by Roz Southey
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
One moment of cold hard fear, then I raged downstairs, note in hand, looking for someone, anyone, to take my anger out on.
There was no one. Conversation still echoed from the dining room; the drawing room was as empty as I’d left it. In the hallway, I almost walked into Crompton but whisked myself out of his way. It was all very well to turn a blind eye to Fowler’s activities, but to be branded his friend, to have a servant think I was of the same persuasion – God, but that was dangerous ground! I stalked on.
Heron met me at the library door, took one look at my face and ushered me outside. We stood on the gravel of the drive with a thin rain spitting in our faces; he took my arm and guided me to the shelter of the nearest tree. Unable to trust myself to speak, I handed him the note; as he read it, his lean cheeks went dull. He said flatly, “This is abominable.”
I outlined what had happened. Heron turned over the note as he listened, as if he suspected there might be some clue on it, some hint as to its author. He said finally, when I’d finished, “We must approach this in a sensible, logical frame of mind.”
“Which is precisely what I can’t do,” I retorted. But I gripped a low-hanging branch and tried to be objective. “The fellow who wrote this note knows two things – that I have the book and that Esther’s welfare is dear to me. Neither of those things is common knowledge.”
“The betrothal is not,” Heron said, “but your fondness for Mrs Jerdoun is. There has been gossip. And Alyson hints from time to time that he knows more than he is prepared to say.”
“For heaven’s sake!” I exploded. “Only yesterday he was eager to keep the whole matter quiet.”
“He is a boy,” Heron said dismissively, “with a boy’s love of secrets. But the book is a different matter. Have you told anyone else about it?”
“No one but yourself,” I said. “Given the danger, I didn’t want to put anyone else at risk.”
“So, logically, only one other person can know you have it.”
“The murderer.”
“Exactly.” Heron waved the note. “Then we know that whoever sent this is indeed the murderer and must be taken seriously. And he clearly has access to the house...”
“He has an accomplice,” I said. “Two men were involved in the attack in the wood. One could be a servant here. A servant would have little difficulty in pushing the note under my door.”
“Or purloining the harpsichord key,” Heron agreed, then looked exasperated at my puzzlement. “Really, Patterson, think! You did indeed have the key earlier today – I heard you tuning the instrument. The key was taken so you would go back to your room to look for it, thus ensuring you discovered the note. I warrant you the key’s now back in the drawing room. Hidden in the stack of music perhaps?”
“Damn...”
“We must question the butler – he should know of the servants’ movements.”
“I’ve already asked Fowler to do that,” I admitted. “I told him to be subtle.”
Heron gave me a long measured look. “Then he will have to be more brutal. I will not allow this fellow to roam unpunished abroad any longer. This must be an end of it.”
I knew he was thinking of something I wouldn’t like – he had a familiar look in his eye, a look that said he was prepared to ride roughshod over all obstacles.
“The murderer will send you another note,” he said, “detailing what he wants you to do. When you receive it, let me know at once. We will pretend to give in to his demands and set a trap to catch him.”
My heart sank. “But I do not have the book here.”
He gestured away the problem. “We will take one of roughly equal size and weight from the library.”
“And when he discovers it’s not the book he wants?”
“We will have caught him by then.” He handed the note back to me. “Continue as if nothing is wrong. Wait for the murderer to give us further instructions. I will deal with everything else.”
And he strode off before I could raise further objections.
Lizzie Ord was in the drawing room, looking about hesitantly. She was wearing a pretty gown and had dressed her hair less severely. She must have seen me glance at it for she said anxiously. “You do think I look well, Mr Patterson? It is a style Mrs Jerdoun suggested.” She giggled. “She sent her maid to teach the style to my maid, and my maid was so frosty it was like midwinter!”
I summoned strength to answer her in a natural manner. “It suits you very well.”
She looked shyly pleased. “I am going for a walk in the gardens, but I was wondering...” Now she looked nervous. “I would greatly like to go on with my harpsichord lessons in the winter – ”
“Of course,” I said, smiling despite myself at her shy enthusiasm. “Shall we discuss it when we get back to town?”
“Oh, please, yes!”
She was more at ease now. She leant on the harpsichord as I bent to unlock it. “I have been looking at Mr Fischer’s sword.” She shuddered with delicious horror. “It is so beautiful – and frightening too. I’d rather look at the book.”
So would I, I thought dryly. She stepped back so I could prop up the harpsichord’s lid. “It’s a shame it was so damaged. It must be the glue – I daresay it had been kept in a damp place. That’s what makes the flypapers come away from the covers. And I do wish people wouldn’t hook their fingers over the spines of books when they pull them off the shelf – that’s how they get torn. Oh!”
Philip Ord had come into the room, immaculately, if conservatively, dressed, and carrying a cane. “Are you ready, my dear?”
“Oh, yes,” she said shyly.
And he gave her his arm and bore her off on to the terrace. It dawned on me that Philip Ord, brusque and no-nonsense gentleman of the world, with a new mistress every other month, was in the process of falling in love with his own wife.
I rifled through the music. The tuning key had been pushed between two songs – it had been done in a hurry, for it had torn a page. A second note was wrapped round it.
Tonight. Midnight. Leave the book on the parapet of the ornamental bridge and return to the house. Tell no one. Come alone.
I was furious. Not just at the notes but at the way I’d been manipulated, sent running round the house while the murderer or his accomplices sauntered in and out of rooms and carried out their plans unmolested. I was on the verge of summoning Crompton and demanding he line up every servant for me to question. A moment’s thought told me I couldn’t do it. Tell no one. I couldn’t defy the fellow’s instructions; Esther’s safety was more important than my pride.
I heard a noise at the door, looked up – and there was Esther regarding me steadfastly. She looked particularly fine in a gown of the palest green spotted with tiny flowers; her fair hair was drawn up and two little ringlets allowed to fall over one shoulder. And she was wearing one of those hideous caps.
She wasted no time. She left the door open and came across the room, with a challenging look in her eyes. The sun drifted in through the window and touched her with brightness.
“I’ve been talking to Mr Heron,” she said.
“Indeed?”
“He told me you received a note this morning, threatening me.”
“Damn the man!” I exploded before I could stop myself. “I beg your pardon – I meant –”
“You were not going to tell me?”
“I was not,” I said forcibly.
I knew what she was going to say. She was going to demand a part in tonight’s plotting, in whatever Heron had in mind. And that was out of the question.
“Oh really, Charles,” she said in exasperation. “So I am to know nothing of a threat against me? What if I decide to walk alone in the rose garden, or to ride out across country to the village, totally unprotected, unconscious of any danger?”
“I would hope you’d have your maid with you at least!”
“Yesterday you were railing at my decision to we
ar a respectable riding dress rather than breeches,” she said irritably. “Do be consistent, Charles. Do you wish me to follow the conventions or not?”
I scowled.
“Exactly,” she said. “Now I am aware there might be some danger to me, I can take precautions. I can make sure that indeed I do not go out alone. And I can have a loaded pistol at hand at all times. Is anything the matter?”
I was staring at her.
“Yes,” she said. “I do know that you must have some sort of plot in hand to catch this man.”
“And you don’t wish – ”
“I do not wish to set the whole of society in uproar,” she said. “And the people here have contacts with almost all of society – or at least that part of it that is significant. If our marriage is to be accepted, Charles, we must be cautious about our behaviour from now on. And it is not appropriate for a lady to take part in this kind of activity.”
She swept from the room.
Leaving me unhappily ambivalent. I was glad to have Esther safe, to ensure she was not involved in anything dangerous. But I missed, oh how I missed, her no-nonsense disregard for convention where it was at its worst. Even a week or two ago, she would unhesitatingly have insisted on accompanying me – she’d ridden out to protect me from that attack in the wood only a few days ago. But now we were betrothed and Esther was insisting on acting the conventional wife.
And I hated it.
More than hated it.
And why did it make me itch? As if there was something I was missing, some crucial detail...
27
Entertainment is looked for at all times.
[A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes
(Paris; published for the author, 1734)]
I have a great respect for Heron – indeed, a sneaking liking. He’s cynical, overbearing and exacting, but he can be an excellent conversationalist and I’ve spent many a pleasant evening in his company. But if he chooses to take charge of any matter, there is no gainsaying him. When I told him of the second note, he was swift to lay plans. He, Hugh and I would deal with the matter between us. I would obey the instructions and leave a substitute book on the parapet. Hugh was to hide in the shrubbery, Heron in the rose garden – Heron among the roses for heaven’s sake! – and leap out to apprehend the villain when he came for the book. He prowled about the drawing room, dizzying me as I sat at the harpsichord, planning every detail with minute precision.
“The approach to the canal bridge is across grass,” I said at last, when he paused for breath. “The rose garden and the shrubbery are a considerable distance off – you’ll be seen the moment you leave their shelter. There’s no possibility of catching this fellow by surprise.”
“There is, I think, a wood on the other side of the bridge.” Heron stared out of the window. “I wonder if we should place someone at the far side in case the murderer flees that way.”
“I’ve walked through that wood. There’s an access on to the road certainly, but also into the kitchen garden, and back to the house. We can’t keep an eye on them all.”
“Then we will stop him at the bridge,” Heron said decisively.
He was off without another word, leaving me staring at the pages of one of Mr Scarlatti’s abominably difficult sonatas and wondering if there was any prospect at all of bringing the matter off. If the murderer did escape, he’d discover the book was a substitute – would he not then take his anger out on Esther?
None of this brought us any nearer to uncovering the identity of the villains. A young man and an older man, according to Esther. I could still not discount Fischer. He could have left the notes; he could have been in Newcastle to attack the chapman. But surely he’d not have been fit enough to chase me up Butcher Bank? That might have been a hypothetical son. But if such a person existed, he probably had attacked the chapman too and it didn’t matter whether Fischer was in town at the right time or not.
And I’d swear Fischer had known nothing of Nell’s death until I told him.
My thoughts turned to Crompton. He had secrets that could send him to a noose if they were known, and was being threatened with exposure. He could easily have left notes in any part of the house; he could have attacked me in the grounds. He had no motive that I could think of, but perhaps he was acting under duress. But of course he couldn’t have killed the chapman – he could never have left the house for any length of time.
And there was Fowler, who’d been reluctant to promise me the name I wanted. Had he even questioned Crompton? Was he protecting a man for whom he must inevitably have all the sympathy in the world? Was he protecting himself? He and Crompton were more than – friends.
The door opened; Alyson sauntered in with an easy grin. He had the book of the opera in his hand, a finger between its pages.
“My dear Patterson!” He lounged against the harpsichord. “Do tell! What’s going on?”
I didn’t have a chance of feigning innocence; he bent towards me. “Now don’t deny it. I’ve just seen Heron creep into the library and come out again with a book of architectural drawings. And only a few days ago he was telling me rebuilding this house was a fool’s errand and he didn’t have the least interest in it!” He winked at me. “Come on, Patterson, tell me all.”
He had my name right, I noted, and wondered if he’d taken care to do so because he wanted information out of me.
“It’s the murderer, isn’t it?” He glanced round conspiratorially as if suspecting someone was hiding in the huge winged armchairs. “I’d like to help,” he said wistfully. “I really would.”
I couldn’t resist his boyish enthusiasm. “It will be dangerous,” I said, somewhat lamely.
“More reason to have all the help you can.”
I told him, briefly and in outline, what had happened. He was outraged to hear of the notes and was all for summoning the servants and threatening to dismiss them unless the culprit confessed. The uproar – and the later resentment of the servants – would be tremendous and all for no possible result. And the murderer might take revenge. Tell no one. I talked Alyson out of the idea but he went on to an equally unwelcome topic. Why was I using a substitute book?
“I don’t have the original,” I admitted.
He looked bewildered. “But you said you did.”
“Did I?” I frowned. “When?”
“In Newcastle. At the Golden Fleece. I’m sure you said you’d found it.”
I couldn’t remember. “Everything was so confused.”
“I thought you had it in your bag.”
“No, that was just clothes.”
“But you do have it? Simply – you don’t have it here?”
I was forced to admit this was true.
“We could send one of the servants for it!” he said eagerly.
We could not, I thought. Besides, the only servant I trusted fully at this moment was Esther’s maid, Catherine, and I wasn’t about to expose her to danger.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said. “I’m the only one who can reclaim the book.”
Alyson pondered on this for a moment. “Then the only thing we can do is go ahead with the plan and make quite certain we catch them.”
We?
“Midnight,” Alyson said thoughtfully. “I’ll be there. In the shrubbery with Mr Dobson.” He grinned hugely. “Mr Pattinson, I am so glad I met you. I’d no notion that life could be so exciting! Meanwhile – ” He brandished the opera book. “ – we’ll carry on as usual, to lull the murderer’s suspicions. We’ve let this opera project drop and I am determined to get back to it.”
The rest of the day I spent in an agony of anticipation. The opera project was seized on with eagerness by all as if it was something entirely new. Alyson had the inspiration of including dances in the opera which provoked a general exodus in the direction of the library, and repeated demands that I should accompany the dancers. Moving the harpsichord was out of the question – it would be horribly out of tune instan
tly – so I fetched my fiddle and stood for hours playing through every dance tune I could think of.
After an hour and a half of this, I’d a great deal of sympathy with the renegade spirit who was bemoaning the destruction of his usual peace and quiet, and threatening to escape to one of the attic rooms.
“Do so,” I said wearily. “I would love to join you.”
Hugh was trying to coach the ladies in a complicated step; I said, “The old man – the uncle – did he die here?”
“No one knows exactly where he died,” the spirit said. “Went out for a ride, put his horse at a fence and came off. Caught his foot in a stirrup and the horse dragged him a mile or more. If you want my opinion,” it added, “he did it deliberately. He once said that if he died in the house he’d be listening to that nephew of his spending all his money and he’d had enough of that in life.”
“Did you ever meet Alyson before the old man died?”
“Lord, yes. Came here two or three times. Always dressed up to the nines and saying he needed money.”
“Did he get it?”
The spirit cackled. “The old man told him to sell his clothes! Mind you, there was always a little something missing after he’d gone.”
“He stole things?” I said incredulously.
“Caught him once,” the spirit said. “Putting one of the old man’s mother’s necklaces in his pocket. Said it would come to him in the end anyway. And it was an ugly old-fashioned thing.”
Well, I reflected, that bore out Fowler’s story of Alyson pottering off to the country for more money. But the ‘trustees’ had not existed. “Did you tell his uncle?”
“He knew,” the spirit said.
“I’m surprised he didn’t will the property away from his nephew.”
“Didn’t make a will. Kept saying there was plenty of time.”
“And Alyson was the only living relative?”
“No, there are cousins somewhere. Scotch cousins.” The spirit, to my astonishment, giggled. “Mind you, young Mr A is getting paid back in his own coin, so to speak.”