Secret Lament (21 page)

I went down to Mrs Baker’s lodging house. It was time I spoke to Julia’s parents. I could not credit that they had no idea who had engaged their daughter’s interest, so much so
that she had contemplated eloping. And Mazzanti had not yet properly explained those attacks on him. This preposterous tale of spies!

I heard raised voices inside the house before I got to the door and had to knock several times before Mrs Baker herself answered it. She ushered me inside hurriedly. The hallway was stiflingly
hot, the drawn curtains and shutters on the lower floor keeping in the heat of the previous day. Mrs Baker shut the door behind me and raised her eyebrows to heaven.

“Dear God, Mr Patterson, but we could do with some sanity in the house!”

Mazzanti’s voice drifted down from upstairs, quibbling over the cost of mourners and horses and black draped hearses.

“Wants only the best,” Mrs Baker said, “but wants to pay nothing for it.”

I listened a moment longer. Mazzanti was clearly planning an extravagantly demonstrative funeral – a procession through the streets with half a dozen mourners, kettle drums and muffled
trumpets. Where in heaven’s name did he think he’d get kettle drums in Newcastle!? And trumpets? He’d have to call in the band of one of the regiments at Tynemouth and they
charged the earth.

“Wants to make sure everyone sees how fond he was of the girl,” Mrs Baker said.

“Was he?”

“Never a bit. Just wanted to make money out of her.”

There was a little silence upstairs, marred only by the calm sorrowful murmurs of the undertaker.

“And Signora Mazzanti?”

Another sigh. “I can’t do anything with her. And the maid won’t go near her. Or him. Or the body.”

“You need a rest,” I said, eying her weary face.

“It’ll all be over in a day or two,” she said, philosophically. “And at least I’ll have no spirits in the house. Thank God the girl got killed out in the street;
I’d not want to put up with her whining the rest of my life.” She looked at me. “That sounds hard, doesn’t it? Uncharitable.”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Well, I feel uncharitable,” she said. “They’re the hardest work I ever had. Comes of being foreigners, I daresay. She’s in the drawing room, Mr Patterson. Go on
in.” She smiled mischievously. “Don’t worry, she prefers the gentlemen. That’s why you can’t hear her crying now. Mr Heron’s with her.”

I went into the drawing room. In the plain room with its comfortable chairs and scatter of cushions and knickknacks, a vase of overblown white lilies struck an incongruous note. As did Signora
Mazzanti, huddled in a chair in a froth of black satin, black plumes in her hair, black jewellery dripping over her bosom and wrists. She was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief as white as the
lilies.

Across the room, Claudius Heron turned and met my gaze. He had been straightening books on an occasional table, as if in need of something ordered to do. I fancied I saw a trace of relief in his
eyes. They were the only people present; there was no maid, no chaperone; perhaps Mrs Baker had been sitting with them. If so, she did not come back in.

“Signora.” I hesitated, then eased myself into the chair opposite her, so that I could look her in the eyes – if I could persuade her to look up. “Signora, forgive me,
but I want to ask you some questions.”

She raised limpid blue eyes, swimming with tears. Heavens, but she must have been beautiful twenty years ago.

“About Julia,” I said.

She gasped and buried her face in her damp handkerchief. Heron strode across to us. “Signora, you must answer. I assume you want to find the man who killed your daughter?”

His tone was brutal in its matter-of-factness. I winced, but to my surprise, Signora Mazzanti straightened, murmured, whispered, finally said, just audibly, “Yes, yes, of
course.”

She turned those pleading eyes on me again. “Do you know who – who
hurt
her, sir?”

“Not yet,” I said gently. “That’s why I need your help.”

“I’m sure I don’t know anything,” she said with just a trace of – what? petulance? She glanced at Heron as if for approval.

He said curtly, “Go on.”

“I was asleep,” she protested.

“Yes, yes, of course.” I did not like Heron’s manner but it was clear that Signora Mazzanti responded better to it than to my cautious sympathy, so I tried to cultivate a
little directness myself. “Do you know who she was eloping with?”

“No!” she said convulsively, then gathered her composure and spoke more firmly. “No, I’m sure you’re wrong. She wouldn’t do anything like that.”

I fancied I heard Claudius Heron give the tiniest of exasperated sighs.

“Julia would do nothing to give us pain,” Signora Mazzanti said. She dabbed at her moist eyes, stared fixedly at a point on the carpet. “You think me very foolish, no doubt,
sir. But I know my daughter. She was a good girl. She knew – ” She faltered.

“Yes?” I probed. The Signora glanced quickly up at Heron.

“She knew we depended on her.”

“Financially?”

Her head jerked up; she sat a little straighter. “Yes, sir, financially,” she said bitterly. “The world seems to prefer vapid prettiness to true worth!”

Vapid prettiness – was that how she had regarded her daughter? The vision of a contented, happy family that she had been trying to present was rapidly vanishing.

“She was aware of her attractions, I think,” I said with a careful edge of contempt.

“Oh, yes,” Signora Mazzanti said scornfully. “She knew she could attract the men and that they’d pay.”

Was she suggesting that Julia had sold her body for money? Given Julia’s pregnancy, that was clearly not impossible.

“But you don’t know of one particular man?”

“One?” she snapped. Then she seemed to recollect herself, cast a fleeting look at Heron. In that look, I saw how similar mother and daughter had been – that was not a look
pleading for help and support, but a quick assessment of the effect she was having on her audience.

“Who?”

She flushed. Yes, I thought, she certainly knew something.

“That player. The one who performed the young hero.”

“Reynolds?” Heron asked.

“Anyone else?”

“Half a dozen gentlemen,” she said contemptuously.

It was no good; she knew very little in reality, I surmised, and was intent upon making a great deal of it.

“She wouldn’t be told,” the Signora said. “She’d do anything to give me pain. None of it was accidental, you can be sure of that.”

“What in particular?”

“Always taking her father’s side. Always telling me how old I looked.” The Signora’s voice dripped scorn. “Telling me she’d teach me how to sing
English
opera instead of Italian.
She
– teach
me
!”

“And her father did not reprimand her?”

“Oh, yes,” Signora Mazzanti said. “He reprimanded her all right.”

The bitterness of this remark bewildered me and I saw that it puzzled Heron too. Why should she be annoyed that her husband had disciplined the girl who had been so rude to her? Or did she mean
it sarcastically?

She was sitting bolt upright, an imperious figure, but then seemed to recollect herself. She looked up at Heron with watery eyes. “Please – I think – a little tea – would
you be so good – ” And she was drooping again, wielding that damp handkerchief.

Heron was still for a moment, then nodded. “I will go and find Mrs Baker.”

He strode for the door, and I made my excuses and followed him; it would not do to be alone with the Signora, and in any case I fancied Heron wanted to talk. Why else should he go to the trouble
of leaving the room when he could simply have rung the bell for the maid?

I had hardly shut the drawing room door behind me when he rounded on me. He kept his voice low and quiet but the venom in it took me aback.

“God damn it, Patterson, what fiends women are!”

I blinked at his fury, stuttered something incoherent.

“She plays the loving mother when she hated the girl!”

“Mazzanti was the same,” I pointed out. “It’s a household of enemies.”

“And she sings so wonderfully.” There was a bitter twist to Heron’s mouth. “Tales of love and heroic sacrifice, of maternal selflessness and dutiful obedience. Oh, yes,
Patterson, she knows how to act all the correct sentiments.”

“Far from it,” I said, in that level calm tone I knew he appreciated. “You wouldn’t be raging at her now if she had not given herself away.”

He was breathing deeply. The angry flush began to die out of his lean cheeks. I went on, to give him a little extra time to recover.

“She cannot be the murderer,” I pointed out. “We know we are looking for a man – Julia was raped.”

“If she had been a true mother, she would have known exactly who her daughter was seeing and would have prevented the elopement!”

“The Signora sees only what concerns herself.”

In the silence that followed, we could hear Mazzanti, upstairs, still laying down the law to the undertaker. Heron grimaced.

“Hear that, Patterson? How much do you think a funeral like that will cost?”

“More than the Mazzantis have, no doubt.”

“There are plans on foot to hold a benefit for the family. A concert or a theatre performance perhaps – anything to raise money for them. And the concert directors are talking of
increasing the amount to be paid to Signora Mazzanti for singing in the concerts this winter.”

“They’ll bankrupt the series,” I said in horror. “We can hardly afford what they are paying now!”

Heron sneered. “Don’t worry – nothing will come of that idea! When did you ever know the directors to give away money? You’ll no doubt find yourself playing in a benefit
concert, however.”

I nodded. All the musicians in town would be there, giving their services free of charge. Few would know the Mazzantis well, others would dislike them. But you never turned down an appeal to
help raise money for an indigent colleague; next year you might be the one in need of help.

“And who knows,” Heron said dryly, his calm quite recovered. “Maybe the whole affair will give the Mazzantis such a dislike for the town that they head straight back to London.
And then you may lead the concerts as musical director after all.”

He swung on his heels and strode off towards the back of the house. His parting shot was thrown back at me over his shoulder. “At least
something
good may come of this
affair.”

But I go along with whatever Lady Hubert says; marital peace is worth a little sacrifice.

[Letter of Sir John Hubert to his brother-in-law, October 1731]

I was not sure I wanted to profit in such a way. To know that your good fortune may be the cause of someone else’s destitution is not a palatable thought, even if John
Mazzanti was so objectionable.

I had thought him destined for a violent death. I had never imagined it might be his daughter that died.

I was about to climb the stairs to see Mazzanti when I heard footsteps upstairs. Mazzanti and the undertaker must be coming down. Well, it saved me the effort of going up to him. And if
he’d had his way in the matter of the funeral, he might be in a good mood to answer questions.

But to my astonishment, as the figures appeared at the top of the stair, I saw not the undertaker but Athalia Keregan, hanging on Mazzanti’s arm. He was looking benignly paternal, patting
her hand and murmuring consoling noises as she dabbed her eyes with a scrap of lace.

They did not immediately notice me. Not until they were almost at the foot of the stair did Athalia glance around and see me in the middle of the hallway. She looked startled, then gave me a
wink from behind the handkerchief before turning her watery adoring gaze on Mazzanti again. She really was a remarkably fine actress.

Mazzanti murmured his farewells and Athalia lingered as long as she dared before rushing past me with a convulsive sob. She managed to give me an admonitory kick on the ankle as she passed.

Mazzanti was glowering at me. “I suppose you’ve come to gawp at my daughter’s remains, Patterson?” His breath was stale with beer.

Athalia, no doubt, I thought, had come to ‘pay her respects’.

“I want to ask you some questions,” I said, borrowing Heron’s curtness.

“Questions? What right have you to question me?”

Heron came from the direction of the kitchens, striding up behind Mazzanti. “Don’t stand on your dignity, man! If anyone can find the murderer of your daughter, Patterson can. He has
an expertise in these matters.”

“An expertise in prying?” Mazzanti lifted a supercilious eyebrow. “How creditable. Out of my way, if you please, Heron. I must see my wife.”

He walked towards the drawing room, with only a little unsteadiness. I wondered which had come first – the beer or the despair. For he was a man lost, confused, and bewildered; I had seen
it in his expression when we had brought Julia’s body home.

Heron went after him at once, his face set in disapproval. Mazzanti’s casual use of his surname, without the politeness owing from a social inferior, was bad enough but the tone was beyond
acceptance. I expected a reprimand; when I followed them into the room, however, I found Heron standing by the cold fireplace, contemplating Mazzanti in silence as the man poured himself a glassful
of brandy.

The maid came in with a tray of tea; Signora Mazzanti looked helplessly at the dishes and spoons and all the other paraphernalia before her. I took pity on her, sat down and poured the tea. It
was women’s work but if I was to get any sense out of Mazzanti I needed to gain credit with him somehow and perhaps helping his wife would please him.

He showed every sign of ignoring her, however. He came round to the chair opposite me and sat down, crossing his legs nonchalantly, as if he was alone in the room. Heron and I exchanged
glances.

“It cannot please you, surely,” Heron said irritably, “that the man who raped and killed your daughter is still free. Patterson can help you find him.”

Mazzanti took a dish of tea from me. “Julia was not raped.”

“No, no,” Signora Mazzanti protested. “I’m sure she wasn’t.”