by Roz Southey
‘Some people are.’
He turned his head to look at me. ‘You’ve someone in mind. Tell me, Charles.’
‘Cuthbert Ridley.’
He frowned. ‘Isn’t that the youngest boy? I thought he’d been sent in disgrace to London.’
‘In disgrace?’
He grinned. ‘I used to teach the daughters before they married. Got all the gossip from the kitchen maid.’
Which was precisely what I’d have expected of Hugh. ‘Which was?’
‘He did nasty things to the cats.’
‘I like cats,’ I said.
‘But when he transferred his attentions to the expensive hunting dogs, that’s when the trouble really began. Particularly when he blamed it on the stable boys.’
‘They believed the stable boys before him?’
‘The steward saw it all. The old steward, who’s been fifty years with the family man and boy, and never uttered a harsh word against anyone.’ He stifled a sneeze. ‘But you can’t prove this was murder, Charles.’
‘I know what I saw.’
‘And especially you can’t prove Cuthbert Ridley is the only man in town with the initials CR.’
‘He admits to being there.’
‘The devil he does!’
I related my conversation with Ridley; Hugh’s lips curled with distaste. But at the end of it all, he still shook his head.
‘It’s not proof, Charles. Nowhere near proof. He could have been doing exactly as he said.’ He sighed. ‘And it’s not always the nasty people who do nasty things. What are you going to do?’
‘Brood.’
‘And then?’
‘We’re dining at the Jenisons’ tonight. With Richard Nightingale.’
‘I mean, what are you going to do about Ridley?’
‘Heron will be at the dinner. I’ll try and manage a few private words. See if he knows more than he’s said. Other than that—’ I looked up at his red face, tensed for another sneeze. ‘It was foggy, Hugh. Visibility was erratic and most people were keeping to the safety of the buildings, not wanting to fall into the river. Only the sailors and I were in any real position to see what happened and the sailors were busy with work on board. There can be no other witnesses; all I have is that bag with the initials, and the grey horse.’
‘You could try the livery stables, see if you can find the horse there. Or the inns.’
‘It’ll be at his mother’s home, well out of my reach.’
Hugh frowned. ‘There’s something not quite right here. He galloped off across the bridge? Heading south?’
‘As far as I can tell.’
‘But if he was heading for his mother’s house, he would have turned west.’
‘He may simply have wanted to get away as fast as he could.’ I got up, put the remains of the brandy on the table next to his bed, within easy reach. ‘I must go. Esther will be fretting we’ll be late for dinner. I have an uncomfortable feeling, Hugh, this is one death that’ll go unpunished.’
Seventeen
The intercourse of friends, and a few hours spent in sober conversation, is highly beneficial to society.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, February 1734]
I told Esther about Nightingale’s adoption of Kate as we walked up to the Jenisons’ house in the thickening dusk. The hem of Esther’s gown rustled gently against the ground; I’d offered to send for a chair to convey her without dirtying her petticoats, but she’d refused and I was glad. I loved quiet moments like this, just the two of us, arm in arm, close enough to feel each other’s warmth.
Esther was horrified. ‘One cannot blame the girl,’ she said. ‘Of course she will seize any opportunity that comes her way. But Nightingale’s behaviour is reprehensible!’
‘I don’t think he has any nefarious intent towards her,’ I said. ‘He sees her as a novelty to attract audiences.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said grimly. ‘But I hardly think that will deter him from taking advantage of her in the worst way!’
I’d been right – taking on a girl as an apprentice always gives rise to talk.
It was clear from the start that the dinner party was going to be a trial. Heron was in a bad mood – when we arrived, he was standing against the mantelshelf above the unlit fire, glowering at anyone who dared come near him. And I felt horribly shabby. Heron was immaculately dressed as always, wearing clothes that had patently cost a fortune; Jenison had dignified the occasion with his best coat of chocolate brown, and the ladies were very fine, Mrs Jenison in plum-coloured satin, Mrs Annabella in a white gown more suited to a young girl. At least I didn’t cut such a ridiculous figure as she did, with an amazingly elaborate hairstyle and inexpertly applied rouge.
It was plain that having a private word with Heron would be well-nigh impossible; indeed, if he was in a bad mood it would probably not be advisable. Moreover, his temper worsened by the minute as Mrs Annabella simpered and smiled and flattered him outrageously.
Nightingale was late. Very late. Jenison began to fidget and look at the clock. ‘Dinner will be ready before he arrives.’
‘Do you think he’s quite all right?’ Mrs Annabella said to Heron as if he should know. ‘Perhaps he’s ill. Perhaps he was dreadfully incommoded by the journey.’
‘Not by the journey, no,’ I said. Heron’s lips tightened.
‘Perhaps he’s got lost?’ Mrs Annabella pressed her lace handkerchief to her bosom. ‘He doesn’t know the town.’ She turned an accusing eye on me. ‘You should have called for him on the way in your carriage.’
‘We walked,’ Esther said, and smiled into the horrified silence. ‘It is only two short streets.’
‘But the town can be dangerous at this time of night,’ Mrs Jenison protested.
‘He’s been robbed!’ Mrs Annabella said faintly. ‘Even now, he could be lying in a gutter!’
‘He has probably taken a chair and the bearers are fleecing him by carrying him the long way round,’ Heron said curtly, tapping his foot.
Jenison was staring out of the window into the street. ‘The beef will be overdone. I detest overdone beef.’
Nightingale made an appearance at last and it was spectacular. He was dressed from head to foot in yellow, the colour of buttercups. Jet-black buttons winked on his coat, and tiny but distinct ladders were embroidered in silver on his waistcoat. He paused in the doorway so we could all admire the effect, and seemed gratified by Mrs Annabella’s gasp of amazement.
And behind him was Kate. Resplendent in matching yellow with hoops so large as to almost weigh her down. She wasn’t able to moderate her usual stride so the hoops bounced from side to side, making her stumble. The dress must have cost a fortune, I thought, not merely because of the quality of the material but because some lucky dressmaker must have had a dozen girls working all day on it to finish in time.
It made her look like a whore.
Jenison, caught in the act of inclining his head graciously to his guest, stopped, head tilted like a puzzled sparrow. ‘Er . . . um . . .’
Nightingale made a large gesture to the room. ‘How gracious of you all to welcome me. Such a friendly town.’
Jenison thawed, a little, though his gaze lingered on Kate; both Mrs Jenison and Mrs Annabella were staring at her with something akin to horror. Esther whispered in my ear. ‘Is that the girl? What in heaven’s name does he think he’s doing, bringing her into this company? This is unfair!’
Nightingale was enlarging on the virtues of his quarters at the Golden Fleece, ignoring Jenison’s protests that he’d engaged rooms for him at the George. Mrs Annabella said, loudly, ‘And pray who is this?’
Nightingale swooped on her. ‘My dear lady, has anyone told you how wonderful you look in white? It’s so becoming to you. Can I say how much, how very much, I’ve been counting the hours until I saw you – and your family – again. I’ve such fond memories of our acquaintance in London.’
Mrs Annabella was plainly torn. She tilted towards Nightingale’s tempting bulk but her e
yes flitted irresistibly towards Kate. Mrs Jenison was apparently lost for words, rigid with disapproval.
‘Dinner must be almost ready,’ Jenison said anxiously. ‘I’ll ring for a servant to escort the – er – young person to the kitchens.’
‘But my dear sir,’ Nightingale said, wide-eyed with innocence. ‘My apprentice is to eat with us.’
‘This is cruel,’ Esther said passionately. ‘The girl cannot feel anything but out of place!’
Nightingale and Jenison argued in the politest of fashions. Nightingale protested he thought the invitation had included Kate; Jenison said he hardly thought there’d be enough food. Nightingale protested the girl ate like a bird; Kate looked mutinous. Jenison thought she’d be more comfortable downstairs. Mrs Annabella continued to scrutinize Kate with distinct hostility; Mrs Jenison had become every inch the woman of gentility, whose well-bred expression gave nothing away.
In the end, Nightingale won the day, by saying comfortably how he remembered Jenison’s lavish hospitality in London and how he’d often spoken of it to friends, recommending the warm northern spirit to its colder London counterpart. Jenison thawed under this blatant flattery; Mrs Jenison said wearily that at least one more would even up the numbers.
We went into dinner, Nightingale oozing triumph. Jenison followed the new fashion of alternating men and women; I found myself with Mrs Annabella on one side and Mrs Jenison on the other. Almost directly opposite me, Kate sat between Heron and Nightingale, who, of course, proceeded to ignore her now he’d got his own way. Jenison sat Esther next to himself and devoted himself to her needs as if she was the only female in the room, which, I saw, annoyed Mrs Jenison.
Kate glowered at the array of silver as if it had personally offended her. She glanced across at me, and for a moment I saw a lost little girl thinking about crying. I smiled at her; she put her nose in the air and straightened her back.
The servants brought in the soup. Nightingale devoted himself to Esther; I heard him explaining the many measures he was taking for Kate’s welfare; plainly he’d noticed Esther’s hostility and was trying to disarm it. Mrs Jenison undertook to entertain me with tales of the iniquities of her servants, and asked if I was satisfied with mine. Mrs Annabella, opposite Nightingale, looked put out at the lack of attention paid to her by the gentlemen and attacked her soup with angry stabs of her spoon, creating little waves in the bowl.
Kate, I was glad to see, was more sensible than I’d given her credit for, sitting in prim stillness until she’d seen what other people did. She was an extraordinarily good mimic; by the time the overdone beef had appeared, she was dabbing at her lips with her napkin as delicately as Mrs Annabella. Her success evidently gave her confidence; she turned to Heron beside her and said, ‘You like music too, eh?’
He said, shortly, ‘Yes.’
‘Fiddle music? Here, do you know the tune Buttered Peas?’ And she started humming.
Heron glanced at me. ‘I fancy that’s called The Devil to Pay.’
Kate didn’t recognize irony either. ‘Nah, that’s different.’ But fortunately at that point a servant offered her potatoes.
Nightingale took charge of the table. He enlarged on his performances in London, and the wonderful reviews he’d received. I suspected he’d probably written them himself. But Jenison plainly took them as genuine, and quizzed Nightingale on every one, a lengthy process in which he was ably abetted by Mrs Annabella, eager for attention. There was one awkward moment when Nightingale recounted a tale about half a dozen adoring young ladies, but he then saved the day by leaning forward and twinkling at Mrs Annabella. ‘But none of them, dear madam, was as beautiful as you.’
Heron’s contemptuous gaze met mine. Mrs Annabella simpered.
Throughout the meat and the fish and the jugged hare and the quails and into the desserts, Nightingale held court. Jenison gave him the benefit of homage, Nightingale scattered compliments in Mrs Annabella’s direction, and the rest of us confined ourselves to murmurs connected with the food. Kate said hardly anything, but I noticed her gaze was darting here and there, watching, patently learning. She did indeed peck at her food, though I suspected she was probably eating ten times as much as she ever had at home, and of much richer fare.
At last, the ladies rose to go to the drawing room. Esther took charge of Kate, drawing the girl’s arm through hers and saying she must see Mrs Jenison’s new curtains. Kate looked dubious. Mrs Annabella sailed off ahead, barging Kate out of the way as they happened to get to the door together.
We were left, the four of us, and Nightingale seemed to wither. Heron was a slender man of only just above middle height, and Jenison was rotund and an inch or two shorter still. Nightingale should have looked larger and more vivid in his yellow glory. But he sank down a little in his chair and a false note sounded in his conversation. He was a man plainly more at ease with the ladies.
My hopes of speaking privately to Heron were dashed straight away; Jenison engaged him in business talk almost as soon as the ladies were out of the door. Nightingale, obviously bored, stared into his glass. His yellow coat had gravy stains along one cuff, as if he’d leant on something spilled on the table. He must have sensed me watching, for he looked up. ‘Devil take it, Patterson,’ he muttered, with a quick glance to be sure Jenison and Heron were not listening. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I don’t mean the girl any harm. My tastes run to a woman with a bit of meat on her.’
‘You may find it difficult to convince other people of that.’
He seemed to take what I said to heart for when we repaired, not long afterwards, to the drawing room, he went straight to Mrs Jenison and Mrs Annabella and began to talk to them. The ladies were all subdued, I thought. Kate looked bored and stared morosely at the huge arrangement of feathers on the far door; Esther, beside her, had an air of exasperation. Mrs Jenison was looking weary and harassed. But Mrs Annabella glowed as Nightingale’s gaze settled on her; I heard him murmur he was bored by young people – their conversation so tedious, their opinions and taste so unformed.
Esther moved slightly so I could sit down beside her. ‘I have told Kate she will sleep in our house tonight. There is a spare bed in the housemaid’s room. They are much of an age so may get on well.’
‘I ain’t a servant,’ Kate said sullenly. ‘Mr N’s promised me a room at the Fleece.’
‘You are not staying with that man,’ Esther said. ‘I do not trust him.’
‘I can look after myself,’ Kate said defiantly.
‘You should not need to. You will stay with us.’
‘No, I won’t.’
I intervened as Esther’s expression hardened. ‘If you come with us, I’ll give you a violin lesson tomorrow.’
Kate gave me a sour look. ‘You won’t. You’ll say you’ve changed your mind. Anyhow, Mr N’s going to take me to London.’
I opened my mouth to urge caution, then saw how she glowed with pleasure. Kate must have had very little in her life to please her; I decided to let her have her dreams a little while longer.
‘We can sort all that out later,’ I said. ‘When we’re less distracted by conversation.’
Kate smirked. ‘Do you always talk and talk and talk like this?’
‘It is called civilized conversation,’ Esther said and turned to return a comment of Jenison’s. Kate made a face at me.
‘It’s called dull,’ she said. ‘I nearly went off you know where and came back at the end of the evening when you’d all talked yourselves out.’
I hoped she was only joking.
At the end of the evening, as Nightingale bid everyone a magnificent melodramatic farewell, I at last found a moment for a private word with Heron. He spoke before I could, saying curtly, ‘Ridley. His mother sent me a message this afternoon. He is insisting on having lodgings in town – at the Old Man Inn.’
The ladies were fussing over Esther; a maid brought her cloak. Kate stood to one side, ignored and patently very tired. Jenison was complimenting Ni
ghtingale yet again on his rendition of Handel; I’d never seen him so admiring before.
I winced. ‘Ridley couldn’t have picked a more unsavoury resort.’
‘I am assuming the whores there are the attraction,’ Heron said dryly. ‘But it distresses and worries his mother, which is unacceptable. She is not well. Moreover, lawyer Armstrong has sent word the boy did not visit him as arranged. He is not pleased. He says that if he does not see Ridley tomorrow, he will no longer consider taking him on.’
I couldn’t imagine Ridley would mourn the lost opportunity.
‘And now he has completely disappeared.’ Heron’s exasperation was evident in his voice. ‘I visited the Old Man Inn this afternoon but he was not there. Out carousing, apparently. I am off there again now in search of better luck.’
‘Would you like me to—’
But Jenison interrupted us. ‘Mr Patterson, the concert tomorrow is arranged for two o’clock. I trust that is a convenient time?’
Jenison was asking for my opinion? That was new. ‘There will of course be no band,’ I warned him. ‘Just myself accompanying Mr Nightingale on the harpsichord.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Jenison returned to Nightingale’s side.
‘And now,’ Heron resumed forcefully, ‘it transpires he has stolen money from his mother. No less than fifty pounds! Taken from the drawer in her bedroom. He rifled the room for it, left it all in a turmoil.’
I pondered on the thought of leaving so much money casually in a drawer.
‘Well—’
A sharp blow landed in the middle of my back.
Eighteen
Drink should be taken in strict moderation.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, May 1730]
I stumbled. Heron caught my arm, steadied me. Cuthbert Ridley staggered drunkenly past, plainly oblivious to the fact he’d just nearly knocked me over. He was singing a bawdy song – a very bawdy song – and waving his arms wildly.
Mrs Jenison and the maid scattered in alarm. Esther stepped back smartly out of the way. Mrs Annabella shrieked and edged behind the nearest man – Nightingale; he put out an arm as if to defend her, looking rather pompous but obviously well-intentioned. Kate, caught isolated, took a step towards Jenison but he was retreating too.