The Ladder Dancer

by Roz Southey

  Only Heron, as ever, seemed unalarmed. ‘You want to see me, Ridley?’ he asked dryly.

  It was plain Ridley didn’t know what he wanted. He stumbled to a halt, stopped in mid-note and squinted about as if he wasn’t sure who’d spoken. ‘What the devil—’ His gaze missed Heron and me altogether, and the footman behind us, leered at the ladies, then settled on Nightingale. He lunged forwards, arms opened wide, face alight with pleasure. ‘It’s the crow himself! My dear fellow. I haven’t seen you since—’ He cast Nightingale a sly glance and a wink. ‘Well, never mind. Ladies present, eh?’

  Nightingale drew himself up proudly. ‘You are drunk, sir!’ he said with considerable dignity. ‘I do not know you. Go away.’

  ‘But my dear old songster!’

  Nightingale withdrew with a contemptuous gaze; Ridley went after him.

  ‘This is intolerable,’ Heron said shortly. He took a brisk step forward, grasped Ridley’s arm. Ridley tried to shake him off.

  ‘Time to leave,’ Heron said. ‘Patterson, will you oblige me by checking if my carriage is at the door?’

  The footman forestalled me, hurrying out to the street. Ridley pulled free. ‘Night’s young! Plenty to do.’ He saw Kate and went straight for her. ‘Now, here’s a pretty young lady.’

  She ran, hoops bouncing, for the stairs, snatched up a candlestick, and swung round, ready to brain him with it. Hot wax globules sprayed across the wooden banister. I suspected Ridley was not the first man Kate had had to fight off, and I wouldn’t have bet on him to win.

  ‘Servants!’ Jenison called imperiously. The maid fled to the rear of the house for help; the footman came dashing back in from the street.

  Ridley had seen Mrs Annabella now, with her rouge and ridiculous hairstyle, and her low décolletage. He ignored Kate’s defiance, peered at Mrs Annabella. ‘Devil take it!’ He grinned salaciously. ‘Here’s another of ’em!’

  Mrs Annabella shrieked. The footman made purposefully for Ridley but Nightingale was there first. He was shaking, I noticed, but drew himself up, and stared down his nose at Ridley in an imperious manner. ‘Leave the lady be.’

  Mrs Annabella swooned into the arms of the onrushing footman, who plainly didn’t know what to do with her. Abruptly, Ridley started shouting, rantings so obscene they startled us all. Spittle sprayed into Nightingale’s face; as he flinched away, Ridley struck out. One fist caught Nightingale a glancing blow on the shoulder; he howled in outrage, lifted his own fists. Then Ridley brought up his knee and caught him in the groin.

  Nightingale shrieked and went down to his knees.

  ‘This is not an edifying spectacle,’ Esther said. She strode across to Kate and thrust her unceremoniously towards the drawing room. Kate went, grinning. Mrs Jenison hurried after, red-faced and shocked, dragging with her a reluctant, even excited, Mrs Annabella. Jenison looked ready to follow.

  Heron and I both went for Ridley, aided by the footman freed from the burden of Mrs Annabella. None of us could get near him. His arms and legs windmilled. One hand caught the footman in the stomach; he grunted, fell back, staggered forward again. I tried to grab one of the flailing arms and had to duck away from a wild punch. Then servants in shirtsleeves came running from the rear of the house, seized Ridley en masse from behind. A burly groom put out a foot and neatly took Ridley’s ankles out from under him. Ridley hit the floor with a thump that made him gasp. I heard Jenison mutter in satisfaction.

  Heron strolled forward, put a foot in the middle of Ridley’s chest and pressed down hard. Ridley yelped. Heron said, ‘Now you will apologize to Mr Jenison, and to his family and household, for your boorish behaviour.’

  Ridley made a gurgling noise. Heron pressed harder. ‘Now!’

  ‘I . . . I apologize,’ Ridley yelled.

  ‘And now to Mr Nightingale.’

  Ridley mumbled. ‘And to Mr Patterson.’

  Ridley got out, ‘Yes, yes!’

  ‘Properly,’ Heron said inexorably.

  ‘I apologize!’

  ‘Very well,’ Heron said. ‘Now we will put you in my carriage and convey you home to your mother.’ He bent over Ridley’s squirming body, smiling grimly into his red face. ‘And let me tell you, sir, if you cause her any more distress, I will personally throw you in the Tyne and leave you to get yourself out.’

  He nodded to the servants. The footman and groom hauled Ridley to his feet and hustled him out into the street. They did not treat him gently.

  ‘Do you need my help?’ I asked. Heron shook his head, took his coat and cane from a maid, and sauntered out to his carriage, as cool as if nothing had happened.

  Nightingale had crawled to the stairs and was trying to haul himself on to the bottom step. I reached to help him and, after a moment, he struggled to his feet with my aid, clinging on to the banister. Tears streamed down his face. The butler, unprompted, brought him a glass of brandy which he tossed back in one gulp.

  ‘Get him a chair,’ I said to the butler. ‘He needs to get back to his lodgings.’

  ‘A chair,’ Nightingale repeated, breathing deeply. He straightened. ‘Yes, a chair. But first I must reassure the ladies!’ And he staggered across to the drawing room, flung open the doors and called out: ‘Ladies! The danger is over. I have vanquished the villain!’

  ‘What an evening!’ Esther sighed and blew out the nightlight on the bedside table. The room was plunged into darkness. Beyond the bed curtains, one side of which was still undrawn, I could see the faint rectangle of the window with pale moonlight shining through.

  Esther plumped up the pillows behind her, shuffled closer to me and laid her head against my shoulder. ‘What a thoroughly unpleasant man!’

  ‘Ridley?’ I nodded.

  ‘I am so glad you are nothing like him.’ She laughed softly. ‘Or Mr Nightingale. One must feel sorry for him, of course, but he is pompous and preposterously conceited.’

  ‘He did his best to protect the ladies,’ I pointed out. ‘He must have some credit for that.’

  ‘True.’ Her hair tickled my skin above the collar of my nightshirt.

  ‘Would you prefer me to be like Heron?’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘Much too cold for my tastes.’

  A moment’s silence. I was comfortable and at ease; at moments like this, I knew I was glad we were married. ‘I’m pleased you’re not like Mrs Annabella,’ I said.

  She laughed outright at that. ‘You know I’m not one for needlework.’

  ‘Is Mrs Annabella? Beyond the normal mending that all ladies undertake, I mean.’

  ‘Did you not see the covers to the chairs?’

  ‘Not the tapestry owls?’ I said, horrified. ‘And the purple roses!’

  ‘I think the roses were Mrs Jenison’s,’ she said. ‘Or did one of her daughters sew those? I think Mrs Jenison does the feather pictures. But I confess I am not sure. The purple roses are certainly to her taste.’

  ‘I prefer your sketches.’

  ‘I must sketch you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps even paint a portrait.’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ I had a sudden appalling vision of seeing myself staring down at me every breakfast.

  We lay in the near darkness, Esther’s head heavy on my shoulder, her hand warm on my chest through the thin material of my nightshirt.

  ‘Kate did not like the room,’ she murmured.

  I laughed. ‘She’s probably climbed out of the window by now and is halfway to Nightingale in the Golden Fleece.’ Or, I thought with sudden appalled horror, she’d stepped through to the other world. Ought I to tell Esther about that? She was already wary about my own abilities.

  ‘No,’ Esther said. ‘She is full of the violin lesson you promised her tomorrow.’

  I sighed. ‘I’m regretting that impulse. I simply wanted her to behave.’

  ‘And I am taking her off to the dressmakers to order clothes more suitable for a girl of her age. Did you know she cannot even read? Although she could be taught, of course.’

 
I stared uneasily at her in the dim room. ‘We’re not adopting her, Esther. And she’s not becoming my apprentice.’

  ‘No, of course not. That would be totally inappropriate. In any case, she tells me Nightingale is going to draw up articles for her.’

  ‘You can’t believe that! He’ll exploit her as long as she’s useful then cast her off.’

  She poked me lovingly in the shoulder. ‘You should not associate with Claudius Heron so much; you are catching his cynicism. Do you really think I will abandon the girl to Nightingale? I never saw anyone more selfish. He does not care for her welfare in the least.’

  There was silence. Outside, in the garden, a fox barked. I didn’t want to think of Kate and her problems. Or Nightingale. Or Ridley and the baby. It all seemed too much effort. Lying here in the darkness with Esther in my arms was better. Much better.

  ‘Charles,’ Esther said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you tired?’

  I thought about this. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, plainly disappointed.

  ‘But not too tired.’

  She giggled.

  Nineteen

  When dealing with the lower orders, a firm manner always earns respect and obedience.

  [A Gentleman’s Companion, June 1734]

  I awoke invigorated and refreshed, and breakfasted heartily. Esther entertained me with the most ludicrous portions of her London newspaper and sighed over her list of chores for the day. ‘Consult with Cook over the menus, get the gardener a new boy to help him.’ She fixed me with a severe gaze. ‘This is a sign of the excitement I shall be indulging in today, Charles. Doing an inventory of the pots and pans!’

  I laughed. ‘I shall think of you as I flatter the ladies and gentlemen into buying tickets. Two or three people actually came up to me in the street yesterday, asking for tickets.’

  ‘They’d heard of Nightingale?’

  ‘Alas, yes. And talking of Nightingale, have you seen Kate this morning?’

  ‘I sent my maid in to check on her. She is still asleep. Snoring, apparently. You had better enquire at the Jenisons’ today too. To ensure the ladies have not taken harm from last night.’ She looked at me severely when I made a derisory noise. ‘Really, Charles, I do know neither of them was in the slightest danger! It is a matter of politeness.’

  ‘We’ll see them at the concert this afternoon.’

  She frowned. ‘True, I’d forgotten. I will send a note instead.’ She folded up the newspaper. ‘I suppose we needn’t concern ourselves about Ridley today. Heron will probably have him in chains!’

  ‘It would be no less than he deserves.’ I could not forget the baby’s body in its sodden rags. ‘I begin to think nothing but death will reform him.’ And probably not even that; not so long ago, I’d tangled with a very unpleasant spirit who’d carried grudges beyond the grave.

  It had rained overnight; there were damp patches on the ground still and the bushes in the gardens in the middle of Caroline Square dripped moisture on the skirts of my coat as I brushed past. I’d planned to start the morning with a visit to Hugh to see how he was, and to regale him with the events of the previous evening which I knew he’d enjoy, but when I reached his lodgings he wasn’t in. He must be feeling better and gone out for a bite to eat.

  I stood for a moment in the street, debating whether to try and find him. If he was better he might well be at the concert this afternoon; was it worth wandering around town after him? I was on the verge of finding a spirit to enquire for me where he was, when I wondered if he’d gone up to the stables where he kept his horse – and that put me in mind of Ridley’s horse and the events of that evening.

  What exactly must have happened? Ridley – the horseman – had ridden into town, found two whores, paid one to hold the horse while he tried his luck with the other. He was in a bad temper and his unsuccessful drunken fumblings with the girl made him more angry. Then he’d ridden off, accidentally or deliberately cannoning into the woman.

  There were a number of problems with this version of events, I realized. As Hugh had said, why should Ridley ride south? It was in quite the wrong direction for his mother’s house. And why had he come to Newcastle at all? Surely not just to spend a few minutes with a whore?

  He must have had other business here. The business had gone badly, he was angry, sought out the whore, grew even more angry. But in that case, what had he done with his horse while transacting his original business? He couldn’t leave the horse to wander round the streets. He must have left it at stables.

  I had tickets to sell. I could hardly complain about Esther’s money when I did nothing to earn my own. I didn’t have time to chase after a mystery that would never be solved.

  I went up to the stables Hugh used.

  The grooms listened politely but said they’d seen no horse like the grey; the only grey they had was much lighter. They let me look at it and it was almost white. Well, there were plenty of other stables in town; I’d work my way round them in the course of the next day or two. Meanwhile, I really must get back to selling tickets.

  I traipsed down towards the Key in hope of seeing Lizzie Ord’s father, Thomas Saint the printer, who usually buys two or three tickets. Inns stable horses too, I thought; someone who didn’t know the town particularly well – and Ridley had been away since he was a child – might find an inn more easily than livery stables. Which inns might he have tried? The Fleece was the most obvious, being nearest the bridge from the south. The Old Man of course, but that was a mere tavern. Then there was the George, easily the most reputable inn in town.

  The George lies just up from St Nicholas’s Church, and I was only a street or two away. It wouldn’t take long to get there and ask a few questions; I turned down an alley, across a street and into the inn yard.

  The inn is a rickety old place, whose haphazard beams and homely whitewash disguise excellent service and a hearty welcome. A maid directed me to the stable lad who was, she said, breakfasting; I found him sitting on a bench outside the kitchen, in a patch of sunshine, enjoying a very large tankard of ale and a wedge of freshly baked bread. He was two or three years older than Kate, maybe fifteen, and stank of the stables. Dried horse-shit lined one boot and a streak of mud his right cheek; he had a nervous habit of scratching at his leg.

  I described the grey horse to him. He screwed up his eyes in thought. ‘Oh, aye. Fine horse that was. Left it here two or three hours.’

  ‘That’s not long. Did he say why he wanted to leave it?’

  The lad stared. ‘He wanted it looked after.’

  I rephrased the question. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  He thought, shook his head, drank ale, scratched his leg. ‘Didn’t ask.’ He grinned. ‘Didn’t like him. Rude.’

  ‘Insulted you, did he?’

  ‘Had a filthy temper on him. Said he’d been told the George was good and it better had be. Like I’d not look after the horse right!’

  He expiated on the horse’s good points at length, growing more and more enthusiastic. It had obviously been a well-bred, expensive animal.

  ‘What did he look like?’ I intervened. ‘The man, I mean, not the horse.’

  He shrugged and immediately lost all inclination to talk. ‘Dunno.’ Another scratch.

  ‘You must have been close to him, if you took the horse out of his hands.’

  ‘Had a hat,’ he said, at last. ‘And a big coat.’ He shrugged. ‘It were foggy. He were just some fellow.’ Light seemed to dawn. ‘I remember the bag. Chinked as he took it down. Money, lots of it.’

  That puzzled me. Ridley had had money? Why then did he need to steal from his mother? Unless he’d lost the money, gambling perhaps. Was that why he’d come to Newcastle in the first place? But somehow I couldn’t imagine Ridley getting annoyed over losing money. He’d regard it as just another amusing incident.

  ‘Was it a bag with letters on it?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Another one who couldn’t read. �
��Had gold on it. All swirls.’

  I scratched the monogram on the stone bench, using the sharp end of a pebble. He looked at it dubiously. ‘Mebbe.’

  I sighed. ‘Was he still in a bad temper when he came back for the horse?’

  The lad grinned. ‘And how!’

  ‘But he didn’t say why?’

  ‘Just took the horse and went off. No,’ he corrected himself, ‘I forgot. He asked which way for the bridge.’

  ‘He was riding south then?’

  ‘I told him, and then he goes off in the wrong direction!’ The lad grinned. ‘Well, I weren’t running after him to say. Not after him being so rude.’

  He scratched at the leg, stared reflectively into the bottom of the empty tankard. I fished a sixpence out of my pocket. He stared at it with growing appreciation.

  ‘I can tell you more,’ he said, adding, just as I was getting hopeful again, ‘Dunno any more but I could easy make something up.’

  I gave him the sixpence and retreated.

  I thought of going to the Old Man Inn to question the girls there, and see if Ridley had been telling me the truth about what he’d been doing on the night the child had died. But it would be well-nigh impossible to find two girls whose names I didn’t know and who might not be connected with the inn at all, so I went back home to give Kate her promised violin lesson. Having sold not a single concert ticket.

  She was in the estate room with Esther, wearing a neat, rather drab dress I fancied Esther must have borrowed from a servant, and her brown hair was down (and washed) as befitted her age. Apparently, she was demonstrating she could write her name; this, I saw over her shoulder, consisted of writing a large ungainly K.

  I took her into the library. She scampered after me with a child’s eagerness and hung over the painted images of nymphs and shepherds on the harpsichord lid. ‘What are they doing? Are they dancing? Why are they doing it in the middle of a field?’

  I took my violin out of its case. It’s not a valuable instrument but one with sentimental value for me; I’d seen enough to know Kate would handle it carefully. She ran her fingers over the age-smoothed wood, clearly appreciating the feel. I gave her the bow and was just telling her to play me something she liked, when a sparkle of light caught my attention and the spirit George shot along the raised edge of the harpsichord lid. ‘Master! You can’t teach her. You know you can’t!’