Secret Lament (14 page)

I trudged through the stifling streets towards the theatre, reviewing the possible culprits. Athalia benefited from Julia’s death but of course could not have raped the girl. To think of
gentle Mr Keregan – courteous, contented, happily-married Mr Keregan – as a rapist and killer was preposterous. Richard? No, he had adored the girl in a platonic kind of way; he was
starstruck – he would never have considered her carnally. Matthew Proctor? He had been as admiring as Richard but was the least violent man I knew; I didn’t think he could have brought
himself to hurt the girl he loved. Philip Ord? Now that was the most ridiculous idea yet! Ord would consider himself perfectly capable of seducing the girl without having to have recourse to
violence. And Julia would probably have been willing enough, considering his wealth.

There were various other men in the company too of course, the scene shifters, prompter and so on. But I’d never seen one of them show any interest in the girl.

Except Ned.

It was time I talked to him.

Only disaster can result when men of the lowest sort get ideas above their station.

[Letter from AB to
Newcastle Courant
15 June 1736]

My mind was full of Esther’s burglar as I started down to the theatre. He could not be a petty opportunist thief if he had come back. Did this have anything to do with
the attempted burglary at the Mazzanti’s lodgings?

I was wishing that Hugh was back in town, and wondering whether to send him a letter asking him back again, when a man stepped out of an alley in front of me. I was on the lower reaches of
Westgate, by St John’s church, and the only grace in the situation was that there were plenty of people about.

We stood stock still, staring at each other. He was not one of the ruffians but a poor labourer, with third or fourth-hand clothes on his back and a shirt that was more holes than material. He
was perhaps twenty years old and too tall for his age, so he hesitated, bent over as if about to beg some favour of me.

“Mr Patterson.” His voice was a whisper. If this was a plot to persuade me close to him I was not falling for it; I strained to hear him from where I was. “I’ve a message
for you.”

The lower sort like this man would not have been able to write so I did not ask for a note. “Say it then.”

The lad looked as if he was nervous enough to forget the message, certainly anxious that he would do so. “He says that if you want the girl’s killer, he can give you him.”

“He?”

“But he wants you in return.”

“To the devil with that,” I said shortly.

“But if the villain should kill again?” the lad said slyly. “How would you feel then?”

“I’ve got my wits about me,” I said. “I can find the murderer without help.”

Well, that sounded fine enough.

“You don’t understand,” the lad said laboriously. “If you don’t come to him, he’ll come to you. In force, with all his men. If you go to him, it’ll just
be him and you.”

Did I believe that? “I’ll think about it,” I said shortly and strode off towards the Side. Damn the ruffians. When I had bested their leader back in March, I had not thought he
would be so persistent in his search for revenge. But I would not dance to his tune. And I wasn’t going to believe any of his promises.

I thought I might be too early for the theatre company but many of them were already gathered in the stiflingly hot theatre. Mrs Keregan had thrown on an old dress in her hurry and had food
stains on the voluminous shawl that covered it. Athalia was beautifully dressed but looked like a woman who had not slept well; her red hair was loose and tumbling about her shoulders. She came
racing across the open theatre and seized hold of my arm.

“Is it true? The spirits have been going on and on, and not telling a sensible story… ”

“I resent that,” said the convivial spirit, swinging low on a cobweb – apparently his favoured lodging place.

“Oh, go away!” Athalia said in a frenzy. “Charlie boy, is it true? The girl’s dead?”

“It’s true.”

Mrs Keregan said, “Heavens!” faintly, and leant back against her husband’s arm.

“Raped and murdered,” I said. There is never any need to be delicate and roundabout in such matters with theatre women.

“Who was the malefactor?” Keregan asked, with real tears in his eyes. “That poor, poor girl.”

“He did the world a service,” Athalia retorted. “Where is he? I want to thank him.”

This was bravado; I could see the fear in her eyes. Perhaps she was thinking that she might have been the victim. “Alas, no one knows his identity.”

They made me sit down and tell them what had happened. In the middle of my recital, young Richard came stumbling into the theatre, still struggling to put on his coat; by the time I had
finished, almost all the company had gathered. But none of my surreptitious glances spotted Ned.

There was silence when I had finished; I wanted to ask after Ned but under the circumstances I thought the request might be interpreted in the wrong way – or indeed, the right way.
Richard, I noticed, was looking unhappy and would not meet my eye. Was that just natural distress at the death of someone he had admired? But he must have feared Julia too, because she had seemed
to be the object of Ned’s affections. Had he taken action to remove her?

Richard a murderer? Never. And I’d lay odds he’d never so much as touched a woman, let alone lain with one.

But hadn’t I seen him around during that drunken indulgence with Corelli? Richard and Ned and some other man in a tavern on the Keyside? Or was it on Silver Street? I’d seen someone
else too but I couldn’t quite remember who…

“Well,” Athalia said, at last. “I’d better go and con the lines, hadn’t I?”

Mrs Keregan sat bolt upright. “The play! Dear God, we’ll have to recast the play!”

Keregan stared at her. “Quite right, my dear. Where’s my book? Athalia will have to take Julia’s part of course. Now, what other changes will have to be made?”
Kind-hearted or not, he was all business-like theatre manager at heart.

As the group broke up, I managed to accost Richard; he would not look me in the eyes but glanced round and mumbled something about being needed to fetch breakfast. Sweat was running down the
line of his jaw.

“Where’s Ned?” I demanded.

“Somewhere – in the back, I think.”

“No, he’s not.”

He cast a quick half-glance at me. “Yes, yes, I forgot. He went out.”

“Where?”

“To – to see a friend.”

“Richard – ” I started warningly. But I was not quick enough; he darted round me and out into the sunny yard. Well, I could hardly have asked outright if he and Ned had been
together all night; he would certainly have said no.

Dust motes danced in the sunshine flooding through the door, the shouts of the workmen outside filtered in, muffled and indistinguishable. The spirit swayed lazily on the cobweb above me and
murmured appreciatively. “This is the life, eh?”

“The death, certainly,” I agreed.

“Uh-ho,” he said. “Here’s that preachy fellow again.” He chortled. “I had fun yesterday, I can tell you. Frightened the life out of him four or five times
– easy prey. Reckon he’d be frightened of his own shadow.”

Turning, I saw Proctor the psalm teacher halfway across the theatre towards me. Red-eyed, dishevelled, distraught. Then his gaze lifted over my head and he stopped dead. The spirit said
regretfully, “Too easy, ain’t it? I’ll have pity on the fellow and let him be.” And the spirit slid up the cobweb on to a roof beam and away.

Proctor was in a dreadful state, dark circles round his eyes emphasised by the pallor of his face. He had certainly been crying and looked as if he had never been to bed; he was dressed in the
same clothes as the previous day, though that was hardly surprising – I fancied he was not well off.

“It’s true?” he said bleakly. “She’s – she’s – ”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. I quashed the feeling of irritation that I felt – how could he be so feeble? “Yes,” I said. “Julia’s
dead.”

He stared at me a moment longer. Then he seemed to crumble.

“I killed her,” he said.

I took him by the arm, turned him about and led him out into the open air. There was a tiny breeze which relieved the worst of the heat. I found a shady corner and sat Proctor
down with his back to a stack of newly sawn timbers. I eased myself down beside him; the beaten earth beneath me was hard and dusty but at least we were out of the way here and no one was likely to
overhear us.

“I loved her,” Proctor said, tears coursing down his cheeks. “From the moment I saw her.” He was lost in the world of the past; trying to rush him by asking questions
would do him no good at all. I kept silent.

“I was in the Golden Fleece, bespeaking stabling for my horse when they arrived in town. I saw the servant hand his mistress down from the coach.”

The Mazzantis had brought no servants with them, according to William Wright; no doubt Proctor meant one of the Fleece’s servants. I did not bother to correct him.

“But I’d already seen her, leaning out of the coach window as they drove into the courtyard. Such golden hair, such delicate skin. Almost angelic and yet – ” He paused
for a moment, lost in reverie. “So human. No one could be more beautiful. And when I told her so, so gracious.”

Proctor had evidently gone straight up to Julia, almost before her foot touched the cobbles of the yard, and murmured his adoring compliments. Julia had, he said, gazed on him with kindness and
gratitude. Papa had hustled her away.

“I didn’t expect anything else,” Proctor said simply. “I am a poor psalm teacher – she deserves the highest in the land, a duke or prince at least. I could not have
imagined she would be so kind as to notice me.”

His voice trailed off again. I left him a moment or two, then felt it necessary to prompt him. “Did you see her again? Outside the theatre?”

“I kept watch over her,” he said. “Night after night, hoping for a glimpse of her, not grieving if I didn’t. It was enough to be outside the house, knowing she was
safe.”

It was Proctor I had seen, I realised, sometime last night. In my drunken stupor, I had registered his existence, though I could not recall where. I’d seen Ned too and Richard, and yes, it
came back to me, albeit hazily – Ord as well.

“What time was this?” I asked.

He seemed to come back from a distance. “About nine – yes, nine o’clock. But he saw me.”

“John Mazzanti? Her father?”

He nodded. “He threatened me. Told me he’d call the watch if I didn’t move off. He accused me of wanting to harm her.” A low bitter laugh. “As if I could have
injured such an angel.”

Alarm bells started to ring in my mind. What an odd thing to say when he had admitted not five minutes ago that he had killed the girl. I rubbed sweat from my cheeks. “You did hurt
her,” I pointed out.

He was slow to react. He turned his head against the pile of wood, frowned, looked at me as if I had just said something extraordinarily stupid. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “I did
hurt her, as much as if I had twisted the knife myself. I did as her father told me and went home.”

He stared off into the distance again. “If I had stayed,” he said. “If I had kept watch. I could have prevented this. I would have seen him – the murderer – and
prevented him.”

I set my head back against the timber and could not help but feel a pang of bitter disappointment. The hope that this matter was almost over before it had begun disappeared. Proctor was racked
by guilt, not at what he had done, but at what he had not done. He had not kept his love safe; he had betrayed her by leaving his watch. And if I needed anything more to convince me he was telling
the truth, it was his apparent belief that Julia had been stabbed.

“I was afraid,” Proctor said. “Afraid of the consequences to myself, so I ran away. Scared. And left her to die.”

I could not think what to say and the silence lengthened in the hot yard. A sawyer stretched his aching back as he passed and gave us a curious look; a cart rumbled in through the gates. Someone
called loudly for small beer.

“When did you talk with Mazzanti?” I asked as gently as I could.

Proctor seemed to come back from a great distance. “About – about ten o’clock. He saw me from the window and came out to me.”

“Did you see Julia herself?”

He stared at me blankly.

“Was she with her father?”

“No. She was in her room. I did see her,” he said reverentially. “When she heard me outside, she came to the window and looked out.”

“But you did not talk?”

“Her father came out,” he repeated.

“And you went off as he told you to.”

He nodded numbly.

“You did not see anyone else hanging around?”

No, of course, he had not. He had probably walked away backwards, straining for a last look at his love.

A silence fell between us. I wiped sweat from my temple. “There’s nothing else you’ve not told me?”

He hesitated, rubbed his fingers together, whispered, “No.”

“Nothing else you saw or heard?”

“No.”

“You don’t know who might have wanted to hurt her?”

He hesitated again. “No,” he said wretchedly. “If only I’d stayed.” Something like a sob escaped him. “If only I could have made her listen to me.”

I sighed. “How did you hear what had happened?”

I had to repeat the questions. He had heard in a tavern. He could not remember which tavern. I could guess how he had spent his night. Drinking, sleeping fitfully on a tavern bench, drinking
some more.

“Go back to your lodgings,” I said gently. “Get some sleep.”

“Lodgings,” he muttered. “Yes, my lodgings.”

“Get some sleep,” I repeated. “And some food. You’ll feel better for it.”

I had to help him to his feet and he stumbled away as if drunk, shying away from the friendly spirit at the timber yard gate and almost staggering under the wheels of another cart. I watched him
go with wry irritation. So much for an easy solution to the matter.

I was back where I had started. With Ned.