by Roz Southey
An angry mutter. Not loud enough for me to be sure of more than that it was a man. Or did I recognise the voice… ?
The handle on the door twitched; the door shifted fractionally as if someone was pressing harder against it. Then a rattle as the intruder grew more frustrated.
Esther’s pale face was just visible in the darkness. Her breathing was very steady. The oddest of burglars, I thought. Surely no thief of any experience would make a noise if he could avoid it. It was more like a man who unexpectedly found that he could not get into his own house.
The jerking of the latch stopped. Silence. I strained to hear something more. I felt Esther shifting, pressing her ear to the door. “Footsteps?” she mouthed. Yes, I could just catch the faint thud of footsteps on the path. Was he going away? What the devil to do now? Go after him? He’d run for the gate and be out of it before I had the door unlocked.
The sound of breaking glass.
“The kitchen!” Esther cried. I ran off in that direction, knocking over half a dozen things as I went. Pans clattered and rolled on the floor with a huge din. I blundered into something sharp that stabbed my thigh.
Behind me, a candle flared, casting my shadow dancing on the walls. By its light, I found the kitchen door. Tom was roaring in fury. A boy’s voice called: “Help! Murder!” The spirit of my apprentice, George, was here, gleaming on a saucepan hung from a rack.
Shadows at the window. One man was perched on the windowsill itself, clinging on to the frame. Tom was reaching up for him, tugging at the intruder’s clothes and trying to bring him down. The man kicked out at him. The light from the candle touched them both briefly, then a draught from the broken window caught the flame and snuffed it out, plunging us into darkness. Esther swore.
I levelled my pistol. I had only ever fired a pistol once before and was not confident of my ability to hit the intruder rather than Tom. I yelled: “Hold still or I fire.”
The shadows at the window froze. And at that moment, the gleam of George’s spirit slid swiftly along the wall and on to the window frame. “Got him!” George shouted gleefully. “Got him!”
He startled both Tom and the intruder. Tom yelped and let go. The intruder pulled free.
He fell backwards. I fired. Tom ducked and the ball hit the window frame square on the sash – I heard the wood crack and split. I threw down the pistol, grabbed Tom’s arm.
“Hoist me up!”
He cupped his hands and I put my foot into them; he heaved me up on to the windowsill. The broken glass nipped my fingers as I tried to use the window frame to balance. Then I was jumping down the other side.
I crashed through bushes, landed on my hands and knees in soft earth. The scents of crushed mint and rosemary rose around me. I picked myself up, stumbled along the path towards the gate. Trailing rose stems caught at my clothes. In the darkness, I drifted into the shrubs bordering the path. I already knew I was not going to catch him. The gate into the alley was open. I could hear footsteps clattering on cobbles. He was well away.
Annoyed, breathing heavily, I went back. The back door of the house had been flung open wide and light flooded into the garden. I squinted against the brightness. Esther was holding a lantern high above her head; I glimpsed her slim figure in breeches and waistcoat, her pale hair loose about her shoulders.
“I suppose he’s gone?” she said coolly.
I nodded, resigned. “He knew the path better than I. But at the very least we have given him a fright, and deterred him from returning.”
She frowned. “I rather think he is too persistent for that. Come back in. I’ve sent Tom for brandy.”
She turned back into the house. As she moved, the lantern light caught on something pale tangled in the bushes beneath the kitchen window. I stooped quickly to catch up the gleam. The bushes held it tight a moment, then it came free.
It was long and shiny, scented with rosemary. A yellow ribbon spotted with embroidered blue flowers.
22
Do not ever consider abandoning your friends, if only because they may then abandon you in your hour of need.
[Instructions to a Son newly come of Age, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
I did not tell Esther. She was already in the house, dealing with domestic matters. The noise – of the breaking window, I supposed – had woken the women servants. Cook had come down with a wicked-looking cleaver; the chambermaid had snatched up a poker. Both were threatening war on the intruder. The young kitchenmaid was cosseting Tom, much to his pleasure. I thrust the ribbon into my pocket, took the key to the garden gate from its hook and the lantern from Esther, and went back out outside.
What kind of a burglar had a key to the garden gate but not to the house? Of course, I thought, as I held the lantern high to see my way along the path, the intruder probably believed he did have the house key – that was the meaning of the scratching noises, he had been trying to fit the wrong key in the lock.
But why did he keep trying? Why had he not learnt the first time that the key did not fit? And, when he had given up on the key, why had he thought he could smash the window so noisily without rousing the occupants?
I checked the garden gate for marks, found none, shut and locked it. A closer examination would have to wait for daylight, but I hardly thought it worthwhile. I went back to the house.
Esther was alone in the kitchen, cleaning out the pistol I had fired. She had poured two glasses of brandy and had plainly been sipping at one of them. In the silence, I could hear the kitchenmaid giggling in the butler’s pantry.
“It’s very late,” Esther said. “Or indeed, very early.”
I was desperate for the brandy and drank it down. Esther’s would-be intruder was Julia Mazzanti’s murderer; I had proof now. He had taken a ribbon from Julia’s body and he had dropped it here. But why was he after Esther too? And he must be desperate – to try to murder someone in a houseful of servants was preposterous. But this threw another light on that attempted burglary at the Mazzantis’. Had Julia been right and this was an early attempt to kill her? Again in a house full of people? It made no sense at all. The whole thing was impenetrable.
“You should not go out,” I said brusquely.
Esther looked up at me in astonishment. “Why in heaven’s name not?”
“This could be a personal attack.” I threw back more brandy to gain time, to think how much I wanted to say. I did not want to alarm her by telling her about the ribbon but neither could I leave her to believe this was a mere burglar.
“There was an attempted burglary at the Mazzantis’ lodgings the day before Julia was killed,” I pointed out.
Esther set the cleaned pistol down, carefully, on the table. “She was murdered in the street.”
“That’s why I want you to stay in.”
She laughed. “I cannot confine myself to the house, Charles! I have business to do, urgent matters connected with those wretched estates I inherited.”
“Ask the lawyers to come here.”
She picked up her glass and sipped thoughtfully at the brandy. “Well,” she said at last, “it is undeniably true that the streets can be dangerous.”
“Exactly.”
“Particularly in the small hours of the night.” Her hair had come loose and hung about her shoulders; I forced myself to look away. “Particularly,” she persisted, “when a man has ruffians after him.”
Too late, I recognised the trap into which I had fallen. I said, wearily: “I had hoped you did not know about that.”
“Really, Charles,” she said in exasperation. “You cannot stop spirits talking. And that former apprentice of yours talks all the time.” She added, under her breath, “Most annoying,” then lifted her head in challenge. “Well, there is one solution, is there not?”
I said nothing.
She put down her brandy glass with a little click of annoyance. “Very well, if I must be more direct, I shall be. There is one solution to the danger you say exists, C
harles. Stay here. Stay with me tonight.”
I panicked. I had just faced down a murderer but I could not deal with my own desires. I wanted to say yes, but the consequences of doing so were too far-reaching. To marry a woman of Esther’s standing was out of the question; the disparity in age, station and wealth was too great. But to conduct an affair with her was the greatest insult I could imagine offering.
But I did not want to say no.
“The neighbours,” I said, helplessly, searching for excuses. “Or rather their servants – suppose they saw me leave in the morning?”
“They would merely suppose you had been giving me a music lesson.”
I felt a moment of hysterical amusement; that was certainly not the first idea that would occur to servants.
“Your reputation,” I said, with some desperation. No, it was plainly out of the question. I did not trust myself where she was concerned. To spend an entire night in the same house would be a temptation too far. I took a deep breath, said more decisively, “No, I cannot. I will not.”
She looked down at her breeches, absent-mindedly removed a trace of dust. “This is not the end of the matter, Charles.”
She must see how impossible it was. I had just drawn breath to say so when Tom came into the kitchen, followed by the kitchen-maid holding a branch of candles. Tom had arms full of wooden planks, a hammer under his arm. “Sorry, madam, but I need to make the window safe.”
Esther gave me a long look, so long that Tom started to look puzzled. “Very well, Tom,” she said. “Do what is necessary. Mr Patterson, I must thank you for your assistance this night.”
That was a dismissal. I was both relieved and dissatisfied. But what was the point of discussing it further? I had made my decision, the only honourable decision I could have made. I nodded, uttered pious wishes for her health and a good night’s sleep, and let Tom escort me to the garden gate so he could lock it after me.
He stopped me as I stepped out into the alley. “Is he going to come back again, do you think, sir?”
“Not tonight.”
“But tomorrow? Only – ” He hesitated. “The women are very game, sir and you’ve seen how up to it the mistress is. But they are only women after all and I’m not sure I can hold the house on my own.” His voice wavered a little and I realised how very young he was, not even twenty perhaps. “Is he likely to bring others with him?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m sure he’s acting on his own. Don’t worry, Tom, we’ll deal with it.”
“If you could come back again tomorrow, sir,” he said, unsteadily. “I mean, tonight. If you were there, I’d do better.”
“You do very well as it is,” I said. How the devil could I come back again? I was dog tired as it was, and needed to spend the day looking for the murderer. Yes, that was the essential point – if I could find the murderer, I could remove Esther from danger without the need for heroics in the middle of the night.
“If it’s necessary, yes, I will come back,” I said. And walked away hoping it would not be necessary.
The church clocks were striking three when I walked out on to Westgate Road. I had decided to go back home by the main streets, hoping that some at least of the lanterns put up by public-minded householders were still burning. Many of the alleys never saw a lantern from one year’s end to the next. But it was dangerous, nevertheless; Esther had been right about that. This was folly – half a dozen ruffians could be hanging about and I’d never see them. This was their territory, their time, and I should have left them to it, slept in Esther’s library or in the butler’s pantry. I should have been stronger-minded.
But no, I knew my own limits.
Westgate lay ahead of me, a long road gently tending downhill, full of looming houses and windows. Two or three lanterns did indeed burn, but at wide intervals, pools of brightness in a sea of darkness. Not a soul about. Silence as the echoes of the clock bell died away.
A shadow moved. My heart leapt – but it was only a cat lightly running across the road. A white cat lurid in the darkness. Silence again.
I started walking. It was still uncomfortably warm. I should have borrowed one of Esther’s pistols. Or at least found myself a stout walking stick. Or a kitchen knife? I should at least have picked up a knife.
My footsteps echoed in the empty street. I tried to tiptoe. I could hear my breathing. I nearly broke into a run. The quicker I got out of these streets the better. But that would be admitting to panic –
I quickened my pace. A spirit murmured out of the darkness high above me. “Dark nights. I always hated dark nights.” Heart racing, I broke into a run, tried to fall back into a walk, could not. I jogged on past the vicarage gardens. The sound of drunken singing, very distantly. A spirit? Or living men?
God help me, it was a living man. Reeling out of the shadows shrouding the garden and peering at me in a drunken stupor. He still held a bottle.
I recognised him at once. One of the ruffians. He peered at me, pointed waveringly. “You’re – you’re – Hey!” I heard more footsteps. Damn it, he was not alone.
There was no point in delaying. I put my head down and went for him. He staggered aside at the last moment and only my shoulder caught him, spinning him backwards. I clenched my fist and swung at him.
He stumbled. I connected only with air.
There were two others, staring blearily at me from an alley. God, but they were drunk. I barged into one of them, then pulled away. Discretion is always the better part of valour and discretion was telling me to run.
Something caught my ankle.
I went down, hit the cobbles with a thump that jarred the breath out of me.
The fellow had a fist around my leg. He tried to lever himself to his feet. Somehow his bottle had been broken; he had it by the neck and was waving the jagged ends at me. Beer dripped on to my face. He was weaving and staggering and his aim was not going to be good, but at this distance he could not miss.
And I could not move. I gasped for air, willed my legs to kick out. There was a roaring in my ears. The men were laughing, jeering –
The clatter of horse’s hooves.
The men yelled, veered away. I heard their footsteps as they ran off. Still gasping for breath, I looked up into the face of a man sitting on a chestnut horse. He was smirking.
“Well, Charles,” he said. “It’s nice to be able to rescue you for a change.”
My good friend, the dancing master, Hugh Demsey.
23
Late nights never profit a man.
[Instructions to a Son newly come of Age, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
It took us an hour to wake the owner of a tavern at the top of Westgate where Hugh usually stabled his horse, and to rub the animal down and feed it. In the stable that smelt of hay and horse shit, and warmth, Hugh was as cheerful as a man in drink. I suspected that he was in drink.
“Nonsense,” he said, struggling under the weight of his saddle as he slid it from the horse’s back. “I only had three or four beers while I was waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For the farrier to shoe the horse.”
He had set off from Houghton-le-Spring in late afternoon, it transpired, confident that with the long days he could still get home in the light. But the horse had cast a shoe and Hugh had had to go miles out of his way to find a blacksmith. Then the fellow had had to stoke up his fire again, and send for his apprentice who had gone off courting, and the blacksmith’s wife had been very hospitable, and all in all it had been almost dark when Hugh set off again.
“And coming across Gateshead Fell in the dark wasn’t fun, I can tell you,” Hugh said, rubbing the horse down. “I still haven’t forgotten the fellows who left the post boy for dead and stole his letters.”
“They were hanged the other week at York,” I said dismissively. “Why didn’t you just stay overnight with the blacksmith? It sounds as if his wife had taken a fancy to you.”
&nb
sp; “That’s precisely why I didn’t stay!” Hugh forked hay for the horse, patted its flanks and reached for his bags. “And what an ungrateful thing to say when I’ve just saved your skin. Come to my rooms and tell me everything.”
We walked down the street towards Hugh’s lodgings. I could not help but glance about in trepidation in case the ruffians still lingered, but we reached the building in safety and climbed the narrow stairs past the clockmakers on the ground floor, Hugh’s dancing school on the first floor, the widow and her children on the second, up to Hugh’s attic room. Hugh owns the entire building, having inherited it from his late master; he does not look it and he certainly does not flaunt it (except in his clothes) but he is a wealthy man.
The attic was stiflingly hot, having been shut up for several weeks; it was difficult to draw breath. Hugh flung open the window, wafted a few papers around futilely and dropped on to his bed with a relieved sigh.
“It’s been a long day. I was teaching all morning and afternoon.”
I perched on the only chair in the room, an uncertain old dining chair that had seen much better days. Hugh had not bothered to light a candle and we sat in a darkness relieved only by the faint light of a lantern that still burned in the street outside.
“I’m grateful to you for coming back so quickly.”
“Eh?”
“After getting my note.”
“What note?”
“The one I sent you asking you to come back.”
“Never got it.”
Then I remembered I had never sent it. I fished in my pockets and found it, crumpled and bedraggled where I had thrust it after Bedwalters interrupted me.
“Come on, Charles,” Hugh said with relish. “Tell me all about it. What mess have you got yourself into this time?”
I told him in detail, from the beginning, lingering lovingly over Mazzanti’s comments on my violin playing, his exaltation of Julia’s very few merits, the attempts on his life. Hugh whistled when he heard of Ned’s courtship of Julia and muttered something to the effect that Ned was the most foolish idiot he had ever met. I told him about Ord’s infatuation and he obliged me by getting indignant on Lizzie Saint’s behalf – she was one of Hugh’s pupils too. I told him about discovering Julia’s body, and about Corelli.