Broken Harmony (11 page)

And – the last thing I recall before an uneasy sleep claimed me, just as the sky was lightening into dawn – that peculiar inscription in Lady Anne’s music book. The elegant
flourish of an unknown signature:
Thomas Powell, organist, St Nicholas, 1725…

14

CONCERTO FOR SOLO VIOLIN
Movement II

I woke the following morning in a determined mood. I might not be able to do anything about the strange events I had experienced in Caroline Square, or Lady Anne’s games,
but on some matters I could take action. Fortunately, one of my pupils sent word that she was taken ill, so I had time and leisure to act. George was sullen and sour-faced; I could not bear his
fidgeting and sent him off to Akenhead’s, the stationers, to fetch more paper and ravens’ quills.

In the affair of the violin at least, I could see my way clearly. How could any thief have imagined he might dispose of it? It was a Cremona fiddle and would fetch a pretty penny, but only if
sold to some person with musical knowledge. And such a person would at once be suspicious, particularly if the violin was offered by someone down at heel. Of course there were unscrupulous
gentlemen who would accept goods without asking questions, but then the payment offered would be much lower.

And where might the thief offer the instrument for sale? Not in Newcastle or Durham or even Sunderland, in all of which places Le Sac had played; the violin might be recognised there by its
unusual colour. Somewhere further afield, then – Edinburgh or York? London would be the safest place of all, but a thief would surely want to dispose of his booty as quickly as possible and
not sit in a post-chaise with it for days on end.

I inscribed my first letter to Mr Ambrose Brownless, organ-builder of the City of York, reminding the gentleman of his kindness to me a year or two before, when I had been travelling north from
London, and thanking him for his hospitality on that occasion. “And if I may trouble you further, sir,” I wrote. “I am in search of a violin which has gone astray, (no one is
quite sure how)…”

Finishing the note, I added the address and sealed it, then wrote another letter to an old acquaintance in Edinburgh. When George returned, I gave him both notes together with a shilling, and
told him to make haste to the Post Office to send them off. He laid the bundle of quills upon the table. “Out again, sir?”

“Now,” I said sharply. “And then meet me on the Sandhill. It is time you had your lesson.”

He hung back. “Why not here, sir?”

“Because I have no instrument, fool! We’ll use the harpsichord belonging to the Concerts – the one stored at Hoult’s.” (I was not sufficiently aforehand with the
world to afford such an expensive instrument.)

His face fell further; he hated the keyboard and played it only under protest, because I told him no musician could hope to earn a living knowing one instrument alone. I planned to start him on
the German flute, too; it is an instrument many gentlemen play, and can be very profitable. I said nothing of that, however; he was surly enough already.

“Go,” I said.

He went, although it was plain he was mutinous.

After putting ready the books I needed for George’s lesson and the practice of my own which I intended afterwards, I walked to the foot of the Side, to the office of Mr Jenison’s
agent, who keeps the key to the Concerts’ instruments, feeling a good deal better for having done something about at least one of the matters that besieged me. There was a great bustle about
the Golden Fleece next to the office. A coach stood ready for departure and I found George already gawping at the preparations. I left him there while I went up the stairs to the agent’s for
the key; perhaps letting him gaze his fill on the commotion would put him in a better temper.

I came to the foot of the stairs again just as the coachman climbed into the box of the coach and decided to stay where I was rather than struggle through the crowd. And while I was standing
there, my attention was caught by an ostler leading out a glossy chestnut horse; behind him came a lady, striding out to mount the animal, flouting the proprieties outrageously by wearing breeches
(although a long, full greatcoat somewhat disguised the fact) and flinging herself astride a man’s saddle. Surely only one woman could scorn convention like this and face down any criticism
– Lady Anne.

But as the lady turned to send her horse trotting along the Key, I saw that I was wrong. Not Lady Anne but her cousin, Esther Jerdoun. I hardly knew whether to admire her or condemn her. The
women in that house were altogether out of my common experience. As was the house itself.

Fortunately, George was full of the joys of the coach. We made our way to the Sandhill in silence; I was thinking of one thing, George was talking of another, and he was in such good humour that
he submitted to his lesson upon the harpsichord with at least tolerable willingness. I felt giddy; my head was full of Esther Jerdoun’s figure, still most shapely for a woman of forty. But
after all, a man may admire where he chooses, provided he keeps his admiration a secret to all but himself.

Our rehearsal with Mr Parry the following day went well. He was a large man, fair in his colouring though I had imagined all Welsh quite dark. He was also blind, or very nearly so, but a casual
observer would not know it, for he found his way about easily by keeping very near to the wall and running his fingertips lightly along it. Those hands were huge yet very delicate, and to see such
large fingers plucking the finest of harp strings and producing soft tender tunes was disconcerting. He had adapted some violin airs of Handel and Purcell to his instrument and required us to
provide the accompaniment; he himself played all by heart, and was very clear in what he wanted and very complimentary when we provided it. All in all, we had a merry time of it, playing happily
for several hours.

But, alas, when it came to the concert itself, Parry’s better judgment deserted him. We played two pieces by Handel which went very well, and the first solo airs Parry performed were
Scotch and very pleasant. But an entire concert filled with airs and jigs, and reels and strathspeys, and strange Welsh tunes the like of which I had never heard before and never wish to hear again
(and which I suspected Parry of fabricating himself, though he claimed they were so old that their origins were lost in the mists of time) – well, there are limits to how much one wishes to
hear of such short pieces.

The audience, which was happily large, applauded enthusiastically; many hurried forward at the end of the concert to chat to Parry who towered over them all. I saw Nichols hanging about with a
request that Parry might play for his class the following day. And Mr Jenison was also there, hands in pockets, frowning.

“That boy of yours, Patterson,” he said suddenly. “Very tolerable player. I warrant it was you who taught him to play an adagio like that. That French fellow just rushes at
adagios – I’ve always said foreigners can’t play them well. Haven’t the sensibility for it.”

He did not meet my eye.
That French fellow
– hardly the way to refer to a favoured employee. (I prevented myself just in time from murmuring ‘Swiss’.) Had Le Sac
offended Jenison in some way? I caught Claudius Heron’s gaze instead as he walked past; “Very good,” he said, and walked on.

Esther Jerdoun came up to me with a smile as Jenison turned away. The lady was dressed in grey but the light caught the shiny fabric and turned it to shimmering silver; sapphires glittered in
her ears and around her throat.

“I enjoyed the Handel greatly, Mr Patterson,” she said in a tone of voice I thought rather loud. “Tell me, what opera was that overture from? I had not a handbill – they
were all gone before I arrived.”

But she did not allow me to answer; she lowered her voice and spoke swiftly. “You need not concern yourself about the violin. It is recovered.” She raised her voice to its former
pitch. “I have always thought Handel’s instrumental music much under-rated. Do you not agree?”

I answered mechanically, hardly knowing what I said. Her mouth smiled; her head nodded, her elegant hand drifted across the decorated lid of the harpsichord. And her eyes were sharp and
warning.

“Now it’s to the bottle!” Parry said suddenly and swept his arm round George. The contrast between the giant and the child was ludicrous. “Shall we introduce this lad to
the pleasures of fine wine, Mr Patterson? Oh, I beg your pardon, madam.”

Perhaps he had caught the soft sound of the lady’s dress sweeping the floor as she turned. Mrs Jerdoun inclined her head. “I merely lingered to express my pleasure at your playing,
Mr Parry.”

She was an astonishing woman, I thought, as Parry, George and I went down the back stairs of the inn into the parlour. She was capable of surprising me in a way that, oddly, her cousin did not.
I supposed outrageous acts were expected of Lady Anne. But I longed to ask a host of questions. Where had the violin been found? Was it known who had taken it? Why did she clearly intend its
discovery to be kept a secret? Or was it merely the
manner
of its discovery? I had a sudden recollection of her riding out the previous day; had she herself found it?

And, above all, was Demsey implicated in the matter?

I was in a fever to know what had happened. But it was not until mid-morning of the following day that I had any further news. I was not in a good temper and the first lesson of the day had been
with a recalcitrant unco-operative girl who had grown up sufficiently to discover the benefits of charming men into doing as she wished but not sufficiently to be able to work the trick. The day
was sunny, although a chill breeze blew a hint of winter into the brightness, and after the lesson I went down to the Key to the Printing Office to buy a copy of the last week’s
Courant
, which I had missed. Thomas Saint, in handing me my change, said, “I hear that French fellow has his fiddle back.”

“Swiss,” I said automatically. Then, recollecting that I was not supposed to have heard of the matter, I added, “Indeed? How?”

“One of the grooms belonging to Lady Anne found it.” The breeze took hold of the outer door and gently tapped it against the jamb, sending quivers of sunshine across the papers
stacked on the office floor. “Lady Anne’s cousin had sent the fellow on an errand to Darlington. He stopped for a bite at the Post House and saw them carrying out the parcels for the
coach. The wrapping on one of them was torn and he thought he saw a violin case within. Of course, he raised the alarm and they opened the parcel and there it was. Addressed to some rogue in
London, I hear.”

I was astounded. “Do you mean to say the thief put it on the coach as if it was an ordinary everyday parcel?”

Saint chuckled and seized at some bills that lifted from his desk in the breeze. “Some folks have a good helping of audacity, do they not? That’s the top and tail of it. Of course
the groom brought it back with him, the French fellow parted with the reward without a murmur and Lady Anne rewarded the groom as well. Everyone’s happy – except the thief, of
course.”

I listened to the tale with mounting incredulity. I had never heard such nonsense. If the thief had rid himself of the instrument as soon as possible, which would have been sensible, it would
have got much further south than Darlington. Five days since it had been stolen – almost time to reach London. And to send such a delicate item by a coach was unthinkable. The instrument
would have been smashed to pieces before Doncaster or Newark; ostlers and inn-keepers have clumsy hands. But if the tale was not true, what had really happened? I knew of only one person who might
be able to tell me.

I begged a piece of paper from Saint and penned a letter to Esther Jerdoun.

I sent Saint’s boy with the note; when I returned home that evening, a reply was waiting for me.

Sir,
it read,
I do not believe there is any advantage in discussing the matter further.
It was signed
E. Jerdoun.

With such a curt dismissal I was, I supposed, meant to be satisfied.

I was not.

15

CONCERTO FOR SOLO VIOLIN
Movement III

Before I went to bed, I scratched out letters to two or three acquaintances whom I thought might know Demsey’s whereabouts. Mr Hesletine, for one, organist of Durham and
a man whom it is well nigh impossible to avoid offending. His temper was like an ague – swift to come on and slow to mend again. Seven or eight years ago, he was nearly dismissed his position
for abusing one of the prebendaries of the Cathedral. But he and Demsey, for some reason, have always dealt very well together, which is more than might be expected from the disparity in their ages
(Hesletine is near fifty) and the similarity in their tempers. Last time I was in company with both of them, a year back, the whole afternoon was occupied by them shouting at each other with the
greatest goodwill in the world. They parted the best of friends.

So one letter went to Hesletine asking if he had seen Demsey in the last week. Another went to the Post House in Durham, in case Demsey had passed south. A third to the Assembly Rooms in
Sunderland, in case he lodged in that town, and a fourth – I considered briefly – to the publisher Hamilton in Edinburgh. My request in this last letter I mixed in casually with an
enquiry over publishing terms for my
Scotch Songs for the Harpsichord
, performed at the last Concert. I left the letters on the table with a note to George to dispatch them and went to bed,
if not satisfied, at least content I had done all I could.