The Ladder Dancer (20 page)

And found my way barred by Cuthbert Ridley.

Twenty-Five

Disputes should be settled in a quiet civilized manner.

[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, August 1730]

‘Looking for me?’ He slouched against the wall of the alley, dishevelled, his hair tousled, his clothes creased and dirty. They were the same clothes he’d worn to the concert yesterday so he must have slept in them, if he’d slept at all. He looked befuddled, as if he didn’t quite know how he’d got here; his eyes flickered from side to side as if he wasn’t sure where ‘here’ was. I was willing to bet he had a devilish headache. ‘What time is it?’ he said.

‘I was indeed looking for you,’ I said grimly. ‘Where were you last night? Or, to be more precise, at around one this morning?’

He was recovering fast. ‘Oh dear,’ he said mockingly. ‘You want me to have attacked poor old Crow.’

‘Crow?’

‘The gentleman who sings his tunes like a broken-down duck.’ He chuckled. ‘Mr Duck. Mr Quack-quack-quack.’

‘Richard Nightingale is dying.’

He pulled a face. ‘So sad.’

I changed direction abruptly to try and throw him off-balance. ‘Why did you leave London?’

He straightened. ‘Devil take it, none of your business!’

‘Trouble, was there?’

‘I said, none of your business!’ He took a step forward, fists clenched, then stopped, looked at me slyly. He folded his hands, refolded them, smirked, lowered his head. ‘Sir— what do you— I’m sure I don’t—’

‘Very convincing,’ I said, dryly. ‘
Exactly
like the Rev Mr Orrick.’ He grinned. ‘Very well, if you want it outright,
did
you attack Nightingale last night?’

His smile broadened. ‘Yes.’

The frank admission took me aback. I stared. He smirked at me. I took a grip on myself. It wasn’t wise to take anything Ridley said at face value; as Heron suggested, he was a man capable of saying anything, simply for the fun of it. I remembered, and used, Mrs Annabella’s mistake. ‘You shot him?’

‘Stabbed,’ he said smugly, negotiating the trap. He mimed the action, raising his right hand, jerking it backwards and forwards in a stabbing motion. He accidentally scraped his hand along the wall of the alley, looked at the wall as if it had personally offended him.

‘How many times?’

He thought, obviously trying to remember. Or was he trying to remember what he’d been told? ‘Four?’

‘Wasn’t that overenthusiastic?’

He threw up his hands melodramatically. ‘I was carried away. I must admit, I’m disappointed he isn’t dead.’

‘You won’t have to wait long,’ I said. ‘Where did this attack take place?’

‘In the alley beside the Golden Fleece.’

‘
Why
did you attack him?’

He thrust his hands in his pockets, struck an attitude. ‘Because I wanted to. Because he needed attacking. Because I couldn’t stand that damn tweeting of his.’

‘You knew him in London?’ I remembered the advertisement Esther had been sent. ‘At Covent Garden theatre?’ I couldn’t resist a little dig at him. ‘I suppose you enjoy the attractions there all the time.’ I was referring, of course, to the ladies of easy virtue that frequent the London theatres.

‘Devil a bit of it,’ he said. Someone came to the mouth of the alley behind him, took one look at us and walked off again. ‘I went to a concert. A proper concert. Held by Lady This or Lady That. My uncle was trying to educate me.’ He smirked again. ‘Not that it was necessary. I’ve got all the education I need.’

‘So you’d argued with Nightingale before? In London?’

He drew back, considered me, plainly deciding which answer best to give. ‘I might have,’ he said, grinning.

This was getting me nowhere. I said, ‘So what’s to stop me calling the watchman and having you conveyed to prison on a charge of attacking Richard Nightingale?’

He brought his hand out of his pocket. Between his fingers jutted a blade.

It took me a moment to recognize it – one blade of a pair of scissors, folded open. A brand new pair of kitchen scissors, with the price label still attached.

‘Scissors?’ I asked surprised, trying to envisage Nightingale’s wounds and what Gale had said of them. Could scissors have inflicted them? ‘Not a knife?’

He smirked. ‘They’re sharp enough. Want to test them?’ He made a mock stab in the air. Oddly, I felt no fear. The way he was swaying, first against one wall of the alley, then against the other, suggested he’d probably not be able to hit a church door.

‘So what now?’ I asked. ‘Am I supposed just to let you walk away – perhaps to attack someone else?’

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? Who cares?’

‘Someone ought to have tipped you into the Tyne when you were a baby,’ I retorted.

‘Too late,’ he said grinning. ‘Much too late. Well, come on, Patterson. Aren’t you going to try to take me prisoner?’ He jabbed the scissors in the air again.

I shook my head. ‘Not today.’

‘You won’t catch me unarmed, you know. Not ever.’

‘Thanks for warning me. I’ll bring a troop of militia with me next time.’

Then without the slightest warning, he jabbed at me in earnest. The scissors whisked dangerously close to my arm. I took a step backwards, stumbled on an uneven cobble, and fell. The scissors scraped the wall above my head.

He loomed over me, grinning, holding the scissors like a knife, clenched in his fist. He was probably just trying to frighten me but I wasn’t going to stake my life on that. I kicked out a foot, caught him on the ankle and knocked him sideways. He fell, yelping and swearing. The scissors clattered to the cobbles. I crawled across to pick them up.

Ridley grabbed at me, caught my ankle. I tugged free, got to my feet. He dragged himself up the wall, ran at me. Straight towards the scissors I was holding. Alarmed, I threw them to one side, tried to duck out of the way.

A hand reached between us and caught Ridley’s cravat. He jerked to a halt, choking, pawing at his throat.

‘Good afternoon,’ Hugh said. ‘You know I always thought it the mark of a gentleman to be armed with a sword. Are scissors
de rigeur
nowadays? Of course, it could just be that you’re not a gentleman.’

Ridley glared at him.

‘I admit I’m hampered by being one-handed just at the moment.’ Hugh twisted the cravat still further. Ridley gasped, went up on tiptoe to ease the pressure on his neck. ‘But in my experience a little use of the wits usually triumphs over mere impulse. And you’re
very
impulsive, aren’t you?’ He tut-tutted. ‘Not a good idea.’

Tears were pouring down Ridley’s cheeks. He batted ineffectually at Hugh’s hand, then tried to twist and bring up his knee. Hugh was more prepared and quicker-witted than Nightingale had been; he shifted, exerted more pressure, and Ridley’s face, which had been bright red, started to whiten and turn blue around the lips.

‘Let him go, Hugh,’ I said. ‘We don’t want another death on our hands.’ I dipped for the scissors, to keep them safely out of Ridley’s reach. Hugh released his grip; Ridley fell back against the wall, coughing and spluttering.

‘Don’t stay on my account,’ Hugh said, giving him a little wave of farewell. ‘I’m sure you have lots to do.’

Ridley took a step sideways along the alley wall, scuttling away like a crab. Then with a wordless snarl, he turned his back and strolled insolently away.

‘Well done, Hugh!’ I said, watching him go. ‘You’ve talked him into submission.’

Hugh grinned. He jerked his head after Ridley. ‘So he’s our man, then.’

‘He says he did it,’ I agreed. ‘And he knows things he shouldn’t. But he didn’t do it with these scissors. He’s just bought them – they still have the price attached.’

Hugh gave me a speaking look. ‘Answer the question, Charles!
Did
he do it?’

I stared after the figure strolling away into Amen Corner. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea.’

Twenty-Six

Good wine and good conversation is the mark of a civilized man; drunkenness is the mark of a ruffian.

[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, February 1731]

A spirit had told Hugh that Nightingale had been seen the previous night at Mrs Hill’s tavern in the Fleshmarket; as soon as we walked into the inn, we spotted the lady herself on the far side of the crowded taproom; she saw us approaching and folded her arms belligerently. Hugh bowed, with a touch of mockery.

‘It’s always trouble when you two turn up,’ she said. She’s a fine woman on the far side of fifty, and shrewd, a widow who knew better than to remarry and have the business taken out of her hands.

‘Not a bit of it,’ Hugh said audaciously. ‘We’ve spent a good few shillings in here over the years.’

She allowed, begrudgingly, that this was true. ‘But I hold to the general point,’ she said sternly. ‘Musicians are always trouble!’

As if to prove her point, someone started singing raucously in one corner and soon had every spirit in the house singing with him.

‘And my girls have to listen to that filth,’ Mrs Hill said in disgust. A serving girl, walking past, gave me a wink.

‘I’m told there was a London musician in here last night,’ I said, raising my voice to be heard over the singing. ‘He’s pretty unmistakeable. Tall, burly and raucous.’

‘Dressed in pink,’ Hugh added.

‘The songs
he
knew!’ Mrs Hill said, grimacing. ‘Is he the one killed?’

‘He’s not dead yet,’ I said, yet again. ‘How long was he here?’

She considered. ‘No more than an hour. Early on, maybe around seven.’ She nodded at a customer who walked past.

‘Alone?’

‘Until he started offering free beer, yes.’ She added, with reluctant fairness, ‘He did pay his bill.’

So Nightingale had started the evening with money and set about getting rid of it fast. Maybe that was why he’d none on him when he was attacked. ‘Anyone in particular seem friendly with him?’ A burst of a bawdy chorus drowned my words; I repeated them, more loudly.

Mrs Hill shrugged. ‘Everyone who wanted free ale.’

‘Did you see him go?’

‘I did. Full of beer but he looked and talked sober. I thought at the time he could take his drink.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

She shook her head. ‘But I’ll warrant he wasn’t finished for the evening.’

The girl who’d winked at me came past again, bearing a platter of bread and cheese. She said, ‘He was looking for a woman. Asked where he was likely to find one. No sooner he was out the door than he picked up a girl. Twelve, no more.’

‘Wearing a yellow dress?’

‘Yellow as a dandelion.’ She nudged a drunken admirer away. ‘Went up to him the minute he was out the door. They talked a bit – arguing over the girl’s charge, I dare say. Then they went off.’

‘Did you see which way?’

‘Down towards St Nicholas.’

We went outside again, relieved to be out of the heat and noise. The blue sky was clouding over; rain spotted the cobbles.

‘I didn’t think you were serious about the girl.’ Hugh eased his sling and brushed dust from the shoulder of his coat.

‘I agree it’s unlikely,’ I said. ‘But if she’s perfectly innocent, where is she? Why hasn’t she come back to the house?’

‘Maybe she saw something? Maybe she’s just gone off in a temper, back to that hovel she was brought up in. Have you looked there?’

‘No. She wouldn’t go back, Hugh – she’s set her mind on getting out of there and she’ll not give up on that. And remember, she can step between worlds.’

He bit his lip, scowled, waited until a man with a terrier strolled past. ‘Look, if you think she’s
there
, can’t you just go and get her?’

I shook my head. ‘No. The time difference is the very devil. She’s been gone several hours; I might find myself several
days
behind her. And I daren’t linger there too long in case I’m mistaken for my counterpart – or even meet him.’

‘So what then?’

‘Did your friendly spirits not give you another clue?’

‘Not one.’

‘Which suggests,’ I said, ‘that he went where the spirits are less cooperative.’

Hugh frowned. ‘The Key?’

‘Or one of the chares off it.’

Hugh glared. ‘Oh, no, Charles, I’m not going down there again! We had some very nasty experiences there, remember.’

‘You can go home,’ I pointed out. ‘I’ll go on my own.’

‘And leave you defenceless in the midst of ruffians? Thank you, Charles, but I’m not a fair weather friend!’

We spent the afternoon making our way down to the Key by the most obvious route, thinking that Nightingale, as a stranger to the town, wouldn’t have known the byways. Finding news of him was not difficult; he’d stopped at almost all of the taverns, drank there until he gave offence and then tottered out. Kate had also been seen once or twice, hovering outside, or sitting on a shop doorstep, waiting for him. We asked after Cuthbert Ridley too but drew a blank. And no one else had apparently taken much interest in Nightingale.

Eventually, we came down on to the Key by the Old Man Inn. The doors of the inn were open, and half a dozen ruffians and sailors were staggering about outside, in a drunken attempt to dance a hornpipe.

‘I keep coming back to this inn,’ I said, standing in the doorway.

‘Ridley keeps coming back to this inn,’ Hugh said.

I went inside cautiously, with Hugh on my heels watching my back. The taproom stank of beer and smoke and worse things I didn’t pause to identify. I saw no one I recognized and was so busy looking about, I didn’t realize for a moment that everyone had fallen silent, staring at us.

‘I’m looking for Cuthbert Ridley,’ I said into the silence. ‘I’m told he was in here last night.’

‘He’s always in here,’ said one man sourly. ‘Never a moment’s peace.
And
that other one. You’d think we’d be able to get away from you gentry here.’