Chords and Discords (7 page)

“You saw the lock,” I said to Heron, when I trusted myself to speak.

He nodded.

“The door was forced from the inside,” I said.

“A remarkably foolish mistake to make.”

“He vandalised the workshop himself.”

A moment or two’s silence; Heron stirred and said, “I advise you to withdraw from this matter.”

“I cannot, sir,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “The money he offers will see me through the rest of the year, whatever transpires with the Italians. And if you think I
should withdraw, sir, why did you take the trouble to beat Bairstowe up to thirty guineas? – for which,” I added, mindful of my manners, “I thank you.”

“Carefulness with money is admirable,” he said. “Meanness is abominable.” I was reminded of Tom Eade – he had been a miser, according to his mother.
“And,” Heron added, “William Bairstowe is truly abominable.” He turned to look directly at me. “I know you like a challenge, Patterson, but there is something
dangerous about this matter. I say again, pull back.”

On the Key; the breeze snapped at the rigging of seagoing ships, gulls wheeled overhead, diving for scraps of food. The keelmen with their yellow waistcoats sauntered
insolently along with dogs barking at their heels; boys ran shrieking, drunk with the prospect of their first voyage. Heron had left me to undertake some business; I had wandered off alone. I was
in need of solitude, time to think and order my thoughts.

This was plainly not the place to find it. I walked towards the Tyne Bridge, passing great heaps of coal and wood and the ruins of the city wall. On my right, narrow entrances gave on to chares
of the most unsavoury reputation; further along was the magnificence of the Guildhall. And beyond that were the arches over the river, sturdy and high, scattered with houses and shops.

I climbed the slope up to the first shops. It is never completely quiet here, but in the early evening only a few people ride home after a long day’s journey. I passed the tower that is
used as a prison, passed Fleming’s stationer’s shop. The last of the sun gleamed through clouds, showing cracks in the stones, rot in the wooden timbering of the houses.

A spirit gleamed on a shop window and called to me in a smug, self-satisfied way; I ignored her and walked on, towards the blue stones that mark the centre of the bridge – the boundary
between the boroughs of Newcastle and Gateshead. The road on the Gateshead side is markedly better kept. I leant on the parapet and stared down at the grey water.

It did not pay to dismiss Claudius Heron’s advice lightly. He was a cautious man and always inclined to believe the worst of everyone. But he was right to think that Bairstowe was playing
with me – the man had clearly wrecked the workshop himself. If the threatening notes had indeed existed, I’d wager Bairstowe had written them. Yet those twenty – no, thirty
– guineas: how could I turn them down? And more importantly than that, a man had died. If his death was not an accident, Tom Eade deserved justice.

I was roused from my reverie by the sharp clip-clop of horse’s hooves, loud on the cobbles. I glanced round – and caught my breath.

The lady that sat astride the chestnut horse walking wearily towards me was flagrantly wearing breeches, albeit under a long concealing coat with ample skirts. Dear God, I had forgotten how
beautiful she was: pale hair gleaming under a tricorne hat, slim figure so tempting in that outrageous outfit. And blue eyes settling on me with cool composure.

“Mr Patterson,” the lady said, nodding.

“Mrs Jerdoun,” I said, flushing.

It was two months or more since I had seen Esther Jerdoun, and she affected me not one whit less powerfully than she had before. At first consideration, there is nothing odd in this – what
is more natural than that a single lady (the title
Mrs
is of course honorary) and a single man should be attracted to each other? But she is a lady of ample means and I a mere musician of
none. She is a woman of thirty-eight and I a man of twenty-six. There is a vast gulf between us in social standing, in wealth and in age, and between us there can be nothing.

I looked up, trying to conceal my pleasure at seeing her.

“I trust you had a good journey, madam.”

“A weary one,” she said wryly. “And I return a good month later than I had hoped. Take my advice, Mr Patterson, and keep out of the clutches of lawyers. They are never content
with anything less than complete thoroughness. Every detail must be scrutinised at extraordinary length, every phrase debated with exquisite care.”

“But your inheritance is secured, I hope, madam?”

She sighed, controlled the shifting horse. “In part. But there is still much wrangling over some of the land. It drives me to distraction!” Her gaze searched my face. “You are
well, Mr Patterson?”

I was hungry, to tell the truth, very hungry.

“Very well, madam.”

“I was sorry to miss your benefit concert,” she said, then added sharply: “Have I said anything amiss?”

I must have given something away by my look, I supposed. “I did not have a benefit concert, madam. The gentlemen did not think – ”

I could not think of any polite way of describing the gentlemen’s conduct. The sentence hung unfinished between us.

“No benefit?” she said, at last.

“There was not time before Lent began and the entertainments ceased.”

“Then no doubt they will give you a benefit in Race Week?”

Awkwardly, I explained about Signora and Signor Mazzanti. Mrs Jerdoun sat above me on the tall horse, looking down, the wind blowing tendrils of her pale hair about her neck. Her face set into a
hard, unreadable mask.

“Indeed?” she said. “So the town will enjoy extracts from Mr Handel’s Italian operas? The audience will no doubt hang on every word.”

I winced. I doubt if more than half a dozen ladies and gentlemen of the town have enough Italian to say
yes, no
and
thank you
; Jenison is proud of knowing nothing but English and
so are all his fellow merchants. I had a vision of the concert: Signora Mazzanti, statuesque and well-bosomed no doubt, letting the liquid syllables dance about the concert room, half the audience
looking on disapprovingly, the other half whispering desperately for translations. And Demsey, with his knack at foreign languages, sitting at the back of the room, guffawing over some joke only he
can understand.

“Well,” Mrs Jerdoun said. “We shall see. Good day, sir.”

And she urged the weary horse into motion again.

I had a drink at Mrs Hill’s in the Fleshmarket but had too little money to get drunk and sat in increasing sobriety while everyone else around me grew steadily more
inebriated. I kept seeing Tom Eade in my mind’s eye, that covered body being carried out of the alley. What had I to complain about in comparison to that?

The lodging house was dark when I let myself in and wearily climbed the stairs to my rooms. Esther Jerdoun would be wallowing in a hot perfumed bath by now, ministered to by her attentive maid,
slipping from water to scented nightgown and thence to solicitously warmed sheets in an antique bed. All I had was a single room, a table piled with music books, two chairs, one bed with a lumpy
mattress –

I paused outside the door, key in my hand. I could hear snoring.

I pushed open the door and there he was, sprawled face down on my bed, with his greatcoat wrapped around him and his bags scattered about the floor. Snoring like a thunderstorm.

Hugh Demsey.

I didn’t wake him. I tried but I could not. I gave up and flung myself into a chair to look at him. His colour was healthier than it had been in the morning but that might be owing to the
fact he had brought in a jug of ale from the nearest tavern and drunk the lot. Crumbs from a meat pie were scattered over the music books on the table.

I sighed, dragged a blanket from under Hugh’s legs and curled myself in the chair. It was damned uncomfortable.

Church bells woke me next morning. I was stiff and aching, with a crick in my neck. I crawled across Hugh – still asleep – to peer out of the window. A faint sun
stained the cobbles of the street and picked out the widow ladies, four or five of them in all-enveloping black, stalking off to the early services. Sunday always brings out the widows, eager for
consolation – or a sight of the handsome unmarried curates.

I was stiff but I had slept surprisingly well and my mind was refreshed, my purpose certain. If I could get to the truth about poor Tom Eade and do myself a good turn financially, then why not?
And I knew where I could start in the matter: by questioning those men who might have had a grudge against William Bairstowe. As always when I see a course of action in front of me, and a puzzle to
get my teeth into, I felt a great deal happier.

I splashed my face with cold water and dressed hurriedly. Fortunately, I had had a shave yesterday, wishing to appear my best before the Managers of the Concerts. Hugh woke as I peered into my
scrap of mirror to arrange my cravat; he struggled on to one elbow. “Charles – ”

I regarded him in the mirror. “Why aren’t you halfway to Paris, Hugh?”

He frowned as if he wasn’t sure himself. “Got off the coach at Durham,” he said at last.

Sick as a dog, no doubt. “I said you were not yet recovered.”

“Not ill.” To judge by the way he ran his hand through his tousled hair, he certainly had a hangover. “All because of you.”

“Me? I’m not taking the blame for your folly, Hugh.” I shrugged myself into my coat.

“
My
folly! Damn it, I came back because of
your
folly. Working for Bairstowe! Remember what happened last time you got yourself involved in someone else’s business,
Charles. Damn near got me killed.”

He groaned and lowered his head to the bed again. “Can’t desert a friend,” he said thickly, and I thought he added something about ingratitude, but as he mumbled into the
blankets I couldn’t be certain. It was a good excuse but I saw what must have happened. Demsey had known by the time he reached Durham that he wasn’t fit enough to continue and he had
used my doings as a convenient excuse for turning back.

I regarded him with some amusement. “You’d better stay here until you’ve slept off that ale. Though I’d be grateful if you don’t put pie crumbs in my
bed!”

He raised his head and peered at me. “You’re in the devil of a good mood. And dressed well. Where are you off to?”

“Church.”

“Church!” he shrieked, pushing himself up again. “Charles, are you mad?”

I assumed a pious look. “I am a good Christian.”

“So am I,” he retorted. “That is why I avoid all that nonsense. Charles,” he added pleadingly, “Think of the psalm-singing!”

I shuddered. “Some things must be endured.” I snatched up my prayer book. “I’ll come to your rooms tonight, Hugh! Tell you all about Bairstowe.”

“Charles!” he called after me but I dashed off. It doesn’t do to be late for church.

Bairstowe’s enemies were no doubt legion. I was starting with the most obvious.

Solomon Strolger, organist of All Hallows Church.

All Hallows is not the most attractive of the town’s churches. Its age is against it; the walls are zigzagged by disturbingly large cracks and the window glass bellies
out as if the weight of the roof is too much for it. Inside, there is the chill that all churches possess, and a dimness that strains the eye.

The best-placed pews are of course all rented; I found myself a place near the back of the church where a pillar obscured my view of the altar and the pulpit; consequently, I hoped, I would not
be able to see the chaplain. He is a young callow man who has only been here a year or two; he still trembles at the sound of his own voice and is visibly conscious he is laying down the law to
merchants and seamen three times his own age.

The organ was playing when I went in – quite a decent organ, though clearly not well maintained; I heard at least two ciphers, caused by the mechanism sticking and allowing the air to
resonate in the pipes when it should have been cut off. The effect is a drone, rather like that of the bagpipes, though even less pleasant. My pew was directly under the gallery at the west end of
the church where the organ was placed, so I could see nothing of the organist.

During the horrors of the voluntary, I knelt and pretended to pray. Strolger is well-known for his fanciful productions. His music is too quick and cheerful, modulates from one key to another
with bewildering rapidity, and is much too secular to call devout men and women to worship; I could have sworn I heard hints of the Scotch song
The Highland Laddie.

The psalms too were as bad as I feared. All Hallows follows the old-fashioned practice of lining out the psalms, that is, the parish clerk sings each line in turn and is then copied by the
congregation. The method destroys all the poetry of the text by breaking up the sense in ridiculous places, and there is the tedium, intolerable to a musician, of inferior tunes sung at so slow a
pace that one must breathe after every note. I was almost tempted to copy Strolger and add a few ornamental flourishes to enliven the boredom.

Meanwhile, I looked about to see if I could spot the Bairstowes. Perhaps some member of the congregation would make life easy for me by staring at William with more than usual animosity.
Bairstowe was nowhere to be seen, but his brother-in-law John Holloway was in a pew near the front, as smart as a man with three times his wealth and six times his ancestry, bending solicitously
over the prayer book of a woman ten years his senior. A plain woman, with a country air – the sour-faced woman I had glimpsed staring down at Tom Eade’s body. Mrs Bairstowe, I
assumed.