Sword and Song (7 page)

Voices eddied around me like water, an indistinct ebb and flow of words. Someone said in annoyance, “... but I wanted to talk about the woodland.” I tried to
protest
: no, I’d walked through the wood safely – I was attacked on the steps
. A soothing voice murmured; a warm hand was heavy on my shoulder. Alyson said, “No, no, my
dear Ridley. Poachers are much more exciting!” My head was briefly full of midnight skies and stars in another world.

The hand pressed down on my shoulder. I prised open my eyes, winced at bright light and squeezed them shut again. Someone said: “He’s awake.”

Candle flames flickered when I opened my eyes again. Blotches of darkness resolved themselves into gentlemen: the plump gentleman – he was the one who’d mentioned the woodland; the
red-faced man who’d been too friendly with Esther; Claudius Heron, in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, looking at me with the oddest expression, a mixture of resignation and concern. His was the
hand urging me to be still.

Edward Alyson bent over me with a glass of brandy in his hand. “Drink this, Pattinson. It’ll make you feel better.”

I doubted that. I doubted anything could take away the headache pounding behind my eyes. I struggled to sit up, clutching the pale back of the couch on which I lay. Leaving, I saw with horror, a
vivid smear of blood.

I felt for my head. My hand encountered a ridiculously large bandage wound round my temples.

“You fell,” Alyson said, like a man encouraging a child to remember. “You misjudged the steps in the dark and tumbled down.”

“They were slippery,” the plump gentleman – Ridley – grumbled. “We’ve had far too much rain recently.”

I had not stumbled or slipped. I remembered putting my hand on top of someone else’s on the balustrade. I remembered a blow to my head. I started to say exactly that, but Heron intervened.
“It was nothing of the sort,” he said curtly. “I know what I saw.” He glanced at me. “I heard a noise outside, looked out of my bedroom window and saw someone standing
behind you. Not that I could tell who it was – it was too damned dark.”

He overrode a faint suggestion of
servant
from Ridley. “Do servants generally go around hitting guests over the head?” He nodded at me. “I shouted to warn you but I was
too late. Nevertheless, the fellow must have heard me – he took fright and ran. So I hurried down to rescue you.”

That was embarrassing, I thought: to have to be
rescued
on my first night at a gentleman’s house. But Alyson was in high spirits, explaining to the others how he’d met Heron
in the hall, as he came back from the library, and hurried out with him to help me. Belatedly, I saw a little pile of books on the table beside the sofa; Alyson must have been looking for bedtime
reading, although, given his obvious affectionate relations with his wife, I was surprised he had time to read.

“A pity it didn’t happen earlier,” Ridley said, as if I’d been inconsiderate. He rubbed his plump stomach. “If we’d still been playing cards in here,
we’d have seen it all.”

“Poachers!” Alyson said, with more gaiety than I appreciated. “They were hunting for my rabbits, saw Pattinson here, thought he might have a guinea or two in his pocket and
went after him instead!” He grinned, like a little boy given a longed-for present. “This is exciting – London has nothing on this! Poachers, my God!”

“So near the house?” Ridley said horrified.

“Men like these are always daring,” Alyson said.

“They didn’t dare in my day.”

It was hot in the room. I lay back, sipping Alyson’s dreadful brandy, and let them argue. I could tell by Heron’s expression that the idea of thieving poachers didn’t convince
him, but the only other possible reason for the attack was that it had some connection with Nell’s death. And that was no better than the poacher theory; what fool would travel seven miles
out of Newcastle to attack me, particularly when it must be obvious I’d not the slightest idea who’d killed Nell?

Unless... I toyed with the idea of one of the servants being the killer. They’d only arrived the day before Alyson, the day of the murder. Perhaps one of them was the villain? He’d
killed Nell, hurried off to take up his new post, then been horrified to see me among the guests; he’d panicked, tried to get rid of me...

It didn’t sound convincing. If I’d been a servant in that situation, I would simply have run.

I surfaced from my thoughts to find that Heron, as usual, was taking charge. “Patterson will be a great deal better off in his room.”

“Of course.” Alyson ushered his other guests out; they went grumbling. Heron took the brandy glass from my hand. He slung my arm around his shoulders, heaved me up. The room tilted
alarmingly then steadied.

“I’ll see Patterson to his room,” Heron said. “Don’t feel obliged to stay up, Alyson.”

Alyson flushed. “I don’t neglect my guests!”

I looked on as they stared each other out, and was tempted to grin. Alyson was very affable, and conscientious in his wish to be the complete host, but he didn’t have the casual assurance
and confidence of Heron. Of course the latter was around forty years old, Alyson’s senior by nigh on twenty years, and it was inevitable he had greater authority, but it was clear that Alyson
didn’t much like his ruthless display of it, or appreciate being dismissed in his own house.

“If you’re recovered, Patterson,” Heron said. Not a question, an order. I smiled at Alyson, thanked him for his assistance, apologised for making so much trouble. At my side,
Heron muttered with impatience. I thought him unfair – Alyson clearly meant well. I rather liked him.

I submitted to Heron’s guidance; he took a firm grip on my elbow and steered me out of the room, picking up a nightlight from a table at the foot of the stairs. My head was clearing and I
navigated the uneven steps and creaking landings without too much difficulty. All the same, I was glad to see my bed.

Heron pushed me down on to it, looking about him with disdain in the faint candlelight. “I wouldn’t house a dog in a room this small.”

I’d thought the room spacious; it was twice the size of my own lodgings and ten times more luxurious.

“What happened?” Heron demanded. He set the candle on the bedside table, pushed it safely away from the edge.

I eased myself against the pillows, outlined what little I could remember. “I think you probably saw more than I did. Didn’t you see his face at all?”

He shook his head. “By the time I’d thrown up my window and called out, he was off. You were merely two blurs.”

“But you recognised me.”

“By your walk. And I knew you were in the gardens – I saw you strolling down towards the canal earlier.”

“Poachers?” I asked meditatively.

“Nonsense,” Heron said. “Not unless there is a particularly stupid breed of them in these parts. Poachers avoid all human contact on their expeditions.”

“Then it must surely be someone connected with Nell and Bedwalters.”

He strolled across to the nearest window, peered out. “That seems extremely unlikely.”

“The servants are all new. Who knows what they might have got up to in Newcastle?”

“Lawyer Armstrong hired them – he is a cautious man and would not accept anyone in the least dubious.”

I was so tired I could have fallen asleep sitting up. “There’s one man no one knows – the American, Casper Fischer.”

Heron let the curtain drop, leant against the wall. “Why should he kill a streetgirl? And he’s too old, surely. You told me the other girl saw an apprentice. Fischer is much too old
to be mistaken for an apprentice.”

“Then I’ve no ideas left,” I said in exasperation. My head was starting to thump again; the respite had been brief. “It must have been poachers after all – or a
wandering vagabond intent on stealing what trifles he could find.”

“Perhaps,” Heron said.

He stood impassive and silent in the half-shadows of the room; I said awkwardly. “I haven’t thanked you properly for –
rescuing
me.”

He pushed himself upright. “Perhaps, like Alyson, I feel starved of a little excitement.”

I’d noticed before that he didn’t accept gratitude well. He added, “You will of course note that I have long ceased to urge you not to get involved in these matters.”

I winced.

“Exactly so,” he said. “I recognise futility when I encounter it. But I still think you should be careful, until we have at least some idea of what is going on here.”

I stared into the candlelight. “I still think Nell’s murderer is long gone from the area. London, at least.”

He nodded. “I’m inclined to agree.”

He offered to help me undress and climb into bed properly but I was too tired to budge and declined. I was asleep almost before he was out of the door.

I slept fitfully, plagued by the headache and hampered by the bandage round my head which prevented me from getting comfortable. At one point, I thought I heard the arrival of
a carriage, the rattle of wheels on gravel, the muted greetings of servants. But sleep overwhelmed me again and when I woke, heavy and unrefreshed, I was inclined to think I’d been
dreaming.

The sun was high across the floor of the room, shining through gaps in the curtains. I staggered up, suddenly feeling ravenous. The mirror showed me a wild-eyed apparition. The bandage had been
inexpertly applied; blood darkened the left side of my face. My shirt was crumpled from being slept in and my new breeches were streaked with mud.

I heard a scratch on the door a second before it opened. Fowler, Heron’s manservant, came in bearing shaving gear, grinning as he took me in. “Getting yourself in trouble again,
Patterson? And leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces?” He stepped back to admire my clothes. “They’ll need a good bit of cleaning. Sit down and let me have a look at that
cut. One of these days you’ll be calling on me to get you out of trouble again.”

He pushed me down into one of the cane chairs and started to unwind the bandage around my head. Fowler is not one of those servants who believes in being deferential, except to his employer. Or
perhaps he regards me as a servant too. He certainly seems to think I’ve been severely restricted in my experience of the world and in urgent need of education. He’s helped me before;
not so long ago, he was sniping at murderers on rooftops in my company – and a fine shot he is too. I’d not want to get in front of him. Heron picked him up years ago in London, rescued
him from transportation and made him respectable.

Allegedly. I never saw anyone less respectable in my life. A lean, deceptively strong man, with no loyalty to anyone but himself and Heron.

He grinned at me in the mirror. I winced as his fingers brushed the wound on the back of my head; he set about washing it and unmatting the hair with capable hands. “Nothing much,”
he said dismissively. “Hardly worth a headache, even.”

“You’ve had much worse?”

“Of course. I told his Lordship as much but he would insist I take a look at it. He’s gone down to the village to enquire after poachers. Want to hear what I think
happened?”

“No.”

“It was Mr Alyson.”

“Alyson?” I started, and gasped as my hair pulled in his grasp. “Why the devil should he attack me?”

“Flat broke.” Fowler leant forward to whisper in my ear. “Spends what he doesn’t have. Always did.”

I sat up straighter. He dipped the cloth he was using into my washing water, leaving it alarmingly pink. “
Always did
? You know him?”

“Not
know
, exactly,” Fowler said, giving me a meaningful look in the mirror. “Not in the biblical sense.”

I sighed. “I didn’t mean that way!” Fowler’s tastes have apparently never run to women, a fact that I consider none of my business, and a secret I rather wish had never
come my way. A dangerous secret for Fowler. “Did you come across him in London?”

“Five or six years back, before I was lucky enough to take a potshot at Heron. A baby sheep ready for fleecing.”

“Six years ago he’d have been seventeen.”

“And looked younger. He couldn’t game for love nor money but thought it was just a matter of time
until his luck turned
.”

“Where did he get his money?”

Fowler finished his minstrations, combed my hair down and regarded me critically in the mirror. “It’ll do. Sit back so I can shave you. He kept disappearing – he’d lose a
fortune he didn’t have, get out of town, come back a month or two later with his pockets full, pay off his creditors and start the whole process again. Trustees, he said.”

“Trustees gave him money?” I echoed. “Then they’re not like any trustees I’ve ever known.”

“Well,” Fowler said, draping a cloth round my shoulders. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? Now he has his hands on this estate. He can indulge his tastes in cards and wine
and women.”

“He was probably borrowing from moneylenders,” I said, “against the expectation of his inheritance. And talking of women...”

“No,” Fowler said firmly. “They’re not. I’d stake my life on it. Not married.”

“I thought not,” I said. “But she’s not a typical mistress – I’d lay odds she was respectably reared.”

“She’ll want what women always want – money.”

I sighed and changed the subject. “Did someone arrive late last night?”

“Old man, young wife. Just back from their bridal trip.”

“Do these people have names?”

“It’s your friend,” Fowler said, with a devilish gleam in his eye. “Ord.”

He was about to lather my cheeks; I stared at him. “Philip Ord? Good Lord.” Ord and I had crossed paths several times in the past, most notably just before his marriage; he did not
regard me with any favour. “I used to teach his wife, Lizzie Saint as was. Daughter of the printer in Newcastle.”

“Married into trade, did he? Must have been hard up.”

I closed my eyes, submitted to Fowler’s swift and competent work – it was strangely soothing. Well, at least there’d be one person who’d listen to my playing; Lizzie was
a keen harpsichordist herself. I wondered how she and Philip Ord were dealing together; she’d been head over heels in love with him, like the innocent girl she was, and he’d had a great
desire for her father’s dowry, like the ruthless businessman he was. And twenty years difference in age between them...