Sword and Song (19 page)

Bedwalters hadn’t been able to find a master admitting to ownership of the apprentice. Did we have any proof he actually
was
an apprentice? The women in Mrs McDonald’s house
thought he was; he’d told Nell he was – but anyone can lie. And as for his garish clothes, so typical of apprentices – well, anyone can wear clothes in bad taste.

“And noise!” the spirit said. “Last Tuesday, gone midnight, for instance, banging away.”

I ventured into the room. It was clean, I noticed. No dust on the floor, and therefore no footprints. No dust on the shelf, therefore no hint of what might have stood on it. No piss in the
chamberpot except for – yes, a tiny dried stain at the bottom. It had been used recently but not within the last few hours. Within a few days certainly. But we already knew he’d been
here on Monday and Tuesday.

Clean and bare. Apart from a blanket thrown over the straw mattress, it was totally devoid of possessions. I’d come back for nothing.

“Anything wrong, sir?” asked the spirit.

It had remained in the doorway as if respectfully allowing me time and space to consider the room. I turned back to it – and heard a floorboard squeak under my foot.

“Everything creaks in here,” said the spirit good-humouredly. “To be frank, sir, it’s all ready to fall down. Old house, no money spent on it. Holes in the plaster,
slates off the roof.”

I stamped on the floorboard again; it squealed once more. I saw one end lift fractionally.

Hammer and saw, I thought. He’d stolen hammer and saw from Jas Williams’s shop and possibly some nails as well. And then there’d been banging well after midnight. The night
Nell was killed.

Kneeling sent a pain through my side that made me catch my breath. I grunted and scrabbled at the floorboard.

It did not give. I tried banging down on one end of it in the hope of seeing the other end jerk upwards. I tried to dig my fingers under the edge to prise it up, but I merely broke a nail. I sat
back, flummoxed. Maybe it was just a loose board.

Then I caught a glimpse of something under the end of the straw mattress and tugged it out. A long nail with the end bent back. I looked at the nail, looked at the floorboard. I hooked the bent
nail under the floorboard, slapped down on the end of it – and up popped the board, leaving the two nails that had appeared to secure it poking up out of the joist below.

“Very neat,” I said, putting the bent nail back under the mattress.

The floorboard came out easily now – I laid it to one side. The spirit shot along the floor and hovered precariously on the edge of the hole. We both looked down on a brown-wrapped parcel,
nestling between two dusty joists.

The spirit gave a rich sarcastic chortle. “Buried treasure! In truth, sir, I didn’t think such a thing existed!”

“Nor did I,” I agreed and picked up the parcel. Even through the paper, I knew what it was. I folded the paper back. And there it lay, black, battered and torn, rather thinner than
I’d expected.

“Oh,” said the spirit, clearly disappointed. “It’s just a book.”

I turned over the pages. Yes, here was the German inscription in a rather odd hand with characters I didn’t recognise; I recognised the date, however: 1722. I turned over
pages and found the tunes, written neatly on hand-ruled paper. Each tune was accompanied by a few verses of the appropriate psalm; the old version of the words I noticed, before Tate and Brady
wrote their new version eliminating all the archaic words no one understands any longer. But this made the book all the more perplexing; there are churches who resolutely adhere to the old words,
but most now use the new versions, which these tunes would probably not fit. No musician would want something so out of date.

The more I looked at it, the more puzzled I became and the more convinced the book had no musical value. But then what made it important enough to kill for?

“Wait!” the spirit said sharply. I looked up to see the gleam shift faster than lightning across the floor. A second later it was back.

“Trouble,” it said. “Someone hanging around on the other side of the chare. Can’t see who it is – he’s all wrapped up in coat and hat. But I warrant you
it’s him. Best get out of here, sir. Take the book with you and look at it later.”

I stared at the bright gleam. “I can’t make off with it!”

“I know who you are, sir,” the spirit said earnestly. “Charles Patterson, the music fellow. The one who solves mysteries. And I don’t like mysteries, sir, not when they
end in a young girl dying. And I’ll like them even less if they end in your dying. Wrap that thing up and get out of here. I’ll distract the fellow, get him round the front of the house
so he doesn’t see you. There’s a gate, sir, just next the house.”

“I saw it last night.”

“It leads into a yard. You can get out the far side into an alleyway that leads up to Butcher Bank. Hurry, sir!”

The spirit shot out of the room again.

I bundled up the book, barely avoiding pulling the loose spine completely free. Hurriedly, I slotted the floorboard back into place, stamped down on the nails to secure it. If I could get out of
here quickly enough, find the new constable or even a member of the watch, we might be able to get back in time to apprehend the murderer.

I stumbled down the steep, uneven stairs, the parcel under my arm. At the bottom, I hesitated, listening. But the clatter from the Key was too loud – I’d have to take my chance and
hope the spirit could keep the apprentice occupied.

Darting out into the open, I flung myself against the gate. It was not fastened and I tumbled into a yard strewn with all kinds of rubbish: broken casks, lengths of timbers, shattered slates, a
huge pile of rags.

My feet went out from under me.

I had time to register that I’d slipped on what looked like rotting potatoes. I grabbed at the nearest thing for support – a dilapidated ancient door poised against a pile of slates.
I saved myself from falling, but the door shifted and the slates slid down with an earth-shattering din.

One of the slates nearly took my ankle off. I yelped, jumped backwards, almost slipping again on the black potatoes. And glimpsed something bright among the slates –

Fighting the stiffness in my side, I bent down. The shifting of the slates had revealed what had been pushed between them. A knife, dulled by brown stains.

Footsteps behind me. The spirit called: “It’s the cat, sir. That mangy cat’s always upsetting things – ”

I snatched up the knife, thrust it among the folds of the paper round the book, leapt over the tumbled slates, climbed over a disintegrating pile of timbers. A narrow passageway cut between the
heaps of rubbish – an alley, running flat for a yard or two before becoming a long steep flight of stone steps climbing the hill. I took the steps at a run, gritting my teeth against the pain
in my side. Houses on either side were broken down, some deserted, some with rags at the windows suggesting occupation.

Behind me came a clatter of slates tumbling. I forced myself on up the steps, staggered out on to the street above. Butcher Bank stretched to right and left. A dozen people were tossing entrails
into an open cart. A burly man gaped at me, bloody apron round his ample middle, cleaver in hand. I stared, he stared. He looked like a man accustomed to thinking slowly.

A shout from behind me. “Stop that thief!”

The butcher grabbed at my sleeve. The cleaver in his other hand dipped erratically towards my chest. I tore myself free and ran across the street.

“Thief!” the butcher roared. A middle-aged woman snatched at me. A dog barked furiously.

How had I got myself into this? I was running from a vicious murderer and yet I was the one they were trying to apprehend!

And I remembered with horror that I was the one who had the knife...

Why the devil hadn’t I left it among the slates? Cursing, I swung into an alley. My legs seemed to belong to someone else, turning to water and barely able to support me. Half the butchers
on the Bank seemed to be after me. There was only one way to be rid of them, I thought. If I could reach All Hallows church –

Had it come to this? I was looking for sanctuary! How the devil was I to persuade anyone I’d not killed Nell? I had the book and the murder weapon in my possession –

The tower of All Hallows loomed up ahead of me, with its ridiculous little spire perched on top.
Behind a row of houses
. I would have to go round the end of the street, turn left, run up
Silver Street to the church door. Was there time? A dozen butchers were howling through the alley.

A woman’s voice screeched: “This way, sir! This way!” A spirit gleamed on a lintel and a door swung open. I dived through it, stood in sudden darkness as it slammed shut behind
me.“Straight through!” the spirit urged. “Quick!” The butchers were already battering on the door.

I staggered from room to room, thanking the spirit incoherently. Thank God for the spirits’ message network that worked quicker than thought. The spirit in the lodging house must have
alerted this one –

A back door flung itself open, dazzling me with the sunshine outside.

Behind the house was a yard, and a gate which the spirit threw open, and an alley, and a glimpse of All Hallows. I ran like the devil across Silver Street, into the churchyard, round the back of
the church. I could still hear shouting, but it was more distant. Then something closer. The butchers must have broken through the house.

I stopped on the churchyard grass. Ahead of me was the raw earth of Nell’s grave. I took a deep breath, winced as pain caught in my side.

There was only one place no one could follow me. The world that runs alongside our own.

But could I step through to it? I had more control over the process now than I’d ever had before, but it was still unpredictable. Chest heaving for breath, I walked forward, slowly,
praying silently. A chill took me, the world blurred. The sun winked out. For a moment there was nothing. Then stars flickered overhead and I was walking along the same path towards Nell’s
headstone. Not a sound of pursuit.

I had escaped.

I sank down on to the table tomb next to Nell’s grave, put my hand to my aching side, waited until my heart stopped thumping and my breath settled. I slid round so that I
could lie full length on the table tomb; I put my head back and stared up at the stars.

In the past year, I’ve seen many strange things, and I have ample cause to know the evil men can perpetrate on others. I’ve come to know that nothing is motiveless, no matter how
pointless the violence might seem to others. I’ve learnt that men have endless ways to justify the unjustifiable to themselves. I’ve come close to danger, even to death.

But this felt different. I’d been attacked several times now, and I knew that must be because I was a threat. I’d found the place where the murderer lodged – he must believe I
could go further and find him. But there was something more. The first time I’d been attacked was before I knew any of this. It was almost, I thought, as if the murderer was deliberately
drawing attention to himself. As if he was daring me to find him.

I heard a sound, sat up in alarm. A young woman stood in the middle of the path, a pale dress wrapped around with a dark cloak. She stared at me in horror, shrieked and ran off.

God knows what she must have thought me! With grim amusement, I hauled myself off the stone. I could not stay here for ever. For one thing, time moved at different speeds in the two worlds; a
few moments here might mean days in my own world. But the book – I flicked through it again, saw nothing I could think significant. I was completely at a loss as to why it was so important. I
put the spine back in place, wrapped the book up again.

There was one thing I could do – I could safeguard the little I knew. The book was at the heart of the matter and needed to be examined in much greater detail. The knife too might give
some clue as to the identity of the murderer, although it looked commonplace to me – no initials, no identifying features. But that would have to wait for later. For the time being, I simply
needed to keep them both safe.

And where better than in another world entirely?

I walked down Silver Street, as sedately as I could, wondering if I looked presentable. St Nicholas’s church clock struck the hour. In the long series of chimes that
followed, I somehow lost count, wondered after the chimes fell silent, if the clock had struck eleven or twelve. It seemed I’d lost only two or three hours at most...

Alyson had threatened to set out for Long End at noon precisely.

I attracted curious gazes in my headlong rush along the Key towards the Golden Fleece. At least I saw no butchers, and since I’d never had an acquaintance among them, I hoped I’d
gone unrecognised.

I paused outside the inn, hands on knees, gasping for breath, trying to look at least respectable before I went inside to enquire if Alyson had left. But as I straightened up, a young woman came
out into the courtyard – a respectable servant in a good-quality but drab riding habit.

“Catherine!” I hurried forward. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Esther’s maid gave me a mischievous look. “What you would expect, of course! I’m here to give my mistress respectability. She could hardly ride into town with a gentleman
unchaperoned.”

“Which gentleman?” I asked with foreboding.

“Mr Heron,” she said primly, then, casting a look around, she leant closer. “Did you ever come across so severe a man?”

“Rarely,” I agreed. “Are they inside?”

She nodded. “With Mr Alyson and Mr Demsey.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Alyson had not left yet. “What time is it?”