Secret Lament

by Roz Southey

  I was wondering whether to make a direct approach to Bedwalters when I heard a voice accost me. Philip Ord swung down from his horse and led it towards me. The horse was sweating, as if it had been ridden too hard.

  “Patterson. I’ve a job of work for you.”

  That disconcerted me. Not so long ago, I had been thinking of questioning him about his relations with Julia; now he was his old commanding self, making me feel acutely aware of our respective social positions. I was conscious of the bowl and spoon in my hands, and the drab clothes on my back. And what kind of work could he want me to do?

  “I know your reputation,” he said curtly, squinting against the low sun. His face was red, his wig askew; his manner might be cool but I was very sure he was in the grip of strong emotions. “You can fathom these sorts of mysteries. Find out who killed Ju – Miss Mazzanti.”

  After Bedwalters’s hints, I’d probably do far better to keep out of it. Not that I intended to let the matter drop, not while there was a chance it was connected with Esther’s burglar. But I disliked Ord, I objected to his behaviour towards Lizzie Saint and I wasn’t averse to punishing him a little.

  “Why?” I demanded.

  He stared at me. “Damn it, the girl was an innocent. Find me the devil who murdered her.”

  “And raped her,” I said, watching him closely.

  His jaw clenched with fury. “Find him!”

  I could have sworn his emotion was genuine. Had he really cared for her that much?

  “You want payment, is that it?” he demanded. He sneered. “Very well. If you find the villain, I’ll make sure my wife continues to take lessons from you after her marriage.”

  The horse shifted restlessly, dragging him a step or two backwards. I was ready to hit him – at the insult to me, in thinking he could get me to leap into action simply for the sake of money, and at the insult to Lizzie Saint.

  “You’ll pay me to give lessons to your wife, in return for finding the murderer of your mistress!”

  He was fiery red and snarling. “How dare you insult her memory!”

  “Oh come,” I said, with dripping sarcasm. “A singer, an actress – what else was she good for?” Then the obvious occurred to me. “Damn it, you were the one she was going to elope with!”

  “No!” He glanced about, seemed to realise for the first time that there were passers by glancing curiously at us. He visibly curbed his anger, yanking on the horse’s reins and causing it to jerk its head in pain. He lowered his voice, said very deliberately: “I was not going to elope with Julia Mazzanti.”

  His gaze dropped away from mine; he seemed to chew on resentment. I knew he must be lying. He glanced about again, waited until the chaplain from All Hallows had walked past, bowing acknowledgement to us. Ord tried to meet my gaze, looked away again. In the soft evening sunlight, I saw his mouth work.

  “I met her in London,” he said abruptly. “When I went down there to negotiate with her father on behalf of the concert directors. She was – ” He hesitated. “She was an innocent child, Patterson! With an angelic face and a sweet nature. Is it wrong to have admired her?”

  I thought of Richard who had succumbed to Julia’s attractions in much the same way. But Richard was a naïve boy and had nothing but admiration on his mind. A man like Ord is not looking for pleasant conversation and a song or two when he encounters an actress, however young and innocent. And I did not believe Julia had been innocent.

  He swallowed hard. “I – I may have been precipitous.”

  He had made promises. I sighed inwardly. What was it about Julia that made sensible men lose their wits?

  “You made promises.”

  “No, no, I did not. I – I may have led her to believe, purely accidentally, without intending to – that my admiration was – rather deeper than it actually was.”

  “You told her you loved her.”

  “Not directly.”

  The lowering sun was now shining in my eyes; I shifted to get a better look at Ord. He was gritting his teeth. I felt a reluctant admiration; confessing such stupidity, and to someone his social inferior, cannot have been easy. But he must have been in desperate straits even to contemplate it. I had an inkling I knew what that meant.

  “You wrote her letters,” I guessed.

  He nodded, jerked on the reins as the horse fidgeted. “Damn it, Patterson, I have to have them back! If I don’t get them, my chances of marrying Miss Saint are finished. You know what a puritan her father is!”

  Thomas Saint is a decent man with admirable morals, and very well named.

  “Where do you think they are?”

  “In her room, damn it! Tied up with ribbon and placed with a pressed rose amongst her handkerchiefs. Damn it, where do young women usually keep such things!”

  “How many letters?”

  It cost him a struggle to tell me. “Eight or nine.”

  He had been in London only three weeks as I recalled; he must have written one every other day.

  “So,” I said, “how much will you pay me?”

  That made him straighten. He was sneering again, plainly feeling he was back on familiar ground.

  “I’ve told you – ”

  “Not enough.” I said ruthlessly. Lizzie’s trusting gaze was in my mind’s age; she was a serious girl but of excellent character, and I objected – I objected very strongly – to what was going on behind her back. And to what would no doubt go on behind her back after marriage. The least I could do was to exact payment from her prospective spouse.

  “You want money.” Ord smiled unpleasantly. “I should have known.”

  “I want the directorship of the winter concerts.”

  He stared at me. Real fear showed in his eyes. “I can’t. Mazzanti – ”

  I shrugged and pretended to move off. He snatched at my arm.

  “Damn it, I can’t! How could I persuade the other directors?”

  “You’ve seen Mazzanti trying to direct the play. You’ve seen how incompetent he is. He’ll ruin the concerts within a month. Persuade the other gentlemen of that fact.”

  He drew back. I knew he had wit enough to see I was right. He looked sour but he said harshly: “I’ll try.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Very well,” he said sharply and bit his lip as a passing merchant raised eyebrows at him. “Very well. I’ll do it. Somehow. I’ll do it.”

  He swung away suddenly, as if he could stay still no longer, swung himself up on to his horse.

  “Damn it, Patterson.” He looked down with defiant contempt. You’d better succeed in this. If you don’t – ” He hauled on the reins. “If you don’t, I’ll break you. I promise you that – fail me and that’ll be the end of you.”

  18

  Tickets for the Concert may be obtained at the coffee-houses, at the Golden Fleece, of the Printer of this Paper, and at Mr Mazzanti’s lodgings in Piper Row.

  [Newcastle Courant 5 June 1736]

  That last look of Ord’s stayed with me as I turned towards Mrs Baker’s lodging house; I would have sworn he had been genuinely in love with Julia. What an odd pair they must have made. The strait-laced disapproving man of thirty and the actress who had not, I swear, been as innocent as she looked. Would he have married her? I fancied he had been tempted.

  But surely he would not have been so blind to the social consequences of such an act? She would never have been received in company and he would have been ostracised by all respectable matrons; they would have rallied to Lizzie Saint’s support without hesitation. The gentlemen would have continued to deal with him, of course, and some would have envied him in some respects. But they would all have felt it cast doubt on his judgement.

  Letters indeed! For a sensible man, Ord had been remarkably silly. Esther and I had never exchanged more than a receipt for her payment of my bills.

  Where to start in the business? I was wandering around in the dark, suspecting first Corelli, then Ned, then anyone else who came to hand. I needed som
e good solid facts. And I knew someone who would provide me with reliable information.

  The street in which Mrs Baker’s lodgings stood was narrow, but respectable, the haunt of lesser tradesman – Mrs Baker herself was the widow of a cheesemonger. Few people were about; a gentleman idled at the far end of the street ogling a saucy young fisher girl, a Quaker in black paused to contemplate a notice on a wall. Mrs Baker’s door stood open slightly.

  The house seemed silent. I wondered whether to call out. It seemed disrespectful when the girl’s body was lying upstairs. The hall seemed to be in Stygian gloom, shutters and curtains drawn, a single candle burning on a small table.

  Mrs Baker came up behind me in the street, making me start. She was dressed in dark purple, as a gesture towards mourning, and carried a jug of ale.

  “You’ve timed it right, Mr Patterson,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Come and have a bite with me.”

  She thrust the jug into my arms, shut the door, snatched up the candle, and led me into the back of the house. As she opened the door to the kitchen, sunlight leapt out, blinding me. The shutters were not drawn here, and the heat was immense.

  Mrs Baker fussed about as I stood for a moment to let my eyes adjust. In only a second or two, she had bread on the table, and cold beef and half a cooked pheasant which smelt very high indeed. She winked. “One of the butchers is a particular friend of mine, Mr Patterson. Sit yourself down – you look like a man who needs food.”

  The effect of the buttered barley had not lasted long, I found. I dragged a stool up to the table, while Mrs Baker reached down another plate from the dresser and a knife from a drawer. She was a remarkably good-looking woman, full of life.

  “You’re not looking for his highness, are you? Mr Mazzanti?”

  “No.”

  “Or herself?”

  “His wife? No.”

  “Then you wanted me.” She plumped herself into a chair, set her elbows on the table and grinned at me. Her pose gave me a fine view of her neat breasts. “Want the whole story do you?” Another wink at my sigh. “You’re becoming well-known, Mr Patterson. They say your talents extend to more than music.”

  There had been a time I had wanted nothing more than to be left alone to play and compose. Now I could not remember the last time I had set pen to paper to plan a concerto. And I did not miss it. To tell the truth, solving a mystery or two had been far more profitable.

  “Well,” she said, “what do you want to know?”

  I took a grip on my wits. “I want to know what happened last night. Why was the girl out of the house?”

  “Eloping, so they say.”

  “And no one heard her leave?”

  “Apparently not. I didn’t. But then I sleep sound.”

  The sign of a clear conscience, I’m told. But there was that butcher – I knew what Mrs Baker meant by particular friend. And she was so open about it!

  “They all dined here last night?”

  She shook her head and slid a piece of meat on to my plate. “The ladies did. He had an engagement with a friend.” She snorted. “A tavern, more like. He was as drunk as a lord when he came home. Had an altercation with Mr Proctor on the doorstep. Accused him of harassing his daughter.” She chuckled. “Mr Proctor! Doesn’t even use his whip on his horse for fear of hurting it.”

  There was a mixture of amusement and contempt in her voice. Proctor can engender that feeling all too easily.

  “What time was that?”

  “About nine.”

  “Not very late.”

  “He said the friend had been called away and demanded I serve him dinner. Well, there was nothing left! Mrs M eats for six and there was none of the missish attitude about the young lady. Not that that surprised me. Any rate, I brought in some bread and meats, much like you’re having now.” She poured ale for me. “And he turned his nose up at them.” She gave me a slice of pheasant. “Likes his fancy sauces, he does. Come of being a foreigner, I daresay.”

  “Complained, did he?”

  “To the air,” she retorted, breaking off a chunk of bread and chewing on it. “I left him to it.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She gave the matter some thought. “Oh, yes, I remember. I took tea into the ladies, and the young missy said she was going to bed. Feeling unwell, she said.” Mrs Baker gave me a significant look, which was entirely lost on me. “Her mother fussed over her a bit but let her go. Then his highness came into the drawing room with the brandy in his hand.” She chuckled. “Most of it was already inside him! Mrs M took one look at him and said she thought she’d go to bed early too.”

  I picked at the meat, played with the bread. “And what did Signor Mazzanti do?”

  She shrugged. “I tidied up the dishes, locked the doors and went to bed myself. If he did what he usually does, he stayed up all night, drinking himself into a stupor.”

  “He does that every night?”

  “Every night he’s been in this house.”

  “Then conjugal relations – ”

  “Non-existent,” she said with glee.

  I tried to work out what Julia must have done. She had gone upstairs, waited until the house seemed quiet, gone down, left by the front door and waited in the street. But the house was narrow-fronted and Julia must surely have been visible from the windows on to the street.

  “Did Mazzanti usually stay in the drawing room all night?”

  She nodded. “Sleeps in a chair. And he’s there every morning till noon at least. I have to turn any visitors away at the door, or show them into the dining room.” She gulped at ale. “And he stinks. The room stinks. He gets so he doesn’t know what he’s doing and the stuff goes all over the chairs. Over the curtains too once – tell me how he managed that!”

  When Bedwalters and I had brought Julia’s body back, Mazzanti had opened the door himself. He had been dazed, like a man that has just woken from a deep sleep. And yes, he had smelt of brandy, a little. Perhaps he had not had time to drink as much as usual.

  “You definitely locked the front door before you retired?”

  She gave me a reproachful look as if I had just insulted her.

  “Mrs Baker,” I said tactfully. “The door was ajar just now when I arrived, and your neighbours are after all trustworthy people. It would hardly have been surprising if you had left the door unlocked.”

  “Not after that burglary on Monday night,” she retorted.

  I had not forgotten about that. “Tell me about it.”

  She was only too glad to oblige and I devoted myself to her meats which were excellent; I knew the butcher Mrs Baker was friendly with – one of the more respectable ones. Mrs Baker wiped sweat from her brow, fanned herself against the hot sun flooding in through the kitchen window, and told me all between gulps of beer and mouthfuls of bread.

  The evening before the burglary had apparently passed much as usual: Mrs Baker in the kitchen, the ladies in the drawing room, Mazzanti lingering too long over his wine after dinner. At some point, he had gone into the drawing room and disturbed the ladies with talk of money troubles.

  “Had his wife in tears, he did,” Mrs Baker said. “When I went in to clear the tea things, he was berating her for getting old – losing her looks, he said, not attracting the gentlemen any more. The young lady was smirking at that.” Mrs Baker stared contemplatively into her ale for a moment. “None of them liked each other, you know. Well, I can understand trouble between husband and wife – it happens all the time. My own case… ” She stopped and gave me a rueful look. “Married, Mr Patterson?”

  “Not yet.” I caught myself up, cursed. Why the devil had I not just said no? What if Mrs Baker had heard rumours…

  Apparently she had not. “That’s well,” she said approvingly. “Take your time over it. That’s what caused half the trouble in this case. The young lady wanting to rush into marriage. Anyhow she went off to bed early.”

  “She seems to have made a habit of it.”

  Mrs
Baker chuckled. “With her parents quarrelling all the time? Wouldn’t you?”

  My father had been one of those quarrelsome men but as a son I had seen little of it – my mother had taken the brunt of it. I said nothing.

  “So she went up to bed,” Mrs Baker said. “And her mother followed her and I went off too and left the Signor to get drunk. Much the same as every other night.”

  “And the house was all locked up?”

  She winced. “I may have left the back door unlocked.”

  “The butcher?” I suggested.

  She set her head on one side. “Now, Mr Patterson,” she said, “a gentleman should know better than to ask a question like that.”

  Which was an answer in itself, I reflected. “And then?”

  “Nothing, sir, till the middle of the night, when I heard a tremendous noise on the stair and went out to see what had happened. I thought – ” she looked coyly at me.

  “The butcher?” I prompted.

  “He will insist on coming up without a candle in case someone sees it and he’s as blind as a bat! So I went out to pick him up again. And there was Julia lying on the stair, clutching on to the banister to stop herself tumbling down. She’d hit her head and was dazed. I went to her to ask her if she was all right. And then I heard the sound of someone running, down in the hall.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What any sensible woman would have done,” she said. “I picked up the poker I keep under my bed in case of such emergencies and I went down after him. To tell the truth, I still thought it was my butcher friend, thrown into a fright by the young lady appearing. But it wasn’t – my friend told me next day he’d not left his wife all night. So who it was in my house the Lord alone knows.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Not a hair of him. Only his highness.”

  “Mazzanti?”

  “He’d heard the fellow too, and came out to catch him.” She sniffed. “Drunk as he was! No use at all. He was blundering around in the hall and walking into doors and crying out that the villain had hit him, and bleeding all over my furniture and meanwhile the fellow was getting away!” She poured more ale for both of us. “Foreigners,” she said, placidly. “Useless.”