Chords and Discords (24 page)

Strolger used the curtain to wipe the dust from the wood while the labourer fetched another labourer; Gale supervised the lifting of Bairstowe, groaning wretchedly, on to the door. The labourers
bore him past the scholars’ pews, and along the Sailors’ Gallery. At the stair down, they realised they could not manoeuvre their burden round its tight curves and after a great fuss,
took Bairstowe by the head and feet and manhandled him down the stairs. Gale hurried down after them. I watched from the Sailors’ Gallery as they disappeared into the street. Gale would bleed
Bairstowe but I doubted it would do much good.

Strolger was peering into the innards of the organ. He gestured melodramatically. “Look at what he has done!”

I contemplated the removed pipes, the split soundboard, the scatter of pallets and sliders.

“It was a cipher,” Strolger moaned. “Just dust causing the mechanism to stick. And now look.”

“You’ll have to get Bridges from London in to fix it.”

“But that could take months!” Strolger seized my arm. “Patterson, take the bellows, will you? I won’t keep you long, I promise. I just want to see what he’s left
me.” He scrambled on to the organ stool, pulled out a few stops.

I might as well stay, I supposed. I could think over the situation here as well as anywhere else. I pulled up the chair and pumped the bellows handle up and down while Strolger ran his hands
over the manuals, playing a few psalm tunes with, for once, relative simplicity. There were strange gaps in the harmony where pipes must be missing. I heard Strolger groaning, but was preoccupied
with my own thoughts.

Edward Bairstowe had told me he had rolled the deed into the largest of the pipes against the wall. I stared at the pipes propped against the rough stones of the organ loft. I had admired
Edward’s ingenuity; it was clever to hide the deed where William might discover it, if only he did his work. But Edward had been certain he would not do the work, in order to disoblige
Strolger, and the vestry were known to be too mean to call in a London builder. Yes, it had been a good place to hide the deed.

Except that it was not here. Edward had lied.

Unless –

I stopped pumping and the organ whined down. Strolger hardly noticed; I heard him muttering to himself. “No four-foot principal – how can I manage without a four-foot on the Great?
Though he has repaired the eight-foot on the Swell... Do you go, Patterson? Yes, yes, pray do. I have heard enough.” As I started down the stairs, I heard him say despairingly: “Far too
much.”

Unless, I thought, William Bairstowe had himself found the deed this afternoon. Perhaps that was what he had been trying to tell me. Perhaps it was even now in one of his pockets.

I ran for the organ manufactory.

It was impossible. It was like the day Tom Eade had died – the neighbours crowded into the alley and passers by crammed behind them. I pushed my way through the mob,
heard the spirit calling. “Such a fuss,” she said happily.

In the yard, the labourers who had carried William Bairstowe home were enjoying a gossip with a neighbour. Gale, the barber surgeon, could be heard behind an open window on the first floor,
murmuring confidentially. No sign of Tom Eade’s spirit, nor of the other world. Too many people about, no doubt.

I accosted one of the labourers. “Is Bairstowe dead?”

He shrugged. There was no help for it – I had to walk in as if I was a welcome guest and demand news.

I’d set one foot inside the house when I came face to face with Jennie McIntosh, bearing a bowl full of blood, watching carefully to make sure it did not spill. She glanced up then looked
down again quickly when she recognised me.

“I heard what had happened,” she said, in a low tone. “The spirits were gossiping about it. I had to come back. It’s my duty.”

Duty, I reflected, was an important word in the Bairstowe household.

“Are you safe here?”

“She’s not a bad mistress,” she said. “And she needs help.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain, sir.”

“If you change your mind, there is always a refuge for you at Mrs Jerdoun’s.”

Now, what did that look mean? That darting glance, half-veiled? In God’s name, had she conceived entirely the wrong view of my relations with Mrs Jerdoun? I opened my mouth to disabuse
her, closed it again. She would not believe any protestations.

“Is your mistress here?”

“Upstairs, sir.”

I walked into the house as the maid went out with the bowl of blood. And there stood Mary Bairstowe herself, regarding me from the far door of the kitchen with a face grim as death. Gale the
barber surgeon was directly behind her; he murmured farewell and she saw him out civilly enough, then swung back to me.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

I started to point out that I was the one who had found her husband and sent him back home to her, but she was not to be silenced.

“You’ll not get any money from me! And you’ll certainly get nothing out of him. Neither dead nor alive, he is. What good d’you think that’s to me? And I’ll
thank you not to interfere with the girl. Encouraging her to run away.” Her lip curled. “I know what you’re after.”

“Mrs Bairstowe,” I said, goaded. “I am after the truth.”

She snorted in derision. I lost my temper.

“Your husband asked me to look after his interests, Mrs Bairstowe,” I snapped, “and I will, money or no! And I warn you, madam, that if I hear that your husband has died and
that your neglect has anything to do with it, you will answer to me.”

And on this fine sentiment I slammed the door and strode out into the yard.

The labourers and neighbours had disappeared, but halfway across the yard, Gale the barber surgeon was conversing with – to my surprise – Claudius Heron. Even as I
watched, Gale bobbed (a little obsequiously, I thought) and walked off.

Heron had seen me; we met at the heart of the yard, with the shut-up workshop on one side and the house standing open behind me, both equally silent. Now most of the bystanders had disappeared,
the soft singing of the spirit could be distinctly heard. Tom Eade’s spirit remained silent.

“You found Bairstowe, I hear,” Heron said, without preamble.

I nodded. “In the organ loft of All Hallows.”

“Fate sometimes takes matters out of our hands.” Heron was cool and unapproachable as always but there was a touch of annoyance there too, as if he wasn’t used to anyone or
anything, even the hand of God, thwarting him. He was dressed in a dark coat whose colour emphasised his pale colouring and whose fine cloth emphasised his wealth.

“I came to demand another word with him,” he said. “And found this mess. There is no doubt that it was illness that struck him down?”

“No doubt whatsoever.”

“Just like his father,” he commented.

“Another word?” I said, having just registered his previous comment.

“I spoke with him yesterday, early in the afternoon.” He set his face hard. “I told him it was plain he had vandalised his own workshop and that no one could mistake his
intentions. I was not, I said, prepared for him to disrupt the lives of others for his own ends.”

“The lives of others.” I had an uneasy feeling that Heron was referring to me.

“I told him that I would not let the matter rest if he neglected to pay what he owed.”

It was plain that he had decided to take charge of the matter, and order both my affairs and Bairstowe’s as he saw fit. Which is not untypical of the gentry. The world, they think, should
be as they wish, and they will take whatever steps are necessary to ensure their preferred outcome. At least Bairstowe’s attendance at All Hallows was explained. Heron had told him to do the
work and had been obeyed; Bairstowe must have decided it was easier to give way than to fight.

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Mary Bairstowe glowering at us from her doorstep. She was staring with undisguised hostility.

“Be away with you!”

No gentleman could be expected to accept such language from his social inferiors. Heron stiffened, then walked towards her. He did not raise his voice, or contort his face, but she retreated
before him into the house, leaving the door open for him to follow. I heard him say: “Your husband is upstairs, I believe,” and heard her reply, with shaken composure, “Yes,
sir.” Then he walked past her into the house as if it was his own.

I was left in the deserted yard. There was plainly nothing more to be gained here. I could not talk my way into the house as Heron had, and, even if I had followed him in, I would have no
opportunity to search Bairstowe’s pockets for the deed. In any case, how could I justify taking the deed from the man whose property it rightfully was, merely to pretend that I myself had
found it, and thus be able to claim a reward?

I was staring at financial ruin. No money would be forthcoming from William Bairstowe now nor from Armstrong, even though the deed was found. And I had barely three shillings of
Bairstowe’s guinea left.

What in heaven’s name was I to do?

I went back out into the street. The wind swirled along the road, dragging the dust with it and I wished I had dressed more warmly. A few bystanders still lingered; they looked
as aimless as I felt. Strolger’s children were playing in the street with the cat.

“Mr Patterson.”

The voice was sharp, even annoyed. Startled, I glanced round and saw Esther Jerdoun, wrapped in a dark cloak against the chill.

“That girl you brought me,” she said. “She has left the house.”

I gathered my thoughts with difficulty. “She has returned to her place.”

“William Bairstowe has been taken ill, I’m told.”

“An apoplexy.”

“He is like to die?”

How these few words brought my failure home to me, bitterly. Yet what can a man do against the will of God? “I think it likely, yes. Men so stricken rarely survive. His father did not. And
such things often run in families.”

I was talking for the sake of it, in the face of her forbidding displeasure. Surely she could not still believe the girl was my mistress?

“I do not shirk my responsibilities,” she said, at last. She was silent for a moment as an elderly man shuffled past. “You gave the girl into my care and I undertook to protect
her.”

“It was her own wish to remove herself from your house.”

“She’s a fool,” she said, surprising me with the scorn in her voice. “I can not abide such humble submissive girls!” The sarcasm with which she spoke these last
words almost suggested she thought the girl’s humility assumed.

“I think you are a little harsh,” I said. “Maids must be submissive to their employers.”

“They do not have to be sly,” she retorted.

“I have never found her so.”

“No,” she snapped. “So I perceive.”

We stood in the street, with a cart rattling past and the children shrieking with glee, and looked at each other with some hostility. I thought she was not in the best position to understand the
lot of those who must rely on the goodwill of others for their well-being. She thought – well, I did not know what she thought. There were times when she bewildered me.

Something had to be said. I began, “She has been much abused – ”

“So,” Mrs Jerdoun said, with bite. “Now she has found a champion. And you, I daresay, will ensure her welfare. I wish you good luck of her. Good day, sir.”

“Mrs Jerdoun – ”

But she was already striding off up the street.

Annoyed and despondent, I went to Mrs Hill’s tavern in the Fleshmarket to get drunk on the best ale in town. But fingering the few coins left in my pocket after I had
bought the first tankard, I knew it would be the height of folly to spend money on indulgences – there were still three weeks left until the end of the quarter. I made my calculations yet
again. Claudius Heron and Mrs Jerdoun at least would pay me promptly – that income, spent cautiously, would keep me a month or two. If I could persuade another pupil or two to pay, I might
reach Race Week without going hungry.

And then I would have no choice but to challenge the attractions of Signora Mazzanti by putting on a concert of my own. A risky business: the expenses of running a concert – hiring the
room, heating and lighting it, printing the tickets and so on – could easily run to as much as eight pounds. And if no one bought tickets, I might make no profit and end up deep in debt.

I pushed the ale away morosely. I had another reason not to get drunk. Mrs Jerdoun’s daily lesson was in an hour or so and it would be the height of folly to turn up inebriated. But would
the lady even attend?

A boy came into the tavern, hesitating at the door and glancing about the assembled company. I recognised the boy before he saw me, although I did not know his name. He was the eldest child of
the widow that lives below Demsey, a serious-looking lad of about ten years old. He saw me and came across.

“Mr Patterson, sir? Mr Demsey sent me with a message.” He had been taught to speak nicely, with not a trace of the local accent. He presented me with a screw of paper; I smiled on
him but he stared impassively back.

“What’s your name?”

“Thomas, sir.”

“Tom for short?”

He did not respond to my friendly overtures. “No, sir. Just Thomas, sir.”

Sighing, I unscrewed the paper. The message was short.
Holloway’s off to Shields. Following him. I’ve paid the boy. HD

I stared at the scrawl in bewilderment. Why the devil was Hugh following Holloway to Shields? The fellow was probably just off on a business trip. Well, at least Hugh had had the sense to send a
note, rather than entrusting the message to a spirit.

Even as I thought that, I saw a gleam of light on a wall nearby. I crumpled the note, and fished in my pocket for a penny. The boy took a step back.

“Mr Demsey has paid me, sir.”

“For sending the note. I’m paying you for delivering it.”