Chords and Discords (22 page)

We were both on the ground now. My head rang. I was gasping for air, but scrabbled desperately out of his way. His face loomed over me, grimy and unshaven. He was snarling obscenities.

I raised my hand, fingers outstretched, and jabbed at the ugly, vicious face. Into the eyes. He screamed.

Scrambling backwards, I pushed myself upright. The fellow was on his hands and knees, screeching threats. I said thickly: “Go to the devil,” and staggered away.

I was not proud of myself, but not ashamed either. Anger still filled me but it was colder, more calculating. I had made another enemy; I did not care. I had not found Hugh
– that was what mattered.

I was aching. I had again aggravated the injury to my knee and it stabbed with pain at every step. Followed at a wary distance by the cat, I climbed up the slope of the bridge, stood heaving for
breath by Fleming’s stationery shop. Suddenly nowhere seemed safe. There were a dozen spirits on the bridge, perhaps more; the end tower had been used as a prison for centuries and hundreds
of inmates might have died there. If they too chose to attack me...

I was damned if I’d let spirits get the better of me. I needed help and I’d take it wherever I could find it.

“An odd time of day to pay a social call,” Edward Bairstowe’s spirit said. In the darkness, I could just sense movement on the stone. There was an irony, I
reflected, in seeking help against spirits from a spirit. Curbing my impatience, I eased myself down on to the cobbles, my back to the bridge parapet. Hardly a soul was about; two whores talked
quietly in a shop doorway, and a timid, gangly youth hesitated outside Fleming’s as if trying to summon up courage to approach the girls. A few lanterns burned outside the shops but here in
the middle of the bridge there was only darkness and the faint gleam of the water far below.

“I would have sent my card in,” I said, curtly. “But your servant said you were not at home.”

The spirit cackled with laughter. “I like your sense of humour, sir. You do not sound well.”

“I have recently had an –
altercation
with a man of the lower sort.”

He tut-tutted. “Some fellows really have no idea of the social graces.”

“He was more interested in my coat.”

“Ah,” he said. “An acquisitive fellow.” A trace of doubt crept into his voice. “Forgive me, my dear Patterson, but you could hardly be called a stylish
dresser.”

I could forgive him criticising my clothes; his casual use of my name set my teeth on edge. But I had to humour him if I was to stand any chance of helping Hugh. “My friend Demsey is
better dressed. He’s a dancing master and you know how much care such fellows take of their clothes.”

“Indeed, indeed,” he said. But there was a strained note in the spirit’s voice. I felt a surge of triumph – he knew something, he
knew
something.

“You had a wide acquaintance yourself, I think,” I said, in as light a tone as I could manage, wishing I could see him better in this damned darkness.

“Well, you know how it is,” he said. “A young man-about-town rubs shoulders with a host of interesting characters. Now, sir, about that deed I mentioned to you.”

I was desperate to find Hugh but you cannot grab a spirit by the throat and demand he keeps to the point and damn well gives you the information you want. Edward Bairstowe needed to be wooed, to
be wheedled and cajoled. I gritted my teeth and said pleasantly: “You want to tell me where the deed is?”

“No...” I sensed his indecision. In truth, I realised, he did not much want to talk about the deed but he had hoped to distract my attention, and it must have been the first subject
that came to mind. “That is – ”

“Yes?”

“I have been thinking the matter over.”

“Yes?”

“I would like to speak to William about it. Would you ask him to come and see me?”

“I can ask. I cannot guarantee he will agree.”

“Oh, indeed, indeed. But, well, one must let bygones be bygones, sooner or later, do you not think, Patterson?”

“I think,” I snapped, losing patience, “that you know where Hugh Demsey is. And I am not going from here until you tell me.”

It was a bow drawn very much at a venture. I had come to him because I thought he might barter information for my company. But his eagerness to change the subject, and his silence now, told me
he knew more than I had anticipated.

“My dear Patterson,” he said, with an effort at joviality. “What makes you think I know the whereabouts of – what was his name – Devlin?”

“Demsey,” I snapped, then restrained myself. The cat butted up against my feet. I shifted on the cobbles and tried to push it away. “If you do not know, why not say
so?”

“If that’s your wish, sir,” he said, plainly intent on humouring me. “I do not know where your friend Devlin is.”

“Demsey!” I roared with fury.

It was the very worst thing to do; I heard his self-satisfied chuckle.

I set my head back against the parapet of the bridge, breathed deeply, clenched my fist to steady my temper. “Forgive me,” I said. “I am not a patient man at the best of times,
and the events of today have tried me sorely. I have been attacked and my friend has been taken prisoner by a band of rogues. He may be in danger of his life.” God, might I already be too
late? “All I want is to know where he is so I can find and help him.”

There was the sound of shouting and singing from downstream; women shrieked and laughed. A dog barked. The cat lifted its head then settled down again.

“I think, my dear Patterson,” Edward Bairstowe said, with obvious care, “I might be able to do something for you...”

There was obviously a price to be paid. “In exchange for what?” God, but it was hard not to shout at him.

“This business of William’s,” the spirit said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if there was nothing to it.”

“Just a few spirits getting frisky?”

“Alas.” He sighed. “Some people are as unruly in death as in life.”

“So I perceive.”

“In fact,” he said, “I’d be surprised if the whole matter was worth pursuing at all.”

“It’s worth thirty guineas to me.”

“But will William pay, sir?”

I shifted on the hard ground. More shouting from the revellers downstream, a scream or two. “Let me see if I have you right,” I said. “If I cease to work on your
brother’s behalf, you will tell me where Hugh is.”

“That’s the sum of it, sir.”

“Tell me where he is.”

“When I have your promise,” he said coyly.

“No,” I said.

“Then you will not get the information, sir,” he said.

“On the contrary.”

“No, sir,” he chuckled. “Not at all.”

“Because,” I said, unable to restrain my fury any longer, “if you don’t tell me, I shall dig up your stone and toss it in the river, where it will sink beyond trace and
you’ll never see another living man or talk to another spirit ever again!”

“Sir,” he said, with good humour. “You should never make threats you have no intention of carrying out.”

“Believe me,” I said. “Believe every word I say. Because my closest friend is at the moment in the direst dangers and I have no intention of sitting back and doing nothing. Now
tell me!”

“No.” The spirit’s voice subsided. “No, you wouldn’t. Not a law-abiding man like you.” But he did not sound convinced.

“Are you sure?” And I dug my key from my pocket, reached out and started to scrape at the earth in which Bairstowe’s cobblestone was embedded.

“No,” he cried in panic.

“Tell me where Hugh is.”

“I can’t!”

“Then ask your cronies!”

Silence. Then I heard a distant kind of whispering, very distant, almost below the level of hearing. Edward Bairstowe said sullenly: “On the Key. Near a boat called the
Berwick
Boy
.”

“Thank you,” I said, pushing myself to my feet.

“This isn’t the end of it,” the spirit said, sullenly. “You’ll not get the better of me. I’ll get even, see if I don’t.”

I walked away, followed by the cat.

The
Berwick Boy
was an old grubby ship, covered in coal-dust and grime, and stinking of fish. She stood well downstream from the bridge, almost upon the Sandgate outside
the town walls. No one was on deck, but I heard the raucous sound of drunken singing from some hidden cabin. A dog rushed up to the gangway and barked furiously; the cat trotted past in oblivious
disdain.

At one of the mooring ropes, I stood and looked about. The most frequented part of the Key was further upstream; here it was almost deserted. Piles of coal stood next to a heap of old fishnets,
apparently abandoned. The only light came from a lantern swaying from the
Berwick Boy’s
mast; the flickering light cast confusing shadows across the coal and the nets, and a heap of
ballast stones.

Hugh was not here. Damn Edward Bairstowe –

The cat mewed. It was balanced on top of a pile of coal, peering down the other side. It yowled again.

I clambered over the nets, scrabbled up the side of the pile of coal. The nuggets slid under my feet. I scrabbled for purchase, struggled to the top of the heap.

In a hollow between two piles of coal, lay Hugh’s body, pale and naked.

“Charles,” Hugh said, still shivering. “It’s hell’s own mouth in there. God forbid I should ever go back.”

I had stolen a blanket from the
Berwick Boy
, whipping it from a pile of goods on the deck while the guard dog was distracted by the cat. We must have made a ridiculous sight stumbling
along the Key: Hugh dazed, half-drunk, and wrapped only in a blanket, me begrimed with coal-dust, and both of us followed by a mangy cat. The blanket stank of piss, and Hugh of gin. It was the
devil of a job to get him up the flights of stairs to his attic room. My bruised knee began to ache again.

And all the time I’d been furious – furious at the men who’d done this, furious at my own stupidity, furious at my foolishness at allowing Hugh to get embroiled yet again in
one of my misadventures.

Huddled on his bed with his own blankets wrapped around him, Hugh looked as if I had just dragged him from the river. His face was white as ice, eyes huge and dark and hollow. I had gone out
again for the strongest brandy I could find, kicked the cat out of the door, lit a candle and settled down to coax the story out of Hugh.

The brandy was plainly restorative; as he sipped, his voice became louder and more indignant.

“I caught sight of the girl as I dashed out of that alley behind Holloway’s shop. What the devil’s her name?”

“Jennie McIntosh.”

“She ran across the road into that chare and I went after her.” He grimaced. “There were at least a dozen men waiting there.” The blanket fell from one shoulder; he
cursed and pulled it up again. Candlelight flickered across his face. “I’m no coward, Charles, but I know when it’s wisest to make yourself scarce. I ran for it.”

“But they caught you?”

“I fell over a damned child that crawled out of one of the hovels and they were on me at once. They bundled me into a house then all piled in. I yelled like fury and flailed at them, but
one of ’em landed a blow to my head and I lost my senses. When I came round, I was bare as the day I came into the world, and shut up in the most stinking pit you can imagine. Charles,”
he said, with sudden indignation, “they took my coat! The dark blue one. My best coat!”

“It’ll be sold secondhand tomorrow.” I remembered the time. “Today, rather.”

“And my breeches and shirt and stockings and shoes – ”

“You were in a dark stinking pit,” I reminded him, almost patiently.

“A cellar.” He visibly shuddered and took a gulp of the brandy. “There were rats. And spirits – dozens of them! Nastiest lot I ever came across. Then all the men just
rushed out!”

I was sitting in his one chair, at the table under the eaves; I toyed with the papers that lay neatly piled there, keeping my eye on the candle which was almost burnt down to a stub, and trying
to control the anger that still threatened me. “Why?”

“Something was happening outside. God knows what!”

I knew what. “So how did you get out of the cellar?”

He showed me a grin. “Charles, they’d run off in haste!”

“Don’t tell me they’d left the door unlocked!”

“Exactly. Though the place was in pitch darkness and I had to blunder around until I found the damn thing. And that wasn’t fun in bare feet, I can tell you! When I got upstairs there
was no getting into the street because everyone was out there, so I went up to the floors above. There were great holes knocked through the walls, joining all the houses in the row.”

“Escape routes,” I said, “in case they’re pursued. They’ll go in at one house and out at another.”

“So,” he said, “I climbed out of a window and dropped to the ground.”

“From the second floor? Hugh!”

He grinned. “I’m a dancer, Charles. I know how to use my body. Only trouble was, it was an inside court. No way out to the street.” He laughed and thrust the glass at me for
more brandy. “So they caught me again and threw me back in the cellar. God, those spirits!”

“Where does the drink come in?” I asked. “You stank of it when I found you.”

“Most of it went over my outside,” he said. “They damn near choked me, trying to get it down my throat.”

I mused on this. “They must have thought that if they killed you, there’d be too much fuss. But if they made you drunk, you’d probably be so confused you’d not remember
anything. And when you came round, naked, on the Key you’d be worried about being a laughing stock, so you’d creep home and pretend nothing had happened.”

I straightened the papers on the table. The behaviour of the men was logical enough; they had seized their chance when Hugh dashed into the chare after the girl. But the girl – Hugh had
said she was running across the street when he came out of Holloway’s shop. Yet she had left the shop before we reached it and we had then spent time talking to Holloway. She should have been
long gone. What had she been doing in the meantime?