Sword and Song

by Roz Southey

  The girl brought the ale and Hugh waved away my offer to pay. We sat in silence for a minute or two, which Hugh occupied by folding the paper and neatly smoothing it out. I drank my ale. Around us, gentlemen debated Mr Walpole’s misdeeds, or the price of coal, or the advantages of investing in government stock.

  “Ready?” Hugh asked eventually.

  Just at that moment I wanted to be anywhere but in Mrs McDonald’s house, waiting for the spirit of a murdered girl to disembody, facing Bedwalters’s grief.

  I finished my ale. “As much as I’ll ever be.”

  11

  If I have one piece of advice for all visitors, it is to leave the questions of politics and religion alone. No good will come of discussing such things.

  [A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes

  (Paris; published for the author, 1734)]

  The empty bed, with its linen freshly washed and folded, dominated the room. If I looked at it out of the corner of my eye, I half-thought I could see a body there still. But Bedwalters’s razor was on the table now, and a copy of the latest Courant. The women’s clothes had been put away; Bedwalters’s second-best coat hung over the back of the chair. He brought a bottle of wine and three mismatched glasses from the kitchen; the wine was cheap but not unpalatable.

  We sat for three hours, making desultory polite conversation. Beyond the closed door, we could hear the women coming and going, laughter, men’s voices... We talked about the political situation, the weather, the cracks recently found in All Hallows church. We managed to work up some righteous indignation on this latter topic – the building has been known to be insecure for years and nothing has yet been done. I thought Walpole’s latest doings would probably occupy a good few minutes but since we were unanimous in condemning the government entirely, that conversation petered out quicker than all the rest.

  Our ingenuity failed us at last. We sat in embarrassed silence until, luckily, someone knocked on the door. Bedwalters opened it to reveal a middle-aged woman of respectable appearance, a letter in her hand. She looked from one to the other of us in nervous apprehension then her gaze settled on Bedwalters. “I’ve had a note from the landlord, sir, and I was wondering...”

  “Of course I’ll read it to you,” Bedwalters said. “Do come in.”

  “I can pay, sir – ”

  “We’ll get some food,” Hugh said brightly and dragged me out of the house. Behind we heard the woman explaining how her husband was in the navy and she had four children; Bedwalters murmured in sympathetic understanding.

  “It’s the damnedest thing,” Hugh said. “I could swear he’s almost happy.”

  We had to go some distance before we could find a shop whose wares we felt happy eating. “All Hallows vestry have elected a new constable,” Hugh said, as we rejected a dark hole of a house with a few loaves on a dusty table in the window. “Philips the shoemaker.”

  “His sons sing in church. Nice voices.”

  “His daughter’s one of my pupils. One of those girls who always whine.”

  “Philips himself is decent enough.” I squinted against the lowering afternoon sun. “A trifle strict, perhaps.”

  We found somewhere clean, bought a large bread pudding and a jug of ale and carried them back to Mrs McDonald’s.

  We’d hardly set foot in the house when we realised something had happened.

  The door to Nell’s room was shut. The entire population of the house stood in doorways, at the foot of the stairs, in the kitchen. All the women, young and old. A girl of sixteen or so was trying to stifle tears; Mrs McDonald was patting her on the back. We heard low voices from Nell’s room.

  “We’ll come back,” I said.

  It was almost an hour before Bedwalters came out to us. We were sitting on the cobbles of the street sharing the ale and pudding when we heard footsteps and looked round to see him in the doorway.

  “She would like to talk to you, Mr Patterson.”

  I scrambled up and shook the dirt from my coat skirts. When I went back into the house, the women were nowhere to be seen, clearly going about their business as usual. We ventured into Bedwalters’s room in some trepidation. The spirit gleamed on the edge of a cheap print hung above the bed – an unsteady fluctuating brightness.

  “Mr Patterson,” the spirit said.

  “I’m sorry to meet you again under such circumstances.”

  “No need to worry, sir,” she said softly. “It was going to happen some day.”

  “It should not have happened,” Bedwalters said, with sudden vehemence. “I should have protected you.”

  “I need to know as much as possible, Nell.” I spoke soothingly more for Bedwalters’s sake than the spirit’s. “We need to know what happened.”

  She told us in a quiet voice so calm it was eerily out of place. Hugh, face set hard, sat down on the uneven chair, leaning his arms on his knees; I thrust my clenched fists in my pockets and hunched into my damp greatcoat. To hear such a terrible tale told in such a tranquil voice was almost more than I could bear. Only Bedwalters seemed composed, watching the gleam with steady dedication.

  It had been like any other day, Nell said. She’d been working. She and two of the other girls enjoyed a gossip in a tavern then went out to ply their trade.

  “Where did you go?” I asked.

  “Down on the Keyside, sir, as usual. But it was very quiet. Hardly anyone about. Not many ships in. The tide was running out, you see, and most of them had set sail.” The young voice sounded almost amused. “You wouldn’t think there’d ever be a shortage of sailors, would you, sir? But when I went into the taverns they were all dead drunk, or already taken. So I went into the Old Man Inn.”

  “A very disreputable house,” Bedwalters said. “The watch have to break up fights there almost every night.”

  “And I met the young gentleman there again.”

  “Again?” I said. “You’d met him before?”

  “Four or five times, sir. Though not always in the Old Man.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jem, sir.”

  Hugh groaned. How many Jems were there in the world?

  “Can you describe him?”

  “A year or two younger than you,” the spirit said. “About your height, but a bit darker.”

  “With his own hair?”

  “Yes, sir. And a bit of a stutter, sir, except when he’s excited – if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. And anyone can feign a stutter. “Did he ever tell you what he does for a living?”

  “I think he said he was an apprentice, sir.”

  “In what trade?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “When did you first meet him?”

  “A year or more ago, sir. Usually in the street. He kept a lookout for me, he said. But I only came across him now and again. I – ” She hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “I think maybe he wasn’t from here. Maybe he was from Shields or Sunderland or some other place. If he lived in Newcastle, I think I’d have seen him more often.”

  Hugh swore. But I was heartened by the news. If the apprentice lived in some other local town, he might think himself safe there. He might not have run off to London after all.

  “Did he ever threaten you?”

  “Never,” the spirit said firmly. “I never imagined he might. He was always so full of himself, never thought of anyone else.” A hint of amusement. “Thought no woman could resist him. Thought he was a heaven-sent lover. But he was nothing of the sort. No better than any of the men. No better, no worse.” Her voice softened. “Not the kind I like.”

  Hugh shuffled his feet in embarrassment; Bedwalters kept his steadfast gaze on the spirit of his lover.

  “So what was different this time?” I said. “What made him violent towards you?”

  “The book,” she said simply. “It was the book. And I don’t know why, sir. Why should anyone kill for a book? And it wasn’t an ex
pensive book, neither. Nothing but a book of old tunes.”

  12

  It goes without saying that one should never travel by night.

  [A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes

  (Paris; published for the author, 1734)]

  My voice sounded distant and oddly matter-of-fact. “What did this book look like?”

  “Old,” the spirit said. “And black. And the covers were loose and coming away.”

  “Was there writing in the front?”

  “It was all written,” she said. “None of it printed. But some of it wasn’t in English – I couldn’t read it. And I can read.”

  “Of course you can,” Bedwalters said fondly. His expression was astonishing, a mixture of grief, and love, and pride.

  “And there was music too?”

  “On every page.”

  Fischer’s book. Casper Fischer’s inheritance, that Lizzie Ord had seen in her father’s printing shop a year or two back. How in heaven’s name did all this come together? And how was I to tell Fischer that his book had caused a girl’s death?

  “Did Jem say where he’d got the book?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So you met him at the Old Man and he had the book with him. When was this?”

  “A week ago, sir.”

  “A week before you – ” I couldn’t say the word.

  “Died, sir,” she said composedly. “It was the Saturday. A little over a week before. I brought him back here and after we were finished, he asked if I’d keep the book for him for a week or two. He said it was a gift for his father and he didn’t want to keep it at home in case his father saw it.”

  “A gift? In such a bad condition?”

  “He said he was going to get it repaired, sir. He said he’d give me sixpence if I kept it safe.”

  “And then you met him again on Tuesday?”

  “Outside the chandlers, sir, on the Key. He recognised me at once and said straight away he’d get his book off me, and use my services at the same time.”

  “So you came back here, you – er – ” I foundered, casting a panicked look at Bedwalters, but he was perfectly calm. “Afterwards, he wanted the book.”

  “Not afterwards, sir,” she said. “He asked me for it as soon as we got here. I got it for him and he thanked me and gave me my sixpence. And then – ” She faltered for the first time; she fell briefly silent, then said more firmly: “I never saw him do it. I was lying on my face for – ” Another hesitation. “That’s the way some gentlemen like to do it. And afterwards, he leant over me and whispered in my ear. And I’d just realised he’d said goodbye when I felt a great burning in my back and – and – ”

  “Hush, hush,” Bedwalters whispered. “I’m here. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

  Hugh, still hunched over his knees, shifted violently.

  “And he never told you his surname?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything odd he said? Any jewellery he wore?”

  “No jewellery, sir,” she said straightaway. A pause. “I don’t remember anything.”

  “Well,” I said. “If you do, will you tell Mr Bedwalters?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “I’ll be here,” Bedwalters said.

  I had no doubt of that.

  He accompanied us to the door. The fine drizzle had eased; the sky was clearing. We stood for a while in silence. An elderly man plodded morosely by, bowed under the weight of half a tree trunk. I said, “I must go back to Long End tonight. Can you enquire about any missing apprentices?”

  Bedwalters’s face lightened. “Indeed, I would be glad of something practical to do. I can send to the towns round about too, to see if anything is known there.”

  “We could send a notice to the London papers,” Hugh said. “Raise the hue and cry.”

  Bedwalters shook his head. “We don’t know enough, sir. A young man, dark-haired, about Mr Patterson’s height? How many men would fit that description?” He looked at me with a direct challenge in his eyes. “Can we catch him, Mr Patterson?”

  I would not lie to him. “I’ll try.”

  He nodded, as if it was exactly as he’d expected. He looked up and down the road as if the passers-by interested him greatly. “Westgate was busier,” he said, “but there are not so many carts and carriages here, which is a great blessing. There is much less noise.”

  We walked away in silence. Only when we reached the end of the street did Hugh say bitterly, “He’s reconciled himself to the change in his station. He already looks on this place as home. This place.” He threw out a hand to melodramatically demonstrate the dilapidated street. “Of all the people who deserve better, Bedwalters and that girl must be foremost.” He took a deep breath. “When do you have to be back at Long End?”

  “As soon as possible. Hugh, can you enquire at the Old Man and some of the other taverns along the Key? Ask if anyone saw Nell with someone of the right description. Someone might know him.”

  Hugh regarded me dryly. “That’s a long shot.”

  “Everything in this matter is a long shot,” I said bitterly. “Hugh, you know as well as I do we’ve little chance of success. But we must try!”

  Hugh wanted me to linger over a drink with him but we had spent longer than I’d anticipated talking to the spirit and it was later than I’d hoped. I didn’t fancy riding the seven miles to Long End at night, so I decided to set out at once. I was riding up Northumberland Street on my way to Barras Bridge when I heard my name called. A horseman in a yellow-green riding coat came clattering up behind me, causing pedestrians to scatter. I looked at the dark lively face with astonishment and doffed my hat. “Mr Alyson.”

  He urged his horse alongside mine; the animals might be from the same stable but his was undoubtedly better bred and more highly strung – a glossy black horse that seemed to take fright at every scrap of paper or flash of colour. Alyson controlled it effortlessly and I felt lumpen by his side.

  He was grinning broadly, like a boy playing truant. “See! I made it after all. Am I too late? Is the excitement all over? You have the fellow?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But the spirit has disembodied?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And she gave you a good description of the villain?”

  “An excellent one,” I said dryly. “Young, dark-haired, about my height – oh, and he wore a gaudy waistcoat.”

  Alyson laughed. “So detailed! Does he have a name?”

  “Jem.”

  “In short,” he said, apparently finding it all exquisitely humorous, “she knew nothing.”

  “Nothing of any use,” I admitted. “Except – ”

  He curbed his horse’s interest in a passing dog, raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t think he was from Newcastle. He didn’t have a local accent. And she only saw him occasionally, as if he came to town only now and again.”

  “A hint,” Alyson said, thoughtfully. “But hardly of great help. You can hardly go around questioning every man not native to the town.”

  “Every young man,” I said.

  “Even so – there must be hundreds.” He cast me a sympathetic look. “Your trip seems to have been disappointing, Pattinson. You think he will escape unscathed?”

  I wondered if there was anything I could do to persuade him to use my correct name. “Not if I have anything to do with it,” I retorted. “I’m not finished yet.” I was tempted to tell him about the book but thought better of it; I owed Fischer that information first.

  We turned to ride over Barras Bridge; a wagon coming the other way narrowed the space so Alyson and I had to ride single file. He, of course, went first. He waited until we could again ride side by side. “Have you seen the constable?”

  “Bedwalters? He’s been dismissed from the post.”

  “One has sympathy of course,” Alyson said, in an unsympathetic tone. “But he can hardly be surprised. Associating with someone of t
hat girl’s kind is bad enough, but to throw caution to the winds and sacrifice everything to her, is simply preposterous! And she is in any case dead! How can such a whimsical gesture profit him?”

  I bit back anger. “It can be very difficult to divine other people’s motives.”

  Alyson laughed. “I think that’s an understatement!”

  He urged his horse into a trot and I was forced to do likewise to keep up with him. We rode out into the country. The sun at times peered through gaps in the cloud layer – it was so low that it dazzled us as the road twisted and turned. We saw a few locals: two or three labourers in the fields; a clergyman in a smart carriage; an elderly woman picking berries in a hedge. Alyson began to whistle through his teeth.

  “Did your business go well, sir?”

  “Business? Oh, the matter of the woodland. I warn you, Pattinson – never inherit an estate. You start out thinking it will be wonderful to have such wealth and then you suddenly find you’ve also inherited a score of disputes with neighbours, half of which are just about to go to court. I’ve tried to talk Ridley out of it, but he insists on going ahead. Are you enjoying yourself at Long End, Patterson?”

  Startled, I stared at him. He was my employer, paying me to do a job for him. What did he expect me to say? No, your friends are rude and patronizing. No, the conditions are dreadful. “The house is very comfortable,” I said. “And your guests are interesting people.”

  “Lawyer Armstrong picked them very well,” he agreed. “They are good people, very good people. Of course, some are rather idiosyncratic, shall we say? Heron, for one. Have you ever got a word out of the fellow?”

  “He is naturally reserved,” I said.

  “And that Colonial, always talking about his inheritance.” Alyson was looking about him as if he thought he’d caught a glimpse of something unexpected. We were on a lonely stretch of the road with no one about, and a hump of woodland loomed up ahead. I fancied he didn’t like the look of it – all gloomy and shadowed – and neither did I.

  “Have you been looking for this book today?”