Chords and Discords (12 page)

What did I see in her eyes? Fear? Anger?

“Well,” she said at last, in a calm voice. “You can at least avoid a repetition of the attack. Keep away from that alley.”

“I intend to,” I said dryly.

“Is it of any use to advise you to let the matter drop?”

“Claudius Heron has already tried,” I said. “I cannot and, if I could, I would not.” Perhaps it was pride speaking – no man likes to be humiliated. But it was anger
too, that some unknown man thought he could do what he chose to obtain his own ends.

“Men are so obstinate!” Mrs Jerdoun said with an exasperated sigh. “Very well, I will say nothing more. But if you are in need of assistance, Mr Patterson, you have only to ask
for it.”

There was one matter on which I thought she might be able to help. “Do you know Mr John Holloway, madam?”

She shook her head. “I know of him, certainly, but we have never had dealings.”

It had been worth a try. I limped across to the harpsichord, opened it for her and checked the tuning.

Mrs Jerdoun had brought some music, a piece by Domenico Scarlatti, and played through it with much skill. She was unexpectedly good in the lighter pieces, displaying a mischievous sense of
humour that surprised and delighted me. And in sitting close to her, I lost for a short while the anger I had felt. I smelt her perfume, saw pale strands of hair curling on her smooth neck, watched
her supple fingers on the keys. I found myself a little giddy and was forced to make a severe effort to be my usual detached self, and to listen for, and correct, her faults.

An hour passed all too quickly. Mrs Jerdoun rose, saying that she must not keep me from my other pupils. I refrained from telling her that I had no other pupil that day, thanked her and asked
her if she wished to have her lesson at the same time next week. She paused in the act of folding up the music.

“Next week, Mr Patterson? I’m afraid you have mistaken me.”

My heart sank. She had decided not to repeat the lesson.

“I wish for a lesson every day.”

Every
day?

“There is no profit in doing something half-heartedly, do you not agree?”

“I – you – no, no profit at all.”

“And there is no point in my practising, if I am merely perpetuating errors.”

“No – ”

“Which you could correct if you saw me on a regular basis. Is that not so?”

“Yes.”

“Therefore, if your time is not otherwise entirely taken up – ”

I hesitated; she raised an eyebrow.

“No, not at all. Not in the least.” It crossed my mind that she might be trying to distract me from other activities. “Apart from this business with Bairstowe, of
course.”

Her face set in disapproval; she said: “Of course.”

A little awkwardness lay between us.

“At what time then?”

“Time?”

“My lesson tomorrow.” She handed the music to her maid. “Unfortunately, I am engaged all the morning with Mr Armstrong.”

“The lawyer? I trust there is nothing wrong.”

“Just a tangle connected with some land in Norfolk. What do you say to early afternoon? Perhaps at one o’clock?”

“I would be honoured, madam.” And I bowed mistress and maid out of the room, shook off the intoxication of the lady’s presence, and prepared myself for less pleasant
matters.

I went straight back to Holloway’s shop, limping less than I had before, the pain in my knee now only a dull ache. Richard Softly was alone in the shop. He told me that
Holloway had ridden out to talk to a farmer about some skins and was not expected back until nightfall. I left in some irritation – Softly was politely spoken and respectful, but under all
the politeness was an edge of resentment that grated.

If I could not talk to Holloway, I would find William Bairstowe – I sensed he was not telling me everything he knew. And I knew where he would be – at the Cordwainers’ Hall
where his organ was being exhibited.

The doors from the street were open into an entrance way and the notes of a chamber organ echoed from the hall. The bell-like notes were sweet and clear, a slow progression of chords,
beautifully tuned and voiced, in plangent heart-breaking dissonance. From the door of the hall itself, I saw, between tall windows, the glossy varnished case of the organ. It was smaller than the
one Claudius Heron had envisaged for his gallery, perhaps twelve feet tall and five or six wide; a rectangular case displayed a graduated rank of pipes painted with swirls and curlicues.

Bairstowe was seated in front of the manuals, which appeared to be two in number. I saw his head turn – he had clearly sensed someone at the door though I doubted he could see who it was.
He nodded to a small boy who pumped the bellows’ handle; his hands plunged down and the plangent chords began again. The same tune as before. Bairstowe knew how to make an organ but, like
most builders, he didn’t know how to play one; he merely had one tune off by heart to show the instrument to its greatest advantage.

I stayed behind him, where he could not see me, and glanced around at the ornamental splendour of the hall, the painted coats of arms and gilded roof beams. Two straight-backed middle-aged
ladies, both in pale yellow, were sitting on chairs set against one wall. A notice on the door advertised the terms of sale for the organ; Bairstowe had priced the tickets at half a guinea each and
notified the public he would wait until he had sold one hundred tickets before making the draw. A chamber organ for half a guinea was a good bargain for the lucky winner, but fifty guineas was
setting the value of the organ low. I’ve seen organs not much bigger valued at twice the price.

I particularly liked the rider on the advertisement. “Any Lady or Gentleman who wishes to try the Organ may do so when the Hall is open.” And then, in slightly larger letters below:
“The Organist of All Hallows excepted.”

Solomon Strolger had probably had a good laugh over that.

A gentleman walked into the hall, stood legs apart to contemplate the organ; when Bairstowe finished the tune, the visitor strolled forward to engage him in conversation about the instrument. I
cursed, and dawdled about while he asked Bairstowe to play once more. Bairstowe began the same tune again.

The gentleman stopped him and asked for something else. As Bairstowe hesitated, I leapt forward. “Perhaps you would allow me, sir?”

He conceded his place on the stool with alacrity.

Despite my mood, I enjoyed myself. It was a long time since I had played an organ and I seized the opportunity to make a great deal of noise. Although it was small, the organ was capable of a
surprisingly full blast. The small boy pumped the bellows enthusiastically and I played several of Signor Scarlatti’s pieces then improvised a voluntary of my own; somewhat mischievously,
given Bairstowe’s hatred of Strolger, I put in a reference or two to the
Highland Laddie
.

The gentleman laughed and bought five tickets. Bairstowe saw him out with many begrudgingly expressed thanks; just before they reached the door, I saw Solomon Strolger, grinning, whisk himself
away into the street.

Bairstowe came back swaggering, slipping coins into his pocket.

“You owe me some of that,” I said, turning on the organ stool to face him. The ladies in yellow sat obstinately on – perhaps they thought it was still raining. “It was my
showing off your organ that persuaded him to buy so many tickets.”

“ To the devil with that,” he said. “You put yourself forward. I didn’t ask you.”

He was in a remarkably bad temper, even for him. “Creditors been round?” I murmured.

“That damned Heron.”

“Claudius Heron’s been here?”

“No more than half an hour ago. These gentlemen – ” he sneered over the word – “always want you to leap to it and do as they bid, here and now.”

“He has waited a long time for his organ.”

“He’s got the damned materials,” Bairstowe snarled. “He can sell them, can’t he?”

That was near enough an admission that Bairstowe would never get back to the project. I glanced at the bellows’ boy but he was curled up on his chair, breaking apart a chunk of bread.
“Did you tell him that?”

“Fellows like that never want to listen to anyone else. It’s all
listen to me
and
do as I tell you
.”

“He wants the organ.”

“Tried to sell him this one. Wouldn’t buy even one ticket!”

I should imagine that as far as Heron was concerned, that had been adding insult to injury. Bairstowe was thrusting tickets at me. “Half a guinea. You’ve played the damn thing.
Isn’t it worth half a guinea?”

“I thought my services were worth
thirty
guineas.”

Bairstowe’s lip curled. “Thirty guineas? I wouldn’t give you a shilling for what you’ve come up with so far.”

“Oh, I’ve come up with a few conclusions. Like the fact that the notes never existed. Like the fact you wrecked your own workshop.”

His face purpled to such an extent that I feared he might have an apoplexy. He started yelling, startling the two women who got up hurriedly and went out.

“But I do believe that you genuinely think yourself under threat,” I said.

He fell abruptly silent.

“You must have some idea who might wish to threaten you.”

He set his mouth in an obstinate line. I sighed.

“What’s the point in hiring me to find out the truth and then not telling me what you know?”

He struggled with that, and mumbled.

“What?” I said, pretending to be deaf.

“Bloody spirits!” he roared.

I got the story out of him, eventually. He had been on the Key one night, ‘visiting a friend’ – apparently a euphemism for using the services of a brothel. He
had just parted from the ‘friend’ when he felt an urgent need to piss. He’d ventured into one of the chares to do this more discreetly, and had been attacked by spirits.

We wasted some time arguing over why Bairstowe had so foolishly risked entering one of the chares off the Keyside. These are notorious resorts even in the daytime and at night they are not
places respectable men would willingly venture. Why not simply piss against a wall, I wanted to know; there would be no respectable women to shock on the Key gone midnight.

Bairstowe hummed and hawed, and red-faced, admitted to a malady common to older men, the inability to piss at all except after long effort. He had not wanted anyone to see how long he stood
there before achieving a result.

The spirits had at least let him finish before attacking him but they hadn’t let him lace himself up again; his breeches had descended to his ankles and, all in all, he had felt not only
abused and beaten but an old fool too. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell me.

“But what makes you think it was not merely an opportunistic attack? How could they anticipate you would be there?”

“I heard ’em,” he snarled. “One of them said ‘He’s the one’.”

That brought me up short, so similar was it to my own experience. The attack on myself
must
be connected to Bairstowe’s affairs.

“And the notes?”

The notes, Bairstowe asserted obstinately, were genuine. He had received them, scoffed at them and burnt them. They’d come for the most part before the attack by the spirits and he’d
thought them tomfoolery. He did admit, however, that he hadn’t shown them to his wife, though he still thought he had mentioned them to her.

“And the workshop?”

“I did not touch it,” he insisted, and continued to insist despite my disbelief. “I had nothing to do with the boy’s death either. Don’t you see, it was the spirits
– if they can pummel me, they can heave over a piece of wood!”

“But there are no spirits in your yard,” I protested. “Except the girl in the alley. And she’s so old, she’s not even sure where she is.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” he scoffed. “The yard’s full of spirits. I hear ’em all the time – they’re conspiring against me.”

He sounded oddly convincing; I concluded he believed what he said.

“But
why
should they conspire against you?” I pressed.

“Damn it, I’m paying you to find that out!”

That was true enough.

I left Bairstowe to a brace of interested gentlemen and went back out into the street. A chill drizzle fell on my face. Bairstowe’s accusations against the spirits in the
matter of Tom Eade’s death were unbelievable – no spirit could have had a hand in it, because none lingered in the yard. It had to be either an accident, or the work of man.

Yet I knew, more than anyone else could, that the spirits were involved in this business somehow. I needed to talk to a spirit, one that might be able to enquire for me and find out why the
spirits had attacked William. But which one? I was beginning to feel I could trust none of them.

I started down towards the Key, hoping the drizzle that spotted my coat would not harden to driving rain. As I reached the end of Silver Street, I saw the figure of a woman climbing Pilgrim
Street towards me. The fisher girl.

She had seen me – she halted, staring with open hostility. Her hair was limp and bedraggled in the rain; her clothes, though much darned and patched, were clearly her Sunday best.

She folded her arms across her chest, marched up to me, nodded brusquely as if she was a great lady passing an acquaintance who was not quite respectable, then turned into Silver Street and
walked on.

I lengthened my stride and caught up with her. At our last meeting she had been eager for help; now she plainly wanted to be rid of me. What had happened to change her mind?

“Good day,” I said.