Sword and Song Page 3

  Heron was smiling in faint amusement again. “Disappointed, Patterson?”

  I sat back, resigned. “Beyond all measure.”

  “Well,” he said, “the Alysons suffer the fate of all nowadays.”

  “No money?”

  “Precisely. Not,” he added with extra dryness, “that they don’t have extensive rebuilding plans. Or so Armstrong tells me. They’re planning something in a much more modern style and have an architect working on it even now.”

  “Does he know they can’t afford it?”

  “I suspect all architects expect a fight over money.”

  Whatever their financial situation, the Alysons were not short of servants. As we drew up in front of the house, footmen leapt forward to open the coach door, a butler waited in dignified disdain, maids hovered in the shadows.

  Heron climbed down and was respectfully ushered in. The butler, however, took one look at my new coat, patently decided I must be Heron’s secretary or valet and wanted to banish me to the back door. Heron turned his weary gaze on him. The butler reddened and stood back to let me past. I felt a reluctant sympathy for him; technically, of course, he was right – I was as much a paid employee as he was.

  The butler himself escorted Heron into some elegant recess of the house; I was relinquished to the care of a maid who couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old. She swept me off with ferocious dignity, across a dark wood-panelled hallway of miniscule proportions, to an ancient stair. The steps were of so dark a wood that they seemed black; they were canted at uneasy angles, first leaning into the wall then away from it. The banister was worn to a glossy smoothness by a century or more of handling and was truly beautiful. Morose ancestors in ancient fashions hung on every side.

  At the first landing, the maid seemed to lose her way. She hesitated, turned left then turned back, found a narrower stair in a dark corner. She’d apparently decided I was of no consequence; she said insolently, “Honestly, they seem to think we can work miracles. When you get here in the evening and have to welcome the master and mistress next morning and their guests in the afternoon, well, you can’t have everything sorted, can you? Let alone find your way round.”

  “You only got here yesterday?” I said startled.

  “And the old servants had let everything go,” she said scornfully. “Eighty if they were a day! Lucky for us, of course. This is the best place I ever had.” She sounded thirty years old, not fourteen. “Pay’s worse than a joke, mind, and I never could stand living in the country, but give me a couple of months and I’ll be in their London house. They must have a London house, don’t you think?”

  “No doubt,” I said. She reminded me of the girl in Mrs McDonald’s house, trying to be much older and more sophisticated than she was.

  She found her way again and turned for a yet narrower stair; we were definitely headed to the attics, I thought. A voice floated distinctly from one of the bedrooms to my right.

  “...damnably pretty. Poor thing. But these girls know what might happen when they choose to take up that kind of life.”

  An indistinct murmur from someone else in the room. A woman.

  “No one condones murder, of course,” said the first speaker, a gentleman and young by the sound of it. “But a girl of the streets! Could she honestly have expected to live a long life?”

  I stood stock still. Could they be talking about Nell? Surely not.

  The gentleman cackled with laughter. “And would you believe it? The constable was one of her customers! The constable!”

  The maid caught hold of my arm as I started towards the room. “You can’t go along there!” she said primly. “That’s for the ladies and gentlemen.” And she gave me a look of such insolence that it took my breath away.

  I gave her back Heron’s stare.

  Her superior expression faltered. She hesitated, then withdrew her hand. I waited a moment longer. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a low tone. I thought I heard anger in it. I waited still longer. “Sir,” she added.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  It was a small victory and, I reflected, could easily be unwise – it’s not a good idea to get on the wrong side of servants. It would be sensible to offer an olive branch – I abandoned my expedition in search of the voice and gestured to the maid to carry on. She started up the new stair in outraged silence.

  I turned to follow, but through the open door of the room from which the conversation emanated I caught a glimpse of a woman. She was young – perhaps twenty or twenty-two – and astonishingly beautiful, preening her dark ringlets and smoothing her fingers across her cheek. She was wearing only a shift. I never saw a woman more obviously a mistress. I wondered what kind of a houseparty this was to be.

  The maid addressed not a word to me as we progressed up to another floor. She flung a door open so violently it banged back against the wall. “Your luggage’ll be up,” she said, sneering and adding with a flounce, “sir.”

  Her insolence didn’t prevent her putting out a hand for her vail and staring me out until I put a coin on her palm. She turned up her nose at the penny and started downstairs at once.

  I stood in the doorway, looking into a room with an inordinate number of windows on two sides – the room must be in one of the little turrets. It was sparsely furnished; a bed was covered with a plain white quilt, two chairs had green cane seats, an old armchair far too big for the room had wings so large as to severely restrict any occupant’s view. A small square table with heavy scratches across its surface stood next to the bed. But it looked comfortable enough and I was pleasantly surprised to find the water in the jug on the washstand was piping hot.

  I sauntered across to take in the view from the windows. On the left, they looked down on a wide expanse of grass and trees; on the right, they showed a terrace and the formal gardens, and even a hint of a canal beyond.

  A servant struggled in with my bags. He put them down and stood, smiling blandly, with hand extended. He didn’t seem to think the penny I gave him was adequate either, and muttered his way out.

  I unpacked – no servant to do that for me, unlike Heron who would of course have his valet with him. I washed, put on the best of my new shirts and brushed down my best coat before putting it back on. Regarding myself in the mirror, I thought I looked exactly what I was.

  A tradesman.

  Dinner was apparently according to town hours rather than country and was therefore late. I waited for a while, wondering if I’d be called, then thought it best to start down the endless succession of stairs.

  The house was remarkably resonant; I could hear the voices of the ladies and gentlemen conversing in the hall and drawing room long before I reached the bottom of the stairs. The small rooms were crowded – there must be at least twenty people here, perhaps more. I glimpsed finely-dressed ladies in huge hooped skirts gossiping in the drawing room, the backs and shoulders of gentlemen in superfine coats. The servants were resplendent in gold and scarlet. I hesitated on the bottom step. It was all very well for Heron to tell me, as he had, that I was to dine with the guests, but my host had not indicated anything of the sort and nothing would get me off to a worse start than appearing presumptuous.

  Heron was beckoning to me from the side of the hall; he was conversing with a boy whose back was turned: a boy of much my own height, build and colouring, dressed in a coat of particularly bright blue. When he turned, however, I saw he was older than I’d thought, not a boy but a young man.

  “Patterson,” Heron said. “I don’t believe you’ve met our host. Alyson, Patterson here is in the way of becoming very notable in the world of music. Have you heard his Scotch dances? Hamilton of Edinburgh printed them last year.”

  “No, I don’t believe I have heard them.” The man smiled at me and I almost revised my view of his age again, so boyish was his grin. But I was too taken aback by my recognition of his voice.

  He was the man I’d heard talking about Nell and Bedwalters.

  4
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  They are inordinately fond of their history, and think no other country half so distinguished.

  [A Frenchman’s guide to England, Retif de Vincennes

  (Paris; published for the author, 1734)]

  Edward Edmund Alyson was a charming man; he welcomed me as if I was the most honoured of guests. He asked me if my compositions were arousing much comment in the papers, if they had been acclaimed by any of the most knowledgeable judges of music. He trusted I knew his good friend, Dr Hayes of Oxford. Etc. Etc. And not one mention of such a sordid subject as money. In short, he treated me as a gentleman.

  His other guests were not as generous: I saw sour looks cast my way as Alyson led Heron and me into the crowded drawing room. It was a small room, dark with wood panelling, and the curtains were drawn to shut out damaging sunlight. In a slight lull in the conversation I heard one man say, “... that musician fellow who solves mysteries.”

  Alyson looked interested but Heron was making compliments about the beauty of the wood panelling.

  “Lord, yes,” Alyson said. “But dreadfully old-fashioned. It’ll all come out. Unless we just decide to tear the whole place down and rebuild, of course.”

  Someone said, “Females of that sort get what they deserve.”

  “But you can’t have ruffians running about!” protested a plump gentleman with a tiny wig perched on a bald head. “They might get someone decent next time!”

  “Allow me to introduce you to my wife,” Alyson said. “Margaret, my dear, this is Mr Cuthbert Heron.”

  Heron looked annoyed at the mangling of his name but bowed over the lady’s hand with punctilious politeness. I hardly glanced at her. I’d just seen the lady who sat two or three seats away. A lady in the palest of green gowns, with a ridiculous lace cap on her blonde hair, lace lappets dangling from the back of it down her elegant neck. Grey eyes regarded me icily.

  Esther Jerdoun, the woman I loved. And had hopelessly argued with. Little more than a month ago, Mrs Jerdoun – an unmarried and damnably wealthy woman of thirty-nine – had steeled herself to proposition me, a poverty-stricken musician of twenty-seven. I’d turned her down. For her own sake. Society would ostracise her if she formed a liaison with me; they would think me a fortune hunter and Esther a fool. But inevitably, she’d been mortally offended.

  I’d known that I must of course meet her again, but I’d hoped it would not be in so public a situation. And this houseparty was to last at least a month! I couldn’t afford to make an exit, dignified or otherwise; not only did I need the money Alyson had promised me, but I might, if I were fortunate, find two or three new pupils among these ladies and gentlemen. So we were both trapped here, unless Esther chose to ‘recall’ a pressing engagement that demanded her attention elsewhere. I didn’t know whether to be sorry or glad. It was painful to see her, but there was a great deal of pleasure mixed in with the pain.

  Heron was trying to converse with Mrs Alyson; I looked at her for the first time and had my second shock of the evening. For she was the woman I had glimpsed through the open door of the bedroom. Not Alyson’s mistress but his wife! Thank God I’d made no comment on the matter.

  Alyson touched my arm. “You solve mysteries?” he said, with a boyish gleam of delight in his eyes. “How exciting! Are you trying to find the fellow who killed this girl?”

  I didn’t want to treat Nell and Bedwalters as a subject for gossip; I said, “Alas, I think the fellow’s probably halfway to London by now.”

  Alyson looked as if he was about to say more but at that moment dinner was announced. He said impishly: “We will talk more later. Ladies and gentlemen...”

  And he moved off to organise his guests as if he’d known them all his life. Esther walked coolly past me, on the arm of a severe-looking man of fifty, who was paying her far too close attention.

  We made our way into dinner; a host of servants pulled out chairs for the ladies, then went to stand at the sides of the room and look impressive. In the new fashion, Alyson arranged his guests alternately male and female, rather than men at the top of the table, women at the bottom. But there was a surplus of men, I noticed; even had I not been there, there were two men too many. As a result, I found myself with an elderly deaf lady on one side and a tall, rather gaunt man of middle age on the other; most of the guests were rather old, I thought.

  Esther was near the head of the table on my own side; I couldn’t see her, which was probably fortunate. I did hear Alyson call her ‘Mrs Johnson’, however. Heron was in the middle of the opposite side of the table, already looking bored with the chit chat of a plump woman on his left. I noticed that Alyson had put one of the few younger people next to himself – an attractive woman with red hair and a flirtatious manner; there was a man opposite me who kept straining to see what she was doing – a husband, no doubt.

  I heard a snatch of a question from Alyson and fancied he was questioning Esther about me; I was already imagining censure in every gaze. Having tradesmen at dinner is not normal practice; I suspected that Heron and lawyer Armstrong had both intervened on my behalf. Perhaps they’d mentioned I was an organist – that usually conveys a little extra respectability.

  The courses came and went with the efficient servants. Soup first, then fish, then some sort of jugged animal, hare no doubt. A huge chicken, together with virtually a whole side of beef, with some sickly-looking potatoes and cabbage cooked too long. Quails’ eggs. A whole round of cheese. Then a flurry of tiny desserts in ornamental dishes, all heavily dosed in cream and wine.

  And such a time it took. Conscious I was not used to such rich fare, I ate sparingly and inevitably finished quickly but many guests interspersed a bite or two with an anecdote or six and took an astonishingly long time to eat even a slice of beef. Heron, on the other side of the table, picked listlessly at his food and shot me wearied looks.

  “Your friend doesn’t look enamoured of the company,” the gaunt middle-aged gentleman on my left said.

  Startled, I glanced at him and saw a quiet smile that leavened the harshness in his face. He wore a rather old-fashioned wig, and his complexion suggested he was used to working outdoors. He had a distinctly odd accent.

  “You’re American, sir,” I said.

  A wider smile. “Philadelphia, sir. A city full of Quakers and tanneries. And I am more associated with the latter than the former. Though tanneries stink worse than Quakers usually do. Casper Fischer, sir, of German descent and proud of it.”

  I grinned back at him. “Charles Patterson. Newcastle born and bred. Are you visiting friends in England?”

  “Family, sir. In search of a legacy owing to me. A sword and a book – are you well, sir?”

  I’d spilled my wine in my surprise. The mention of a book had reminded me of Nell and Bedwalters – I felt guilty that I’d so easily forgotten them. “Just tiredness, sir. You have family in England and Germany?” Belatedly, I made the right connections. “Then your family must have come from Germany to Shotley Bridge. They’re sword makers?”

  He nodded. “Since time immemorial. In the town of Solingen in Germany. But some years ago, my grandfather decided to search for pastures new and came across with some other men to set up sword making at this – Shotley Bridge.” He pronounced the name carefully. “Is that far from here?”

  “A little way to the south of Newcastle. A day’s ride – perhaps slightly more. But how did you end up in Philadelphia?”

  He needed little prompting to expound his family’s history. “There were three sons of which my father was the eldest. When my grandfather decided to come to England, my father seized the opportunity to strike out on his own, and headed for the Colonies, for a newer world. I was born a mere six months after my parents landed in Pennsylvania.”

  “A sword maker travelling to a Quaker city?” I asked, puzzled. “I know a few Quakers and they won’t lift a finger to defend themselves even if they’re attacked. Wasn’t your father’s decision a little – uncommercial?”

  He laug
hed. “You’ve hit on a sore point, sir! Some Quakers in Pennsylvania indeed stuck to their principles but others decided pretty quickly that non-violence is not a good long-term policy when the natives are coming at you with bows and arrows. The two sides have not made up the argument yet. But it didn’t matter to my father – he was a mediocre sword maker at best, though a very good businessman. He took to the tannery business and therefore so have I .”

  “And your legacy? The book and the sword?”

  “Left to my father in his father’s will and never sent to him. I took a fancy to reclaim the inheritance, and to see my cousins.”

  A woman’s voice drifted up the table towards us, sharp and angry. “Clumsy fool! Crompton, get this idiot out of here.”

  The butler hurried forward; an errant servant was pushed from the room. Through the heads turned to the foot of the table, I saw Mrs Alyson, beautiful and pale, wiping her mouth with a napkin and lifting a glass of wine to her lips.

  The meal wound to its interminable end; the ladies rose and departed, the men shifted to the host’s end of the table and brandy was brought out. Two gentlemen wandered out on to the terrace to piss. Talk turned to horses and sport. Fischer dragged his chair closer to mine.

  “Do you know this Shotley Bridge, sir? Is it a big place?”

  It was years since I’d been near the town; my father had a pupil there once and I used to accompany him from time to time. But that was before I was twelve years old and the memories were hazy. Heron shifted nearer and offered a few observations – he had a cousin out that way himself, apparently.

  “The book?” I asked, trying to sound normal. “Of what kind is it?”

  “A book of tunes, sir.”

  “Then Patterson’s your man,” Heron said with a faint smile.

  “Traditional tunes?”

  “Church tunes. For the psalms. My grandfather was a keen amateur musician. When he came to England he was fascinated by the tunes sung here in church, and collected as many as he could find.” Fischer sipped at his brandy, frowned down into it. I’d already discovered that it was not of the first quality; Heron has many times offered me his own brandy, which is excellent, and I’ve come to recognise inferior stuff. “The book has sentimental value – I have little that was my grandfather’s. But in addition, Mr Patterson, we have great need of such books in America for our churches. And good singing teachers for that matter.” He cast me a sideways look. “You wouldn’t fancy a new life yourself, would you?”