Sword and Song (25 page)

The door opened; Alyson sauntered in with an easy grin. He had the book of the opera in his hand, a finger between its pages.

“My dear Patterson!” He lounged against the harpsichord. “Do tell! What’s going on?”

I didn’t have a chance of feigning innocence; he bent towards me. “Now don’t deny it. I’ve just seen Heron creep into the library and come out again with a book of
architectural drawings. And only a few days ago he was telling me rebuilding this house was a fool’s errand and he didn’t have the least interest in it!” He winked at me.
“Come on, Patterson, tell me all.”

He had my name right, I noted, and wondered if he’d taken care to do so because he wanted information out of me.

“It’s the murderer, isn’t it?” He glanced round conspiratorially as if suspecting someone was hiding in the huge winged armchairs. “I’d like to help,”
he said wistfully. “I really would.”

I couldn’t resist his boyish enthusiasm. “It will be dangerous,” I said, somewhat lamely.

“More reason to have all the help you can.”

I told him, briefly and in outline, what had happened. He was outraged to hear of the notes and was all for summoning the servants and threatening to dismiss them unless the culprit confessed.
The uproar – and the later resentment of the servants – would be tremendous and all for no possible result. And the murderer might take revenge.
Tell no one.
I talked Alyson out
of the idea but he went on to an equally unwelcome topic. Why was I using a substitute book?

“I don’t have the original,” I admitted.

He looked bewildered. “But you said you did.”

“Did I?” I frowned. “When?”

“In Newcastle. At the Golden Fleece. I’m sure you said you’d found it.”

I couldn’t remember. “Everything was so confused.”

“I thought you had it in your bag.”

“No, that was just clothes.”

“But you do have it? Simply – you don’t have it here?”

I was forced to admit this was true.

“We could send one of the servants for it!” he said eagerly.

We could not, I thought. Besides, the only servant I trusted fully at this moment was Esther’s maid, Catherine, and I wasn’t about to expose her to danger.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said. “I’m the only one who can reclaim the book.”

Alyson pondered on this for a moment. “Then the only thing we can do is go ahead with the plan and make quite certain we catch them.”

We?

“Midnight,” Alyson said thoughtfully. “I’ll be there. In the shrubbery with Mr Dobson.” He grinned hugely. “Mr Pattinson, I am so glad I met you. I’d no
notion that life could be so exciting! Meanwhile – ” He brandished the opera book. “ – we’ll carry on as usual, to lull the murderer’s suspicions. We’ve
let this opera project drop and I am determined to get back to it.”

The rest of the day I spent in an agony of anticipation. The opera project was seized on with eagerness by all as if it was something entirely new. Alyson had the inspiration of including dances
in the opera which provoked a general exodus in the direction of the library, and repeated demands that I should accompany the dancers. Moving the harpsichord was out of the question – it
would be horribly out of tune instantly – so I fetched my fiddle and stood for hours playing through every dance tune I could think of.

After an hour and a half of this, I’d a great deal of sympathy with the renegade spirit who was bemoaning the destruction of his usual peace and quiet, and threatening to escape to one of
the attic rooms.

“Do so,” I said wearily. “I would love to join you.”

Hugh was trying to coach the ladies in a complicated step; I said, “The old man – the uncle – did he die here?”

“No one knows exactly where he died,” the spirit said. “Went out for a ride, put his horse at a fence and came off. Caught his foot in a stirrup and the horse dragged him a
mile or more. If you want my opinion,” it added, “he did it deliberately. He once said that if he died in the house he’d be listening to that nephew of his spending all his money
and he’d had enough of that in life.”

“Did you ever meet Alyson before the old man died?”

“Lord, yes. Came here two or three times. Always dressed up to the nines and saying he needed money.”

“Did he get it?”

The spirit cackled. “The old man told him to sell his clothes! Mind you, there was always a little something missing after he’d gone.”

“He stole things?” I said incredulously.

“Caught him once,” the spirit said. “Putting one of the old man’s mother’s necklaces in his pocket. Said it would come to him in the end anyway. And it
was
an ugly old-fashioned thing.”

Well, I reflected, that bore out Fowler’s story of Alyson pottering off to the country for more money. But the ‘trustees’ had not existed. “Did you tell his
uncle?”

“He knew,” the spirit said.

“I’m surprised he didn’t will the property away from his nephew.”

“Didn’t make a will. Kept saying there was plenty of time.”

“And Alyson was the only living relative?”

“No, there are cousins somewhere. Scotch cousins.” The spirit, to my astonishment, giggled. “Mind you, young Mr A is getting paid back in his own coin, so to speak.”

“You mean – ”

“A few of his silver spoons gone already. And a couple of miniatures.”

“The servants?” I asked, suddenly alert.

“Well, I never caught anyone yet,” the spirit said, “but I have my suspicions. That butler for instance. Oh Lord...”

And to my annoyance Hugh yelled for music, and the spirit shot off, presumably to take refuge in the attics.

Just before dinner I accosted Fowler outside Heron’s room, and asked him to find time to go down to the village tavern and ask if they’d seen any strangers in the
past few days. I couldn’t make up my mind whether the notes had been left by Fischer or Crompton or someone else entirely, but one at least of the plotters was outside the house. The man
who’d killed Nell and the chapman, and who’d attacked me in town, had freedom of movement and was neither servant nor guest.

Fowler agreed to the errand with such alacrity I wondered if there was anyone in the village who’d caught his eye. But when I warned him to be careful, he merely looked exaggeratedly
patient and said, “How do you think I got to be this old?”

“Have you spoken to Crompton about whoever’s threatening him?”

“In my own time, Patterson.” A wolfish grin spread across his face. “In my own time.”

“That man could be our murderer!”

Fowler shook his head. “It’s one of the servants and none of ’em was missing yesterday while you were off enjoying yourselves in town. Think I didn’t ask?”

And he sauntered away with a swagger.

I was distracted during dinner, which suited Casper Fischer very well; he had a fine time laughing at his cousins’ peculiar ideas about Pennsylvania. Lizzie Ord enjoyed his tales; Philip
Ord, who’d manoeuvred himself into the seat next to his wife, glowered and continually tried to distract her attention with titbits of food. From time to time, he cast fulminating glances at
Mrs Alyson, whose weary air led her to murmur more than once about ‘provincial’ lack of sophistication.

Heron was not pleased when I told him, in a quiet moment over the brandy, that Alyson was intent on helping us. He had strong words about the naïveté of youth, and I almost
recommended he chat to Mrs Alyson. Then I had to explain our plans to Hugh who was rather too eager for my liking.

“Devil take it,” he whispered – we were surrounded by adoring ladies in the drawing room – “Once I get my hands on him, he’ll wish he’d never set foot
in Newcastle.”

“Hugh – ” But the ladies were wanting more of Hugh’s tales about his last trip to Paris. Was the court as magnificent as everyone said? Were the fashions really better
than English fashions? I watched him flirt outrageously with every one of them. At least, I reflected, he was, like most dancing masters, an excellent fencer, and Heron had looked dangerous with
the American’s sword.

Maybe tonight would not be a disaster after all.

The man who’d sent me that note knew nothing about the gentry. Expecting a houseparty of gentlemen to go to sleep before dawn was about as likely as expecting them all to
give six guineas to a beggar at the door. Or welcoming a musician as the husband of a lady with money and aristocratic connections. When I went softly down the stairs and hesitated at the door to
the servants’ quarters, there were at least five or six gentlemen still roistering in the dining room, including Alyson who, in the splendour of a midnight blue coat and breeches, was either
looking for something on the floor or had fallen down dead drunk. It looked unlikely he’d be sharing the shrubbery with Hugh.

I pushed open the servants’ door as quietly as I could; it was well-oiled of course – no servant must make any undue noise. The lively chatter drifted to me from the kitchen, and a
quieter conversation nearer at hand – from the steward’s room, I thought, or the butler’s pantry.

The door to the stable yard stood ajar. To peer round it cautiously, then hurry out with a wrapped parcel under my arm would seem suspicious in the highest degree. So I took a deep breath,
pushed the door wide and strode out across the cobbled yard to the gate to the gardens.

The gate led into the walled kitchen garden with its neat rows of vegetables stretching into the moonlit distance. I stared gloomily at the brightly lit paths. Moonlight is wonderful for
travelling but the very devil if you’re trying to conduct an illicit encounter. My opponent would be glad of it, I supposed; it would enable him to see if I was being followed. Hugh and Heron
had both retired early and must, I hoped, already be concealed in the bushes.

An ornate gate from the kitchen garden led on to a path of beaten earth. Rose bushes flaunted fragrant blossoms on every side, subtly different shades of grey in the moonlight. Choosing a path
leading directly ahead, I came eventually into the great formal garden in front of the house, with its tiny box hedges and complex patterns of flowerbeds.

To my left the old house displayed its silly little corner turrets and multiple windows. Candles gleamed behind windows on the upper storey; on the ground floor, the dining room was ablaze
– I could see the gentlemen there, still carousing. The door was open on to the terrace and one man, blurred against the bright light, came out on to the terrace, pissed into an ornamental
flowerpot and went back in again.

I walked down the path to the bottom of the formal gardens. The water of the canal gleamed pewter in the moonlight as I approached; the trees of the wood beyond were dark and impenetrable. As I
crossed the grass, I almost slipped on a patch of mud, and paused, heart thumping, to regain my balance. Somewhere far off a sheep bleated in panic, followed by the bark of a fox.

I started off again, taking more care where I walked. The grass had been recently scythed and stood up in little spikes. Ahead of me, the stone bridge gleamed in the moonlight; its parapet was
wide but had a rounded top. How the devil was I to get the book to balance on top of that?

It was ludicrous. The whole thing was ludicrous. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Esther had been threatened, and the fellow had killed twice already, I’d have gone straight back
to the house –

A hand landed in the small of my back, pushed. I slipped, flung out my hands to regain my balance. The book was plucked from under my arm.

Then I was plunging into stagnant, stinking water.

I pushed myself on to hands and knees, coughing, and spitting out water. Someone was running over the bridge. The slightest of figures, dressed in black – a flapping
greatcoat, a cloth of some kind draped round head and face, a hat.

I splashed about, trying to get free of the trailing weed. A second man ran across the bridge, the sword in his hand flashing in the moonlight. Heron. For a man in middle-age he was fast,
sprinting off the bridge, leaping a mess of mud and water and coming within touching distance of the attacker just as he reached the margins of the wood.

The attacker stumbled – I heard a gasp, high and incoherent. Heron shouted in rage, brandished the sword –

A second greatcoated figure stepped from the wood, tall, slim, masked. Something was raised in his hand – a club or cudgel. I yelled but it was already too late. The club came down hard.
At the last moment, Heron twisted, tried to take the blow on his left shoulder but the club glanced off his temple.

He went down as if poleaxed.

I struggled across the wide deep water – it came up to my thighs and made walking like wading through mud. The second attacker tossed down his club which looked broken – he stooped
to take up Heron’s sword, hefted the elegant blade in his hand.

I shouted, thinking he intended to run Heron through. For one moment, his eyes, behind the folds of black cloth, met mine.

He was laughing at me. I knew he was. He was laughing, and challenging me to catch him.

He lifted an arm – and tossed the sword away.

He took off like a hare behind his accomplice, greatcoat flapping. I knew even then that I couldn’t catch them.

I dragged myself over the crumbling edge of the canal, crawled a yard or two. I staggered upright, sodden clothes dragging me down. The water poured off me. I stumbled across to Heron.

He lay face down, blood pouring from a wound on his left temple, matting his fair hair and running down into his eye. It looked worse than the injury I’d received the night I was attacked.
But I could still hear his breathing, ragged and uneven. Next to him lay the two pieces of the branch he’d been hit with; it had been rotten in the core, thank God – that must have
lessened the force of the blow.