Sword and Song (5 page)

The meal wound to its interminable end; the ladies rose and departed, the men shifted to the host’s end of the table and brandy was brought out. Two gentlemen wandered out on to the
terrace to piss. Talk turned to horses and sport. Fischer dragged his chair closer to mine.

“Do you know this Shotley Bridge, sir? Is it a big place?”

It was years since I’d been near the town; my father had a pupil there once and I used to accompany him from time to time. But that was before I was twelve years old and the memories were
hazy. Heron shifted nearer and offered a few observations – he had a cousin out that way himself, apparently.

“The book?” I asked, trying to sound normal. “Of what kind is it?”

“A book of tunes, sir.”

“Then Patterson’s your man,” Heron said with a faint smile.

“Traditional tunes?”

“Church tunes. For the psalms. My grandfather was a keen amateur musician. When he came to England he was fascinated by the tunes sung here in church, and collected as many as he could
find.” Fischer sipped at his brandy, frowned down into it. I’d already discovered that it was not of the first quality; Heron has many times offered me his own brandy, which is
excellent, and I’ve come to recognise inferior stuff. “The book has sentimental value – I have little that was my grandfather’s. But in addition, Mr Patterson, we have great
need of such books in America for our churches. And good singing teachers for that matter.” He cast me a sideways look. “You wouldn’t fancy a new life yourself, would
you?”

“Patterson’s no expert on singing,” Heron said sourly.

I had to admit the truth of this although I wished he’d phrased it more diplomatically. “You need to visit Durham Cathedral, sir, there are excellent singers and teachers there. You
may tempt one of them to travel.”

The talk at the top of the table had turned to politics. In time of war, such talk is inevitable and we are on the verge of war. I was silent for a moment, trying to calm myself. If I started
every time someone mentioned a book, I’d have a hard time of it. I was tired; I told myself a good night’s sleep would make a great deal of difference.

“Don’t blame all the trouble on the French!” Alyson said, laughing, to the severe-faced man who’d escorted Esther in to dinner. “I’m French myself, you
know.” He chuckled at the horrified faces around him. “Well, technically, at least – I was born in Calais. My parents married and lived there for some years. My father sold out of
the army when he married and took to the wine trade.”

I looked into the brandy again, thinking that father had not passed his expertise on to son. I glanced up and caught Heron’s sarcastic glance, which nearly made me burst out laughing.

“The French!” the plump gentleman said. I fancied I’d seen him in Newcastle once or twice but didn’t know his name. “Never mind the French, sir! It’s the
Americans to blame...”

A silence fell. Gazes drifted and settled on Fischer. He held up a hand humorously. “Don’t look at me, gentlemen. It’s the Georgians you need to question. I’m a
law-abiding Pennsylvania man.”

Alyson called for more brandy. Heron pushed away his glass, said, “I have a letter to write,” and walked from the room. I glanced at Fischer. “Do you care to join the ladies,
sir?”

“Indeed,” he said, abandoning the brandy almost untouched. “And I think I might have another attempt at persuading you to join us in Philadelphia.”

“I believe – ”

“No, no,” he said in good-humour. “Don’t give me an answer now. Later.”

I searched for a diplomatic answer. And heard myself saying: “I’d be interested to know more about this book...”

The ladies are always said to be eager to see the gentlemen after dinner. The ladies were not pleased to see Fischer and myself. Mrs Alyson was standing by the fireplace,
straightening ornaments on the mantelshelf – she gave us a cold hard stare. Another lady was slouched back in her armchair, rubbing her distended stomach; she sat up suddenly with a grimace
and assumed a look of polite boredom. An elderly dowager dozed over a book of drawings; two middle-aged ladies were laughing over an anecdote.

“Patterson,” Mrs Alyson said, as if I was a servant. “Play some music.” She jerked her head towards the harpsichord in the far corner of the room.

A dozen gazes turned to me. Well, this was what I was here for, after all; time to start earning my money. I excused myself to Fischer and went to open the harpsichord.

The room was so small there was hardly space enough to edge round the instrument; the stool was hard up against the wall and I suspected I’d bang my elbow every time I played the lowest
notes. I knew too, by the dust when I lifted the lid, that the instrument would be out of tune. Nor was there any light to read music by; only one candle burned on the end of the mantelshelf and
was worse than useless, casting my shadow across the black keys.

Fortunately, any musician worth the name knows a hatful of tunes by heart. I launched into a minuet, wincing at the out-of-tune notes. Playing by heart did at least give me leisure to look
about. I spotted Esther at once, seated behind the two gossiping ladies. She was staring at me expressionlessly. When she met my gaze, she coolly returned her attention to her book.

What in heaven’s name brought these people here, I wondered. Only the two middle-aged ladies were gaining any pleasure from the gathering – and Fischer, who was browsing along the
pictures on the wall. The hostess was making no effort to entertain her guests – Mrs Alyson was restlessly moving backwards and forwards, glancing into the glass of pictures as she passed,
putting up a hand to push a stray strand of hair back into place.

The gentlemen came in at last, and crowded us out, jolting the harpsichord as they pushed past. I carried on playing, though I was sure not a note could be heard in the hubbub. Close by, Alyson
accosted Fischer at the corner of the mantelpiece.

“A sword and a book,” I heard Alyson say, smiling.

“Alas,” Fischer said. “A sword only. The book seems to have been sold.”

I played a wrong note, and saw Esther glance at me sharply. No one else appeared to notice.

“It was in the family’s possession ten years since,” Fischer mused. “But two or three years back, a correspondent of mine came across it in a bookshop in Newcastle. A
shop owned by a man called – Chartwell?”

“Charnley?” Alyson asked, smiling. He could apparently get names right when he chose.

“Indeed,” Fischer said. “My friend asked the shopboy to put the book aside until he could write me about it. But the boy forgot and it was sold.”

“You don’t know the purchaser’s name?”

“No one seems to know! I can’t imagine why anyone should want it. My friend said it was in a very bad condition – the spine was evidently broken.”

“But you’re in no doubt it was your book?”

“It is distinctive,” Fischer said, nodding. “A black binding, an inscription inside in German, and my grandfather’s signature dated 1722 – the year before his
death. I was asking Mr Patterson if he knew of it.”

Alyson’s gaze settled on me; he raised an enquiring eyebrow. I stopped playing. “I’ve not seen it but I do have friends who might be worth asking.”

“Then you’ll oblige me by asking,” Alyson said. “You don’t know our Mr Pattinson well yet, Mr Fischer, but he has quite a reputation for solving mysteries. Now, do
come and meet my friend, Ridley.”

He bore Fischer off across the room. ‘Our Mr Pattinson’ indeed. You’d think Alyson had lived in the area all his life!

His wife swept by again. “Play, Mr Patterson,” she said. “That’s what you’re here for.”

I played, while the ladies gossiped and the gentlemen talked about hunting. The severe-faced man plumped himself down beside Esther; she closed her book and greeted him with a look of cool
politeness. I played on, until I spotted Heron making his way through the party with an assurance that cleared his path without his needing to ask. He presented me with a folded note.

“A letter for you, Patterson. Sent by messenger from Newcastle.” He turned away, took two dishes of tea from a passing gentleman and handed one to me before sipping at the other
himself. An heroic gesture; Heron loathes tea.

The note was warm from Heron’s hand and was addressed to me in Hugh’s writing. I broke open the seal.

Hugh didn’t care to be seen in such a house but he didn’t seem bothered about
my
reputation. He wasn’t thinking sensibly – how could I leave here within hours of
arriving? Especially when I wanted permission to go back to town when Nell’s spirit disembodied. I could write to Bedwalters, certainly, but I hardly thought a note from me would persuade
him.

“Trouble?” Heron asked. I gave him the note. He read it, considered, gave it back. “The man has more courage than I gave him credit for.”

That made me pause. He was right; Bedwalters’s behaviour
was
courageous – I’d not seen it in that light before. To throw away respectability, home, reputation for the
sake of love – I’d not realised I was staring at Esther until I met her gaze. Still icy.

My situation with Esther was entirely different, I told myself. Poor Nell had had no reputation to lose; she could not have been damaged by Bedwalters’s devotion. Esther stood to lose a
great deal by any selfishness on my part.

“What will you do?” Heron asked.

I went upstairs to write a letter, not sure if that last question of Heron’s had been about Bedwalters or Esther.

Of course, there was no notepaper or ink in my room, so I went downstairs again to find the library, where considerate hosts usually keep such things. I got lost, inevitably,
and was on the verge of calling out for a servant, when I glimpsed bookshelves through an open door and went in to find a room shrouded in twilight; a single candle burned on a large central table.
A few books were scattered on the table; I turned one over idly and found it to be music in a strange old notation. Written by a man called Dowland, evidently. How quickly composers are forgotten,
I thought – maybe one day my own music would suffer the same fate.

Pen, paper and sealing wax were on a small shelf in one corner and I took them to the table, where I could have the benefit of the candlelight. I’d hardly sat down when a voice said:
“Good day, my son.”

A faint brightness slid across the tarnished wood of the table-top; its feebleness suggested the spirit must be very old, eighty or more, which meant the living man must have died around 1666.
He must have lived through Cromwell’s Commonwealth and King Charles’s days.

“I am Monsignor Collins,” the spirit said with great dignity, lingering at the foot of the candlestick. “Pray do continue. Do not let me disturb you.”

“Monsignor?” I echoed, startled.

“You’re not prejudiced against the church, I hope, my son.”

“No, no, not at all.” I hesitated. “You mean, the Church of Rome.”

“Oh, indeed.” The spirit was positively cheerful about it. “I’m the black sheep of the family. Everyone else has followed the Protestant faith since Good King Henry
brought it to England.” He sounded rueful. “I’ve always been one for being different. But don’t let me stop you writing your letter.”

“It’s a private matter.”

“And you’re afraid I’ll read it and pass the details on? Never fear, sir – I never learnt to read!”

A churchman who couldn’t read? I began to think the spirit had been less a churchman and more a rogue.

“It’s very cheering to have so many people in the house,” the spirit murmured as I hunted for a knife to sharpen the quill. “The old master liked his solitude. And his
money.”

I plainly wasn’t going to be rid of him and I’ve found, through painful experiment, that it’s wise to be friendly with spirits. “A miser, was he?”

“Careful. Didn’t like spendthrifts. Turned his nephew down more than once when he came applying for a loan.”

“He’s got everything now,” I pointed out.

“Everything comes to he who waits,” said the spirit sententiously.

The door opened; the spirit was gone in an instant. Edward Alyson hesitated on the threshold. His bright blue coat was rumpled, his face red, and he walked unsteadily. But he talked sensibly
enough.

“This business with the girl,” he said, with good humour. He supported himself on the edge of the table as he eased into the chair opposite me. “Surely it’s not worth
pursuing? The girl was a whore.”

It was unlikely he – or any man of his class – could be brought to regard Nell as a human being, rather than a mere convenience for gentlemen’s worst urges, so I merely said:
“As your guest suggested, a man who kills once may kill again and next time he may choose someone of – ” I chose my words carefully “ – more standing in the
community.”

Alyson lounged back in his chair, grinning. “I’ll not persuade you, I see. You’re a man who finishes what he starts.”

“Always,” I agreed.