Sword and Song (6 page)

He jumped up, wandered round the room, trailing his fingers across the spines of books. “I’m told you’ve dealt with three or four matters of this kind.”

“Three.”

“It must be devilishly exciting!”

I contemplated the past. “A little frightening at times. But satisfying to bring someone to justice.”

His hand settled on a book’s spine, hesitated. He hooked his finger over the top; I winced as I heard the binding tear.

“I thought it must be here somewhere,” he said in delight, and brought the volume across to show me. It was a large Bible, of the sort most commonly seen on lecterns in churches, and
when he lifted the heavy front cover, I saw a long list of names handwritten on the fly leaf. Browning ink recorded the names of children as far back as 1649. The last entry read:

“He didn’t approve,” Alyson said unnecessarily and with great glee. He tapped the page. “You note he didn’t add my birth!” He grinned. “I was born in
August, sir. Care to work out the implications?”

I made a show of calculating the dates, wondering why he felt obliged to wash his dirty linen in front of me. “You were born seven months after the marriage.”

He grinned again. “The impetuosity of love! The passion that cannot bear to wait for a piece of paper!”

I said nothing. Passion that cannot bear to wait for a piece of paper often never gets the paper at all. Maria could so easily have been left unmarried with an infant son, ostracised by both
family and society.

“Are you married, Pattinson?”

“No,” I said, gritting my teeth against the urge to correct him.

“It was the best day of my life when Margaret said she’d be mine,” he said. “Is she not beautiful, Pattinson?”

“Very.” What else did he expect me to say?

He was off on a rambling discourse, speaking of his wife in an obviously besotted way, extolling her many virtues. And, as if on cue, the door opened once more; Mrs Alyson stood on the
threshold, her hair and dress perfectly in order, her jewels sparkling at throat and ears. I’d thought her beautiful but cold; now, as her gaze lighted on her husband, I saw a brightness in
her eyes and a gleam of gladness.

Alyson went to her and slid his arm round her waist. As I was about to avert my eyes, he turned her round and led her into the hall. The next moment, I glimpsed them slowly climbing the stairs;
his lips were on the nape of her neck, she was laughing.

“What is the world coming to?” the spirit said, sliding on to the table again. “I was all for the pleasures of the world, when I was alive, but a little decorum is
necessary!”

“I think they must be newly married,” I said. In truth, I felt more than a little envious.

I read over what I’d written and found it more than a little sanctimonious and full of hints to myself.
Such intensity never lasts
. Did I hope my feelings for Esther would wane,
given no hope to feed on? And that remark about courage: Heron’s comments had affected me more than I’d thought. Bedwalters had courage to stay with his love; I needed courage to stay
away from mine.

I felt I owed Hugh a more courteous and friendly ending, so I scribbled:

I gave Hugh a description of the book and suggested that if he wanted a distraction, he might like to visit Charnley’s bookshop, and see if he could find out what had happened to it.

And I added:
How odd to find two such puzzles on one day. And totally unconnected too.

I added my signature, sealed the note and wrote Hugh’s direction on the front of the sheet, then went in search of a servant. It was a surprisingly difficult task; the
footmen had all withdrawn, along with the dirty dishes, from the dining room, where two or three gentlemen were pondering the possibilities of a game of cards. Not a maid in sight, nor the butler.
Finally, I spotted a footman crossing the hall; eighteen years old at most and a magnificent six feet tall. And whether because of his extra height, or a consciousness of my ambivalent position, he
looked down on me with more than a touch of insolence.

He took the note from me between forefinger and thumb as if it was dirty, assured me he’d find a messenger to send it off at once and waited, with unending patience, until I took the hint
and dug in my pockets for a coin. His mouth twitched as he saw the slightness of my offering. I’d been here half a day and I was already aware I hadn’t brought enough money with me. And
Heron had suggested the other guests had come here to
save
money! I daresay he himself would adhere rigidly to his customary policy of offering no vails to servants; his resultant
unpopularity would bother him not at all.

I went back, reluctantly, to the drawing room. It was plain when I got there that no one was in the mood for music. Too much had been drunk, and a great deal stronger than tea. Two gentlemen
were openly snoring; the plump gentleman was wooing the red-headed woman who’d caught Alyson’s attention. Even Casper Fischer was flirting outrageously with one of the older ladies of
the party. I wandered about the room aimlessly, inspecting pictures without seeing them, glancing out into the hall where the insolent footman was now conversing with Edward Alyson – our host
had apparently decided after all that it was not polite to desert his guests.

Of Claudius Heron there was no sign. Nor of Esther.

I didn’t imagine they were together; they don’t particularly like each other. I wondered if either of them might be outside on the terrace. The windows in both drawing and dining
rooms gave access on to the terrace; I pushed them open, and closed them quickly behind me as I saw one of the ladies shiver melodramatically.

The setting sun was laying down bands of pearl-pink and green across the sky; above dark hulks of trees, the evening star glittered brightly. I leant on the terrace railings; below, the formal
garden stretched away to a hint of gleaming water, and thence to shadowy woods and meadows against the translucent sky.

Someone moved at the far end of the terrace. A blur of pale dress and paler hair. Esther Jerdoun.

I hesitated, then walked towards her. She was holding a glass of wine; a cobweb-thin scarf thrown over her arms and shoulders protected her against the chills of the evening. She waited, silent
and still, watching me, intimidating me.

We stood, looking at each other. Then she moved suddenly, restlessly, looking away from me. “Mr Patterson.” Her tone was flat, expressionless.

“Mrs Jerdoun.” The title is, of course, purely honorary; the lady is not married. Although she has made clear, in a way no lady would usually contemplate, that she would like to be.
And I’d refused her. No, I’d done worse than that; I’d pretended not to understand, in order to avoid a confrontation.

I’d been afraid I might lose the argument.

We stared out at the darkening sky.

“I have been talking with Claudius Heron,” she said at last. “He tells me the constable’s girl has been killed.”

This was not the sort of subject any lady should know about. I should change the subject at once. I nodded. “She was killed by a customer.”

“Women in her profession must run such risks almost daily,” she said with a trace of anger.

“I don’t think it’s as bad as that,” I said. “They get beatings and rough treatment, yes. But not many are killed. Relative to their numbers, I mean.”

That was hardly the point, I thought; such considerations would mean nothing to Bedwalters. For that matter, they meant nothing to me.

We stood on the elegant terrace of the elegant, if old-fashioned, house, a woman of high social standing and wealth, and a young man of neither, contemplating the sunset. I was trying to think
of an unexceptional topic of conversation and thought Esther must be doing the same. I should have known better. After a moment, she said, expressionlessly: “I take it you have not changed
your mind.”

I grimaced inwardly. But I knew I’d done the right thing; all I had to do now was stand by my decision. “No,” I said, and stared out into the darkness, realising that once
again, despite my last rebuff, she’d summoned the courage to approach me and that, once again, I’d rejected her. Damn, damn, damn.

She said nothing more. I heard her steady, even breathing in the silence of the twilight. From the drawing room behind us came the sudden splutter of laughter.

“You must know why I think the way I do,” I said, despite myself. “You must know it’s impossible for us to – ”

“I had not marked you down for a coward, Mr Patterson,” she said.

I caught my breath. She knew,
must
know, how that accusation would rankle with any man. She was trying to provoke me. “I am not a rascal who’d destroy a lady’s
reputation,” I retorted.

“My reputation is
my
affair,” she said coldly.

Another silence. A nightjar called; someone in the dining room dropped a glass with a crash.

“There appears to be nothing more to be said,” Esther said.

“No.”

She did not move.

Belatedly, I realised she expected me to go and leave her to her solitude. Despite everything, I did not wish to go, to move from her presence, to lose that tiny regular intake of breath, that
delicate scent she wore, the rustle of her dress as she shifted slightly.

I pushed myself away from the railing. “I – I do believe I shall go for a walk in the gardens,” I said as if we had been having the most innocuous of conversations. “Such
a lovely night.”

“Indeed,” she said emotionlessly, and stood aside to let me go down the steps to the garden below.

The last light was sufficient to show me my way down the gravel walk. I strolled along, making a show of inspecting the bedraggled, overgrown flowerbeds, exhibiting my careless nonchalance
should anyone be watching from the house. As I reached the middle of the garden, I cut across to the fountain sitting in the very centre and inspected its dry basin full of dead leaves. As I did
so, I risked a glance back at the house. The drawing room was ablaze with light; I saw the multi-coloured backs of the ladies. Candles still burned in the windows of the dining room where the
gentleman had settled down to their cards. Alyson was laughing with them as he dealt. Upstairs, two or three rooms seeped light from behind curtains.

The terrace was empty.

I walked on. Beyond the garden was a stretch of lawn, then an ornamental canal, gleaming brightly in the last of the daylight. The canal had once had stone walls but many of the stones had
crumbled into the water and the banks looked slippery and dangerous. One or two patches of mud lingered, presumably from the last rains. A gentle slope led up to a stone bridge; I leant on the wide
parapet and looked down into stagnant, weed-filled water. It stank.

Beyond the bridge, a path led into a small wood. I pottered along it, through the gloomy trees, along a path broad and pale, brooding about Bedwalters and Nell and the murderer who had struck so
coolly, so brutally. That glimpse I’d had of the world that ran alongside our own worried me – it always portended danger. But the murderer – the apprentice – must be miles
from town by now – the chances were we would never know who he was.

I came to the kitchen garden wall and a path that led towards the house on one side and the village road on the other; I stood and kicked at the earth of the path. This was no good. For all I
knew the ladies were demanding to know where I was; I had a living to earn and had better go and earn it. I strode back through the wood.

As I crossed the bridge over the canal, I realised more time had passed than I’d anticipated. The drawing room looked empty, and gloomy, most of the candles snuffed out; I saw a female
servant cross the window gathering up tea dishes. The dining room was well-lit still but apparently empty.

I would not sleep. I knew that already. A strange bed is never particularly comfortable and there were too many mysteries to worry over, too much concern for Bedwalters and Nell. And as for
Esther...

I’d just put my foot to the bottom step up to the terrace when the last candle in the drawing room was blown out. I stood in sudden darkness for a moment, cursing – the dining room
candles further along cast no light here. If I didn’t hurry, I was likely to find the servants had locked me out. I groped for the stone balustrade at the side of the steps –

And felt warm flesh beneath my hand.

The world slipped away from me in a burst of pain.