Secret Lament

by Roz Southey

  “Perfectly.”

  “And you’re the one to do it, so Heron says. That’s why I pinched that ribbon from your pocket when I knew you were going off to the constable. Not just to keep you out of trouble, Mr Patterson.” His face twisted with grim amusement. “I wanted to gain a little credit with you.” He leant closer. “I want some thanks for helping you out, Mr Patterson.”

  I looked into his harsh face, the face of a man with few scruples and too much ill experience.

  “I’ll prove Ned didn’t kill Julia Mazzanti,” I said, evenly. “And I’ll find the real killer. That’s been my intention all along. You don’t have to coerce me into it.”

  Fowler hesitated then sat back. “I’m not used to men of honour, Mr Patterson. Except Heron.” Another wry grimace. He levered himself up. “I’ll be off. I’m supposed to be running errands. Collecting some books. You needn’t let me know when you’ve done the job. I’ll know.”

  “You could do me one favour,” I said as he turned to go. He glanced back. “Keep Ned from doing anything foolish.”

  He laughed. “I’ll tell him to trust you to come up with the goods.”

  I only wished I shared his belief.

  35

  Never marry out of your station, sir. Only trouble will come of it.

  [Instructions to a Son newly come of Age, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]

  I read Ord’s letters. The serving girl and the carter flirted in the far corner while I worked my way through page after page of Ord’s flowingly expressed devotion. He had been taught to write well but under the pressure of his passion, the copperplate handwriting deteriorated until at the end of some letters it was well-nigh indecipherable. If he had ever written Julia chaste little notes of admiration, or polite requests for meetings, she had not kept them. These were the outpourings of a man who believed himself in violent love, full of praise for Julia’s beauty, for her innocence and her sweetness. He had deceived himself about her abilities as an actress and a singer, and effusively praised every song she had sung, every line she had spoken. He had not held back. This was silliness of the highest order and the oddest thing of all was that I believed it all sincere. I thought back to that time Ord had accosted me in a panic because he thought Julia had been shot. He was genuinely in love with her.

  And here was the silliest of all.

  Darling girl, I cannot tell you how happy you made me last night with your sweet modesty. A thousand times I wished your mother out of the room so I could hear you own dear lips sealing my fate. But alas, she lingered and I must wait long tedious hours before I know your answer. I beg you to slip away at the theatre tonight and make me the happiest of men.

  And lest any casual reader should imagine he was merely urging her to a night of debauchery, he added,

  If your answer is yes, I can have the licence within hours and you may bear my name within a day.

  Why the devil could he not just have said we can be married at once?

  Ord had offered Julia marriage. Had she refused or merely held him at arm’s length, promising to give him an answer later? She had plainly not destroyed all his hopes or else he would not have been solicitously escorting her to the theatre the day after the attempted burglary. But of course she had not been pregnant when she dangled Ord on her apron-strings in London, or if she had been, she had almost certainly not yet known it. She had been indecisive; perhaps she had been looking for someone richer. But as soon as she did know she was with child, Ord became immensely valuable to her. He was already in her pocket.

  I unfolded the last letter and drank the dregs of my beer. The serving girl was attending to two sailors who had just come in; one of the spirits had embarked on a rambling story too obscene for female ears.

  There was a gap of two months between the letters I had just read –written in London – and the last letter written in Newcastle the day after the Mazzantis arrived in the town. It was shorter than the rest but still as ardent. Nothing has changed my mind and heart. Darling Julia, do not hesitate any longer. Give yourself to me. And it urged her to name the day and time she would fly with him.

  Now I could see why Julia had clung to Ned Reynolds so fervently, to the extent of blackmailing him. In this letter, Ord made no mention of marriage; perhaps that was what he still intended but he did not say so. Perhaps returning home to his friends and neighbours, and the thought of the dowry Lizzie Saint would bring him, had brought him to his senses, in practical matters at least. Julia must have known Ned was not a good match but he would be better than nothing. And again I wondered about the child’s real father. Was Ord the culprit?

  I folded up the letters and slipped the ribbon back round them. The spirit was whispering the end of his tale. It came to me that Heron’s manservant, Fowler, had said something I should have taken more notice of. Some casual comment that had more significance than he knew. And Julia Mazzanti too, the one who still lived – there was something from my encounters with her that still nagged at me.

  No, I could not recall anything of significance. Except that Fowler had said Mazzanti had been looking from the window of his lodgings. Surely he must have seen Julia? Why then had he not gone out to fetch her back in?

  I tossed down payment for my beer and left the tavern. Well, that was one thing I could easily check. And perhaps on the way I would remember Fowler’s more significant comment.

  I turned into the street where Mrs Baker’s house stood and saw Matthew Proctor standing in the full glare of the sun, staring up at the shuttered windows. He did not look at me as I walked up to him.

  “The funeral is tomorrow,” he said. “At All Saints.”

  No doubt, I thought, there would be a note waiting for me at home requesting my presence as organist. The spirit across the way, on the house next to Mrs Baker’s, called a cheery greeting. Proctor flinched at the loud noise.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Keeping vigil over her body,” he said fervently.

  I felt a twinge of impatience, reminded myself of the virtues of Christian tolerance. But why such a sly unformed girl should inspire such devotion in two men was beyond me!

  “Her father won’t let me in the house,” Proctor said. “He is so close about her all the time.”

  “He feels guilty, no doubt,” I said dryly. “It is hardly useful to protect her now she is dead. He should have taken better care of her before.” Too late I recalled that my criticism applied equally to Proctor, and I feared that I had prompted another bout of self-blame. But he turned a bleak face to me and said, “She was afraid of him.”

  “Of her father? Why?”

  “He took advantage of her every day of her life,” he said melodramatically. “He shouted at her, shook her, threatened to hit her.” He was hot in rage now. “He used her so he could have an easy life of his own. He exploited her talents when he had none of his own!”

  I could well believe that last part. I could also imagine that Julia had been at times infuriating to deal with; Proctor had seen only the outward face, the best of her. Now if it had been the other Julia, in the other world – I could imagine a man getting indignant at bad treatment of her.

  “Go home,” I said, fanning myself against the heat.

  “I can’t.”

  “Rubbish!” the spirit said with good humour. “You mean you won’t.”

  Proctor cried out, clutched at my arm.

  “Many a time I’d give a fortune to be able to lie on a soft bed again,” the spirit said. “Not that I have a fortune. Or anything now, for that matter.”

  “Nothing is going to bring Julia back to life,” I said. “We have to go on.”

  Proctor was trembling, staring at the place where the spirit gleamed on a stone above a window. I said slyly, “We must go on. It’s what Julia would have wanted.”

  Proctor stared at me, screwing up his eyes against the sun. I wanted to shake him, tried to curb my irritation and put myself in his position. How
would I feel if Esther died?

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said.

  I gave him a gentle push. “Go back to your lodgings.”

  “I haven’t – I don’t – Yes.” He stared up at the window. “Go back. If only I could.”

  “You must try,” I said, firmly. “It’s what Julia would have wanted.”

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” the spirit said as we watched Proctor walk slowly off at last. “Sometimes I don’t know how some folks get by in the world. Silly as a baby.”

  “He’s shaken by the girl’s death,” I said, trying to be charitable. “He’s not normally as bad as this.” I wiped sweat from my temple and wished I had put on a thinner coat. I moved over to the small stripe of shade along one side of the street. Proctor must have been truly in love with the girl, I thought ruefully. Meek and unworldly he had always been, but not so foolish. Last I heard he had intended to be in Carlisle for the Race Week there but Julia must have drawn him back to Newcastle.

  “Once the funeral is over, he’ll be better,” I said, more in hope than in expectation, and gave myself over to squinting at the windows of Mrs Baker’s house. The downstairs window on the left, I decided, was the drawing room window and the other, on the right, was the dining room. At midnight, Mazzanti must surely have been in the drawing room, preparing to drink the night away.

  “Where was the girl waiting?” I asked.

  “Right in front of the door,” the spirit said.

  Mazzanti must have seen her, I thought, even if he had to squint a little. Then the obvious question occurred to me. “Which door?”

  “This one.” The spirit slid down to hover on the lintel above the door of its own house. The door was particularly deep set, with two steps leading up to it.

  I sighed and contemplated the sight. If Julia had slipped inside that doorway, or walked up and down before it, then perhaps Mazzanti might not have seen her. He had been looking out, certainly, but perhaps Ned, Fowler and Richard themselves had attracted his attention. If Ned had been drunk, he might well have been shouting, or at the very least talking loudly. Mazzanti, half-drunk himself, might have misinterpreted everything he heard: if he had heard Julia unfasten the front door, he might have thought it a noise in the street; if he had heard her footsteps, he might have thought it the drunks outside. If he had heard voices –

  “Damn,” I said.

  Nothing led anywhere.

  I went off to find Ord.

  Ord’s house was new. Everything about it was new, up-to-date, in fashion, of the latest design, the latest manufacture. Its plaster ceiling, its gilded mirrors, its chairs, its pictures – all new. The echoing rooms even smelt new. As I waited in the library, I looked on rows of untouched books, obviously bought by the yard, identical spines, identical covers, all smelling of fresh leather. And a brand-new harpsichord in one corner, open to display the gorgeous new paintings of nymphs and shepherds inside. Waiting for the nimble fingers of Lizzie Saint, no doubt.

  The instrument was horribly out of tune.

  I turned on my heels. The house must have cost a fortune. The Ords were a wealthy family, but building on this scale must surely have been beyond Philip Ord’s means. Coal mines he had in plenty, particularly since his father died a couple of years back – but coal owners were all hard put to for ready cash. No wonder he needed Lizzie’s money.

  I was staring out at the sundrenched gardens, the only part of the place to be less than perfect, for no money will persuade new plants to grow faster, when Ord came in briskly. He had only kept me waiting half an hour or so, enough to put me in my place but not enough to seriously annoy me. Looking at his agitated manner, which he was attempting to hide, I was surprised that he had managed to contain himself so long.

  “The letters,” he said without preamble. “Where are they?”

  “I have them.”

  He held out a hand. I did not move. I was waiting for a ‘if you please’. But it is usually useless to wait for politeness from the gentry.

  His lip curled. “I see you want money, in addition to everything else I promised.”

  I was about to tell him no but he went straight on without giving me time to speak. “You are standing on very insecure ground, sir. I have heard the rumours that you killed Julia.”

  “Then you will also have heard that I did not do so,” I said. “I will give you the letters – ”

  He held out his hand again.

  “– when you tell me what you were doing in the street outside her lodgings the night she died.”

  “What are you talking about? I wasn’t anywhere near the place.”

  “You were seen.”

  “By liars and thieves eager for some reward, no doubt.”

  “I saw you,” I said levelly. “Drinking in Mrs Hill’s less than an hour before Julia died.” I saw him flinch – yes, there had been real feeling for Julia there. Enough to make him throw caution and Thomas Saint’s money to the winds, and contemplate marriage to a penniless actress? “Other reliable witnesses saw you barely a street from Julia’s lodgings while she waited outside for her lover to bear her off to a Scottish anvil. And – ” I waved the letters. “In the last of these, written less than a week ago, after her arrival in Newcastle, you begged her to name the date she would marry you.”

  I had to bear a rant of five minutes or so berating me for every sin in the Bible, and every crime on the statute book. I had violated his privacy, the confidences of an innocent girl, the sacred feelings of love and admiration. I was a villain of the worst kind, a debaucher of maidens, the sort of fellow who undermines all the most sacred tenets of religion and society.

  “You knew I was looking for Julia’s murderer,” I said. “Did you seriously imagine I would not read the letters?” He reddened, opened his mouth for another outburst. “Was she waiting for you that night?”

  He came to a halt in the middle of his expensive, new, unused house that sparkled in the radiant sunlight. Red-faced and almost gasping for breath, he stared at me, then closed his eyes. I waited. When he opened his eyes again, he was calmer, but his hands could not stop fidgeting, twisting round themselves, fingering the buttons on his coat, dipping in and out of pockets.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” he said.

  “What happened?” I spoke as calmly and flatly as I could, to keep him calm.

  “She wanted to elope,” he said helplessly. “To Scotland, to marry.”

  “And you agreed?”

  The hands went into pockets, came out again. “Yes,” he said, almost inaudibly. “I – I thought I loved her.”

  Those words almost made me despise him more than everything else. He was already beginning to deny to himself that he had truly loved her, was already resigning the episode in his mind to that of a foolish infatuation.

  “I knew from the moment I first saw her in London that I wanted her,” he admitted. “She was as a girl should be, modest, retiring, obedient to her parents. Not like an actress at all. And her parents – damn it, Patterson, they’re not commoners. Mazzanti has aristocratic connections – he’s some relation to the Count of Ferrara.”

  I didn’t even know if there was a Count in Ferrara and neither, I suspected, did Ord, but even if there was, I doubted that Mazzanti would be related to him. Ord was just trying to make his actions sound more reasoned than they had been.

  “And when she showed such quiet interest in me, when she so delicately indicated that she might not be averse to my approaches – ”

  “You sent her letters,” I finished. “Did you also meet?”

  “Only in public. Never anything else, Patterson! The most innocent of meetings. I wanted to marry her, for God’s sake!”

  “Did you approach Mazzanti to ask for Julia’s hand?”

  “He turned me away,” Ord said, bitterly. He was plainly not accustomed to rejection. “The day I left London he took me aside and said that he had other plans for his daughter.” His voice hardened. “He said they didn�
�t include a member of the provincial minor gentry!”

  That jibe had probably hurt more than anything else.

  “I thought I had no chance left. I came home. Got on with my life.”

  Wooed Lizzie Saint, I added mentally.

  Ord was getting into his stride now, literally, walking backwards and forwards across the sunshine that striped the floorboards, as if all his pent-up energy was too much to bear.

  “You had no further contact with her?”

  He looked at the walls, the floor, the pictures – anywhere but at me. “She wrote me a letter at the end of last month.”

  “From London?”

  “Telling me when they would arrive and asking to see me.”

  “Where is this letter?”

  “I burnt it,” he said bleakly.

  “After Julia died?”

  “It was an innocent letter, Patterson,” he said angrily. “A sweet letter, like any young girl might write.”

  Young girls know better than to make assignations, I thought. I did not say so – he would probably refuse to talk to me any more.

  “So you saw her.”

  “Only in public.”

  “But you managed to make an assignation with her,” I pointed out. “For midnight on the night she died. You agreed to elope with her and get married.”

  “I could not deny her! She put her reputation and her precious self in my care!”

  I’d had enough; I said brutally, “She was with child.”

  He stared at me with stricken face. He had not known.

  “Were you the father?”

  He shook his head numbly. “No, no, I could not have been. We never – I did not – ” He turned away so I could not see his face, rubbed his hand across his temple. “She wanted to marry me for respectability’s sake,” he said heavily. “She wanted a father for her child. That’s all, isn’t it? There was no feeling, no love – ”