Chords and Discords (15 page)

“How can I help you, Mr Patterson?”

“You keep back copies of the
Courant
, I think?”

“Indeed,” Saint said with some pride. “Every edition. We have published since 1711, you know. Were you wanting something in particular?”

“Copies from five years ago.”

Saint directed me into an office, spotlessly kept, and from thence into a tiny room made even smaller by shelves that lined the walls. The dull clatter of the printing room itself seeped through
the walls.

The volumes lining the shelves were huge and leather-bound, with the year of publication embossed on the spine in gold lettering. I found the volume for 1731 and set it on the table Saint kept
for that purpose. The
Courant
was printed on rag paper of the best quality; I turned the heavy pages until I reached the November editions. The layout of the paper had changed not at all
over the years; advertisements still filled front and back pages, letters from London and abroad the second page. The local column was as ever on the third page.

In the second week of November, I found the tale of the old woman, with much ranting on the part of correspondents, as to the measures that ought to be taken concerning malicious spirits. One
correspondent, a clergyman distinguished only by his initials, had also complained of men who had stood around laughing while the woman was battered by the spirits; he wanted those in question held
for the Assizes as villains of the lowest order. The following week another note in the local column referred to the same incident, claiming that the names of the inhuman rogues who had stood
callously by and even directed a kick or two of their own had been given to the constables in the town.

A glance ahead to succeeding weeks told me that nothing more appeared to have been done.

I found Edward Bairstowe’s name in the edition dated 4 December 1731, in a very short entry under Deaths.

Died. – Wednesday se’nnight, suddenly on the Tine Bridge, Mr Edward Bairstowe in the 52d year of his age.

I guessed that the Bairstowes themselves must have written this brief notice. Reading through the column above the announcement, I found that Thomas Saint had published a more detailed
account.

I went back into the Printing Office. Saint was alone, puzzling over advertisements that had been left for inclusion in the paper; he evidently could not read the handwriting.

“Do you remember the death of Edward Bairstowe, about five years back?”

He glanced up at me in surprise. “Indeed I do. I sat on the jury that viewed the body. Dreadful sight, dreadful.”

“So you wrote the account in the paper from your own knowledge?”

He nodded. “It was all highly unsatisfactory,” he said with unusual force.

“In what way?”

He put down his papers. “The Bairstowes were most unpleasant.” He stared pensively into the air, as if into the past. “It turned out they’d known Edward was disturbed for
weeks and had done nothing about it. ‘Oh, he was always like that,’ they said. ‘He did things to be noticed. He was always threatening to kill himself
.
’ They said
they had more important things to do than worry over his tantrums.”

I could hear William Bairstowe saying the words. Mrs Bairstowe would have said she was a stupid woman and couldn’t think of anything to do about it. “And the event itself?”

“No witnesses but themselves. They agreed he tried to jump into the river but claimed the knife business was an accident.”

Cutting one’s throat by accident is a clever trick, I thought. “They wanted him buried in hallowed ground, of course.”

“They didn’t get their wish,” Saint said tartly. “He was plainly a suicide. Though there was some debate as to who brought the knife to the bridge. William Bairstowe at
first said his wife had it, that she had been using it in the kitchen and ran out with it when Edward dashed off to jump from the bridge. But she said Edward had snatched it up as he
ran.”

“And they ran after him.”

He nodded.

“Despite knowing he was ‘always like that’?”

“Apparently they believed him serious on this occasion.”

“Was the spirit itself questioned?”

“Of course. But he was totally unreliable. First he claimed his brother had tried to kill him, then that Mrs Bairstowe had wanted him dead. Then he said he had done it himself ‘by
accident’. I never spoke with such a petulant fellow!”

The jury had decided for suicide and, given the spirit’s confinement, that had to be the right verdict.

So why was I still uneasy over the matter?

The day was growing late and I was tired; my knee began to ache again. In the beginnings of a fresh drizzle, I turned for home.

And ran into Hugh, lounging against the wall outside the breeches maker’s shop at the foot of the Side. He straightened with alacrity when he saw me.

“Where the devil have you been? I sent you a message an hour ago. An hour! I said it was urgent!”

I stared across the street. Directly opposite was John Holloway’s establishment. “Your message was garbled. I had no notion where you were.”

“I said the shop!” He was red-faced, tired and damp, but looked a hundred times better than he had when he had set out on that abortive trip to Paris.

“But not which shop.”

“Who else in this business has a shop?”

“I’m here now,” I said. “What’s so urgent?”

Hugh embarked on a wild tale that seemed to involve half the town. He had been to Silver Street, All Hallows, the baker’s on Pilgrim Street, the Flesh Market, the Fish Market and half a
dozen other places as well. Eventually, I realised what he had been doing.

“You’ve been following the maid?” I said, incredulously.

He seized my coat. “Don’t you see, Charles? She’s at the heart of this business!”

“The maid!”

“I know, I know,” he said, kindly. “She’s a pretty little thing, you like the look of her – ”

“If you’re suggesting I’m being influenced by – ”

“But don’t you see how suspicious her behaviour is?”

“No, as a matter of fact – ”

He tugged my sleeve. “She’s the only witness that Bairstowe wrecked his own workshop! She’s the only one that says the lad was courting her!”

I shook my head. “No, both the Bairstowes knew about Tom Eade. So did Holloway.” Though it was odd, I thought in passing, that Bairstowe still insisted he had not wrecked the
workshop.

“The maid told the Bairstowes the lad was courting her,” Hugh said. “Do you know anyone who actually saw them together?”

I was reminded of Strolger’s comment that the maid had initially tried to avoid To m Eade. But Strolger had suggested the lad had eventually won her over. “I still don’t
understand what’s so urgent, Hugh. You’ve been following the girl on a shopping expedition!”

“She’s gone in there.” He nodded at Holloway’s shop and added, with heavy meaning, “An hour ago.”

I looked across at the shop. Despite the late hour, two or three customers were lingering at the door and I could see Richard Softly lifting something down from a shelf.

“She’s buying something.”

He roared with frustration. “Upstairs, Charles! She went upstairs! She and Holloway.” He jerked his head, winked, made a surreptitiously obscene gesture, smiling on an elderly woman
who stared at him in passing.

I sighed. “So she’s Holloway’s drab. So? I hope he pays her well. I warrant the Bairstowes don’t.”

“They’re conspiring together.”

I looked at Demsey in silence for a moment. He was looking so much better, so animated, that I hesitated to discourage him. “You’ve heard them talking?”

“No, no,” he said impatiently. “It’s obvious, Charles! They’re the ones plotting to kill William Bairstowe!”

“Why?”

He dug his fingers into my arm and almost shook me. “If Bairstowe dies, who inherits his property?”

“His wife. There are no children.”

“And if his wife dies, who inherits from her?”

“As far as I know,” I said cautiously, “Holloway.”

“Exactly!”

“Hugh,” I said sighing. “Holloway idolises his sister.”

“He says so, does he?”

“I’ve seen them together.” An unhealthy love in some ways, I thought, though I did not believe there was anything criminal in it. “How does Tom Eade fit in?”

“Who?”

“The dead shop lad.”

“They thought he was Bairstowe, killed him by mistake.”

“By all I’ve heard, the lad was slightly built. Bairstowe’s bulky, Hugh. And if the maid is Holloway’s mistress, why was she allowing Eade to pay court to her?”

I considered the matter, with some weariness I confess; it was all becoming damnably confusing. I rubbed my forehead and decided I needed more sleep. I was tempted to tell Hugh about my
experiences in Bairstowe’s yard but, thanks to his injuries, he had never heard the full tale of what had happened before Christmas and did not know of the existence of that other world. He
would think me mad.

He was staring at me; with difficulty I brought my attention back to the present. “You think the maid and John Holloway are conspiring to kill both the Bairstowes.”

“Exactly!”

“Hugh,” I said, slapping him on the back. “You need sleep as much as I do. You’ll see things in better proportion tomorrow.”

“I’m right,” he said, in obstinate annoyance. “I know I am.”

I shook my head and turned to go on up the Side. And damned if the cat didn’t trot out of an alley and race after me, following at my heels all the way up to my lodgings. Always just far
enough away to avoid a kick.

I went to bed, disturbed only by the yowling of the cat in the street below. After a while, I heard someone shout, and throw a stone at it. Then I fell asleep and lay
undreaming until I was startled awake.

I lay in the dark, staring at the unseen ceiling. A banging on the door. That was what had woken me. It came again. One of the miners in the house shouted in fury. I rolled over – my bed
is under the window – and lifted the curtain. Below, in the street, craning to look up wildly at each window in turn, was John Holloway.

Holloway crashed into the Bairstowes’ house before me with a clatter and a shout, throwing the door back against the wall. Mrs Bairstowe sat at the kitchen table,
bloodstained and bedraggled – Holloway rushed to her side. He was a slight elegant tradesman of refined tastes; she was a big woman of rough habits and drab clothing, with a tongue as sharp
as his was smooth. They had never looked like brother and sister to me. But there was clearly a link between them, proof that blood is indeed thick enough to endure many dissimilarities –
there was genuine concern in his voice and gruff reassurance in hers.

Holloway had given me a garbled account of what he knew as we hurried through the dark, near-deserted streets. The maid had sent him a message, via the spirits, that his sister had been
attacked, and he had hurried to my lodgings to enlist my help. This was plainly, he said, connected to William’s affairs. No one seemed to have sent for the constable.

Mistress and maid were alone together in the light of one candle. Mrs Bairstowe sat stoically, her hands clasped on the table next to a bowl of reddened water; the maid stood behind her, eyes
downcast as ever, dabbing at the back of her mistress’s head with a bloody cloth. Blood had run down the back of Mrs Bairstowe’s neck, following a line parallel to the braid into which
her hair had been drawn for the night, and staining the neck of her nightgown.

“Well,” she said. “Going to crow over this, are you?”

“Mary – ” Holloway began.

“He’s going to gloat,” she said, with a nod at me. She winced, snapped at the maid. “Devil take you, girl, can’t you do better than that?”

The girl murmured an almost inaudible apology.

“I said there was no villain out to get William and you said there was and it turns out you were right. Would you ever?” Mrs Bairstowe said sarcastically.

“But the villain has attacked you, madam,” I pointed out. “Not your husband.”

Holloway seized the candle upon the table, lit a stand of three upon the dresser and brought them back to better illuminate the scene.

“You should call Bedwalters, the constable,” I said. Holloway and his sister exchanged glances; the maid continued to bathe her mistress’s head.

“The fellow’s a fool,” Mrs Bairstowe said.

Bedwalters was far from a fool but I did not contradict her. And if they thought I was taken in by this affecting scene of injury, they were sadly mistaken; the girl should have finished
dressing her mistress’s injury long before I reached the house. This touching scene was staged – the question was: why?

But I might as well play their game; they might let something slip. “What happened?”

“I was attacked,” Mrs Bairstowe said with contempt.

“Inside the house or outside?”

Between cursing the maid, slapping the girl’s hands and sipping the ale her brother poured her, Mary Bairstowe gave me her tale. She had been woken in the night by a sound in the yard but
had ignored it, thinking it was her husband coming in drunk. Then she heard the noise a second time and came down to see what it was.

“Did you not look from the window first?”