Sword and Song (15 page)

I walked down the steps on to the sunlit path. From the rose garden hidden behind the hedge on the right, I heard women’s voices and the barking of a dog. I strode past
the overgrown flowerbeds and the neglected fountain, down to the grass border that separated the garden from the ornamental canal. In daylight, I could see that the water in the canal was stagnant,
covered with a green mat of weed; the stone bridge with its wide parapet was cracked and spotted with lichen.

Through the woods, to the kitchen garden, down to the drive and the road to the village, trying to walk out the humiliation and the annoyance. There was no point in being distressed at the
strictures of a woman who’d probably been shielded all her life against the evils of the world. A clergyman’s daughter from some safe cathedral close. I wondered how she’d come to
be Edward Alyson’s mistress. The two of them seemed deliriously in love – was there some impediment to prevent their marriage? Had one of them contracted an alliance before?

One thing I knew for certain: Edward Alyson would regard it as a great game to pass off his mistress as his wife.

I found myself at the gate into the park, with the pompous lions posing on top of its pillars. I could hear a horse’s hooves clip-clopping in the clear air, coming towards me along the
road though still hidden by a bend and the tall overblown summer hedges. Then the horse came into view and I saw the rider.

Esther. Sitting astride her horse, covering the immodest breeches with the skirts of a large greatcoat. I was too pleased to see her to be cautious. I smiled up at her. “Did you enjoy your
ride?”

“Very much.” She swung herself out of the saddle, shaking her head as I moved to help. Taking the horse’s reins, she led him towards the park gates; I fell into step beside
her.

“Did you go back to the wood?”

She nodded. “But I did not hope for a great revelation and indeed found none. There is a patch of mud roughly where I saw the two horsemen meet and a few hoofprints, but beyond that
nothing. I went a mile or so in the direction they took but it is open country. I saw a few farmhouses but nothing of any significance. They could have gone anywhere.”

I glanced up into the trees that overhung the drive as a greenfinch flitted across my view. “Including here?”

She frowned. “By a roundabout route, yes. Charles – do you suspect one of the guests?”

Could I imagine plump William Ridley wielding a cudgel and striking me down at the foot of the terrace steps? Or that severe fellow who was still paying too much attention to Esther?

“Not necessarily.” I glanced around to make sure we were not overheard. “Our murderer may simply be lurking in the grounds, keeping an eye on my comings and goings. Esther
– ”

She gave me a smiling look. God, perhaps she thought I was going to propose here and now. Looking down at her slim figure, in those outrageously attractive breeches, at the hair that escaped the
pins and hung about her pale neck – looking at her, I felt a sudden urge to do just that. To damn all the scandalised looks there’d be, all the gossip, all the insinuations –

But I remembered how I’d felt while Margaret Alyson was tearing me apart with her scorn and her unshakeable confidence in the way the world ought to be run. I would not subject Esther to
that kind of experience.

“I don’t think we should be seen together,” I started awkwardly and saw her face darken at once.

And at that moment, William Ridley drove by in a carriage drawn by two of Alyson’s best horses and driven by Alyson’s London coachman. Ridley was staring along the drive but his head
turned slowly, irresistibly, as he caught sight of us standing side by side. I saw him register Esther’s clothes and something else dawned in his eyes – a smile that started to curve
his lips. Then he was past and Esther, to my amazement, was swearing.

“Damn – ”

And she swung herself on to her horse and urged it into a trot. It – and she – were out of my sight round one of the curves in the drive, in seconds.

I walked across the park towards the canal so I could approach the house from a different direction from Esther. The encounter with Ridley was unfortunate but he had made my point for me. What a
devil of a tangle it all was! What was there in the August air to produce this madness of unhappy couples? Nell and Bedwalters, Edward and Margaret Alyson, Philip and Lizzie Ord, Esther and
myself... I itched to be back in town. Damn all this pretentious artificiality, all this idleness; what really mattered was to find Nell’s killer, to bring at least some measure of comfort to
Bedwalters. What could the Alysons know about that kind of pain? I certainly hoped Lizzie never came anywhere near such distress.

There was no sound of music from the drawing room as I climbed the steps to the terrace but I heard a confusion of eager voices discussing something. When I went in, Lizzie was seated at the
harpsichord, looking nervously at a music book on the stand, and Edward Alyson was leaning over, pointing something out as if asking her to play. From what I could see it was an opera book, where
the singer’s melody has only a single bass line to accompany it and the harpsichordist must invent the chords from those notes.

Half the houseparty was in the room, it seemed – certainly all the ladies, chattering excitedly. Mrs Widdrington and the other musical lady were straining to see the music over
Lizzie’s shoulder. Mrs Alyson hovered behind her husband, looking bored. Beyond was Philip Ord, silent and hostile, as if he suspected Alyson was making an advance on his wife. Three or four
of the other gentlemen (Heron not among them) were admiring the ladies.

What on earth was going on?

Alyson glanced up; Lizzie instinctively followed his example. Her face cleared. “Mr Patterson! Oh, pray do come and play. It is a figured bass and you know how difficult I find
that.”

She jumped up and made way for me. I took her place, and flicked to the front of the book to see what I was about to play. An opera. Or a
pastorale
, rather, like the one Dr Greene, master
of the King’s music, is allegedly writing at present.

Alyson was giving me advice on how to accompany a singer; it transpired his wife was to be the soloist. I glanced up at Mrs Alyson; her face was stony. There was one piece of advice of which
Alyson did not need to remind me: if a mistake is made, the accompanist is always at fault, even if the singer has patently caused the problem.

I played the opening symphony. Mrs Alyson took an imperceptible breath and opened her voice and her throat, and let out into the warm sunny air of the drawing room tones of exquisite beauty and
sweetness. Every onlooker was silent. She had a natural voice, totally without artifice, a voice that could touch high notes with the clarity of a bell and low notes with the warmth of sunshine.
And, unlike most musical amateurs, she sang not only the notes, but the emotion behind them too.

Engaged in sight-reading the music and nodding to Lizzie when I needed the pages turned, and listening with great enjoyment to Mrs Alyson’s beautiful rendition of the simple air, it was
not until I struck the last chord and glanced up that I realised the effect the song had had on the others. The two musical ladies had sunk down on the couch in simple pleasure. Alyson was staring
enraptured at his wife. Fischer was just inside the door, nodding in appreciation, and Heron – whose musical judgement is exacting – stood behind him with a distinct look of approval. I
saw Esther come quietly in; she had changed into an elegant hooped gown of pale green and one of those absurd caps with lace lappets hanging down behind. Looking round, I saw only one person left
unmoved; Philip Ord’s gaze was fixed on his wife.

Lizzie was excited. “Oh, that was wonderful, wonderful!”

“My dear,” Alyson said reverentially, taking his wife’s hand and kissing it. “That was magnificent!”

In the murmur of agreement, the younger musical lady said wistfully, “Oh, I would love to hear you sing it
all
.”

Alyson swung round. “Madam – so you shall,” he cried exultantly. “We shall perform it all – the entire opera!”

There were cries of agreement, demands for a
proper
performance with costumes and props. Hurriedly, I glanced back to the beginning of the score. It was all very well to propose a
performance but did we have sufficient singers? More importantly, did we have sufficient good singers?

It was already too late to protest. Alyson was explaining the plot: shepherd meets shepherdess, father locks shepherdess up until she agrees to marry his elderly crony, her friends lament.
Shepherdess falls ill with heartbreak and shepherd threatens lifelong celibacy. Fortunately, the wise counsellor – usually the most infuriatingly sententious of characters – persuades
the father to relent in the most unlikely fashion.

Alyson proceeded to allocate parts, making everyone laugh by giving them to the most unlikely people, then withdrawing the honour and passing it to someone else. We accumulated a hero and
heroine: Alyson and his wife. Two friends of the heroine: the musical ladies of course. The heroine’s irascible father: the tall gentleman with wandering eyes. I doubted he knew what a
musical note was, but he certainly knew his character had at least two scenes in which he physically restrained his ‘daughter’ from flying to her lover. And – Alyson reached into
the crowd and pulled out Lizzie Ord, with her too-perfect hair and her rouged cheeks. “And you, my dear, will be the pert young maid!”

That dreadful word: pert – with all its connotations of impropriety! I saw Lizzie’s scared look fly at once to her husband’s face. Ord looked furious.

I intervened before he could say anything. “I would appreciate Mrs Ord’s help at the harpsichord. I’ll need someone to turn the pages.”

Alyson was straight on to the next matter – appointing a host of non-singing nymphs and shepherds to ‘dress the scene’. With a face of thunder, Philip Ord gripped the back of
his chair. Then he gave me the briefest of nods. It was more than I had expected.

Alyson was trying to press Heron into service, insisting, not entirely tactfully, that the scene required an older man in it. Heron was apparently not insulted; he merely said, “I have
already decided my role – I am to play the audience.” Esther assured Alyson she was also very content to watch.

I let the hubbub rage, flicking through the pages of the score. There was nothing in the accompaniment to worry me; a little rehearsal would be all I needed. But one thing struck me at once and
I anticipated what was about to happen – a fraction of a second before Alyson leant over the harpsichord, smiling.

“As for the parts – Mr Pattinson, how soon can you distribute them to the singers?”

I met his guileless gaze, the open boyish smile. Dear God, he didn’t even understand what he was asking. We had only one score of the
pastorale
; Alyson wanted me to write out each
character’s part so they could take it away with them to practise, and he was probably expecting them all within an hour. Had he any idea how long it took to write out music?

“Is this the only copy?” I asked carelessly.

“Certainly. I picked it up only a few weeks ago in London. Shall we say we will have a little rehearsal tonight after dinner?”

Choruses of approval.

“Just the first act?” I said, hoping to limit the task.

“The entire opera!” said one of the ladies eagerly.

“Very well.” Alyson clapped his hands. “Let’s leave Pattinson to his own devices. Ladies, what are we to do about costumes?”

I gathered up the book. There was nothing to be done in this chaos. If I was to write anything at all I must retreat to my room. Writing out the entire opera before dinner was an impossible task
– I must think of a way to satisfy Alyson without appearing uncooperative. And just when I needed to concentrate on the matter of Nell’s murder!

As I went into the hall, the butler approached me with a note on a salver. I’d hardly taken the note when he bowed and retreated – I didn’t even have the chance to thank him. I
stared after him in surprise. A servant not waiting for a tip?

The note was from Bedwalters, brief and to the point. He’d questioned his contacts and there were no missing apprentices, either in Newcastle or in the towns immediately round about. I
went upstairs thoughtfully; that suggested the murderer was staying close by, trying to brazen it out.

In my room, I leafed through the score to see the magnitude of the task Alyson had set me. Page after page of arias. The two musical ladies would happily share a part; Alyson and his wife would
no doubt be pleased to sing their songs off the same part too. All the same – I threw the book down in disgust. The whole thing was beyond belief – I would not have time to write out
half of it!

And there was the matter of paper and ink. I might be able to find sufficient ink in the household to complete the task, but I’d only brought a handful of the raven quills I usually use
for writing music. And paper! I’d never anticipated writing out an entire opera – I’d brought only a few sheets.

I seized paper and pen, scribbled a desperate note to Hugh and went off to find the butler again. He was just coming out of the drawing room and took the note with a murmur and a bow. This time
he even turned down the coin I offered him. I made a mental note to ask Fowler if he had managed to glean any information about him.

I took the stairs back to my room two at a time, pondering where to start. The Alysons’ parts of course – I’d start with the hero and heroine.

Esther Jerdoun was waiting on the landing outside my room.

In the dimness, she was like a light; her pale skirts took up almost the entire width of the narrow landing; her fair hair glowed. Those ridiculous lappets swung as she turned her head. I caught
my breath.