Secret Lament (15 page)

We hear that an engagement will soon be announced between Mr P—O and a delightful young lady of this town, known for her sweetness of character and her admirable musical
abilities.

[
Newcastle Courant
17 April 1736]

Dear Hugh
(I scribbled)
For God’s sake, I hope you are enjoying Houghton-le-Spring for I am not in the least enjoying this town. The Italian girl has been
murdered and no one has the least idea who has done it

Bedwalters said: “May I have a word, Mr Patterson.”

I started and blotted the ink on the paper. Hastily, I turned. Bedwalters was looking at me with calm impassivity, although his face was red with the heat. I had stripped off my coat and had sat
down in shirtsleeves to scribble my note. Around me, the members of the theatre company scurried; Athalia was prowling backwards and forwards with a book in her hand, muttering lines.

“A word?” I brought my attention back to Bedwalters. He looked uncomfortable and I fancied it was not entirely owing to the heat.

“I am looking for the Italian gentleman.”

“Mazzanti?”

“No, the gentleman who was with you last night.”

“Corelli?” Hell and damnation. “He was staying at Mrs Hill’s, I believe.”

“She says he paid his bill and went off to Shields for a ship.”

“Indeed?”

“As I believe she told you when you sought him out.”

Bedwalters’s tone was respectful but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

“Yes, she did,” I said. “I had forgotten.”

He waited but I knew better than to elaborate. The longer the explanation the more likely you are to dig a hole for yourself.

“You did not know him before he came to this town?”

“No, I met him the afternoon after Mazzanti was shot.”

“But you went drinking together like old friends.”

Yes, that was odd. Why had I done that? It was all lost in an alcoholic daze.

“I face a difficulty, sir,” Bedwalters started.

I finished for him. “If you can’t talk to Corelli, you can’t be certain my story was – ” I was going to say ‘truthful’ but did not want to put ideas in
his head. “Accurate.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Was there anyone else who saw you?”

“Mrs Hill.”

“In the later part of the evening.”

Ned, Richard: I could not draw them into the matter – not at least unless I found there was evidence against them. I didn’t know the man who’d been with them. And as for
mentioning Ord!

“I can’t remember,” I confessed.

To my surprise, Bedwalters seemed to believe me. He nodded. “If you do recall anything later, sir – ”

“Of course.”

“It could be important.”

“Of course.”

“To yourself, particularly.”

And on that ominous note, he walked away, passing through the dazzling slanting sunlight out into the timber yard. I looked after him, very uneasy indeed.

Across the theatre, Keregan clapped his hands. “We must begin. Quickly, quickly. Mr Patterson, we will rehearse only the dialogue and movement today with the new players. Do not allow me
to keep you. If you could return tomorrow?”

I seized my coat, crumpled my half-written note to Hugh into a pocket and made my exit. Behind me, I heard Keregan saying, “Now where is Ned?”

There were half a dozen things I wanted to do: find Ned, question Mazzanti, talk to Philip Ord, talk some sense into Bedwalters. I was too exhausted for all of it, and the
overindulgence in ale the previous night was making my head ache. Besides, I needed to be rested if I was going to sit up watching for Esther’s intruder in the coming night. (And I
was
going to sit up, decorously, in the kitchen or the scullery, as far from Esther’s bedchamber as I could manage.) So I abandoned everything, went home, drew the curtains and, lulled by the
raucous shouts of carters outside, went straight off into a deep undreaming sleep.

When I woke, the sunlight slanting in through the gaps in the curtains was low and reddening and the racket in the street was that of children. I washed, dressed and visited my friend on the
Side for a shave. As the sun sank down below the roofs and spires of the churches, I walked down to the Cale Cross at the foot of Butcher’s Bank and bought myself a bowl of buttered barley.
It was a foolhardy place to be, perhaps, as the day lengthened, for I was not far here from the filthy chares where the ruffians lived. But there were still plenty of people about and I felt safe
enough.

I was wondering whether to make a direct approach to Bedwalters when I heard a voice accost me. Philip Ord swung down from his horse and led it towards me. The horse was sweating, as if it had
been ridden too hard.

“Patterson. I’ve a job of work for you.”

That disconcerted me. Not so long ago, I had been thinking of questioning him about his relations with Julia; now he was his old commanding self, making me feel acutely aware of our respective
social positions. I was conscious of the bowl and spoon in my hands, and the drab clothes on my back. And what kind of work could he want me to do?

“I know your reputation,” he said curtly, squinting against the low sun. His face was red, his wig askew; his manner might be cool but I was very sure he was in the grip of strong
emotions. “You can fathom these sorts of mysteries. Find out who killed Ju – Miss Mazzanti.”

After Bedwalters’s hints, I’d probably do far better to keep out of it. Not that I intended to let the matter drop, not while there was a chance it was connected with Esther’s
burglar. But I disliked Ord, I objected to his behaviour towards Lizzie Saint and I wasn’t averse to punishing him a little.

“Why?” I demanded.

He stared at me. “Damn it, the girl was an innocent. Find me the devil who murdered her.”

“And raped her,” I said, watching him closely.

His jaw clenched with fury. “Find him!”

I could have sworn his emotion was genuine. Had he really cared for her that much?

“You want payment, is that it?” he demanded. He sneered. “Very well. If you find the villain, I’ll make sure my wife continues to take lessons from you after her
marriage.”

The horse shifted restlessly, dragging him a step or two backwards. I was ready to hit him – at the insult to me, in thinking he could get me to leap into action simply for the sake of
money, and at the insult to Lizzie Saint.

“You’ll pay me to give lessons to your wife, in return for finding the murderer of your mistress!”

He was fiery red and snarling. “How dare you insult her memory!”

“Oh come,” I said, with dripping sarcasm. “A singer, an actress – what else was she good for?” Then the obvious occurred to me. “Damn it, you were the one she
was going to elope with!”

“No!” He glanced about, seemed to realise for the first time that there were passers by glancing curiously at us. He visibly curbed his anger, yanking on the horse’s reins and
causing it to jerk its head in pain. He lowered his voice, said very deliberately: “I was not going to elope with Julia Mazzanti.”

His gaze dropped away from mine; he seemed to chew on resentment. I knew he must be lying. He glanced about again, waited until the chaplain from All Hallows had walked past, bowing
acknowledgement to us. Ord tried to meet my gaze, looked away again. In the soft evening sunlight, I saw his mouth work.

“I met her in London,” he said abruptly. “When I went down there to negotiate with her father on behalf of the concert directors. She was – ” He hesitated.
“She was an innocent child, Patterson! With an angelic face and a sweet nature. Is it wrong to have admired her?”

I thought of Richard who had succumbed to Julia’s attractions in much the same way. But Richard was a naïve boy and had nothing but admiration on his mind. A man like Ord is not
looking for pleasant conversation and a song or two when he encounters an actress, however young and innocent. And I did not believe Julia had been innocent.

He swallowed hard. “I – I may have been precipitous.”

He had made promises. I sighed inwardly. What was it about Julia that made sensible men lose their wits?

“You made promises.”

“No, no, I did not. I – I may have led her to believe, purely accidentally, without intending to – that my admiration was – rather deeper than it actually was.”

“You told her you loved her.”

“Not directly.”

The lowering sun was now shining in my eyes; I shifted to get a better look at Ord. He was gritting his teeth. I felt a reluctant admiration; confessing such stupidity, and to someone his social
inferior, cannot have been easy. But he must have been in desperate straits even to contemplate it. I had an inkling I knew what that meant.

“You wrote her letters,” I guessed.

He nodded, jerked on the reins as the horse fidgeted. “Damn it, Patterson, I have to have them back! If I don’t get them, my chances of marrying Miss Saint are finished. You know
what a puritan her father is!”

Thomas Saint is a decent man with admirable morals, and very well named.

“Where do you think they are?”

“In her room, damn it! Tied up with ribbon and placed with a pressed rose amongst her handkerchiefs. Damn it, where do young women usually keep such things!”

“How many letters?”

It cost him a struggle to tell me. “Eight or nine.”

He had been in London only three weeks as I recalled; he must have written one every other day.

“So,” I said, “how much will you pay me?”

That made him straighten. He was sneering again, plainly feeling he was back on familiar ground.

“I’ve told you – ”

“Not enough.” I said ruthlessly. Lizzie’s trusting gaze was in my mind’s age; she was a serious girl but of excellent character, and I objected – I objected very
strongly – to what was going on behind her back. And to what would no doubt go on behind her back after marriage. The least I could do was to exact payment from her prospective spouse.

“You want money.” Ord smiled unpleasantly. “I should have known.”

“I want the directorship of the winter concerts.”

He stared at me. Real fear showed in his eyes. “I can’t. Mazzanti – ”

I shrugged and pretended to move off. He snatched at my arm.

“Damn it, I can’t! How could I persuade the other directors?”

“You’ve seen Mazzanti trying to direct the play. You’ve seen how incompetent he is. He’ll ruin the concerts within a month. Persuade the other gentlemen of that
fact.”

He drew back. I knew he had wit enough to see I was right. He looked sour but he said harshly: “I’ll try.”

“Not enough.”

“Very well,” he said sharply and bit his lip as a passing merchant raised eyebrows at him. “Very well. I’ll do it. Somehow. I’ll do it.”

He swung away suddenly, as if he could stay still no longer, swung himself up on to his horse.

“Damn it, Patterson.” He looked down with defiant contempt. You’d better succeed in this. If you don’t – ” He hauled on the reins. “If you don’t,
I’ll break you. I promise you that – fail me and that’ll be the end of you.”

Tickets for the Concert may be obtained at the coffee-houses, at the Golden Fleece, of the Printer of this Paper, and at Mr Mazzanti’s lodgings in Piper Row.

[
Newcastle Courant
5 June 1736]

That last look of Ord’s stayed with me as I turned towards Mrs Baker’s lodging house; I would have sworn he had been genuinely in love with Julia. What an odd pair
they must have made. The strait-laced disapproving man of thirty and the actress who had not, I swear, been as innocent as she looked. Would he have married her? I fancied he had been tempted.

But surely he would not have been so blind to the social consequences of such an act? She would never have been received in company and he would have been ostracised by all respectable matrons;
they would have rallied to Lizzie Saint’s support without hesitation. The gentlemen would have continued to deal with him, of course, and some would have envied him in some respects. But they
would all have felt it cast doubt on his judgement.

Letters indeed! For a sensible man, Ord had been remarkably silly. Esther and I had never exchanged more than a receipt for her payment of my bills.

Where to start in the business? I was wandering around in the dark, suspecting first Corelli, then Ned, then anyone else who came to hand. I needed some good solid facts. And I knew someone who
would provide me with reliable information.

The street in which Mrs Baker’s lodgings stood was narrow, but respectable, the haunt of lesser tradesman – Mrs Baker herself was the widow of a cheesemonger. Few people were about;
a gentleman idled at the far end of the street ogling a saucy young fisher girl, a Quaker in black paused to contemplate a notice on a wall. Mrs Baker’s door stood open slightly.

The house seemed silent. I wondered whether to call out. It seemed disrespectful when the girl’s body was lying upstairs. The hall seemed to be in Stygian gloom, shutters and curtains
drawn, a single candle burning on a small table.

Mrs Baker came up behind me in the street, making me start. She was dressed in dark purple, as a gesture towards mourning, and carried a jug of ale.

“You’ve timed it right, Mr Patterson,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Come and have a bite with me.”

She thrust the jug into my arms, shut the door, snatched up the candle, and led me into the back of the house. As she opened the door to the kitchen, sunlight leapt out, blinding me. The
shutters were not drawn here, and the heat was immense.

Mrs Baker fussed about as I stood for a moment to let my eyes adjust. In only a second or two, she had bread on the table, and cold beef and half a cooked pheasant which smelt very high indeed.
She winked. “One of the butchers is a particular friend of mine, Mr Patterson. Sit yourself down – you look like a man who needs food.”

The effect of the buttered barley had not lasted long, I found. I dragged a stool up to the table, while Mrs Baker reached down another plate from the dresser and a knife from a drawer. She was
a remarkably good-looking woman, full of life.

“You’re not looking for his highness, are you? Mr Mazzanti?”