Broken Harmony

by Roz Southey

  She was contemplating me, expressionlessly.

  “For you do have a quarrel with her, do you not, madam? You seem to disapprove of almost everything she does. Well, madam, if you wish to play your games, and try to diminish your cousin’s standing with the world, I cannot prevent you. But I will not be caught up in it.”

  I stopped, appalled to hear my own words, the force and the anger behind them. Esther Jerdoun regarded me for a moment, then reached to lift her skirts again.

  “You are a fool, Mr Patterson,” she said, and turned away.

  25

  SINFONIA CONCERTANTE

  Movement III

  And so to the duel.

  I rose early on the Wednesday morning, looking out of the window on to a gloomy drizzle; a thin layer of mud gleamed on the street below. George still snored, entangled in his blanket on the floor, and I kicked him awake before splashing my face with cold water from the previous night. He was full of glee and talked incessantly of how he was going to defeat his old master. I curbed my impulse to speak to him sharply – now was not the time to weaken the boy’s confidence – but I inwardly cursed Jenison and Ord. Vanity should not be encouraged, particularly where it has no basis in fact.

  “I must give my lessons as usual,” I told him. “I’ve lost enough money recently as it is. You will stay here and practise the Corelli.”

  “Master –”

  “Put on your best clothes just before you go. When you get to Mrs Hill’s, speak to Dick Kell. He knows what’s what.” I buttoned up my waistcoat and glanced down at his eager face, wondering how it would look when I saw him next, after the defeat Le Sac would inevitably inflict on him.

  “Play as well as you can, George. I cannot ask more than that. I’ll meet you here tonight and you can tell me all about it.”

  “Yes, master.”

  As I left, I wished he had been more sombre and thoughtful. He had that look of mischief that always bodes ill.

  I spent the morning teaching on the Westgate and, on my way back into town, looked in again at Demsey’s school. The room itself was as it had been, except for a thick layer of dust on the chairs. But, as I turned to go back down to the street, I saw something catch the light on the stairs to Demsey’s rooms above; I turned back. The fragment of a bright button, twisted and broken. Perhaps that glimpse in the street had not been born of the brandy, after all. I looked closely and saw, in the dust on the stairs, the faintest trace of footsteps. Demsey was always extraordinarily light upon his feet. I went up to the attic and rapped on his door. Not the smallest sound. I prised up the floorboard but the key was gone. He had certainly come back.

  I went down to the coffee-house to write him a note saying I had seen him, that I regretted my last outburst and wished to speak with him. But the words were impossible to find. I sat long in Nellie’s, with a dish of coffee cooling before me and the ink drying upon the quill. My dear Demsey. Easy enough to begin, but how to continue? How many men find it easy to say I’m sorry?

  I was biting the end of the quill when there was a great noise at the door and I saw the massive figure of Tom Mountier, rolling and reeling against the jamb. Flattening at least three men on his way, he hailed me with a roar.

  “Charles, I’m parched! Buy me a drink!”

  I signalled to the serving wench. “I’ll buy you coffee, Tom. You’re drunk.”

  “Nonsense!” He gave me a wink. “I can sing as well as ever. Listen.”

  He rollicked off the first notes of a hunting song and of course all heads turned. Some shouted encouragement and some joined in so that soon nearly the entire coffee-house was singing. I sat back and listened, with a half-smile on my lips and the cold fear of dread in my heart. For I heard today, as I had never heard before, the edges of roughness creeping into that fine polished bass voice – the suggestion of hoarseness and, worse, the lack of care he took over the shaping of phrases and the small graces that show true taste. Before, even when drunk, those things had come effortlessly to Tom Mountier, once the darling of London concert-goers.

  He finished, tossed off the coffee and called for ale. Someone shouted for another song but he roared that he was too sleepy, and melodramatically flung hmself down on the table, his head on top of his arms, snoring loudly.

  “Why are you in Newcastle?” I asked.

  Bright-eyed and wide awake, he lifted his head and grinned. “On my way to Edin – Edinburgh. To the good gentlemen and their private concert.”

  “Leave of absence again? I wonder Hesletine allows it.”

  “Doesn’t know about it, my boy! Blissful ignorance and all that. I left him a note reminding him I told him of it weeks ago; he’ll not remember whether I did or no. When our esteemed organist sits down in front of manuscript paper, the outside world exists no longer. Even now, he is penning some sublime Ode.”

  I laughed. “‘Not at this moment, he isn’t. He’s in the Fleshmarket, being entertained – or otherwise – by my apprentice.”

  Mountier stared at me. “My dear Charles, you run mad. I left Hesletine deep in the throes of composition. I had to creep past his window to avoid his notice.”

  “He probably set out minutes after you did.”

  “Nonsense. He’ll not stir till he goes to conduct the rehearsal for the concert.”

  “Tom,” I said patiently. “Thursday is concert night in Durham. Today is Wednesday.”

  “Not the public concert,” he said. “The private one in the Deanery. Handel, Handel and more Handel, the saintly one. Charles, my dear fellow...”

  I was already halfway to the door, mowing down newcomers in my turn and running for Mrs Hill’s.

  The butchers’ stalls in the Fleshmarket were crowded so there was scarce space for a dog to run down the street. I pushed through the mob, apologising hurriedly, stepping on feet, oversetting baskets, apologising again. Someone spilt beer over me, someone else jabbed an elbow in my side. Gasping for breath, I stumbled against the wall of Mrs Hill’s – and felt a hand seize my arm.

  I tried to pull free, twisted and looked into the sombre face of Claudius Heron.

  “It’s a trick,” I said, breathing heavily. “Hesletine is not coming. He probably doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

  Heron nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  My recriminations died on my lips. Something in Heron’s expression stopped them – a twist to his mouth, that familiar hint of distaste and... And what? I put my hand against the cold wall and drew a deep shuddering breath. “What is happening in there, sir?”

  He drew me aside, to the mouth of an alley. He was perhaps an inch or two shorter than I, and his hand on my arm was chill even through the cloth. His speech was always slow but on this occasion more than usual. “I regret to say that Ord and Jenison are trying to manoeuvre Le Sac into a position where he feels so humiliated that he leaves the town. They intend to impose new conditions for the contest which he will not be able to accept.”

  “He will never leave,” I said, recalling that night on the Side when Le Sac had threatened to force me out. “He’ll not give in. He’s too obstinate.”

  Heron nodded again. “I have told them so. But they are set upon the idea and they are the last men in the world to yield to a counsel of caution.”

  I gave him a direct look. “And your part in this, sir?”

  “Nothing.” Again that grimace of distaste.

  “Then may I ask why you are here? You advised me nothing could be done.”

  I could not keep the anger from my voice and my tone was far from respectful. Heron lifted his head.

  “Because,” he said, “I have a higher opinion of your perspicacity than they do. I guessed you would fathom their plans and come here to stop them.”

  “You are right, sir,” I said and made to push past him. He took hold of my arm again. When I tried to pull free, he bore me back against the wall, gripping my flesh with those lean fingers.

  “You must not be associated with this, Patterson. No
, hear me out.” I had made to free myself. “If you take sides in this matter, whichever side you take, half the gentlemen of the town will shun you. How then will you make a living?”

  “You take great care of my reputation, sir,” I said sarcastically. I had had enough of being told what to do: Lady Anne, Esther Jerdoun, now Heron...

  His grip upon my arm was fierce. “I am trying to ensure that as little damage as possible is done to all concerned.”

  I hardly heard him. “I am already associated with the matter. The boy is my apprentice.”

  “The boy is not here.”

  “Not here?” I echoed. “Then where –”

  “I sent him home.” He seemed to realise he still held my arm, let me go and stepped back, flexing his fingers. “I intercepted him at the top of the Fleshmarket and told him the contest was postponed. He seemed... disappointed.”

  A little, a very little, of my anger was dissipating. If George was out of the way (at least for the time being), the matter might yet be mended. I murmured thanks but Heron was not listening to me. He stood under the unlit lamps of the tavern rubbing his fingers together and staring into some private thought. A strand of his fair hair had escaped from the bow at the nape of his neck and curled on the shoulder of his dark coat.

  “I abominate these petty intrigues,” he said. “They are set afoot by men with nothing better to occupy them than small jealousies and their own pride.” That sharp gaze settled on my face. “Do not, I pray, Patterson, force me to lodge you in their company.”

  “I never wanted this,” I said vehemently. “Everything in this matter has been forced upon me from the beginning. Even the boy.”

  “Then go home, Patterson. I certainly intend to.”

  “You do not go in?”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Sometimes my fellow men disgust me, Patterson. While I deal politely with them, drink wine with them, discuss trade and politics with them, ride with them, play music with them, go to church with them, their breath is stinking on my neck. My stomach turns with it all.” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes even my son disgusts me. I was never so glad as the day my wife died, for that event absolved me of the need to act the kind hypocrite every day. No, I shall not go in.”

  And, brushing past me, he pushed into the mob in the street and was lost from sight.

  I admitted the wisdom of all he said; I knew I could not afford to alienate any of the men on whom my living depended. But I knew too that I must see what went on inside the inn. I waited a moment or two, to be sure Heron had gone, then pushed my way into the inn-yard.

  The door leading to the stairs to the Long Room was open. I leant my weight upon the bottom step cautiously, knowing the stairs creaked. A murmur of voices was audible from the upper room. I heard Ord’s shrill tones and the measured low rumble of Jenison. And was that Nichols?

  On the top stair, I eased myself to one side to look into the room without being seen. Mrs Hill’s Long Room was not as spacious as that of the Turk’s Head and there were no glittering chandeliers here, merely a branch or two of unlit candles upon the windowsills. The room was laid out for a supper; the long tables down the centre of the room were covered with white cloths and servants at the far end were clattering cutlery and uneasily tiptoeing in and out.

  At the near end of the room, under windows that looked down into the street, a cluster of men were gesticulating and shouting. In their centre stood Le Sac, stocky yet elegant in his suit of midnight blue, a cravat of purest white at his throat, disordered by the imprint of his violin. That black fiddle was gripped in his left hand, the bow stick held like a cudgel in the other. He was red-faced, and I have never seen such a look of malice on any man.

  Yet he was stock-still and silent. It was Nichols who made the noise, arguing his principal’s case with near-incoherent rage. One of the gentlemen of the concert band stood nearby, awkwardly clasping his cello – Le Sac’s accompanist, I presumed. And, standing in the full glare of the daylight from the windows was Jenison, hands behind his back, head raised, feet planted apart in a stance of stern implacability. Behind him, sly Mr Ord bobbed and grinned.

  I went back down the stairs, careless of the creaking, knowing that none would hear me. Le Sac had brought the confrontation upon himself, yet of all the men gathered in that window it was he who sparked my compassion. For his dignity in fury, if nothing else.

  And Ord and Jenison were the men whom Claudius Heron would have me placate, men who had decided to be rid of someone they found difficult to control and instead to put in his place another man of more pliability. And I knew I had no choice but to accept the situation. Jenison and Ord held the key not only to my successful future as a musician but to my very survival. A man must eat and thus must earn money in his chosen profession.

  But it sickened me. Walking up the Fleshmarket, ignoring the children that bumped me and the carriers that barged the corners of their boxes into my legs, I felt disgusted at myself. And when a tavern presented itself with open doors, I turned into it, regardless of the urine-damp straw upon the floor and the stink of sour ale. And there, for some hours, I proceeded to drink as much as Tom Mountier ever did, and to become progressively more and more sober and morose. Who was Claudius Heron to lecture me on my behaviour? He was a gentleman with an inheritance and coal mines aplenty, stocks and shares by the hundreds, money to drop into a working man’s outstretched hands. What did he know of earning a living?

  Eventually I went home, walking straight, with a mind sharpened still further by the cold night air. As I let myself into the house, I could hear voices, miners arguing in the back rooms; on the first floor, Mrs Foxton called to one of the lodgers. I was in no mood to speak to anyone; I climbed the stairs wearily, searching my pockets for my key.

  My gaze was arrested by the door to my room. Wood showed pale and raw where the lock had been broken. I touched the door; it swung silently open. I listened for the quick rush of footsteps, tensed myself for an attack.

  None came. The door swung on, opening wide.

  And showed me the boy, sprawled upon the floor amid the smashed fragments of his violin. In his right hand was clutched, not the Corelli that I had insisted upon, but the Vivaldi. And the pages were soaked with blood.

  26

  ELEGY

  I leaned over the banister and called down to Mrs Foxton. The muffled voices from the first floor ceased; Mrs Foxton’s voice came from the landing below.

  “Can I help you, Mr Patterson?”

  “I would be obliged if you would send for Bedwalters,” I said, amazed at the calmness of my voice. “There has been an accident.”

  But as I stood over George’s crumpled body again, I knew it had been no accident. There was nothing to explain the blood upon the music – no broken glass or fallen knife. Nor would George have been so careless as to fool around with his violin in his hand; his livelihood depended upon that instrument. And the violin itself lay oddly beneath the boy – face up, the bridge sprung free as the tension of the strings was released. The curved back had been smashed and the neck broken. I could not imagine how it might have fallen thus: because of the grip with which the player holds the neck, the violin should surely have fallen face down when George fell.

  Bedwalters came up, the street girl who seemed to be so often with him treading behind. The girl carried a candle, its light flickering across her curious composed features. The intake of breath I heard did not come from her but from Bedwalters. From the door jamb, Mrs Foxton muttered.

  “I have not touched him,” I said.

  Bedwalters nodded. He shifted forward, cautiously trod to the other side of the body and lifted an unlit branch of candles from the table. As the girl tilted the flame of her candle to them the room grew brighter and the hunched shape upon the floor more awful.

  “Not much blood,” Bedwalters said, looking down. “Perhaps he broke his neck in falling. But then why should there be any blood at all?”

  I explained my reservations abou
t the violin; Bedwalters nodded again. “You’ll know that better than me, Mr Patterson. Since you were good enough not to touch the body, perhaps you were good enough not to touch anything else in the room? A knife, perhaps?” He must have seen my puzzlement. “Some people prefer not to be associated with suicide.”

  “Suicide!” I echoed incredulously. “George would not do that!”

  “I only meant that it must always be considered, sir. You would be surprised how many people in this town live in quiet despair.”

  I glanced at him in surprise, for he had spoken with a kind of passion. And I saw too a shift in the girl’s stance; she had for a moment lost her composure. But she was still again in a moment. I looked down upon the body with Bedwalters silent beside me.

  “It cannot have been suicide,” I pointed out. “He has the violin in one hand and music in the other. How could he also have handled a knife?”

  Bedwalters nodded. “If you don’t object, sir, I’d like to turn him on his back.”

  With considerable reluctance, I bent to help him. The movement set the candle flames leaping and the shadows moving, and for one dreadful moment I thought I saw the boy move too. But his flesh was already cold and passive under my hands; he seemed extraordinarily heavy. As we turned him, the violin slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Then his head fell back against my shoulder and Mrs Foxton said faintly, “God have mercy.”

  His throat had been cut.

  I turned my head away from the gaping maw of flesh, sinew and bone, and helped Bedwalters lay George down again. I brushed at the shoulder of my coat. There was no blood there but I fancied I could see the imprint of that bloody gaping hole, that it would be there for ever.

  “Not suicide,” Bedwalters said. “No boy could do that to himself.”