Secret Lament

by Roz Southey

  “The harpsichord is very much out of tune,” she had said.

  “Do you wish me to tune it for you?” I had said.

  “Indeed – and you may give me my lesson at the same time.”

  At the time I had been wary. I did not like Esther’s house in Caroline Square for it had once been the scene of the most extraordinary events which had left me unnerved and shaken. It was a gateway, in some mysterious inexplicable way, to a different world entirely, one that ran parallel to our own, almost identical but not quite. I had met my own self in that world, and had nearly come by my death.

  But all this had happened last November, well before Christmas – seven months ago now. It had in some respects the quality of a dream; distance had blunted the edge of my fear. In many ways I would have been intrigued to experience something similar again. But I could not open and close the gateway at will but had merely to wait and see if it opened of its own accord. So far it had not.

  “Esther.” I cleared my throat; she started.

  “What? Oh yes. Now where is my music?” She started to sort through the books that lay on top of the harpsichord. Her bare arm, and the fall of lace about her elbow, brushed my sleeve; I caught my breath.

  “Tell me what is wrong,” I said.

  She stared at me then let out a sigh. “You are right of course. But it is only a small thing. There is no need to worry about it.”

  “I always worry when someone tells me not to.”

  She laughed ruefully. I loved that laugh, that smile. (But I would never press myself on her, and no woman, of course, would be so immodest as to proposition a gentleman. Dear God, why was I even thinking about this?)

  “It is a little thing,” Esther said. “But come and have a look.”

  I followed her out of the library into the rear quarters of the house, where the wooden floors gave way to cool flagstones, and servants clattered in the kitchens. The windows at the back of the house looked to the west, and the sun, slanting down the evening sky, cast a red glow through the glass on to the lime-washed walls. I heard a male servant laugh.

  We passed open doors – I glimpsed a wine store and a pantry before we came to the scullery, scattered with tubs and buckets and other mysterious machines. Here a door gave on to the garden. Esther took down a key that hung on a hook beside the door and pushed it into the lock. The key turned smoothly, well-oiled and well-kept.

  When Esther pulled open the door into the sunlit garden, I was assailed by the scents of herbs, mint and sage, thyme and rosemary; a border of chives was in full purple bloom, lavender heads were forming on bushes beyond. I walked out on to a path that bordered cropped lawns. It was a rectangular garden, not large but well-tended and surrounded by a high wall that was almost obliterated by climbing roses; two apple trees stood in the far corner.

  Esther brought my attention back to the house door. “Here. Look.” She fingered the lock plate and I bent to examine it. The plate was shiny and polished, relatively new; the tiny scratches surrounding the lock were very visible.

  I straightened. “Someone has been trying to get in.”

  She nodded. For a moment I saw weariness in her and was tempted to – I took a step back.

  “The gardener will have it that Tom is being careless with the key but I cannot believe that.”

  Tom, if I remembered correctly, was the only male servant in the house; the gardener lived elsewhere with his family.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night, quite late. We had all gone to bed.”

  “The servants heard nothing?”

  “Not a sound.”

  “And George?”

  George, my former apprentice, is the only spirit in the house. He was, fortunately, a boy when he died, at that stage of being both fascinated by women, and frightened of them. He adores Esther but keeps his distance bashfully; we can guarantee therefore not to be interrupted by him.

  “Did he not hear anything? Spirits, after all, do not sleep.”

  “George,” Esther said with exasperation, “has discovered that if he opens the kitchen window on a windy night, the pots and pans all clatter together and wake the household. Charles, however did you put up with him as an apprentice?”

  “Fortunately, he was only with me a few weeks before he died. What was he doing when your intruder attempted to get in?”

  “Thinking, he says. He believes he heard a scratch or two but took no notice. He thought it was probably a stray cat.”

  I stepped back carefully, on to the lawn. The path was of gravel and held no mark. I retreated to the herb beds, scanning for footprints in the soft well-tended soil. There were none. I looked across the garden, squinting against the low sun.

  “Is there a gate to the street?”

  Esther pointed to a place where rose blossoms flourished.

  I walked slowly down the path, scanning the flowerbeds on either side. Beyond the beds stood three damson trees, then the path turned sharply right along the wall; the roses trailed long thorny stems to snag at my coat. The gate was set back under a fall of heavy pink blossoms; I lifted the latch. It did not open.

  “It’s locked,” Esther said behind me. Silently, she handed me another key. Her hand brushed mine; I shivered with its warmth.

  This lock too opened smoothly; I pulled open the gate and saw outside a narrow cobbled lane, bordered on both sides by high garden walls. It was a dead end; Esther’s gate stood at the blocked end.

  I checked the lock on both sides. There were no scratches.

  I walked down the alley. The garden walls were high and well-maintained; no crumbling mortar offered handholds that would have enabled someone to climb. A ladder might have been set up, I supposed, and would have left no marks on the cobbled alley but the thorned roses would have made it impossible to get down on the garden side.

  The street at the end of the alley ran at right angles, passing the back walls of the houses in the square. As I stood looking along it, several people trudged past, casting me incurious glances. Late at night, drunks sauntered along here; the lower sort of thief would think Esther’s house worth breaking into; even if all he got were a few silver spoons or lace cloths, it would repay the risk handsomely. But how could he have got into the garden?

  I went back to Esther who was standing by the back door of the house, turning the house key in her hands.

  “Perhaps the gardener was right and the scratches were caused by Tom,” I said. “No one could have got into the garden.”

  She hesitated then shook her head. “There was someone. I saw him.”

  I stared at her in horror. “But you said – ”

  “That none of the servants heard anything. They did not. But I did.”

  She breathed deeply. In the strong light of the setting sun, I saw how tired she was, and how unnerved, and that worried me more than anything. Esther is not a weak woman to break down in fearful tears at the first hint of danger. I’ve seen her outface a whole gang of ruffians.

  “Last night I had a headache when I went to bed,” she said. “I was restless, could not sleep. I heard a noise, after midnight, I think. A kind of chink.”

  “Like keys?”

  She considered. “Perhaps. The only thing I could think of was that perhaps a fox had got into the garden and knocked something over. So I got up to look.”

  “And you saw something – someone.”

  She was breathing more easily now, as she thought back to the events of the previous night, as if it was a relief to explain what had happened.

  “It was very dark, unfortunately – the moon had not yet risen. But I saw a shadow moving away from the house, along the line where the path is. I distinctly saw him where the path turns, as if he was going down to the gate. Then I lost him.” She gestured in annoyance.

  I took the key from her, ushered her back into the house, locked the door firmly. “This is intolerable,” I said. “We will report it to the constable.”

  She laughed, seemi
ng to relax a little. “Charles! What good will that do? I can give no description of the man. And he took nothing because he did not get into the house.”

  “But if he comes back! You are alone here!”

  I stopped, suddenly realising that she might misinterpret my words. How tempting it was to suggest that I should stay tonight, to make sure the fellow did not come back or, if he did, to make sure that she was protected. And if I stayed –

  Esther said wryly, “Alone except for four or five servants!” She smiled and leant closer confidentially. Her skirts rustled, her hair drifted across my cheek. Dear God. “And a pair of duelling pistols,” she murmured.

  Esther is an accomplished user of pistols. And fearless, when she sees the need. But what if the would-be intruder was a large, well-built man? What if he disarmed her?

  I looked back through the window at the gate hidden amongst the roses and the setting fire of the sun. There was of course one way he could have got into the garden. If he had a key for the gate. And if he had a key to the garden, who was to say he did not have a key to the house?

  4

  This town, sir, is infested with ruffians.

  [Letter from Sir John Hubert to his brother-in-law on visiting Newcastle, May 1732]

  By tacit agreement we made light of the affair. Esther promised to inform the constable if there was another attempt to break in; she herself would double check that the servants had closed and secured all the windows and doors before retiring for the night.

  By the time we had talked the matter through, the sun had fully set and it was late. We were both tired, so I shut up the harpsichord again and bid Esther goodnight; as I took my leave, she hesitated a moment as if she was about to say something more, but then evidently decided against it.

  I had reached the hall before Tom, the young manservant who acted as footman, butler, and general factotum, appeared. His face was red as if he had been rushing; his coat sat askew on his shoulders. I told him I could see myself out and he disappeared back into the servants’ quarters with a grateful smile of relief. I fancied I had caught him in the middle of his supper.

  The hallway echoed as I walked across the shining black and white floor tiles. Behind me, an impressive staircase with a carved wooden banister rose towards an ornately plastered ceiling. Esther has only recently inherited the house and one of her first acts was to bring in a small army of painters, plasterers and glaziers to refurbish the rooms. Remembering its slightly shabby appearance of last year, I was inclined to admire.

  A voice called: “Papa?”

  A child’s voice, a young girl, I thought. I turned on my heels, shivering. And as if a veil had been drawn across the hallway, the fine paint peeled, the windows cracked, the curtains frayed. The door to the drawing room stood slightly ajar but the view of the room I glimpsed showed not Esther’s elegant new décor but a grimy expanse of wall. Looking out of the window by the front door, I saw not the elegance of Caroline Square but a narrow busy street. It was still day, overcast and drizzling with rain.

  The gateway to that other world had opened, and to a slightly different time of day.

  I stood for a moment, reorientating myself, wondering why this should happen now and not at another time. Could it be mere chance? A trace of my old fear lingered but I was intrigued too, no doubt of it. I went cautiously to the drawing room door, scratched on it. There was a moment’s silence then the door was pulled open.

  A girl confronted me with a wary, almost frightened look. She was maybe twelve years old, a wisp of a girl with thin brown hair neatly tied back with a ribbon and a clean but faded apron covering a shabby green dress. Her wary look faded; she curtsied politely. “I beg your pardon, Mr Patterson, I thought at first you were the landlord. Was it Papa you wanted to see?”

  She talked as if she knew me. Resigned, I realised she must have mistaken me for my counterpart in this world – a man who bore my name, spoke like me, looked like me, but who was a great deal wealthier. Indeed, I saw she was frowning at my clothes as if wondering why I was wearing such poor things.

  Who on earth was ‘Papa’? “Er – yes,” I said.

  “He’s not here, sir. But I expect him back at any time. Will you wait?” Her politeness was almost painful. She opened the door wider, to let me in.

  The whole room had fallen on hard times. The ceiling, though cobwebbed, was in tolerable condition although a chunk of plaster had detached itself from one corner and showed the grimy laths beneath. The wallpaper, flaunting the bright colours of former days only in places, was torn and faded; the fireplace chipped and cracked. The grate was empty. A curtain cut off a corner of the room and I glimpsed a bed behind it. A chipped cup or two and a pewter plate stood on a large table together with a cloth covering what might have been a chunk of bread.

  It was all scrupulously clean but unutterably dreary.

  The girl had settled in a chair by a rickety table. A workbasket stood on the table; she plucked thread from it and started to thread a needle.

  “I often wonder what this was like when the house was owned by the old family,” she said, with the air of a hostess entertaining morning callers. “Of course we are very lucky to have so big a room between the two of us. The Forsters upstairs have a room only half the size for six people!”

  So the house in this world had been sold and divided into tenements for the poor. The last time I had seen it had been eight months ago and it had been bright and smart then. Could time pass more quickly in this world? Surely the house could not have got in such a state in only a few months?

  The girl was sewing ribbons, yellow strips of material on which she was setting tiny blue flowers each with a bright bead at the centre. She went on with the work as if it was automatic, something she did not have to think about, setting tiny fine stitches with quiet assurance. On the table beside her, was a neat pile of gauzy fabric, perhaps intended for a dress.

  “I’m sure Papa was going down to the theatre,” the girl said, picking up a bead to sew on to the ribbon. “Was he not there?”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps he has gone for a bowl of buttered barley. He’s very fond of that.”

  While his daughter chewed on that chunk of dried bread under the cloth on the table, no doubt. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Did you want him for another concert?” she asked with sudden eagerness. “I’m sure he’ll be available. He’s often said how much he likes playing for your concerts.” Her anxiety to obtain work for her papa was almost heartwrenching. “I’m sure he’ll come home soon,” she added wistfully. Her gaze wandered to the window. “He does usually tell me if he’s going to be long.”

  She broke off, staring out into the street. “I’m so sorry.” She hurriedly gathered herself up. “A customer – ”

  “Of course.” I walked to the door with her.

  “I hope you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sure Papa will have gone down to the theatre.”

  “I’ll go and look.”

  And I glanced out of the hall window into the street. Just as a chill took me, and the world began to blur, I saw a woman walking to the front door.

  Julia Mazzanti.

  I was standing on the steps of Esther’s house looking out at the central gardens of Caroline Square. Stars were gleaming brightly, the full moon just sliding over the roofs of the surrounding houses. There had been another discrepancy in time; I had spent only a few minutes in that other world, yet an hour or two seemed to have passed here.

  I shivered. The night was stifling warm but ‘stepping through’ to the other world was always accompanied by a cold that chilled me to my bones. I eased my violin on my shoulder and set off round the square. There is a drunken spirit in the gardens who enjoys a gossip too much and it is always less time consuming to take the long way round.

  The streets were quiet; remembering what Esther had said about the moon rise the previous evening, I knew it must be the early hours of t
he morning. I heard St Nicholas’s church clock strike but halfway through counting the chimes, I stopped.

  Someone was following me.

  Cursing, I strode out more quickly. My lodgings were across town from Caroline Square, on the far side of the Lort Burn. This stream cuts Newcastle in two from north to south; the only ways over it are by the Low and High Bridges. But to reach the bridges, I had to traverse some dark streets – the householders in this part of town are notoriously lax about putting out lanterns. In five or six streets, I saw only three lamps, all above houses of ill repute.

  Not far from the High Bridge, I crossed from one side of the road to the other deliberately, so I could glance back at my pursuer. I was lucky, caught sight of him as he passed under a rare lantern. It was the man who had been staring in the theatre window at me. Had he been the one who fired too?

  And – dear God! – could he have been the man trying to break into Esther’s house? The ruffians had seen us together; it would not have been hard to discover who she was and where she lived. Were they trying to attack me through her?

  If Esther was in danger, this had to be stopped. And now. But how? I was unarmed and any musician hesitates to get in a brawl for fear of an injury that will ruin his profession for life. I had my violin too which I didn’t want to damage.

  I walked on, glancing behind me, listening for a rush of footsteps. We were coming into the darker part of town now; half a dozen men might be hiding in the alleys for all I knew, to spring an ambush. I glanced down one of the alleys – and quickly stepped into it.

  Someone had abandoned an old spade against a wall. The blade and the handle had parted company and the blade fell over with a clatter as I snatched up the handle. I pressed back into the shadows of the doorway, awkwardly trying to protect the violin on my back.

  The footsteps were quickening, faster, faster, until they were almost running. I held my breath, gripped the spade handle.