Secret Lament (19 page)

A whisper in the darkness. I was still recovering from shock at the realisation that I could govern my entrance to and exit from the other world, and stood dazed until a hand
touched my arm. Then I knew Esther by her faint perfume. She leant close and I saw her face as a pale blur, her hand on my arm as a faint leavening of the darkness.

“The spirit heard someone at the garden gate,” she breathed in my ear. “We must wake Tom.”

“I’ll do it.” I thought about telling her to go back to her room, and leave Tom and me to deal with it. It’s what I would have said to any other woman. I did not say it
to Esther. We felt our way to the butler’s pantry, and Esther waited outside while I went in to wake Tom. He had one candle burning and I blew it out before putting a hand on his shoulder. He
came awake at once, said eagerly: “Is he here?”

I heard the scratch of metal against wood as he picked something up. “I have the pistol,” he whispered excitedly. I pushed it aside with some trepidation.

Esther was waiting for us impatiently, a slim shadow in the darkness. “Tom,” she whispered. “Get to the kitchen and keep watch there. We’ll stand by the door.”

He looked disappointed but went without argument.

Esther and I took up our station on either side of the door to the garden. I stood where I could be seen when the door opened; Esther hid behind the door where she had a good chance of taking
the intruder by surprise if need be. All I could hear in the darkness was my own breathing. And all I could see in my mind’s eye was Julia Mazzanti – the woman from the other world,
bejewelled, wrapped in her thin shawl, with an insolent tilt of her head and amused contempt in her eyes. She was a woman, that was the difference between the two Julias. She was a woman who had
taken life into her own hands, and the Julia who had died had been a mere girl.

Esther breathed: “Here he is.”

I heard a faint crunch of footsteps, a pause, then a scratching on the other side of the door. The intruder was trying to pick the lock. No, it sounded as if he was trying to push a key into it,
like a man who hasn’t yet realised it doesn’t fit. Surely after three attempts to get in, he must know he had the wrong key!

An angry mutter. Not loud enough for me to be sure of more than that it was a man. Or did I recognise the voice… ?

The handle on the door twitched; the door shifted fractionally as if someone was pressing harder against it. Then a rattle as the intruder grew more frustrated.

Esther’s pale face was just visible in the darkness. Her breathing was very steady. The oddest of burglars, I thought. Surely no thief of any experience would make a noise if he could
avoid it. It was more like a man who unexpectedly found that he could not get into his own house.

The jerking of the latch stopped. Silence. I strained to hear something more. I felt Esther shifting, pressing her ear to the door. “Footsteps?” she mouthed. Yes, I could just catch
the faint thud of footsteps on the path. Was he going away? What the devil to do now? Go after him? He’d run for the gate and be out of it before I had the door unlocked.

The sound of breaking glass.

“The kitchen!” Esther cried. I ran off in that direction, knocking over half a dozen things as I went. Pans clattered and rolled on the floor with a huge din. I blundered into
something sharp that stabbed my thigh.

Behind me, a candle flared, casting my shadow dancing on the walls. By its light, I found the kitchen door. Tom was roaring in fury. A boy’s voice called: “Help! Murder!” The
spirit of my apprentice, George, was here, gleaming on a saucepan hung from a rack.

Shadows at the window. One man was perched on the windowsill itself, clinging on to the frame. Tom was reaching up for him, tugging at the intruder’s clothes and trying to bring him down.
The man kicked out at him. The light from the candle touched them both briefly, then a draught from the broken window caught the flame and snuffed it out, plunging us into darkness. Esther
swore.

I levelled my pistol. I had only ever fired a pistol once before and was not confident of my ability to hit the intruder rather than Tom. I yelled: “Hold still or I fire.”

The shadows at the window froze. And at that moment, the gleam of George’s spirit slid swiftly along the wall and on to the window frame. “Got him!” George shouted gleefully.
“Got him!”

He startled both Tom and the intruder. Tom yelped and let go. The intruder pulled free.

He fell backwards. I fired. Tom ducked and the ball hit the window frame square on the sash – I heard the wood crack and split. I threw down the pistol, grabbed Tom’s arm.

“Hoist me up!”

He cupped his hands and I put my foot into them; he heaved me up on to the windowsill. The broken glass nipped my fingers as I tried to use the window frame to balance. Then I was jumping down
the other side.

I crashed through bushes, landed on my hands and knees in soft earth. The scents of crushed mint and rosemary rose around me. I picked myself up, stumbled along the path towards the gate.
Trailing rose stems caught at my clothes. In the darkness, I drifted into the shrubs bordering the path. I already knew I was not going to catch him. The gate into the alley was open. I could hear
footsteps clattering on cobbles. He was well away.

Annoyed, breathing heavily, I went back. The back door of the house had been flung open wide and light flooded into the garden. I squinted against the brightness. Esther was holding a lantern
high above her head; I glimpsed her slim figure in breeches and waistcoat, her pale hair loose about her shoulders.

“I suppose he’s gone?” she said coolly.

I nodded, resigned. “He knew the path better than I. But at the very least we have given him a fright, and deterred him from returning.”

She frowned. “I rather think he is too persistent for that. Come back in. I’ve sent Tom for brandy.”

She turned back into the house. As she moved, the lantern light caught on something pale tangled in the bushes beneath the kitchen window. I stooped quickly to catch up the gleam. The bushes
held it tight a moment, then it came free.

It was long and shiny, scented with rosemary. A yellow ribbon spotted with embroidered blue flowers.

Do not ever consider abandoning your friends, if only because they may then abandon you in your hour of need.

[
Instructions to a Son newly come of Age
, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]

I did not tell Esther. She was already in the house, dealing with domestic matters. The noise – of the breaking window, I supposed – had woken the women servants.
Cook had come down with a wicked-looking cleaver; the chambermaid had snatched up a poker. Both were threatening war on the intruder. The young kitchenmaid was cosseting Tom, much to his pleasure.
I thrust the ribbon into my pocket, took the key to the garden gate from its hook and the lantern from Esther, and went back out outside.

What kind of a burglar had a key to the garden gate but not to the house? Of course, I thought, as I held the lantern high to see my way along the path, the intruder probably believed he did
have the house key – that was the meaning of the scratching noises, he had been trying to fit the wrong key in the lock.

But why did he keep trying? Why had he not learnt the first time that the key did not fit? And, when he had given up on the key, why had he thought he could smash the window so noisily without
rousing the occupants?

I checked the garden gate for marks, found none, shut and locked it. A closer examination would have to wait for daylight, but I hardly thought it worthwhile. I went back to the house.

Esther was alone in the kitchen, cleaning out the pistol I had fired. She had poured two glasses of brandy and had plainly been sipping at one of them. In the silence, I could hear the
kitchenmaid giggling in the butler’s pantry.

“It’s very late,” Esther said. “Or indeed, very early.”

I was desperate for the brandy and drank it down. Esther’s would-be intruder was Julia Mazzanti’s murderer; I had proof now. He had taken a ribbon from Julia’s body and he had
dropped it here. But why was he after Esther too? And he must be desperate – to try to murder someone in a houseful of servants was preposterous. But this threw another light on that
attempted burglary at the Mazzantis’. Had Julia been right and this was an early attempt to kill her? Again in a house full of people? It made no sense at all. The whole thing was
impenetrable.

“You should not go out,” I said brusquely.

Esther looked up at me in astonishment. “Why in heaven’s name not?”

“This could be a personal attack.” I threw back more brandy to gain time, to think how much I wanted to say. I did not want to alarm her by telling her about the ribbon but neither
could I leave her to believe this was a mere burglar.

“There was an attempted burglary at the Mazzantis’ lodgings the day before Julia was killed,” I pointed out.

Esther set the cleaned pistol down, carefully, on the table. “She was murdered in the street.”

“That’s why I want you to stay in.”

She laughed. “I cannot confine myself to the house, Charles! I have business to do, urgent matters connected with those wretched estates I inherited.”

“Ask the lawyers to come here.”

She picked up her glass and sipped thoughtfully at the brandy. “Well,” she said at last, “it is undeniably true that the streets can be dangerous.”

“Exactly.”

“Particularly in the small hours of the night.” Her hair had come loose and hung about her shoulders; I forced myself to look away. “Particularly,” she persisted,
“when a man has ruffians after him.”

Too late, I recognised the trap into which I had fallen. I said, wearily: “I had hoped you did not know about that.”

“Really, Charles,” she said in exasperation. “You cannot stop spirits talking. And that former apprentice of yours talks all the time.” She added, under her breath,
“Most annoying,” then lifted her head in challenge. “Well, there is one solution, is there not?”

I said nothing.

She put down her brandy glass with a little click of annoyance. “Very well, if I must be more direct, I shall be. There is one solution to the danger you say exists, Charles. Stay here.
Stay with me tonight.”

I panicked. I had just faced down a murderer but I could not deal with my own desires. I wanted to say yes, but the consequences of doing so were too far-reaching. To marry a woman of
Esther’s standing was out of the question; the disparity in age, station and wealth was too great. But to conduct an affair with her was the greatest insult I could imagine offering.

But I did not want to say no.

“The neighbours,” I said, helplessly, searching for excuses. “Or rather their servants – suppose they saw me leave in the morning?”

“They would merely suppose you had been giving me a music lesson.”

I felt a moment of hysterical amusement; that was certainly not the first idea that would occur to servants.

“Your reputation,” I said, with some desperation. No, it was plainly out of the question. I did not trust myself where she was concerned. To spend an entire night in the same house
would be a temptation too far. I took a deep breath, said more decisively, “No, I cannot. I will not.”

She looked down at her breeches, absent-mindedly removed a trace of dust. “This is not the end of the matter, Charles.”

She must see how impossible it was. I had just drawn breath to say so when Tom came into the kitchen, followed by the kitchen-maid holding a branch of candles. Tom had arms full of wooden
planks, a hammer under his arm. “Sorry, madam, but I need to make the window safe.”

Esther gave me a long look, so long that Tom started to look puzzled. “Very well, Tom,” she said. “Do what is necessary. Mr Patterson, I must thank you for your assistance this
night.”

That was a dismissal. I was both relieved and dissatisfied. But what was the point of discussing it further? I had made my decision, the only honourable decision I could have made. I nodded,
uttered pious wishes for her health and a good night’s sleep, and let Tom escort me to the garden gate so he could lock it after me.

He stopped me as I stepped out into the alley. “Is he going to come back again, do you think, sir?”

“Not tonight.”

“But tomorrow? Only – ” He hesitated. “The women are very game, sir and you’ve seen how up to it the mistress is. But they are only women after all and I’m
not sure I can hold the house on my own.” His voice wavered a little and I realised how very young he was, not even twenty perhaps. “Is he likely to bring others with him?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m sure he’s acting on his own. Don’t worry, Tom, we’ll deal with it.”

“If you could come back again tomorrow, sir,” he said, unsteadily. “I mean, tonight. If you were there, I’d do better.”

“You do very well as it is,” I said. How the devil could I come back again? I was dog tired as it was, and needed to spend the day looking for the murderer. Yes, that was the
essential point – if I could find the murderer, I could remove Esther from danger without the need for heroics in the middle of the night.

“If it’s necessary, yes, I will come back,” I said. And walked away hoping it would
not
be necessary.

The church clocks were striking three when I walked out on to Westgate Road. I had decided to go back home by the main streets, hoping that some at least of the lanterns put up
by public-minded householders were still burning. Many of the alleys never saw a lantern from one year’s end to the next. But it was dangerous, nevertheless; Esther had been right about that.
This
was
folly – half a dozen ruffians could be hanging about and I’d never see them. This was their territory, their time, and I should have left them to it, slept in
Esther’s library or in the butler’s pantry. I should have been stronger-minded.

But no, I knew my own limits.

Westgate lay ahead of me, a long road gently tending downhill, full of looming houses and windows. Two or three lanterns did indeed burn, but at wide intervals, pools of brightness in a sea of
darkness. Not a soul about. Silence as the echoes of the clock bell died away.