Secret Lament (30 page)

“He is my father.”

My dear sir, if you want history, go to Italy and see the Monuments – do not bother me with it!

[Lord Eaglescliffe, in a coffee-house on the Strand, quoted in the
Daily Courant
, 8 March 1735]

He told the story quietly, as if it had all happened to someone else, in another age, long ago. John Mazzanti’s father had been Pietro Mazzanti, a Venetian violinist of
great ability who had had the misfortune to injure an arm in a carriage accident. With stoicism and great practicality, he had turned to trade instead and set up a music publishing firm with
branches in Ferrara and in London; on a visit to his associates in London, he met and married the daughter of a clergyman by whom he had four children, all sons, all given good sensible English
names. John was the youngest.

Time passed. The clergyman’s daughter died of consumption, and, heartbroken, Pietro took his children back to Italy. Relations seem to have welcomed the children into their bosom, and all
followed in their father’s footsteps covering Europe with the publications of the family firm and spreading the music of Italy far and wide.

All but John, who could not settle. The heat didn’t agree with him, the food didn’t agree with him, the elderly relatives didn’t agree with him. He pined for the attractions of
London, the theatres where he had played in the rank and file as a precocious youngster; at the age of seventeen, he felt he had been cast out from all that made the world worthwhile. Except of
course for the attractions of the servant girls. The inevitable happened; one of them fell pregnant and appealed to John to make her respectable and marry her.

John fled.

“Of course,” Corelli said. “My grandfather Pietro would never have countenanced a marriage, not to the fourteen-year-old daughter of a peasant. But family is family and you
don’t ever disgrace it, or abandon your kin. He gave my mother a pension and a nice little cottage, sent her presents of food and drink on saints’ days, and made sure that I was healthy
and well-cared for, and that the priest taught me to read and write and to figure. Once a year, on my birthday, I was paraded in the family drawing room, and given presents.” He flushed.
“They made sure I knew my place, of course, but for all that they took good care of my mother and me.”

He spread his large hands on the table, ignoring his tankard. The keelmen were deep in a discussion of politics, the sailors in debate about the serving girls. “I inherited not a jot of
the family talent for music, so when it came to taking an alias, I amused myself by adopting the names of the great composers. My real name – ”

“I don’t want to know,” I said. “At least I will be able to protest my ignorance with a clear conscience.”

He laughed. “But fencing – that’s a different matter. That’s where my talents lie. And in a keen eye for a good opportunity to make money. Now, that is a family
trait.” He flung himself back in his chair. “Damn it, Patterson, you don’t want to know my entire life history! I was apprenticed to a sword master and have earnt my living that
way for years until I took it into my head to see how my father was doing in London. He seemed to be making a great deal of money and I felt I deserved a share of it, even if it was only a bequest
in his will.”

“You wanted acknowledgement,” I said.

He nodded. “But my father’s wealthy days were long over by the time I found him. Ciara is a great singer but she is getting older and fatter and no one cares any longer whether the
voice is as good as it was. And as for Julia!” He made a gesture of disgust.

“So your father refused you money and you tried to frighten him by shooting at him.”

“Devil a bit of it!” He leant across the table. “He hired me to shoot at him!”

“To kill him?” I said, bewildered.

“No – to shoot and miss.”

I was no wiser. “In heaven’s name, why?”

Corelli grinned wolfishly. “The publicity, of course! He was scared out of his wits at the way things were going. Ciara is losing popularity with every sweetmeat she eats, Julia is –
was – nothing yet – just a pretty little girl playing in provincial theatres.”

I thought back to those press cuttings I had found – all from provincial theatres, none from London. I should have realised the significance of that. “She’d never have been
anything else,” I said. “What about the engagement to play Lucy in
The Beggar’s Opera
?”

“Oh, she had that,” he said sarcastically, “but not in London. In a small company touring the Kentish towns.”

I laughed wryly. “I thought Mazzanti was fooling himself over Julia’s prospects, but he wasn’t – he was trying to fool everyone else.”

“Exactly.” Corelli sat back, toyed with the splintered edge of the table. “He thought that if there were very public attempts on his life – and remember Ciara and Julia
were both there at the time – the newspapers would pick it up and speculate, and the fashionable audiences would be intrigued enough to buy tickets, if only to see if someone would shoot him
dead in the middle of a Handel aria.”

“Did it work?”

The heat in the crowded tavern was beginning to be unbearable; I drained the beer. Corelli must be the devil of a shot, I thought, if he could fire in the middle of a theatre crowd confidently
expecting not only to miss Mazzanti but everyone else as well.

“Of course. The papers gave it some very good speculation – written by our correspondent at the theatre on the night.”

“Mazzanti wrote it himself?”

Corelli pointed to his own chest. “Trouble is, novelty wears off very quickly. A week later someone else is eloping with a footman, or arguing over a tricorne, or some similar trifle. And
the audiences get bored, because, of course, no one does shoot Mazzanti dead in the middle of his wife’s aria.”

“So he told you to make a second attempt.”

Corelli nodded. “He got me to try the same trick in York to attract people to a private performance they gave there at the house of the mayor’s wife. But the Newcastle papers
didn’t pick it up.”

He laughed shortly. “I wish you could have seen the scene. In a grimy tavern like this one, outside Micklegate Bar. Father had the latest edition of the
Newcastle Courant
and was in
a rage that the attack hadn’t been mentioned. And what had the printer preferred?”

“Accounts of the debates in Parliament?” I suggested, remembering Thomas Saint’s recent editions. “What else could he expect? The possibility of war is of the greatest
moment to merchants and tradesmen whose livelihood depends on the safe movement of shipping and goods.”

“He expected at least a paragraph or two,” Corelli said. “Well, I sent it in – what more could I do?”

“Try again,” I said. “In Newcastle.”

He grinned sardonically. “You were never in any danger, you know. I was never going to hit you.”

I was not going to let that pass. Good shot or not, he wouldn’t allow for the unexpected. “Unless I’d moved, of course,” I pointed out. “So that poster Mazzanti put
up offering a reward for information – that was a further attempt to publicise the event? Did it have much effect?”

“Just what you’d expect – half a dozen rogues with some made-up stories. One or two ladies sympathised with Ciara and bought tickets for her concert. But they were probably
going to do that anyway.”

“So,” I said, “when we found Julia dead, you worried about whether anyone knew you were the one who had shot at Mazzanti. If someone did know, they might think you had killed
Julia to revenge yourself on your father. That and the document in your pocket gave you plenty of reasons to run.”

Corelli glanced about the tavern. The sailors were now attacking what looked to be half a haunch of beef; the more respectable keelmen were paying their bills and drifting out in twos and
threes.

“There’s more,” Corelli said.

“What?”

“Julia.”

“Your half-sister.”

He nodded. “I hated those birthdays, the patronising little jokes, the plain little presents when they could have afforded better, the severe exhortations to obey God, the priest and my
mother. But, believe me, Patterson, I have never allowed my injured pride to make me forget that if it wasn’t for those rich, condescending, pompous idiots, I would have died in the gutter
and so would my mother. One thing is more important than anything else, Patterson, and that’s family. You do not desert your family. Julia was a little fool but she was my sister and
I’ll kill the man who killed her.”

A moment’s silence while I wondered if I could prevent that. Or if I wanted to.

“I need your help tonight,” I said.

The law, sir, must be strengthened against these outrages.

[Letter from JUSTICIA to Mayor of Newcastle upon Tyne, printed in the
Newcastle Courant
, 15 May 1736.]

I stifled a yawn as I let Corelli into Esther’s garden. I had managed a few hours sleep in the afternoon but it had not been enough and the onset of darkness had made me
feel tired again. I knew it would pass. High above, the full moon rode in the sky, slipping behind a bank of cloud, silvering it from behind. That cloud was new – maybe we were in for storms
and an end to this hot weather. It had to happen soon, surely?

Tom must have been watching out for us for he opened the back door before I could knock. Voices were raised in the kitchen. I gave Tom back the key to the garden gate. “I’ve locked
it behind us.”

He nodded. “They’re all in the kitchen, sir,” he said unnecessarily. I noticed his admiring gaze settle on Corelli’s bulk.

Ned Reynolds’s voice was audible as we negotiated the machinery in the scullery. “I’ll say this for her, Athalia’s a damn good actress. A few tears and a two or three
flattering remarks about how no one could imagine him old enough to have a daughter Julia’s age, and he’s hers.”

“He’s taking her to London?” Esther asked.

“To play Lucy in
The Beggar’s Opera
. Athalia as Lucy!” Ned laughed scornfully. “It’s been a long time since she knew what it was to be a virgin.”

“Ned,” murmured a warning voice. Fowler – whose service had taught him what was and was not suitable to mention in the presence of ladies. I understood why Ned had forgotten
his manners, however; as I pushed the kitchen door open, I saw Esther was dressed in her breeches again.

They stood in a little group about the kitchen table: Esther, turning to me with a smile, Hugh, casting an exasperated gaze to heaven, Fowler, looking uncomfortable, and Ned, not entirely sober.
Catherine, Esther’s maid, was pouring beer and apparently flirting with Hugh.

“Everyone’s here, as you see,” Esther said.

“I got your note,” Hugh said, “and found everyone you wanted.”

“Except Richard,” Ned said, slurring his words slightly. “I’ll not let him get mixed up in this.”

Esther gave me a warning look. I was beginning to think that the biggest danger to Richard was Ned himself; Ned ought not to be talking of him in any company he didn’t know and trust
completely. He might know me and Fowler, but his acquaintance with Hugh was slight, and with the women and Corelli nonexistent.

“And George?” I asked Esther, explaining to the others that George was the only spirit in the house.

“I’ve told him to stay upstairs,” Esther said. “And to watch from the roofline. He’s to let us know if the intruder tries to scale a ladder to get in.”

I sighed; only the spirit of a child could have swallowed such a tale. But we needed George, and his exuberant rashness, well out of the way.

“So,” Hugh said. “We’re here to set a trap, right? For the murderer.”

“How do you know he’ll try to get in again tonight?” Esther asked. She had swept her fair hair up into a simple knot and her demeanour had altered subtly with the clothes she
had put on; she was brisk and businesslike for which I was glad. That matter of the organ ticket weighed on me; it had altered something in our relationship – or perhaps merely brought it to
my attention more acutely. “After we ran him off last time, I should imagine he’d not want to come near the place.”

“I asked him to come,” I said. “Though I did not realise it at the time.”

There was uproar. Fowler said dubiously, “That’s dangerous – the women – ” Hugh laughed and said, “Devil take it, Charles, no wonder you’re always in
trouble.” Corelli said, “Five on one, that’s fair odds.” “Seven on one,” Esther said sharply.

“Devil take it,” Ned said. “Leave the fellow alone. I want to shake his hand – he got rid of the bitch, I want to thank him.”

Fowler took the tankard from his hand and shoved him down on to a stool. “Shut it,” he said sharply, his accent coarser than before. “Shut it or I’ll shut you. If you
can’t talk sense, I’ll knock some into you. And stop drinking!”

Hugh gave me a weary look. “He’s been drinking all day apparently, and talking to whoever wants to listen.”

“Ned,” I said, copying Heron for brutality. “Do you want to hang? Do you want Richard to hang?”

He blinked at me then started to tremble; he buried his head in his hands. Catherine pushed past Fowler.

“Leave him to me. You go on.”

Ned was clearly a problem for later; I nodded and turned to explain to the others what I wanted to do. The household was apparently to retire as usual and to go through their normal routine so
that if our murderer was watching he would not be suspicious. The house was to be locked up, with the exception of the back door. We knew that the murderer had the key to the garden gate but that
his key did not fit the back door.

“He must get into the house,” I stressed. “And I don’t want any chance of him running back out again. Tom, you stay just inside the back door. Once he’s well in,
lock the door and pocket the key, then keep watch over it.”

“He might not try the door,” Esther pointed out, “knowing he couldn’t get in that way before. What if he tries the kitchen window again?”

Catherine grinned. “Then he’ll have half the saucepans wrapped round his ears! We’ll take care of it.” And she nodded meaningfully at Ned who still sat with his face
buried in his hands.