by Roz Southey
“Doesn’t have a penny to his name!” Wright said stridently, attracting attention from men around us. He was wearing a thick coat more suitable for winter than summer, a rich shade of plum. No wonder he looked hot and irritable.
“But his wife sang for Handel last winter,” I said. “She was rumoured to have earnt two hundred guineas.”
“Then they’ve spent it,” Wright snapped.
“The daughter,” Heron murmured.
“Over-indulged,” Wright said.
“And Signora Mazzanti is not beyond extravagance herself,” Heron said, in a tone that suggested this was only to be expected of women. Though he would have used exactly the same tone for a spendthrift man. “She has an excellent voice, of course. Have you heard her sing, Patterson?”
Praise from Heron was praise indeed. I accepted my pie and ale with a smile to the girl that brought it. “When I was in London, I went to the Haymarket Theatre to see her but she was ill.”
“You will have a pleasant surprise at the Race Week concert then,” he said. “There was a time she could silence the crowds with the first note.”
In her youth, he meant; only the young nubile singers had powers like that. Once they are grown older and fatter, the crowds continue chattering even if the voice has matured and grown even more golden.
“I don’t care how well they can caterwaul,” Wright snapped. “The fellow’s a damn leech. He fastened on me in London and he hasn’t got his teeth out of me yet.”
Did leeches have teeth? I wondered. But then Wright was notorious for loving the bagpipes. He didn’t need my encouragement to tell his story – again, for he had plainly told it already to Heron.
“I was at Drury Lane, damn it, enjoying the company and getting an eyeful of the actresses.” He leered at me. “You only get the sour-faced hussies up here, you know, the good-looking ones all stay in London. Stands to reason – that’s where they make the money, on their feet and on their backs.” Heron made a gesture of distaste; Wright ignored him and plunged on with his tale.
“And I’m hardly outside, climbing into my carriage at the kerb, when I hear this bang!”
I swallowed a mouthful of pie hastily. “A shot?”
“Women shrieking all over the place! Men shouting for the barber surgeon! And when I got there, the Mazzanti fellow is standing there with blood streaming down his face and his wife swooning in the arms of a gentleman. And d’you know all it was? A damn ricochet shot. Hit the wall, stone chipped, flew up in his face and cut him. Damn it, Heron, any more coffee?”
Heron signalled to the nearest girl.
“Should have walked away but he clutched at me, asked me to protect him!” He snorted. “Any Englishman could have protected himself. But there was that pretty little daughter of his pleading with me for help.” He grinned. “Couldn’t resist her. Took them back to their lodgings in my carriage. Next thing I know I’m agreeing to let them travel north with me.”
He regaled us with tales of horror from the journey north – how Mazzanti had never had enough money to pay for his family and beds, how Signora Mazzanti had been finicky over her food, how Julia had made up to every ostler, stable lad and boot boy in every inn they stopped at. How they had wheedled him into letting them use his servants, for they had none.
“Taken ill,” he said, contemptuously. “That’s what they expected me to believe! I kept the bills, sir, all of ’em – presented the fellow with them when we got here. And what has he paid me?”
I was obviously expected to contribute to the conversation. I said: “Nothing?”
“Not a farthing! And I don’t believe I’ll ever see any of it!”
“I was told there was an attempt to shoot Mazzanti on the way north,” I said respectfully. Another sharp look from Heron – he knew me too well.
“York. On a Sunday! Outside the Minster. You’d have thought they’d be Papists, wouldn’t you, being foreigners, but they came to church, bowed and sat and stood in all the right places.” He preened himself. “The little thing’s not all bad – she was very respectful to me, chatted away inconsequentially like they all do. Very nice, very nice.”
“And the shooting?”
“Damn near took the Precentor’s hand off. William Mason, you know. Decent fellow. Very decent about the injury, though it bled like the devil. Missed Mazzanti by a hair’s breadth.” He collapsed into gloom. “I wish they’d got him.”
“Then you would never have got your money back,” Heron pointed out.
Wright snorted. “Never will.”
I could not resist an ignoble impulse. “Why do you not approach him in person, sir?”
“Don’t know where to find the fellow.”
“He will be at the theatre in Usher’s timber yard,” I said. Mazzanti had been devilishly rude to me yesterday; an unpleasant encounter with a creditor was only a small price to exact.
“Devil take it, is he?” Wright wrestled himself out of his chair. “Damn it, if I don’t do it. Much obliged to you, sir, much obliged.” And to my horror, he stopped as he passed me, fiddled in his waistcoat pocket and pushed a coin at me. “Much obliged.”
The coin was a penny, about what I’d give a boy to take a message for me. I had a grim view of where Wright thought I was in the social scale. No wonder he had been horrified when Heron beckoned me over.
Heron’s face was set hard in anger. He did not speak for a moment; the girl brought the extra coffee Wright had asked for but not stayed to drink. Heron leant forward and poured me a cup – a kind of apology, I thought.
“I hear Mazzanti was shot at yesterday,” Heron said, sitting back with some effort. The heat outside was bad enough; in the coffee house, even with the windows open, it was stifling. He looked almost overwhelmed by it.
I won a little time by sipping coffee. I did not want to tell Heron about my encounters with the ruffians; not only would I have to admit to the scuffle that had earned me their enmity, which would not reflect well on my own behaviour, but I was certain Heron would insist on taking action against the fellows, calling out the constable, or putting out the hue and cry. And if that happened, sooner or later the entire business would come to Esther’s ears and she would worry.
“Apparently,” I said.
“And you gave chase.”
“The fellow got away.” I sighed. “It was much too hot to be running through the streets.”
“Did you get a close look at him?”
I shook my head and frowned. “Do you have any particular interest in the matter, sir?” He had after all known, or thought, that I would be interested in Wright’s stories on Mazzanti.
Heron hesitated. “I wondered,” he said finally, “if the shot had been meant for you.”
Damn it, he knew about the ruffians already!
“I’d advise you to take care, Patterson,” he said. “Except that I’ve made the same plea in the past and you have never taken any notice of me.”
I winced. “I beg your pardon, sir. Matters always seem to overtake me. But in this case, I’m inclined to think Mazzanti is the target of the assassin. The attacks in London and York would indicate that.”
“It indicates the assassin is an abominable shot!” he retorted. “And to try and kill him under such circumstances! Ridiculous!”
“The crowds, you mean?” I had not thought of that; the London street would have been crowded with playgoers, in York the worshippers would have been taking their leave. Here in Newcastle the theatre company and the sawyers were moving about. “You’re right,” I said. “Why not merely trap him in some dark deserted alley?”
Heron swore. “Now I’ve encouraged your interest. Leave it, Patterson, for God’s sake. Have you not learnt from your experiences last time?”
I grimaced. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve never been able to let a puzzle go. And my interest was already piqued.”
I told him about the glimpse I had had of Julia Mazzanti in that other world. Heron is the only man in this world w
ho knows about that other world, for on one occasion he was even dragged into it with me. I felt some relief in telling someone what had happened and outlined my theory about dramatic events opening up the gateway. He listened to me with increasing grimness.
“I can honestly say that that was one of the worst experiences of my life,” he said. “There was a time you shied away from it too.”
I nodded. “Once. When I didn’t know what was happening. Does it not intrigue you, sir? Do you not admit to even a trace of curiosity about that other world, about what it means?”
He shook his head wearily. “I know what it means. It means trouble. Disaster. Danger. I got you out of it last time, Patterson – I don’t guarantee to do the same again.”
7
The most exhilarating time is at rehearsal, when the creations of the masters take shape, lovingly delineated by the best geniuses in the acting profession.
[Reminiscences of a theatre manager by Thomas Keregan (London: published for the Author, 1736)]
We argued over the matter. Claudius Heron is the only gentleman I can argue with for he does it, as he does all things, in a civilised manner. He listens to views contrary to his own, admits if he is wrong, and gives way if he believes it the right thing to do. Unlike all the gentlemen around us, expounding their own political views to each other and dismissing any opposing view.
In the end, we agreed on one thing: that the shot had in all probability been intended for Mazzanti. It was too great a coincidence if he had been attacked several times already and then suffered from a shot meant for me; moreover, the ruffians were clearly out to frighten and torment me, not to kill. The opening of the gateway to the other world alarmed Heron; he agreed that it was probably caused by a coincidence of events in the two worlds and that, he said, meant that the danger was acute.
“But to Mazzanti,” I said. “Not to myself. I am merely a bystander in this. It is merely that for some reason I can sense the other world where no one else can.”
He nodded. “Then there is an easy solution – keep away from Mrs Jerdoun’s house.”
I kept silent. Quite apart from the fact that I could not tell him why this was impossible, I had once sensed the world opening up in a different place altogether.
Heron was musing on something else. “What is it about Mazzanti, I wonder, that makes him a target?”
“His obnoxious character,” I said tartly. “The man is a self-important charlatan.”
Heron permitted himself one of his rare smiles. “You are an impartial observer, of course.”
I sighed. “No, but an accurate one nevertheless. The man is destined for a violent end.”
“I must meet him. I trust he is not as bad as you paint. I have a great respect for his wife’s abilities.” He cocked his head as we heard the chimes of the Guildhall clock through the open window. Twelve o’clock. I started.
“I should be at the theatre.” I quickly drank the remains of my coffee. “Forgive me, sir, I must hurry.”
Heron nodded but detained me a moment longer. “Is it worth my while buying tickets for the theatre in Race Week?”
I had never known Heron patronise the theatre – much too trivial an occupation for him. He prefers the Italian opera of Signora Mazzanti to the English opera of her daughter. “Save your money for the concert the Signora is putting on,” I said. “Unless you simply want to see your friends. The play won’t hold your attention.”
He laughed softly. “I’ll take your advice.”
It was not the sort of weather to rush but I rushed nevertheless, climbing the steep Side from the Sandhill to Mr Usher’s timber yard at the top, not far from the Post Office. I did not neglect to keep my eyes open for the ruffians, but my talk with Heron had settled my mind somewhat. I had not been the target of the shot, therefore I was not to blame for the injury to Mazzanti, therefore I could concentrate on my own affairs, and Esther’s.
Just inside the yard, I paused in the shadow of a huge pile of timber, getting my breath back from the steep climb. I was thirsty again, and the sweat was dripping from me. Two or three young apprentices were swearing over a large tree trunk.
“Complaining, complaining,” said a spirit high above me. “Always complaining. You’d think they didn’t know what sunshine was.”
I started. That business back in March involved one or two very bad spirits and it had shaken me and taken me some time to regain a semblance of trust in them. I still disliked being startled by them. I squinted up at the timber yard gate. There was an old spirit there who had died run over by a cart. I sighed in relief; no harm in him at all.
“In my day,” he said, “we really had hot summers.”
The shade was beginning to feel surprisingly chill; I shivered. Then, as the voice of the spirit began to fade, I realised what was happening. There are no spirits in that other world – that is one of the chief differences between that world and ours. I was stepping through again. But why here? Why in the timber yard?
I put out a hand to steady myself against the pile of wood which seemed to exist in both worlds. But in this other world that ran alongside ours, it was already evening – the sun was sliding down behind the theatre, the last rays winking above the roof; the evening star was gleaming in the turquoise sky. And despite the warmth, a thin drizzle dampened the backs of my hands.
A woman strolled from behind the wood pile: Julia Mazzanti, looking demure and innocent. But there was something different about her. I couldn’t quite fathom what it was. An extra edge of decisiveness perhaps? A sense of self-assurance unusual in one so young. She was wearing yellow ribbons in her hair – ribbons that had blue flowers scattered across them with a tiny bright sparkle in the centre of each flower. The young seamstress had finished her delicate task.
The contempt in Julia’s amused eyes was new too.
“Too much to drink, Mr Patterson?” she said mockingly.
But before I could speak, the chill took me again. A momentary darkness, then I was in the hot shade, with the spirit droning above my head and a carter yelling at me to move.
I moved. Wondering what, if anything, the spirit and the carter had seen. Had they seen me disappear for a second or two? Or had they seen nothing at all? What had the Julia in that other world seen? I could wonder, but not do anything about it – I could hardly ask.
Inside the theatre, there was the usual chaos of people milling about before the beginning of the rehearsal. Mrs Keregan slumped in a chair, yawning hugely and calling for breakfast; young Richard was concentrating with bit lip on carrying a tray laden with tankards. Two or three lads were hammering at scenery on the stage.
And over by the prompter’s desk a little knot of people fussed over John Mazzanti. His face was purpling with bruises; he exaggerated a limp as he hobbled to a chair. Athalia hovered over him like a red-haired angel, prettily making him comfortable. Mr Keregan said hopefully that he supposed Mazzanti could not go on.
At the back of the theatre, young Richard was offering a tankard to a scowling Ned Reynolds. Ned took the tankard but didn’t even look at Richard; the boy scurried away, obviously distressed. Damn Ned, what was he playing at? I strolled across.
“Mazzanti’s still making a fuss, I see.” I contemplated the little knot of people; Mazzanti was saying in a long-suffering tone that he could not in any circumstances let the company down. Keregan looked disappointed. “Although how the devil a shot to the head can produce a limp, I can’t imagine.”
“You’re behind the times,” Ned said sourly. “That was yesterday’s attack.”
“There’s been another?”
For a moment, I thought him disinclined to tell me. There was a look of bitterness on his handsome face that took my breath away. Ned is a careless fellow, living from day to day with supreme indifference to such matters as money or rent – a devil-may-care approach that is both engaging and infuriating. But there was an ugliness in his expression that alarmed me.
“You see the hero of the h
our,” he said, sneering. “Some fellow tried to break into the Mazzantis’ lodgings last night and damn near killed Julia. But Mazzanti dashed to the rescue and drove the fellow off.”
I started. Another burglar? Or the same man who had tried to break into Esther’s house?
“And here comes my darling colleague,” Ned said dryly. I began to suspect that he was drunk. I glanced where he was pointing. Julia was pausing in the doorway, charmingly modest, with downcast eyes. Overdressed perhaps, with too many ribbons and too much lace, but properly white and pink. Except for – yes, those two yellow ribbons in her hair, exact copies of the ones her counterpart in the other world had been wearing. Though – I squinted for it was difficult to be sure at a distance – were the blue flowers a little paler?
She was hanging on the protective arm of Mr Philip Ord.
Ned Reynolds swore, softly, fluently. “Behold,” he said. “My rival. What d’you reckon, Charlie? Do you think she’ll prefer me to a fortune and high social position?”
“Prefer you?” I frowned. “Ned, what kind of a joke is this?” I glanced round and saw young Richard, watching us; he looked away quickly.
“Joke, Charlie?” Ned grinned wolfishly. “This is no joke. I intend to marry the lady.”
And as I stared at him open-mouthed, he thrust his empty tankard into my hands and moved in on the little group.
Ned was courting Julia; Philip Ord was courting Julia. I didn’t know which was more unlikely. Ord was hardly going to marry an actress, especially not with Lizzie Saint and her father’s money in prospect. Yet he was looking at Julia with surprising devotion, and to allow himself to be seen in public with her, even if it was just in the presence of the theatre company, was surely significant. But as for Ned – the whole idea was preposterous.
Mrs Keregan cackled with laughter from her chair. “Enjoying the show, Charlie boy?”