I left the coach, stiff and weary, at the Queen’s Head, in the Strand. It was early afternoon. I found a fellow to carry my luggage up to Henrietta Street, and I was just paying him off on the landing outside my apartment when I thought I heard sounds from inside. Cautiously opening the door, fearful of what might be being done to Davy, I stood for a moment listening. I was shocked and horrified to hear shouts and cries of pleasure from the direction of the small bedroom. There was no question whose was the man’s voice, and a moment’s listening convinced me that the woman’s was my little servant Ann’s (not, you understand, that I had ever before heard her in that situation).
I was, as I say, shocked. I felt awkward, however, about interrupting the guilty pair. I tried also to remember Davy’s lonely and dangerous situation. I pulled my travelling trunk through the door, took off my heavy coat and put it on top of it, then left the apartment for the theatre.
The piece for that evening, I found out when I arrived, was once again The Call to Arms, which I was assured was still attracting good audiences. I was pleased, because it meant that Betty Ackroyd was in the theatre. I was still more pleased when I found out from a member of the orchestra that Bradley Hartshead was now directing some performances from the fortepiano, and was doing so that evening. I went to my little office (a mere broom-cupboard), and, trying to put the business of Jenny’s murder from my mind, I wrote to the divine Therese suggesting that we should resume our musical work together now that I had returned from the North. Then I went up to see Betty Ackroyd.
She had now, I was pleased to see, got her own dresser, and a real one: a strong, heavy, capable woman whose first words revealed her to be a Yorkshire woman. I was pleased to see this acknowledgement of Betty’s position in the theatre but the woman did, being an unknown quantity and by no means inclined to make herself scarce, place some restrictions on our conversation.
Betty beamed her welcome.
‘I hear you gave a concert in Bradford, and that it was a great success,’ she said.
‘It was. The audience seemed much more discriminating than I’m used to in London.’
‘They are. My mother was in a seventh heaven at having met and talked with you.’
‘A most impressive woman,’ I said, coming to sit on the rickety structure that was dignified by the term dressing table. ‘You are lucky in your parentage.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I must confess one part of it came as a surprise,’ I said, with a meaningful look.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, not batting an eyelid. ‘And I trust you will not surprise anybody else with the information.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ I agreed readily. ‘Still, it seems very generally known in Bradford. How can what is common gossip in Bradford remain secret in London?’
‘In the same way as what is common gossip in Abyssinia is totally unknown in London. We are talking, my dear Mr Mozart, of two different worlds.’
I raised my eyebrows sceptically.
‘And yet you, my dear, have gone from one to the other, and My Lord goes constantly between, and to other worlds represented by his own estates. We are not talking about separate prisons to which the keys have been lost. People move, people travel. And when Mr Stephenson’s excellent invention is perfected we shall have people drawn by steam along the roads the length and breadth of the kingdom.’
‘I believe it will need rails,’ she said pedantically. ‘And I am not talking about ten or twenty years in the future. I am talking about now. Now I do not want my career in the theatre to spring from anything but my own voice, my own musicianship, my own talent for the stage. Surely you can understand that, Mr Mozart?’
‘Certainly I can understand it.’
‘I will not have it said I have been foisted on the public by any of the great ones in the land. I will not be championed by this party or that for reasons that have nothing to do with music. Above all I do not want it said that my path was somehow made easy. If it becomes known when I am famous whose daughter I am – so be it. I shall have done everything by my own efforts.’
I could not but applaud her resolution.
‘Your determination does you credit. I assure you that no one shall hear anything about your background from me.’
‘Make sure they don’t!’
‘Trust me, my dear. Have you ever heard it said that I’m a gossip?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know what can have led anyone to say that…’ Honesty compelled me to examine myself, and I amended this. ‘Of course I do enjoy a good story.’
‘Of course you do. You’ve been chuckling over stories about the Queen for months, and passing them on. And I’ve heard you telling tales about Signor Rossini’s amorous entanglements when you couldn’t possibly know whether they were true or false. Mark this: I want nothing said about this matter, Mr Mozart.’
‘Nothing will be.’
‘Silent as the grave.’
This reminded us both of a certain watery grave, and we exchanged looks. I kissed her and left the dressing-room. It occurred to me that when Betty did become famous, under her own or some manufactured foreign name, she was going to be a very formidable prima donna indeed.
By now the messenger had returned with a reply from the beautiful Brunswicker, and it was given to me by one of the Queen’s Theatre’s attendants. It was a brief note, but scented, and redolent of her.
‘My dear Master,’ it read in German,
I am desolated to find that I have no free mornings for the next ten days. I am much in demand at Court, where my dear husband is also much appreciated for his reminiscences of the allies’ victories over the Corsican tyrant. Be assured that when I am free I shall summon you so that I may hear again from the Fountainhead how to interpret your so heavenly music.
Until then, Therese
I confess that this note dissatisfied me, if anything that divine creature might do could dissatisfy me. There seemed to be a preference for a life in Society over a life of music that I should have thought no properly constituted mind could entertain. And the picture of her bear of a husband inflicting his guttural war memoirs on the Court at Windsor made me almost feel sorry for Prinny, whose impeccable if superficial courtesy must have been tested to the uttermost. This all seemed to denote an imperfection in my lovely singer, a failure of taste and judgment. God knows, though, I should have got used to imperfections and failures of taste in singers over the years.
I was pondering this unsatisfactory missive in the foyer when Mr Popper bustled up, his turkey-cock strut and puffed-out cheeks all the more irritating for my having been among people of genuine taste since I last saw him.
‘Ah, Mr Mozart – you are back at last.’
‘As you see.’
‘Lord Hertford was none too pleased that you left town without informing him.’
‘I didn’t know I was expected to.’
‘Heavens above! Artists, artists!’
Mr Popper is always trying to convey the idea that he is a man of business. In fact he couldn’t have run a pawn-broker’s in Shoreditch, even if he gave his whole mind to it. The truth is there are artists who create, artists who interpret, and a great public which wants what the artists provide. The Poppers of this world are at best middle men, at worst irrelevancies.
‘I am of course at His Lordship’s service.’
(At a price. Definitely a price.)
‘Well, there have been developments. I shall say no more than that.’ (He didn’t know any more than that.) ‘I will inform His Lordship of your return.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself. I shall not be directing the performance tonight. I am too tired after travelling. I will write the note to Lord Hertford myself.’
‘Make it very respectful, Mr Mozart. His Lordship was decidedly discomposed.’
‘I know the ways of the world, Mr Popper.’
In other words I can grovel as well as the next man when I have a mind to. I comp
osed a suitable note, comprising equal parts of peccavi and nauseating foot-licking, and dispatched it by the usual messenger (who haunts the Haymarket and makes a few pennies a day carrying the billets doux and requests for financial assistance that issue from the theatres there). When I came back into the Queen’s Bradley Hartshead was there waiting for me.
‘Mr Mozart, welcome back!’
‘Mr Hartshead. I hear you have done sterling work in my absence. I am grateful and pleased.’
‘It has been a great joy. I know your opinion of The Call to Arms—’ I gave the piece a gesture of dismissal with my hand—‘but perhaps I can regard it as a sort of preparation for directing Figaro or The Enchanted Violin.’
I regarded him with affection.
‘I am glad you appreciate the latter. It was described to me not long ago as “something light”. It still rankles.’
‘I hear the North has shown better appreciation of your genius.’
‘It has.’
‘It would. It’s no surprise to a Northerner like me.’
‘Still, I wish they wouldn’t keep mentioning Messiah…’
Hartshead laughed.
‘It’s the Northern equivalent of Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve for Catholics. No – it’s more than that: it’s a national and regional celebration as well as a religious one. My father used to take me every year, and it impressed on me the glory of being an Englishman and a Yorkshireman.’
I looked the scepticism I felt.
‘You must excuse a mere foreigner from trying to understand how a piece by a German can do that. Is your father still alive?’
He answered unconstrainedly.
‘Yes, but old and frail. He has a small house in Guiseley, near Leeds. He is not as prosperous in his retirement as he and I hoped, but business in his last years as a Manchester merchant was poor. The Orders in Council hit everyone in the cotton trade, as you know.’
‘Indeed they did. Well, it was a happy visit, but coming back I find that I have been a naughty boy.’
‘Oh?’
‘I have missed … developments. Need I say more? I am going home now to my own bed and a well-earned sleep. Could you give a message to Betty for me please?’
‘Of course.’
I deliberately at this point feigned to be looking out to the street, though from the corner of my eye I could still see his face.
‘Would you tell her that there may be another conference tomorrow? At Hertford House, of course. Lord Hertford will send a message to her.’
I do not think I was mistaken in seeing a fleeting look come into Bradley Hartshead’s eyes at the mention of the man – a look of virulent hatred.
‘I’ll give her the message,’ he said neutrally.
When I got home I found Davy very subdued. There was no sign of Ann, but she would ordinarily have gone home by then. Davy had unpacked my trunk, and had the wherewithal for a simple meal for me. I ate the beefsteak and boiled potatoes and carrots, rather well cooked and served: the boy learnt fast. I drank a pint of claret, and when I pushed away my plate I called Davy in and gestured him to sit opposite me.
‘Davy, I was sorry to hear what I did when I arrived home.’
He was wringing his hands nervously under the table.
‘I thought as how you must have heard. I’m sorry, Mr Mozart. I was so lonely, and felt so frightened. It was as if I hadn’t much life left, and ought … well, like to take any chances there were.’
‘That’s a poor excuse for debauching a young girl.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t the first, sir.’
‘That is no excuse either. You took advantage of my absence and her unprotected state. Think of the plight of the poor girl if she should find herself with child.’
He smiled slowly.
‘Oh, that won’t happen, sir. Trust me! I know a thing or two!’
What, I asked myself, is the world coming to? I dismissed him to his bed and went most unhappily to mine.
15. Sinfonia Concertante
‘Ah, Mr Mozart.’
There are ways of saying ‘Ah, Mr Mozart’, ranging from the enthusiastic and welcoming to the disapproving, disappointed, unimpressed, and all sorts of other words mostly beginning with dis- or un-. The weathervane of Mr de Fries’s tone was pointing unmistakably in the latter direction. Mr Popper, already seated on a gilded chair that ministered to his self-importance, gave me a look which said ‘I told you so’. I bowed generally and took another of the chairs. Coffee and biscuits were there on a tray on the table, but no attempt was made to serve us any.
I had been summoned by a brief note sent to my apartment that morning. It was unquestionably a summons rather than an invitation. I was clear in my mind that I was going to have to do something to retrieve my position with Lord Hertford but, not knowing what had come up in my absence to make my presence at his beck and call so desirable, it was impossible to plan how to do this.
Betty’s arrival was immediately followed by that of Lord Hertford. No doubt the footman had told him we were now all assembled. He walked in more haltingly than usual – doubtless an attack of gout or arthritis – and his face was sometimes visited by grimaces of pain. I sometimes forget how old a man he is. He retained something still, however, of his usual affable manner.
‘Miss Ackroyd – good to see you! Your common sense will be invaluable. Good day, Mr Popper. Ah, Mr Mozart.’
I bowed. He eased himself into a seat and gestured to us to sit down. Mr de Fries began dispensing coffee. Servants were clearly not wanted, even during the preliminaries. The organisation of the refreshments took some minutes, but Lord Hertford did not try to lighten the atmosphere by making trivial conversation. He certainly did not ask me if I had had an enjoyable stay in the North.
When we all had our coffee and biscuit he opened the matter without preamble.
‘I have not asked you here today to revise or reverse decisions made when we all met three weeks ago. The time when Miss Ackroyd could have impersonated Jenny Bowles before the House of Lords is now, I am afraid, past. Things are drawing to a close there. I am happy to say I am beginning to detect a turning of the tide of popular sentiment in the King’s direction.’
‘Really?’ I said incautiously. ‘I didn’t get any such feeling in the North.’
Teeth were shown.
‘But I am not talking about the North, Mr Mozart. How could popular feeling swing first in the North when the King and the … er, Princess are both in London?’
‘True, of course,’ I murmured pacifyingly.
‘And I think I can say that I – Mr de Fries and I – have had something to do with this turning of the tide.’
‘Indeed?’ said Mr Popper, as if preparing to be enormously impressed.
Lord Hertford nodded, preparing to impress.
‘Yes. You remember something was said about starting rumours – reminds me of that delightful piece by Rossini, eh, Mr Mozart? – something about rumours last time we gathered here, and I rather pooh-poohed the idea. But the suggestion – yours, Mr Popper, I think – set Mr de Fries here thinking. He is a man of great resource – may I say cunning, Mr de Fries?’
‘I should be flattered, My Lord.’
Well, he was paid to fawn, of course.
‘So, having thought and discussed the matter with me, he decided to have the rumours started by some low fellows we hired in the ale-houses and taverns in the vicinity of Alderman Wood’s house. We made the rumours accord most exactly with what we had been told by Jenny Bowles: date, time of evening, the details of the conversation overheard, and so on. This meant that when the servants of the Alderman came in and were confronted with these rumours, they denied them, of course, but in so shuffling and embarrassed a way that they as good as confirmed them. De Fries argued to himself that the likelihood was that one or some of the servants knew. And if some did, all did. And he was right – proved right by their reactions. So the rumours started on their way with a very much firmer base than most of the rumou
rs about the Queen. Er, the Princess.’
‘Brilliant!’ said Mr Popper. ‘And it makes me proud that I – that a suggestion by me—’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Popper. You have been as always most useful. We meditate now trying to find the actual watermen who – who were used, and perhaps giving their names to the less scrupulous public prints. The Observer would publish it with no hesitation I feel sure. But all this is by the way. It is not what I have called you here for today.’
He paused. Mr Popper tried to look serious and intelligent.
‘I have had a communication—’
Lord Hertford gestured with his hand towards Mr de. Fries, who shook his head.
‘I don’t have it, My Lord. I took it to the graphologist as you asked me to.’
‘Of course. No matter. It was short enough. I’m sure you can retail the contents word for word.’
‘I think I can, My Lord. The note read: “Where did you bury the body of the poor girl? And what is the price of silence?” That was all.’
There was a complete hush in the room. This was the sort of development that probably most of us had feared. Everyone was thinking the matter through and regretting that they themselves were implicated.
‘It sounds like the beginning of blackmail,’ said Mr Popper.
‘Brilliant!’ said Lord Hertford. He immediately seemed to regret his sharpness. ‘I’m sorry, my dear sir. I do apologise. I forget that you haven’t had the time that we have had to ponder the note. Yes, it does indeed look like the prelude to an attempt at blackmail.’
‘How was the note delivered?’ asked Betty.
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