by Roz Southey
“Murder?” Mrs Foxton said in shocked tones.
I forced my mind to work. “He would have made an easy victim – small, not very strong. Both his hands were occupied. He would have been fearful of dropping the violin too...”
I stopped. Bedwalters and I both stared at the ruined instrument that had slipped from George’s limp fingers. Bedwalter’s large hands hovered over the fragments of wood.
“He wasn’t holding the violin,” he said. “The dead don’t let go of what they were holding when they died. Not at once, at any rate. Look how he grips that paper. He held that when he died. But the violin – no.” He reached down to George’s left hand and, to my extreme discomfort, shifted the fingers. I heard the rasp of broken bones.
“His hand was broken to force the violin into it.” Bedwalters stood up, tapping his teeth thoughtfully. “And another thing. A cut throat should have covered the floor with blood.”
“Yet there is hardly any at all,” I agreed, still rubbing at my shoulder. “And all of it on the music.”
Bedwalters bent and set his palm flat against the floor as if feeling for moisture. He brought it up dry. “A spot or two, nothing more. So...” He gave a heavy sigh. “He wasn’t killed here.”
We looked unhappily at one another, but it was Mrs Foxton who spoke the words aloud. “If you don’t know where he was killed, you’ll not find his spirit. And if you can’t find his spirit, you won’t be able to ask who killed him. The murderer will get away with it!”
Bedwalters departed to inform the Justice of the death; he managed to lock the damaged door again and took the key with him. I did not wish to go back into the room, but as I stood at the door, looking out at the chill starry night, I wondered where I was to spend the night.
“Mrs Foxton, I will stay with – with friends. If I am asked after, by Bedwalters or the Justice, tell them I will return tomorrow before ten.” I turned to go, then paused. “Did you not hear anyone come in?”
“Of course I heard someone come in,” she said sharply. “Twenty-five people live in this house. People are always coming in.”
“Thank you,” I said, and stepped into the street to prevent myself snapping at her.
The cold air made me reel, or perhaps it was the lingering effects of the ale I had consumed that afternoon. I was tempted to head back to the inn but I needed rest and quiet thought, not ale. For one thing, I must be clear-headed on the morrow for the inquest. I would have to explain not only how I had found George but also when I had last seen him, and that would entail awkward questions about the duel.
A cold realisation gripped me. If Claudius Heron had sent George home, he could have been the last to see him alive. I stopped in the middle of the street, appalled by the thought that had crept into my mind. I had only Heron’s word that he had sent George home. And the man had been unusually bitter, unusually discomposed when I spoke to him.
Heron?
I needed to think, in quiet, on my own. I might find a room for the night at Mrs Hill’s, but there I would have Dick Kell to deal with. I turned my footsteps towards Westgate Road.
There was a frost in the air; it sparkled in the stone of the walls and gleamed off the windows. Overhead, stars glittered in a faultless sky, although to the east a heavy cloud hung upon the horizon – the smoke from the salt-works at Shields. Plenty of people were still about; whores laughed in the arms of sailors, an embarrassed chaplain hurried quickly by, children played jumping games on a grid scratched into the earth of the street. At the entrance to Caroline Square, I paused, glancing across at the dark outline of Lady Anne’s house. Lady Anne, Esther Jerdoun, even the house itself, seemed to conspire against me but I would not complain. I was still alive.
Westgate itself was quiet, as more genteel districts generally are. The tall houses, thin-faced, marched up the hill towards the dark hulk of the West Gate itself. I passed the dark wall of the Vicarage Gardens, crossed to the guttering dying lanterns of the Assembly Rooms and came to Demsey’s dancing-school. The side door was unlocked as ever; I was preoccupied as I climbed the flight of stairs. Could I conceive of Claudius Heron as a murderer? He had the coolness for it. But what possible reason could he have for harming George?
I passed the schoolroom. I had no wish to spend the night on the floor, or on one of the damned uncomfortable chairs round the walls. (“Of course they’re uncomfortable, Charles. They are designed to encourage people to stand up and dance!”) I climbed to the attic, lifted my hand and tapped on the door of Demsey’s rooms.
“Hugh? Hugh, if you’re there I need to speak to you.”
Silence.
“Hugh, for God’s sake! It’s not about that... that quarrel we had. It’s about George.” I could hardly bring myself to say the words. “The boy’s dead, Hugh. Murdered.”
A moment’s silence, then a key clicked in the lock. The door swung open on to a shadowy room lit by only a single candle. Demsey stared at me, wild-eyed.
“Murdered?” He clutched at my sleeve. “I didn’t do it, Charles. I swear! The boy was alive when I left him!”
27
SONATA
I pushed him back into the room and shut the door lest our voices echo down the stairs to any chance passer-by. In the shadowy candlelight the room looked very much as it always had; the bed was made, clothes were piled in an open chest, papers laid across the table as if Demsey had been working at them.
“When were you with him, Hugh?” I asked carefully.
He looked at me with a glimmer of amusement. “Don’t use that damn tone with me, Charles. I know I’m in your bad books.”
“Can you blame me? After that affair with Nichols?”
“It was none of your business!” he flared, then swore and took a turn about the room to calm himself.
“Perhaps. And I ... I behaved abominably,” I said, finding, I admit, some difficulty in saying the words.
He spun and flashed me a grin. “So you did. But I knew if I left you to stew a week or two, you’d come round.”
“Hugh!” I exclaimed in exasperation. “Of all the –” But I could not remain angry. Our old friendship mitigated against it. I seized and embraced him, then fell to further abusing him, until we were both convinced that all grudges were satisfied. And I felt a huge relief too, that I was not left alone to cope with this mess.
“Hugh – have you ever been in Caroline Square?”
He was pouring ale from a jug on the table. “Of course. I’ve a couple of pupils there.”
“Did you ever notice anything odd about it?”
“There’s that damn spirit, in the gardens.”
“No, I meant at Lady Anne’s house.”
He looked bewildered. “How odd? New cobbles? New railings?”
“No, no. Take no notice.” I downed ale while he watched me critically. “I cannot think straight with this business of George.”
“Charles –”
“Wait.” I perceived he was about to ask me about the boy. “Let me take this in order. Tell me what you have been doing since I last saw you.” There was fear in my mind, if truth be told – fear of finding out what had happened to George, of discovering Hugh had played some part in it.
He ran his hand through his black hair. “I went to Aberdeen,” he said, “to chase after friend Nichols’s past.” He seized my arm. “Charles! You know what they suggested of me with the Lindsay girl!”
“I have seen her,” I said. “She was pointed out to me at a concert. As sly a slut as I have ever seen.”
He snorted with laughter. “She is one of those that twists this way and that when dancing, always seems to be looking past her partner’s shoulder, or under his arm, and when you glance round to see what’s caught her attention, you see it’s her own reflection in the glass!”
I sipped my ale; Demsey always bought the best, and hang the expense. The sloping roof prevented me from standing upright and I perched upon the edge of the bed.
“What happened?”
/> “Nothing.” He shook his head at my stare of disbelief. “Honestly, Charles. I knew nothing of the matter until the day after. Her governess sat with us the entire lesson.”
“Then how could anything ever be proved against you?”
“Charles, Charles. There is no need of proof. Rumour does the trick amply. The girl denied the whole thing throughout. The father – as sour-faced a bigot as I ever saw – summoned me to his inner sanctum and called upon the slut to accuse me. “Oh, father,’ she cried.” (Demsey’s imitation was scurrilous.) “‘Oh, father, how can you think such a thing. Mr Demsey is the soul of honour!’ And all the time she’s making sheep’s eyes at me and damn near winking!”
“And you say Nichols put her up to it? What persuasion did he use? She came perilously close to sacrificing her reputation.”
“Marriage.” He grinned at my incredulity. “Close your mouth, Charles – it does not become you. He swore he would marry her and bear her off to the delights of London.”
“Good God.” I could not conceive that even the most naïve of females could tolerate the thought of marriage to Nichols. “But the fellow’s a mere dancing master – she would hope to do better than that!”
I stopped. Demsey’s expression had twisted and he looked upon me with some dislike. “A mere dancing master?”
“I was referring to Nichols,” I said quickly. “You are of such a superior stamp that I had for a moment quite forgotten your profession.”
He regarded me consideringly. “A tolerable retreat, Charles, tolerable. No more than that. But what can one expect of a mere musician?”
I grinned. “Touché. And what did you find at Aberdeen?”
He swung round to the table and seized up some papers.
“See here, Charles. Letters from – well, I had better not say the name. A gentleman in Aberdeen, the younger son of a trading family there, with connections in Norway and the Baltic, very respectable, well-moneyed. He has a daughter whom friend Nichols taught. Nichols tried to seduce her, promised her marriage and might even have gone through with it had not the girl confided her joy to her elder sister.”
“He wanted the money, I suppose.”
“No,” Demsey said grimly. “What he wanted was the title of gentleman. He tried to bargain with them. He said they could tie up the largest part of the girl’s dowry so he could not gain access to it, provided they gave him an allowance, accepted him at dinner parties and introduced him to polite society. It was politely suggested to him that he should return to his native land.”
“Where he thought to try the same trick again for a different purpose – to be rid of a rival.”
Demsey stood, papers in hand, the animation dying from his face. “I brought the whole matter on myself, did I not? Rising to his bait, arguing with him, setting those ruffians on him...”
“Indeed,” I said.
He laughed shakily. “Damn it, Charles. A friend’s supposed to say something consoling in a situation like this.”
“I cannot feel consoling. My apprentice has just been murdered.”
“Damn, I forgot.” He tossed the papers down upon the table. “I saw him this afternoon and he was alive and well. Obstreperous, but well.”
I drained the ale. “Do me the favour of an explanation.”
He shrugged. “No sooner had I returned than I heard about this so-called musical duel. Why in heaven’s name did you agree to it, Charles?”
“I never did. It had gone too far before I knew of it. Ord and Jenison are the guiding hands of the affair. Le Sac made the mistake of injuring them where it hurts them most. He asked for fifteen shillings a night.”
Demsey whistled.
“Of course he is the darling of the audiences.”
“What do they know about music?” Demsey retorted.
“Enough to recognise my worth, I hope,” I said dryly. He made a mocking bow to me. “Go on, go on,” I said irritably. “You had returned and heard of the duel.”
He perched upon the edge of the table, gathering the skirts of his coat away from the flames of the candle. “I thought you might appreciate some support, so I went along to see the affair, thinking I would find you there. Only I arrived at the very moment Le Sac and Nichols stepped across the threshold, and I hung back. I didn’t want to see Light-Heels. Those papers go to lawyer Armstrong tomorrow and I fancied I might be inclined to gloat and arouse Nichols’s suspicions.”
I nodded. “And then?”
“I walked up and down the street to waste a minute or two. I planned to slip in under the arch and go in the back way. But then I saw your boy running along the Fleshmarket, violin case in one hand and music in t’other – till he ran slap-bang up against Claudius Heron. God knows what he was doing there.”
“He was, I believe, trying to prevent the affair.” Or rather, I thought, trying to prevent my becoming embroiled in it. But why, I asked myself, should Heron take such care over me?
“That would accord with what I saw,” Demsey said thoughtfully. “He exchanged a few words with the boy and sent him away. I was too far away to hear what was said but I could see the boy didn’t want to go.”
I sighed. “Jenison and Ord had worked on him. He thought he could defeat Le Sac.”
“That boy? Then he is a bigger fool than I thought.”
“He was,” I agreed.
Demsey winced. “I thought he looked rebellious still, even as he turned back, and then he went charging off at such a pace I was at once suspicious. Do you remember that narrow lane down beside Humble’s stationers?”
“In heaven’s name! The boy ran round the corner, dashed down the alley into the back street, then cut into Mrs Hill’s yard from the rear!”
“Out of Heron’s sight,” Demsey agreed. “I knew I hadn’t time to follow him – I could never have got through the crowds round the butchers’ stalls. So I slipped into the yard when Heron’s back was turned and caught the boy as he came down the alley. I got him by the collar and marched him back out into the street again.” He shifted the candle and glanced at his coat for signs of singeing. “I knew the affair would do you no good, Charles, and I thought that if the boy went missing for an hour or so, the contest could be called off with no blame on you.”
His tone was mild but so like my late unlamented father’s way of reproving me for some foolishness that I at once bristled.
“They would have said I instructed the boy to stay away! And how did you ensure he kept away when Claudius Heron could not?”
He looked shame-faced. “I took him into the nearest tavern.”
I looked upon him with foreboding. “Hugh!”
“I told the landlord the boy was trying to get up courage for an important performance and treated him to strong spirits.”
“Good God, it’s a wonder he wasn’t sick. How much did you ply him with?”
“More than I thought I’d have to. That boy was no stranger to strong drink!”
I started to speak, then shook my head. “I cannot berate him for it now. So how long were you there?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t watch the clock. I fed him enough to get him well away, then steered him in the direction of your lodgings. He was singing,” he added with some asperity. “He was a damn annoying child!”
“Where did you leave him?”
“At the end of your street. I didn’t go to the house in case that landlady of yours saw me. But I watched the boy to the door.”
“Did you see him go in?”
“No,” he said reluctantly.
I was too restless to sit still any longer and started to pace the room. “Could he have decided to go back yet again? He was drunk, after all.”
Demsey straightened the papers on the edge of the table, which I had knocked against in passing. “Charles, why do you not ask the boy’s spirit when it returns?”
“We found the body in my room but he was not killed there.”
“Where, then?”
“We do not know. But
there would have been a great deal of blood – his throat was cut.”
“Poor bastard.” Demsey restlessly straightened papers again, trimmed the guttering candle. “Charles, I can’t see Le Sac killing the boy. He had nothing to fear, surely – he would have won the contest.”
“It is not as straightforward as that.” I explained what Heron had told me. “Ord and Jenison never intended the duel to go ahead. They were merely manoeuvring to get Le Sac into a position from which he could not withdraw with honour.”
“He will not accept defeat,” Hugh said decisively. “Perhaps he killed George to revenge himself on you, thinking that the gentlemen are acting out of partiality for you.”
I laughed harshly. “They are partial to men they think they can control. No, no, I cannot believe it. Le Sac is too proud a man. He thinks George beneath his notice – that’s what galled him about the duel. He did not kill George, I’m certain of that.”
“Then who?”
“God knows.”
A silence. A rumble of wheels from the street outside.
“Charles,” Demsey said at last. “Are you certain George was the target?”
“Who else should it be?” I asked bewildered.
“Damn it, you were attacked only days ago! Yes, yes, I’ve heard about that too... Charles, what if the killer was after you?”
I stared at him. “What was that you said about friends consoling each other?”
“Damn consolation. I’m talking about your life.”
“I cannot believe it! How could anyone mistake the boy for me, even in the dark? And remember, he wasn’t killed in the room – he was placed there afterwards.”
“To incriminate you.”
That suddenly struck me as uncomfortably likely. But my head was aching again, and I was abominably confused.
“That would give Le Sac a good motive,” Hugh pressed.
“Only a moment ago, you said you couldn’t see him as a murderer.”
“Well, he – no, I – damn it, I can’t think straight, Charles.” He swept a hand in a melodramatic gesture at the shadowy room. “It is all hidden in darkness.”
