by Roz Southey
He was just moving off, leaving me, annoyed, at the entrance to the alley, when we heard a clatter.
I plunged in.
My shadow blocked out most of the torchlight. I trailed my hand along the bricks, straining to see. Ahead was a blank wall with the tiniest of windows high under the eaves. I could have done with the help of a friendly spirit but didn’t want to call for one in case Ridley heard me. None came dashing to see what was going on so perhaps the alley was unspirited.
I came to the corner, took a deep breath and swung round it. Heron came up behind me, swearing. I drew back, said, ‘There’s no danger. Look.’
It was a dead end, closed off at a doorway that had been bricked up decades ago. The staves of a broken barrel were still rocking where they’d been knocked over. There was no way out and no Ridley.
Heron said, ‘He has stepped through. We must do the same.’ He gripped my arm, his thin fingers bruising me through the material of my greatcoat. ‘Without delay.’
He was right. God knows what havoc Ridley might wreak on an unsuspecting world. We had to follow him. And at once, because of that disconcerting habit of the worlds being slightly out of step. I took a pace forward. Heron, still gripping my arm, took that pace too. There was the familiar sense of cold and a flash of darkness, then we were standing in the same alley – only it was daylight and rain was lashing into our faces.
At least we were dressed for it, I thought wryly as we huddled at the place where the alley debouched on to the Clothmarket. Which Ridley was not – he’d be getting very wet. And the heavy rain meant too that there were fewer people about, and they were hurrying past with heads down. No one seemed to notice us.
Heron, beside me, was shivering despite his thick greatcoat. I stared out into the sodden street, remembering, too late, that Esther would be walking about the streets of our own world on her own, in the small hours of the morning, wondering what had happened to us. I took a firm control of my anxiety; she was a sensible woman and she had a duelling pistol. Heaven help anyone who tried to take advantage of her!
We splashed up the cobbles to where the Clothmarket meets the Bigg Market and stood in the shelter of a shop doorway to stare about for Ridley. We could be directly behind him, or hours too late. The heavy rain stung my exposed hands and face. If this was our own world, I’d ask a spirit to trace Ridley’s movements but there were no spirits here. And if we accosted a passer-by they might mistake us for our counterparts and ask awkward questions.
Heron said suddenly, ‘There!’
Ridley was dressed in sombre brown, which was not easy to spot in the driving rain but he was also the only person not sensibly wrapped up against the weather. He was just disappearing round the corner where the Bigg Market dog-legs to the right, leading up to the dead end where the Turk’s Head lies.
‘Esther was right,’ I said grimly as we hurried from our shelter. ‘He’s looking for ale.’
We were walking into the rain. A vicious wind tugged at our clothing; I was forced to keep one hand on my hat to prevent it blowing away. My greatcoat flapped open; the rain quickly soaked the knees of my breeches and stained my white stockings a muddy brown. A man hurrying past raised a hand and shouted something. The wind whipped away his words but I distinctly heard my own name.
‘I hope to God we do not come face to face with our own selves,’ Heron said.
I’d met my counterpart in this world once before, the briefest of encounters – we’d come face to face on a doorstep – and it had been one of the most frightening experiences of my life. And one of the most humbling. My counterpart in this world is wealthier than I—
And I almost came to a halt as I thought: Not any more.
The street was less exposed when we turned the corner – the Bigg Market narrows progressively as it twists towards the Turk’s Head, and the worst of the rain splattered against the walls above our heads. The door to the inn stood open but an inner door was firmly shut against the weather; I pushed on it, feeling water dripping from my hat down my back. Noise hit me as the door swung open: laughter and the rumble of conversation, the clatter of tankards, the calls of serving girls.
Ridley had his back to us. If we’d any doubts the sodden figure was his, they would have been dispelled by his behaviour. He was ranting and raving at the landlord, Parker, demanding beer on account, and game pie too, and where the devil was Maggie? Judging by Parker’s squint of puzzlement, Maggie had no counterpart in this world. Some do not.
‘It’s no use you going on, Mr Ridley,’ Parker said levelly. Parker has a big black wig which looks as if it was left over from King Charles’s days, and a shock of eyebrows to match. ‘I told you last time you’d get no more credit from me. Not until you pay what you already owe.’
‘I can give you wealth beyond your imaginings,’ Ridley said, gesturing drunkenly. ‘I can show you the entrance to another world—’
I started forward but Heron put out a hand to hold me back.
‘Yes, I know,’ Parker said sighing. ‘You want to show me the land of the fairies.’
A man with a tiny wig and a huge belly grunted with laughter.
‘No!’ Ridley caught Parker’s sleeve. ‘A world like this one but with unimaginable wealth!’
Parker looked at him until he took the hand away. ‘There are only two worlds, Mr Ridley, this one and the next, and I can hear all I need to know about the next world in church on Sunday mornings.’
‘Oh my God,’ I muttered to Heron. ‘What day is this? In our own world, I mean.’
He stared at me as if I was mad. ‘Saturday. No – it must be Sunday morning now.’
I groaned. ‘I’ve promised to play the organ at All Hallows today.’ Would I be back in time, I wondered. Who could tell? I’d never yet fathomed how to guess when I’d get back to my own world. Perhaps I did need Kate to give me a lesson or two.
‘I want a beer!’ Ridley growled.
‘No, sir,’ Parker said, very deliberately. ‘And if you don’t leave this inn now, I’ll personally throw you out of it. And you’ll know from the last time that it’s none too pleasant an experience.’
Heron strolled forward. Startled, I trailed after him. ‘Parker,’ he said cordially. He took off his hat and shook himself. ‘Dreadful weather.’
Parker looked relieved. ‘It is indeed, Mr Heron. Good day to you. And to you, Mr Patterson – I didn’t see you there.’
Thanking providence my greatcoat hid my shabby clothes, I nodded warily. I don’t have Heron’s inbred confidence that immediately makes him master of every situation.
Ridley was staring at us and I didn’t like the slow grin that spread over his face. ‘Here you are, Parker. These are the very gentlemen to confirm what I’ve been telling you.’ He prodded me in the ribs. ‘You tell him, Patterson. You tell him we’ve just come from another world.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I said soothingly and winked at Parker. ‘Another world entirely.’
‘With spirits on every corner.’
‘What’s special about that?’ Parker sighed. ‘There are enough taverns in this world. I wish there weren’t – too much competition.’ His large customer grinned.
‘Spirits!’ Ridley cried. ‘Not brandy or— or— not those spirits. The spirits of the dead!’
‘I was told he has been hearing voices,’ Heron said, regarding Ridley dispassionately.
‘Sad case,’ Parker said, more as a matter of politeness than anything else. The look he bestowed on Ridley was not sympathetic. The large customer looked thoughtful, even professionally interested. I wondered if he was one of those gentlemen who look after the deranged in such places as Bedlam. Perhaps we ought to enlist his help.
‘Real spirits, damn it!’ Ridley burst out.
‘Drunk as a lord,’ Heron said.
I took Ridley’s arm. ‘Time to go home.’
Ridley staggered. ‘I won’t go with you! Got to get to the field.’
This puzzled me. ‘Which field?’
> Ridley clutched at me. A faint pink stain disfigured the shoulder of his coat, I noticed; the wound must still be bleeding. I thought of the field Kate and I had stepped through to – was that what he was referring to? But how could he know about that?
‘Shall I call a chair?’ Parker asked.
The vision of Ridley being carried to our own world in a sedan chair briefly diverted me. ‘No, no. The walk will do him good. The rain will help sober him up.’
Ridley shrugged me off. ‘I said I won’t come. I want to go to the field.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to see the spirits,’ Parker said humorously.
‘Does one see spirits?’ Heron said, frowning. ‘I would have thought that by its very nature the human spirit is incorporeal. Surely, like the rest of the spiritual world, it is invisible, beyond our perception?’
We all stared at him. I suddenly realized he was trying to distract Ridley and was succeeding. I snatched at Ridley and got a good grip on his arm. He struggled to get free. ‘Let go of me, I said, let go!’
‘Jem!’ Parker said imperiously.
And the large customer lifted a massive fist and brought it down on Ridley’s head.
He slumped into my arms.
Thirty-Eight
Independence of mind and action are the sure sign of a gentleman.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, June 1734]
We staggered out into the rain-lashed street with Ridley lolling between us, a dead weight. The thought of carrying him even a hundred yards was not appealing.
‘Take us back to our own world,’ Heron said peremptorily. ‘Now!’ A rough-looking man pushed past us.
‘I can’t! Not with so many people about! We need a deserted alley.’
That should have been easy, particularly in this rain. But it seemed that half the town was heading for the Turk’s Head to shelter from the weather; every time we turned down a side street or alley, someone was coming the other way. Heron cursed and Ridley began to show signs of coming round.
In the Bigg Market again, we came face to face with a group of five or six apprentices causing havoc, yelling and shouting at passers-by and trying to splash them as they trudged through the puddles. Heron almost exploded with rage and frustration. ‘What the devil are they doing out at this time of day!’
I tugged at Ridley. I’d pulled his arm round my shoulder but his weight was dragging me down. ‘Let’s cross to the other side.’
Avoiding confrontation is not in Heron’s nature. ‘Devil take it! Get back to work!’
The boys sneered; one struck a defiant pose. With water dripping off his hat and running down his face, Heron was not an impressive authority figure.
‘We’ll call out the Watch,’ I threatened, trying to tug at Ridley and, through him, at Heron.
The effect of my words was startling. One of the lads started stammering. ‘Mr Patterson. Sorry, sir, I didn’t recognize you.’ Rain was running down his cheeks but I rather thought there were beads of sweat there too. ‘I was just off to get that ruled paper for you, master. I just happened to meet—’
His voice trailed off. I thought it best to say nothing; I looked at him. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quickly and dashed off into the downpour. The other boys, maintaining their dignity, sauntered after him and didn’t laugh or smirk until they were at a safe distance.
‘You patently do not keep a sufficiently hard hand on your apprentice,’ Heron snapped, staring after the boys.
‘My counterpart doesn’t,’ I said annoyed. Thinking of George. And Kate.
At which moment Ridley kicked me on the ankle bone.
I yelped, involuntarily let go of him, and he set off running. Heron still had his other arm and held on grimly. Ridley swung in a circle, slipping on the wet cobbles and almost tumbling over. He swung a wild punch. Heron swayed back out of reach.
My ankle throbbed furiously. I made an ineffectual grab for Ridley. His arm took me full in the face, sent my hat spinning and knocked me to the ground. I landed in a pool of rain; water soaked straight through my clothes to the skin. I heard Heron swear, then the rip of cloth, and Ridley dashed past me.
Heron bent to help me up. I waved him away. ‘After him!’
He raced off. The Bigg Market runs downhill and Ridley was fast, skidding on the slick stones, dodging and weaving between startled passers-by. He had the advantage in years on Heron but I didn’t believe for a moment he had more tenacity. He’d be hard put to escape.
I crawled to my knees. My jaw had taken the full force of Ridley’s blow and was aching. My hair was streaming with rain; the damned stuff had soaked through my coat and was sticking my shirt to my shoulders. My hat lay sodden and misshapen a yard or so away; I dipped for it, grunted as the world threatened to spin around me.
A voice was calling, ‘Master! Master!’ The boy came running up, looking anxious. ‘Are you all right, master?’
‘I am,’ I said. ‘But Cuthbert Ridley won’t be when I get hold of him.’
He looked awed. ‘Was that Mr Ridley? But he says he never drinks.’
That was not what Parker in the Turk’s Head believed. ‘Ruled paper,’ I said thoughtfully.
‘Yes, master.’ And he dashed off again.
Ridley and Heron had disappeared, running down into the Clothmarket and out of my sight in the driving slant of rain. I followed more sedately, cramming my sodden hat back on my head, trying to avoid the worst of the puddles and wondering what best to do. The crucial thing was to find Heron again; he couldn’t return to our own world without me. In that sense, Ridley was not so important as he could find his own way back.
But then, I thought, why hadn’t he already done so? He was foolish to begin with, and wild, and now he was drunk besides; no scruples would prevent him stepping between worlds, even if there were people about. It was clearly the easiest way to escape myself and Heron. He must want to stay in this world very badly. Why had he come here?
To go to a field, apparently. A field, I thought, would be a good place to hide something, in a hedge, under a few stones or even in a hole dug for the purpose. Like a weapon you’d just stabbed a man with, for instance. Or that someone else had stabbed a man with. The attacker had tried to get rid of Ridley tonight and Ridley’s first impulse had been to recover the weapon used on Nightingale to bring even more pressure to bear.
I splashed on down into the Clothmarket. Past a draper’s shop. Quickening my pace, I came out opposite St Nicholas’s church. The veil of rain obscured the gilded points of the crown on top of the church. Which way would Ridley have taken from here? I looked about in some despair, then saw someone I recognized – Philips, the new constable of All Hallows’ parish, wrapped in a voluminous greatcoat and looking miserable as he tramped through the torrents. I hesitated to speak to yet another person who knew me but surely a mere civil enquiry could not hurt. ‘Mr Philips!’
He stopped and bowed, even reached for his hat but clearly thought twice of taking it off and getting his wig wet.
‘I’m looking for Mr Cuthbert Ridley. I was told he came this way.’
‘He went down the Side to the Key, sir,’ Philips said. ‘Saw him not a moment ago. Looked like he was in a hurry.’
‘Thank you,’ I said and he walked off. I went on my own way, reflecting on the encounter. Philips had just spoken to a man from another world and would never know it.
The stones of the steep Side were treacherously slick; I tottered down, concentrating on my footing, only belatedly realising there was a man standing at the foot of the street, staring into the window of the breeches maker as if the rain was not sluicing down. He turned his head. Ridley. But I knew at once it was not our Ridley, for he was wearing a greatcoat and hat against the weather; the clothes were sober to the point of dullness and his wig unfashionable, even staid.
He had a sour look which deepened into disapproval as he saw me. I nodded and made to pass. The rain slashed against my back and threatened to make off with my hat. I put up a hand to secu
re it. My face ran with raindrops. Ridley stepped in front of me. ‘Mr Patterson,’ he said in a peremptory fashion, ‘I want a word with you. You have been traducing me, sir!’
I sighed. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You have been telling the world I am a drunkard and a lecher. You have been prejudicing the ladies against me! Particularly Mrs Jenison. I have a stake there, sir, one of those daughters is mine!’
Revulsion rose up in me. ‘Money, I daresay,’ I said.
‘Damn it, I will have the girl!’
His face was purple; I said carefully, ‘I assure you that I never speak of you at all.’
I tipped my sodden hat, and walked away. He even shouted after me, but I let the wind and the rain take his words and hurried on down to the Key.
Heron was standing by the slope that led up on to the Tyne Bridge, apparently oblivious to the rain lashing down. He was scanning the few scurrying passers-by without a great deal of hope. ‘Damn him to hell, he’s disappeared!’
I was wet and wretched, and didn’t want to encounter anyone else I knew, or ought to know. ‘Let’s go back. Ridley will follow in his own time.’
Heron had his hand on his sword hilt. ‘And if he doesn’t?’
I sighed. ‘We’ll be well rid of him.’
He stared at me. ‘We cannot leave him here! God knows what damage he could do.’
‘We can’t comb the entire town for him!’ I pointed out. ‘We could miss him half a dozen times. Much better to get back home. Besides, he can’t stay here for ever, not if he hopes to get money out of his attacker.’
‘Then why the devil did he come here in the first place?’
‘To get the evidence he needed to damn the real villain of this crime.’ I glanced round as a merchant, hurrying past, greeted us both. He was plainly in no mood to linger, but the encounter decided Heron. He nodded. ‘I know where we can go back without being seen.’
I followed him into the Guildhall. At the front of the building, wide stone steps wind up from the Sandhill to a covered balcony from which one can survey the wide expanse below. But Heron led me past the first flight of stairs and behind, to a cramped dark passage with two doors leading from it. It was deserted.