Sword and Song
Authors: Roz Southey
Also by Roz Southey:
Praise for Roz Southey’s richly inventive historical mysteries:
You can see and smell the city, feel the mystery and tensions, and become drawn into the pursuit... It remains absorbing to the end... a must-read.
– Historical Novels Review Editor’s Choice
What really makes the novel come alive is its setting... she seamlessly incorporates the historical information into the novel... The dialogue, too, rings true: just
ornamented enough to feel right for its time... A charming novel...
– Booklist, USA
A very entertaining story... Patterson is an engaging hero... growing and developing as a character as each novel progresses.
– Angela Youngman, Monsters and Critics
Original, unusual, and grabs your attention from the opening lines. The tension is maintained, the characters are engaging, and the reader is kept guessing right to the
end.
– Sarah Rayne, award-winning crime writer
... plot as intricate as a fugue... wickedly pointed characterizations and the convincing evocation of the sounds and stink of a preindustrial city. Southey deserves an
encore...
– Publishers Weekly, USA
... a masterpiece of period fiction that delights while it provides an intriguing puzzle that keeps the reader riveted until the end.
– Early Music America
First published in 2010
by Crème de la Crime
P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT
Copyright © 2010 Roz Southey
The moral right of Roz Southey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any
information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren
Cover design by Yvette Warren
Front cover image by Peter Roman
ISBN 978-0-9550566-2-7
eBook ISBN 978-1-906790-89-9
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
www.creativecontentdigital.com
About the author:
Roz Southey is a musicologist and historian, and lives in the North East of England.
My thanks ...
...to Crème de la Crime and Lynne Patrick for continuing to have faith in Charles Patterson and his friends. Also to my editor, Lesley Horton, for all her hard work and
perceptive insights.
...to Jeff for all his excellent company.
...to Jackie, Laura and Anu for their continuing friendship, and for their endless store of good stories. It will be a long time before I forget the story of Anu’s proposal...
...to Matthew. Many’s the happy hour we’ve spent swapping stories of musicians past – and, yes, there are one or two mentions of Handel.
...to all Crème’s other authors, especially Maureen Carter, Mary Andrea Clarke, Kaye C Hill and Adrian Magson, from all of whom I’ve had useful and often humorous advice.
...to all my family, including my sisters Wendy and Jennifer, and my brother-in-law, John, for their encouragement and support.
...and particularly to my husband, Chris, who is still supplying me with restorative cups of tea, and ferrying me to various literary events without complaint. And he even reads the books!
For Kirsten –
even though she prefers the
seventeenth century to the eighteenth...
1
Every time I come to England, I am struck by the dens of iniquity that exist in the dark corners of the cities.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother Georges, 10 August 1736]
“Three shirts at least,” Hugh said, gulping down his beer. The din in the tavern was so loud he had to shout.
“I don’t have three shirts,” I shouted back.
“Devil take it, Charles, you musician fellows don’t know how to dress!”
“And you dancing master fellows are damned peacocks.”
He grinned. My friend Hugh Demsey likes his clothes and, unlike me, has enough money to indulge himself. Tonight, he was dressed in his best coat of turquoise blue, with a paler waistcoat and a
cravat so white it must be brand new. Even at the end of the day, he looked neat and fresh. The clothes, and his black hair – he hates the itch of wigs as much as I do – always attract
attention from the ladies.
“I’ve been to these country houses,” he said, signalling to a serving girl for more beer. “The gentry wear a different suit of clothes every day. If you take one shirt
and one coat, you’ll feel like – like – ”
“A tradesman? That’s what I am, Hugh. I’m not going to this summer party as a guest – I’m going to work, to entertain the ladies and gentlemen.”
“Make them see you as something more than a tradesman!”
I laughed. “How?”
He looked at me, began to speak, closed his mouth again, breathed heavily. “Marry the lady,” he said in a rush, as if he knew he’d regret it.
“No,” I said forcibly.
The lady he referred to is wealthy and of impeccable family, much too good for a lowly musician. And with the added disadvantage, in the eyes of the world, of being – at thirty-nine years
of age – twelve years my senior.
“I’ll wager you ten guineas you’ll name the day before the end of the year,” Hugh said.
“I will not.”
“I’ve a feeling it’s not up to you, Charles.” He tossed the serving girl a few coins. “The lady’s pretty determined.”
It was then that the message came. Something gleaming slid along the wall to my right. A spirit. I tried not to flinch. Spirits cluster in alleys and streets and houses, on doors and
window-frames and roofs, each tied to the place the living man or woman died. Three days after death the spirit disembodies, and they form a network we living men can only guess at. We see them
when they choose to let us see; they speak when they wish and not otherwise. If they want to cause trouble it’s difficult to prevent them; I’ve had recent experience of the havoc they
can wreak. But this spirit seemed innocent enough; it was drunk – spirits in taverns tend to be – but it made sense enough.
“Message for Mr Patterson. One of you two gents, is it?”
“I’m Charles Patterson,” I agreed.
“Message from the constable, sir. He wonders if you’ll come down to the lanes by the Castle. To Mrs McDonald’s in Walker’s Wynd. Third house from the Black Gate.
It’s urgent, he says.”
Hugh groaned. “Involves a dead body, does it?”
“Didn’t say anything about that, sir. Just said it was urgent. Can I send a message back to say you’re on your way?” Spirits can send messages from one end of the town to
the other in less time than it takes for a living man to speak them.
“Do you want to go?” Hugh asked. “It’s gone midnight. Aren’t you leaving town early tomorrow?”
I shook my head. “The carriage is coming for me at midday. If Bedwalters is asking for my advice, he must be worried. He usually advises me to keep clear of these matters.”
I’m a musician by trade and inclination but ten months ago now, last November, I was involved by chance in the machinations of a villain that led on to murder, and since that time two more
such affairs have come my way. I seem to have a knack of unravelling crimes, of working out what happened, and finding the guilty party. I admit I like the feeling that I can mete out justice where
others fail. Bedwalters the constable has inevitably been involved in these matters too and has had cause to be annoyed at my interference. But he’s a decent fair man and I like him very
much.
Hugh fell into step beside me as we went to the tavern door.
“Handkerchiefs?” he asked.
“Half a dozen.”
“Neckcloths?”
“Another half-dozen.”
“Stockings?”
“And that’s another thing,” I said. “Why the devil should such things cost so much?”
The night was cold; we hesitated on the doorstep of the tavern looking left and right. A few sailors were still about, and two apprentices walked on the other side of the road earnestly debating
the appearance of the latest comet. Most of the lanterns in the street had burnt themselves out, or were guttering.
“I wish you wouldn’t get involved in these things, Charles,” Hugh said as we walked down towards the castle. “It’s dangerous.”
“It pays better than music,” I retorted. So far I’d made sixty pounds from the affairs in which I’d been involved, more than my usual annual income.
The bulk of St Nicholas’s church was black against the starlit August sky – a full moon was rising high above the mass of narrow lanes beyond Amen Corner. Over all loomed the
castle’s Black Gate.
