Broken Harmony (31 page)

He flicked a glance at me with his pale eyes. “I knew suicide was a unlikely route for Le Sac to take. When he clashed with Jenison and Ord over that duel, he tried to enlist my help
against them. Seeing I was not amenable to flattery, he threatened to invent and spread rumours about the conduct of my financial affairs.” He hesitated, added, “And other
matters.” A glance at me. “I am a widower, Patterson. You understand my meaning.”

I nodded. His gaze lingered on me a little longer, with something in it I could not fathom. He looked away, went on. “Le Sac spoke like a man accustomed to blackmail. Moreover, he hinted
he could count upon Lady Anne’s support, and I had the impression he had some hold over her. Who then was more likely to have a reason to dispose of him? It was obvious that the boy’s
death was merely a preliminary, the prelude to the real play, so to speak.”

“Poor George,” I said. At least he was back in his own world again.

Heron shifted uneasily in his chair. “But there was no proof!” he said in some frustration. “And I knew you to be in danger too, particularly after those ruffians attacked you.
Lady Anne had plainly used you in her schemings against Le Sac and I suspected she intended somehow to blame you for his death. After the boy’s inquest I knew you would be her next
target.” He flushed. “At least I was able to prevent her killing you. I had no notion, however, of what I would discover in Caroline Square. Or, rather,
out
of it.”

We kept silence. Outside the window, the sunshine was flecked with smoke and fragments of soot, and a lady walked past with a kerchief held to her face.

“Patterson.” Heron’s voice was very still and level. “Are we mad or sane? Did we merely dream?”

I eased my arm within its sleeve, feeling the weight of the bandage upon it.

“No dream, sir. But a great mystery.”

“One I hope not to face again,” he said. “This
stepping through
she spoke of. Will it happen again, do you think?”

“I think –”

But what did I think? Looking back over the past few hours, it did all indeed begin to seem a dream. Yesterday I stood on the verge of a river in another world, staring at death. Today I sat
comfortably in a coffee-house with an agreement to direct the Concerts at the next season, the promise of a higher wage for it and a volume of concerti praised by all knowledgeable lovers of music.
(
My
music, attested to by my signature, yet not my own.) Today too I had the smiling half-promise of Esther Jerdoun, and the patronage of Claudius Heron.

“I think,” I said, “I shall keep clear of the house in Caroline Square.”