‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t know nothing, hardly. But I said we’d quarrelled and she must have found another sweetheart.’ He looked miserably down at his rough hands. ‘That wasn’t true. We never quarrelled, Jenny and me. But I wanted to stop them looking at me like I’d done something.’
‘But by then you knew where Jenny was?’
‘Oh aye. But I wasn’t going to give her away, was I?’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’
He leaned forward, struggling to explain the course of events.
‘She’d sent me a note, written by one of the footmen at the theatre. I puzzled it out. So we met that time, and we had this arrangement with signs like I told you about … Then suddenly it seemed like she wasn’t there any longer, and then I spoke to you and got your note. I tell you, I was frightened, Mr Mozart. It was like Jenny and me had got ourselves mixed up wi’ things we didn’t ought to know nothing about.’
‘I think that is the long and the short of it,’ I said sadly.
‘The affairs of the great ones.’
‘So I felt, somehow, as though I couldn’t trust the people at Alderman Wood’s, and I couldn’t trust still less the people Jenny had gone to. So I just took off, like Jenny did, without giving my notice or anything. Only she had somewhere to go, and I got nowhere. I just been tramping the streets, and the further I go from the West End the safer I feel, but that’s not right, because the West End’s where Jenny is, leastways where she was. So I come back, and then I feel everyone’s watching me, or at any road looking for me. You feel eyes scanning you, following your back, and you get scared again.’
His voice faded into silence. I took his glass and poured another measure of brandy, pouring one for myself at the same time.
‘Have this. Drink it more slowly this time.’
He sipped, then looked up at me.
‘Mr Mozart, what’s going on?’
I had already taken my decision on what to tell him. I sat down beside him.
‘Davy, I’m afraid I’ve got very bad news for you. Jenny is dead.’
He looked at me for a moment, stunned. Then his face crumpled like a paper bag and he bent forward, his shoulders racked with sobbing. I took his glass from his hand, and let him cry for a minute or two. Then I raised him and made him drink a little more. His honest face was red and blotchy. Once again he drew his sleeve over his face, this time to wipe his eyes.
‘How did it happen, Mr Mozart? How did my Jenny die?’
‘I think, Davy, she got involved in matters that were far more dangerous than she understood.’
I gave him a very simplified version of the events leading up to Jenny’s death. I said she’d overheard things that told her that the Queen had behaved in a wicked and immoral way when she was staying at Alderman Wood’s house. I said she had taken her knowledge to friends of the King, who had hidden her at the Queen’s Theatre. Then knowledge of her whereabouts and her story had somehow got out, and someone had killed her to prevent her giving her evidence against the Queen. To avoid any scandal her death was then hushed up.
Davy took in this tendentious account with a puzzled frown on his tear-stained face.
‘But where do I come in? Am I still in danger?’
‘I fear so, Davy. I fear people suspect that you know too much. Maybe people on both sides.’
‘But I don’t know nothing! … What am I to do?’
I took a sudden decision.
‘You must stay here.’
‘Here?’ he gazed around the dimly-lit apartment. ‘Oh, I couldn’t stay here, Mr Mozart. It’s much too grand. I never slept anywhere like this before.’
It was the first time my humble and none-too-clean abode had been called grand. I smiled.
‘It’s not grand at all, Davy. There’s a small bedroom that is very seldom used, and you can sleep there. You’ll feel quite at home. I am going North for two or three weeks, to visit my son. Everyone at the Theatre will know that I am away so nobody will come here. If anybody else calls, don’t answer the door. Don’t even shout from inside. My little maid can keep coming in, and will buy whatever food and drink you need. I’ll leave some money with her—’
‘I don’t need money, Mr Mozart. I’ve got plenty.’ He produced from his pockets a couple of shillings and some pence. ‘It’s not money that bothers me, it’s knowing where I’ll be safe. Though with Jenny gone …’
‘With Jenny gone you’ve still got your life ahead of you – and a good life it will be. You’ll be safe here, if you’re sensible. I’m not sure what we should tell Ann. She’s not very bright, so she’ll accept anything we tell her. Can you sing?’
‘Sing? A little bit. I used to be in the church choir.’
He launched into ‘The Jolly Ploughboy’, a loathsomely insistent little jingle. I held up my hand.
‘That will do. It’s a nice enough voice. We’ll tell her I’m training you to be a singer, but I’ll be called away to my son’s. And while I’m away you will not need to go out. It will be a tedious time for you, but you will be safe.’
So that was how things were arranged. I told them at the theatre that I would be going into Yorkshire for a short visit. I was busy there most evenings, to ensure that the various pieces in the repertoire were sprucely played and sung, thus preparing the company for my absence and earning myself a modicum of money for the trip (paid by Mr Popper with the usual managerial reluctance). During these busy days I was told by Betty Ackroyd that the idea of bringing before the House of Lords evidence of the Queen’s infamy (her word, said with a grin) had been given up. I was delighted. My advocacy of caution had born fruit.
However this news did not change my plans for Davy. Many people on both sides might still believe that he knew too much. The poor and powerless of this world are all too often held to be dispensable by the great ones, and it would be easy to hire a pack of ruffians to make sure he was never heard of again. England, these days, is almost Italian in the prevalence of bravos prepared to kill for money. Many of us fear that law and order are breaking down entirely. Davy meanwhile made himself useful in my apartment, repairing and renovating, he being quite a considerable handyman. He could also cook a simple meal, and persuaded me to show him how to wait at table. It was a pleasure having him there, he was so biddable and teachable.
Five days after his dramatic coming I took the coach to Leeds. I will not bore you with the details of the uncomfortable and tedious journey – the unspeakable state of the roads, the dirty inns, the terrible boredom of travelling through wet, flat Lincolnshire, especially to one who was born the child of mountains and valleys. Suffice to say that when, on the evening of the second day, I arrived at Wakefield, Charles Thomas and his little family were delighted to see me, and showered me with love and Northern hospitality.
The next few days were devoted to family and to music. Many excellent practitioners of my art wished to pay their respects, and I was taken to hear some of the truly excellent choirs which abound in the North. All the choirmasters and choristers were united in praising my arrangement of the Messiah (damn Handel!) which they all used every year, at no cost to themselves and with no benefit to me. I paid a visit with Charles Thomas to Miss Mangnall’s school, where I talked as much as possible to the little girls and as little as possible to the formidable preceptress who owned and administered the place. I whiled away the time while my son was engaged in his teaching duties by talking to a sweet but sickly-looking family from over Keighley way, who were inspecting the school for their eldest daughters.
I had asked my son when writing to advise him of my visit if he could procure for me written permission to see over Lady Hertford’s magnificent property of Temple Newsam, near neighbouring Leeds. I would not have done so if I thought the lady herself would be there, but I knew she would not, and it seemed an opportunity to learn more of her and her husband in their capacity not as luminaries of the Court but as Northern squires, or rather grand
ees. My son is a friend of the Bishop of Wakefield, who put a coach and horses at my disposal, and so, some five days after my arrival, I drew up in the magnificent courtyard of the House in a style more dignified than I could have expected.
It was a pleasant autumn day, and I stood in the sunlight admiring first the splendid rolling grounds of the parkland around, then the warm, approachable building. Clearly Lady Hertford was a woman of great substance in this county – but that I knew already. As I haltingly made out the pious and patriotic inscription worked into the balustrade around the house I reflected that honour and allegiance to the King and loving affection among his subjects were no easier under George IV than they had been under Charles I, very different though the two monarchs were.
The comfortable but sharp-eyed housekeeper was welcoming, and regretted that, such was the press of visitors, the butler was engaged with another party. She asked if I would be content to be shown around by Thomas the footman. I expressed myself more than happy with Thomas.
Even before we had finished inspecting the Great Hall I had gained an impression that Thomas was discontented. As we passed through to visit the smaller rooms on the ground floor I began to engage him in conversation.
‘Are Lord and Lady Hertford frequently in residence?’ I asked.
‘Generally once a year, sir,’ he muttered. ‘Though not next year.’
‘Not next year?’
‘The Coronation, so ’tis said.’ Here was a pause during which he seemed to be sizing me up. His next words came out with the force of a new grievance coming on top of many earlier ones. ‘They’re laying people off, because they won’t be coming up, and because of the expense of the Coronation.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘And you are one of them.’
‘Aye, I am that. These are rotten hard times, but they don’t take no account of that.’
I left a sympathetic pause, and then said:
‘Your mistress does not have the reputation of an open-handed lady.’
He lowered his voice to a near-whisper.
‘She’s a damned screw! If I had my way I’d never work for the gentry again, but I’ve nothing saved up. No chance of saving when you work for her!’
‘You don’t surprise me. I have occasionally encountered the lady in the theatre, and at Court.’
‘Ha! She’s no better than she should be, for all her airs. A woman of her age too!’
‘The King seems to prefer ladies of a certain … maturity.’
‘With wine there’s a time of maturity and there’s a time when it starts to go off. I’d have thought she was well into the going-off period.’
Stinginess does not breed loyalty.
‘My Lord seems a very … tolerant husband.’
‘He certainly seems to take to the horns as to the manner born,’ he said, putting me in mind of Master Ford in my new opera, though Lord Hertford was certainly not a madly jealous cuckold.
‘But it’s different with great folk when they marry, isn’t it?’ the footman went on.
‘Is it?’
‘Seems so,’ he said, becoming positively expansive. ‘I mean if a working chap like me marries, his wife expects him to be faithful to her. If Warren – that’s Cook’s husband – so much as looks at one of the maids he gets a warning. If Mrs Warren thought anything had really been going on – well! There would be an explosion, I can tell you.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s not like that with the aristocracy.’
‘O’ course it’s not. I suppose it’s because they marry to get heirs, to “ensure the line”, as Mr Warren puts it. They say Lady Hertford was a pretty little thing when she was a girl – hard to imagine now. He was a lot older, and he’d been married before, I think. They had several children, and there was one son to make sure the nation would never want for a Marquis of Hertford – not that I’ve ever personally felt the want – and then they pretty much went their own ways.’
‘Oh yes?’
He nodded sagely.
‘Have done for years now. The marriage is pretty much of a business partnership.’
‘But they stay together.’
‘Oh yes. Even sleep together on occasion. But he’s had women all over the place around here.’
This was new. This was interesting.
‘Oh really? They’re well known, are they?’
‘Oh yes, everyone knows who they are. You might say they’re women of consequence – as a consequence of his favours. Not that he loads them with money or expensive presents. That’s not at all My Lord’s way, as you seem to have found yourself, sir. But he makes sure they’ve got a respectable living. Wouldn’t suit his ideas of his own dignity otherwise.’
‘I see,’ I said. We started up the old wooden staircase, and I said no more, for fear of being overheard. It was only when we came into the magnificent Long Gallery, and found ourselves alone there, that I resumed the conversation.
‘Who were the principal of His Lordship’s … er, lady friends?’
He grinned.
‘No question about that. You can go and see her if you’ve a mind.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s landlady of the Bull’s Head, in Westgate, Bradford. A very nice establishment it is too. A good class of customer – artistic types, like yourself, sir. I would be right in thinking you’re an artistic sort of person, would I, sir?’
‘I suppose you could say so.’
‘Ah, I thought so. It shows by the way you look at things, sir. You don’t just gawp, but you look. Anyway, that was a lady as Lord Hertford went with for years. Not that she had sole rights in him, because I do know he had a son by a lady in Leeds at the time he was her protector – Leeds being closer, and more suitable for an evening’s dalliance and home again to be let in by the night footman. But he was faithful to her in his fashion for a long time. Like I say, the great ones are different from us, even in their immoralities.’
Closer, it must be said, to people in artistic circles, though I myself have tried to shun the shoddy moral codes and practices of people in the theatre. ‘And Lady Hertford? Does she have diversions of her own while they are in the North?’
‘Not that we know of below stairs. And we would know. I would say Her Ladyship’s taste is for Governance, and that’s what she indulges in while she’s in Yorkshire. And to do His Lordship proper credit, he lets her indulge it. Of course, it’s her estate by inheritance, but there’s many husbands who would have made sure they got the reins in their own hands. Whereas My Lord never interferes – there’s many in this house as wish he did, because he’s a bit less mean and a bit more fair. Not that we like him, but he’s by far the lesser of two screws.’
‘So you would hope that Her Ladyship maintains her hold on the King, whatever that hold may be?’
‘Why do you say that? Is there some question of her losing it?’
‘It is said he has found another Lady – Lady Conyngham – who can give him whatever it is he requires, though at a price – a price to the country. It could be Her Ladyship will spend less time at Court and more up here.’
‘God help us! Except that there will be work. Her Ladyship always requires many servants about her.’
We passed incautiously into the next room, to find that we had caught up with the other party, who were being given a lengthy disquisition by the butler on the lineage of the Irvings, of whom Lady Hertford and her sisters were the last representatives. He looked up from his notes at our approach.
‘Ah! Would you be Mr Mozart, sir? Yes? I reverence your genius, sir. We had “A Little Night Music” played in the courtyard here at Temple Newsam only last summer. And your arrangement of the Messiah! It fills me with admiration. After Handel … This will interest Mr Mozart, Thomas. You may go about your duties. Now, the seventh Viscount was yet another brother of …’
And I was forced to join the party and listen to a long account of Lady Hertford’s family which no amount of narrative skill (and the butler had none) could make inte
resting. I gritted my teeth, but decided that I had had a fair amount of luck during my visit, and a fair amount of information.
That evening, round the fire, as the children were being put to their beds, my son Charles Thomas said:
‘News of your visit is spreading, Father. I had a note this morning begging that you would give a concert of your music in Bradford. Shall I write and tell them that you are on holiday, and not here to give concerts?’
‘Oh no,’ I said expansively. ‘I have quite a fancy to see Bradford. Tell them I’d be delighted.’
13. Lo Sposo Deluso
The concert in Bradford was a brilliant success. The advertisements, rushed out, spoke of ‘The Foremost Musician of our Age’ (so much for the Deaf Man of Vienna!) and the audience was large, attentive, and very musical. I played two of my Sonatas and many of my occasional pieces to rapturous applause, and at the end they demanded encore after encore, till I felt that they would never let me go.
‘They like to get their money’s worth in Yorkshire,’ said my son, in that deflationary way children have with their parents.
Well, they certainly got their money’s worth, but I was handsomely in pocket too, for it was a large hall, and the prices had been fixed with a view to bringing home to them that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. A London audience would have regarded that as a challenge, and would have stayed away. Bradford – all of polite Bradford, it seemed – took a different view, and came in their hundreds. I was sincerely complimentary to the gentlemen who had organised it.
‘A most musical audience,’ I said. ‘As far removed from a London Society audience as it is possible to imagine.’
‘Aye, we know a thing or two about music up t’North,’ was the complacent reply from a large, heavy manufacturer. ‘These London ladies and gentlemen, in my experience, know a little about a lot of things and not too much about anything.’
Dead, Mr Mozart Page 13