door.”
It was an advertisement for a concert the next day. With profuse apologies for the shortness of the notice, M. Le Sac offered a benefit concert at the Turk’s Head, and extended his grateful thanks to Signor Bitti, of the York Concerts, who was travelling between that city and Edinburgh, and who had kindly consented to play upon the harpsichord and to offer several solos upon that instrument.
“Sig-nor Bit-ti,” George read laboriously. “Do you know him, master?”
“I know of him,” I said grimly. “Hebden of York speaks highly of him. But then he has a wild fancy for anything Italian.” John Hebden is not above calling himself Signor Hebdeni in the wilds of Scarborough where he fancies they will not be quick-witted enough to recognise his Yorkshire accent. Still, he is an excellent judge; no one can ever accuse him of hiring a bad musician. But it mattered not to me whether Sig-nor Bit-ti was excellent or not; this was one concert I would not appear in.
There was a numerous and brilliant company at Hoult’s that night. Some I recognised from Parry’s first concert; others had heard of the gentleman’s powers and come to see for themselves. Young Hoult had to fetch in extra chairs from below and, when they had been disposed around the walls and across the place, the room looked very full
indeed. The bright, warm glow of satins and silks under the candlelight was very fine, and there was only a faint miasma of sweat overlaid by perfumes of musk and lavender.
As rooms filled with a multitude of people will, Hoult’s Long Room became hot and the air stale; I saw George surreptitiously slipping a finger under his cravat to ease it, and felt the sweat trickle down my own cheek. Unluckily, the members of the audience were almost all clutching Le Sac’s handbills and used the papers to fan themselves, so universally that our renderings of Handel were accompanied by a regular flap, flap, flap. But once the music was begun, my mind settled, for it is impossible to play well with only half a mind on the job. Parry performed much the same pieces as before, with a few Irish tunes thrown in, and I saw one or two ladies wipe away tears at his most plangent melodies.
I occupied moments when the harpsichord was silent by looking about the audience. Mrs Jerdoun I spotted at once, seated against the far wall; she was dressed in palest lavender and did not look my way. Her cousin, I saw to my surprise, sat across the other side of the room conversing with Mr Jenison. Had the ladies quarrelled? Well, it was none of my business any longer; I was resolved to avoid them altogether.
One person I did not see until the interval between the acts was Mr Ord; indeed, I did not see him at all until he clutched at my sleeve. Parry had generously provided refreshments and Ord held a glass of Hoult’s best wine between his fingers. He waved Le Sac’s handbill at me.
“This – this Bitty fellow. Do you know him?” His round red cheeks were glistening with heat.
“I have heard he is an excellent player.”
Ord pursed his lips. “And do you play in this concert, sir?”
