Sword and Song (23 page)

“Damn it, Charles!” He stopped to allow a lady to pass; she smiled archly and wondered if the dancing was about to start again. He went off with her, only pausing long enough to
whisper, “Damn it, we have to do something!”

I didn’t need to be told.

I went to bed fretting. Nothing done, nothing learned. No way I could think of to get back to Newcastle to have another look at the book. And I was willing to bet Fischer would be back in a day
or two, as innocent and honest as he’d always seemed.

My insistence that I would find Nell’s murderer was beginning to look very hollow.

The following day began rather better. At the door of the breakfast room, Crompton handed me a note with a polite murmur. This time his gaze did not linger on mine – he
moved off at once. I wondered if Fowler had said something to him.

I went into the library to read the note. It was from Bedwalters. I’ve always respected the man and the note only increased my admiration. He’d been making enquiries about the
apprentice; the spirit in the lodging house (‘a very pleasant gentleman’, according to Bedwalters) had referred him to other spirits; one or two local merchants had had a thing or two
to say... Etc. Etc.

That, I reflected, was what people generally say of someone not local.

Here Bedwalters had listed six local tradesmen and the goods they believed to have gone missing. Nothing surprising on the whole: food, clothing, candles and so on. But one tradesman had missed
two knives, which was alarming, as it meant the murderer might still have a knife even though he’d discarded the murder weapon. Another shopkeeper had missed several books, including, of all
things, a Book of Common Prayer. Defoe’s description of England had gone too – I wondered if the apprentice had turned straight to Defoe’s description of Newcastle. Did that
suggest he was a stranger to the area?

Something nagged at me – something I ought to remember...

In advance?
I pondered on this. That suggested he was not short of money. But if he’d money enough to pay his rent in advance, why should he steal other goods? Out of sheer
devilment? For the fun of it?

The Colonies. That was what had been nagging at me. Fischer had been reading Defoe! And the Colonial accent might at times be interpreted as being from the West Country. Fischer himself might be
too old to be the murderer, but could it be a relative? One of the cousins at Shotley Bridge, for instance? No, if they were born and brought up in this country surely they would have local
accents?

The murderer could have been the right age to be a son of Fischer. His periodic presence in the town might be owing to travelling backwards and forwards to Pennsylvania. I wondered if Bedwalters
had managed to accumulate enough information to list the dates the murderer had been in town. If he had, I could see whether there’d been sufficient time between visits to get to America and
back. But it was hardly a journey one would wish to do on a regular basis.

Suppose Fischer, at some point in the past, had sent his son from Philadelphia to recover his legacy. That would explain the connection of the book with this affair; perhaps an innocent search
had turned into something disastrous. Had Fischer come to rescue his son after the debacle with Nell? No, he must already have been in England – and I’d swear he’d been genuinely
surprised and distressed when I told him about the book’s connection with Nell’s death.

It was all a muddle. I folded Bedwalters’s note, stowed it safely in a pocket and went for my breakfast.

I took one step into the breakfast room and stopped in surprise. The entire party of gentlemen were there, gathered round the table examining something I couldn’t see, and all talking at
the same time. As I approached the group, Claudius Heron, at the far side, saw me, nodded. His movement revealed the gentleman behind him. Fischer.

The American glanced round. “Patterson! My dear fellow! Come and see what I’ve gotten.”

It was a sword. A gleaming, gorgeous, sparkling sword, plain but polished to within an inch of its life. No decoration on the hilt except for what looked like a small crest of intertwined
initials. I bent to look more closely.

“MFF,” Fischer said proudly. “Melchior Friedric Fischer. My grandfather’s masterpiece. A little old-fashioned now, I agree, a little heavy, but still a fine piece of
work.”

I gathered my wits. “How did you persuade your cousins to part with it?”

This was plainly a story he’d told before, and the other gentlemen drifted into groups while he regaled me with the tale of his ride to Shotley Bridge, his confrontation with his cousins
and his riding off with the sword, almost under the threat of attack, according to his account. He’d arrived back at Long End in the small hours of the morning evidently, and had been unable
to sleep for excitement.

He broke off as Alyson lifted up the sword and hefted it experimentally. “Beautifully balanced,” Alyson said approvingly. He made one or two experimental passes, one of which came
unnervingly close to my nose.

“Isn’t it?” Fischer agreed. “There was no better swordmaker in his time. I’m glad to have it, very glad. I have at least half my inheritance.”

“And the most valuable part,” Alyson said. “I know that book of tunes has sentimental value but better to lose that than this.”

“I’d prefer to have them both,” Fischer said ruefully.

“You went on your own?” I asked, as casually as I could.

Fischer looked surprised. “Indeed. Was that a problem?”

“The roads can be dangerous,” I said. “Robbers. And it’s easy to get lost, particularly when passing through Newcastle.”

“A fine town,” Fischer said enthusiastically. “I’m only sorry I did not have time to linger there. But I had excellent directions.” He spread his arms. “And
here I am, safe and sound, back again.”

Alyson had reluctantly yielded the sword to Heron, who was looking at it with a critical eye. He made a pass with it and sparked off a technical discussion among some of the gentlemen. I looked
at him in a new light; with the sword in hand, he’d looked positively dangerous.

“Well, my congratulations, my dear fellow,” Alyson said, grinning at Fischer. “It’s a prize worth having. I’ll give you a hundred guineas for it.”

Fischer was caught by surprise. “A hundred...”

“A hundred and fifty,” Alyson said, clearly thinking Fischer was trying to beat the price up.

“It’s worth twice that,” said another gentleman scornfully; a third broke in. “No, no, nothing like so much. Beautifully made and balanced, I grant you, but
old-fashioned, much too old-fashioned.”

“I couldn’t sell it,” Fischer said. He was good-humoured but I fancied there was anger in his voice. “It’s all I have of my grandfather.”

“Memories,” Alyson said, persisting when a more thoughtful and observant man would have retreated gracefully. “You have your memories.”

“I never met him,” Fischer said sharply and, with more adroitness than Alyson, changed the subject. “I’m impressed with the country hereabouts, Mr Patterson. The
fast-flowing rivers – the coal – makes it ideal for industry, I would say.”

Alyson was not in a good mood at breakfast. Fischer’s rebuff had hurt his pride, I fancied – I rather thought he was considering ways to change the Philadelphian’s mind. None
apparently occurred to him; while I was dawdling over coffee, he accosted me and told me in a very curt manner that he wanted to rehearse the opera, and I should go into the drawing room and make
sure the harpsichord was tuned. I went, but I did not rush. Given that not one of the ladies had risen from their beds, it was plain nothing was going to happen for an hour or two yet.

I tuned the harpsichord and played through the parts Hugh and I had copied, altering a few incorrect notes. Hugh, bleary-eyed, came down to breakfast, then took himself off for a walk in the
gardens. Half an hour later, I heard him talking to one of the ladies on the terrace; half an hour after that, I heard the scrape of his kit fiddle from the library and the sound of women laughing
over their own mistakes.

Then I heard another woman’s voice, surprisingly loud, just outside the drawing room on the terrace. “It is such a lovely morning. I shall take my book to the rose garden.”

Esther. I waited an impatient five minutes, closed and locked the harpsichord and hurried out to join her. Making sure no one saw me.

She had found a shady bower and was surrounded by white and yellow climbing roses. Her book was open on her knee but she plainly had no intention of reading it; she sat with her hands on her lap
and her head cocked, listening for my approach. My heart turned over at the sight of her; the slender figure, the elegant neck, the cool amused look in her eyes. There were lines of age about those
eyes – she was not a young woman after all – but they were lines which made me love her the more. If I had a free choice, if the world had been other than it was, if people were not so
censorious and narrow-minded, I would have asked for nothing better than to marry her.

She held out a hand; I slipped my own into it, and sat down beside her. “If we’re seen...”

“Then we will tell them the truth,” she said composedly. “Do you think Alyson has not already told his wife, or that she will not pass the titbit on to Mrs Widdrington or one
of the others?”

“She’s more likely to order me out of the house,” I said ruefully.

I felt a ridiculous urge to kiss the hand I held. And the mouth that was curving with amusement...

I took a deep breath and told her about Fischer and his sword.

“Ah,” she said. “So that is what it was. I saw them trailing through the hall excitedly insisting on ‘giving it a trial’ when I came down for breakfast. Even Heron
was going with them.”

I remembered Heron with the sword. Another man entirely, I thought.

I enlightened Esther on my speculations about Fischer. “Supposing he has a son, who was detailed to find the inheritance? Remember, Fischer said a correspondent had told him the book was
in Charnley’s shop? Suppose that had been the son – who found the task of retrieving the book too hard for him and called for his father’s aid?”

“Have you asked Mr Fischer about his family?”

“The right moment has not yet arisen.”

Esther laughed. “Then I will do it for you.”

“Don’t take any risks,” I said involuntarily.

She shook her head. “My dear Charles, it will seem the most natural thing in the world. People always expect women to ask about their sons and daughters, and grandsons and granddaughters.
We are expected to have no other interests at all. Except, perhaps, a good recipe for beef gravy.”

She stood and I, naturally, rose with her. She took her hand from mine to smooth down her skirts. “Is there anything else you wish me to ask him?”

“Ask if he stopped for a while in Newcastle on his way to Shotley Bridge,” I said. “He might well have been there about the time the chapman was killed.”

Esther turned her book over in her hands. “I cannot imagine Mr Fischer as a murderer.”

“Nor can I ,” I said, adding ruefully, “It’s a measure of my desperation that I consider him at all!”

And then I did kiss her hand, raising it to my lips and touching the smooth, fragrant skin. Our eyes met...

Esther smiled and walked away, down the length of the rose garden, her pale gown rustling against the leaves of the plants. I turned to go back to the house –

And saw Mrs Widdrington regarding me with an arrested look.

There was nothing I could do but walk past her. She stood in the gap that gave access to the garden, and as I went steadily back towards her, she was patently waiting for me. She put out a hand
and rested it on my sleeve. Her face was kind, like a woman who has children of her own and knows exactly how they think. She murmured, “A word of advice, Mr Patterson.”

I stared into her smiling, gentle face, wondering what I could say, thinking it best not to say anything at all. “It is not wise to think of her so,” she said, gently. “And if
you are not careful, she will take offence and speak to our host about it. Then you will find yourself dismissed and without payment too.”

My cheeks burned – there was so much to embarrass in this speech. Not least the lady’s open acknowledgement that I was a mere tradesman dependent on the goodwill of my employers. And
the suggestion that my attentions might be offensive to Esther. I had to remind myself that the warning was kindly meant.

“Besides which,” she said, “I fancy the lady will not be unattached for much longer.” Perhaps she saw my surprise; she added, “Mr Heron. I fancy arrangements are
already being made in that quarter.”

I did not trust myself to say anything.

“It will ease,” she said, patting my arm. Her gaze shifted, as if she was looking into the past. “It will ease.” She sighed.