Sword and Song (21 page)

The bloodstain lay at the top of a small flight of five steps; the chapman could hardly have stepped off the last step before he was hit. And – I sniffed – how odd; I could smell
fish.

I glanced around. In the house nearest to where the chapman had fallen, the door hung on one hinge. Two steps led up into the ground floor room; I paused to let my eyes adjust to the
semi-darkness after the brightness of the sunshine outside.

At the back of the room was a bright brand new skillet gleaming over the remains of a small fire; in the pan was a shiny fish, half-cooked, complete with fins, tail and bright watchful eye.

“It was a trap,” I said.

Heron caught on quickest. “If the chapman came this way often, he would know this was an empty house. The smell of cooking, therefore, would make him stop to look in.”

“The gleam of the new pan would have caught his eye,” Esther said.

“And he would have presented an excellent target for whoever wanted to drop something on his head,” Heron finished.

Hugh was already heading for the ancient ladder at the back of the room. “Not this house,” I said. “Anyone on the roof of this house wouldn’t have been able to see the
chapman hesitating at the door because of the overhang of the eaves. But from the house opposite, the view would have been perfect.”

Hugh relieved his feelings by kicking in the door of the house in question. He rushed towards the ramshackle ladder at the back as if he thought the villain might still be up there. The ladder
led to a filthy room on the first floor, littered with the debris of casual occupation: rags, a chamberpot with a great section out of it, a pile of newspapers so ancient they were a sodden,
rotting mass. Another ladder took us up into the roof-space; Hugh called back, “Be careful! It’s dangerous up here.”

From the top of the ladder, I saw the apex of the roof above me, and the rafters sagging away from it. Huge chunks of the lime and horsehair mortar that had lined the roof had dropped away;
wooden nails and laths had rotted, and the slates had come crashing down on the joists below. The blue August sky was bright through gaping holes in the roof; seagulls wheeled overhead.

Hugh tottered across the joists to the largest hole in the roof; I followed, and found myself staring down at Bedwalters, Heron and Esther, standing in the doorway of the house opposite.

Immediately in front of us, the last, largest row of slates still clung to the rafters. One huge slate was missing from the rank.

“He could hardly have missed,” Hugh said, leaning dangerously out to peer at the alley below. “All he had to do was to yank out the nails, give the slate a gentle push, and
nature would do the rest. Down it would go.”

I nodded. “But he had to get the chapman to stop, so he’d have time to pull out the nails.”

“It wasn’t an attack in anger or fright,” Hugh said distastefully. “The whole thing was planned. He had to buy the skillet and the fish, light the fire, cook the fish a
little to get the smell going – ”

“He had to know the man would come this way, and when,” I added.

“I still don’t understand!” Hugh protested passionately. “He doesn’t have to stay in the town. He could simply flee to London. There’s no need for all this
killing!”

“The book,” I said. “That’s what keeps him here, though I don’t have the least idea why.”

I thought of telling Hugh I’d found the book but something stopped me. It would hardly profit him to know; only I knew how to come and go between that world and our own, so Hugh
couldn’t retrieve the book if the need arose. And it was best that he could genuinely claim ignorance if asked about it.

In the street, the others listened to what we had to report. “It’s an amazing crime,” I said, staring at the bright eye of the fish in the shining new skillet. “So
complicated and detailed.”

“Well planned,” Heron said.

“But done on impulse.”

Hugh snorted. “Nonsense!”

I shook my head. “No one who’d paused to think would have done it this way. Apart from anything else, there’s a huge element of good luck in it. What if the chapman had been so
preoccupied he’d not noticed the smell of cooking and walked straight on? What if he’d met a friend and gone round another way? Think how much simpler it would have been simply to walk
up behind and stab him.”

“No,” Bedwalters said. “There would have been a chance that the chapman would look round when he heard footsteps behind him. He might have seen his attacker. Alive or dead
afterwards, he would have been able to lay the blame at the right door.”

“And think of the blood,” Esther said. “The murderer might have been covered with it – hard to explain away or wash out.”

They had a dozen reasons why the murderer should not have come to close grips with his victim. But I still thought the whole affair very odd.

“It’s an arrogant crime,” I said. “Carried out by a man who thinks he can get away with anything.”

“He has,” Hugh said.

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

I turned on my heels to survey the alley. A preposterous crime. It was as if the murderer was defying me to catch him. As if he was saying,
I can do the most far-fetched things and still you
can’t guess who I am.

It was to be a duel between us, it seemed. Very well, I thought, so be it.

There would be only one victor.

Alyson was prowling the parlour of the Golden Fleece; he pounced on us as soon as we walked in.

“I’ve missed the excitement!” he cried with boyish indignation. “The spirits have been telling me all about it.”

“Cut to the bone,” declared a male spirit, hidden somewhere among the tankards on the table. “Flesh peeled back right down his face.”

“What happened?” Alyson’s face was shockingly eager. I could not forget that a man lay dead, a decent honest man who’d tried to uphold the law, who’d tried to get
justice for a girl he’d never met.

The cold meats and ale still lay on the table. Hugh looked on them with distaste, flung himself moodily into a chair. Esther hesitated, then poured herself wine. I looked at it all and found
myself suddenly viciously hungry. I’d not eaten since a very early breakfast and it was now mid-afternoon.

I let Heron outline what we’d been doing, cut meat and bread and bit deep into them. Esther asked me to carve her a slice of beef.

“But you must catch the fellow!” Alyson said as Heron finished. “A man like that can’t be allowed to remain free! It’s as Ridley said – he began with the
dregs of the town, now he’s progressed to an honest but poor citizen. Soon he’ll attack someone of consequence!”

I cast a warning glance at Hugh. “I’ll find him,” I said.

Perhaps I had been too vehement; Alyson looked at me with a frown.

“Good,” Hugh said. “And I’ll be first in the queue to line the fellow up and shoot him.”

Heron strolled to the table and helped himself to wine. “Have you organised the horses, Alyson?”

Alyson was still staring at me. “What? Oh, yes.”

“Then,” Heron said. “I think we had better eat, then start off for Long End. We should have plenty of time to get back before dark.”

“How the devil can you eat anything!” Hugh exploded.

Heron raised an eyebrow at his tone of voice; Esther said, “I suspect we will be back too late for dinner. Wiser to have something now.”

“Long End?” I said. “We can’t go back to Long End. The murderer’s here.”

Heron sipped wine and stared me out. “It appears the girl was killed because she knew of the book, and the chapman because he could identify the murderer. You were attacked last night
because you found the fellow in his lair and nearly apprehended him. He must believe that if you are capable of finding his hideout, then you can find him. Therefore, you are in danger.” He
poured more wine and sat down, lounging at his ease in one of the hard chairs at the table, the very picture of the man in charge. “So we must remove you from the place of danger.”

“I agree,” Esther said.

“To Long End?” Alyson said brightly. “Good idea.”

“I agree,” Hugh said. “I’ll stay here and see if I can find the fellow.”

“Hugh – ”

“You’re not going to talk me out of it, Charles,” he said obstinately. “I was the one who asked the chapman to keep his eyes open for the apprentice. I should have known
how dangerous it would be. And now a good man lies dead and a woman and three children have no means of support. It’s my fault, Charles! And I’m damn well going to do something about
it!”

“What I don’t understand,” Alyson said, “is how the attack on Pattinson at Long End fits in.”

“Patt
er
son,” Heron said.

“I’m in danger wherever I go,” I said. Events suddenly seemed to be running away from me. I didn’t want to leave Newcastle. This was where the book was (albeit in another
world). I badly wanted another look at that book. “This town is where the heart of the mystery lies – I need to be here.”

“Is there anything you are not telling us, Patterson?” Heron asked.

“No, of course not.”

“There are no other witnesses to the murder?”

I thought of Maggie in Mrs McDonald’s house. “None that can identify the man. Unless we can get him into the house for Nell’s spirit to look at.”

“No one else you have asked to look into the matter?”

I thought of Bedwalters. Of course!

“No. No one.”

“Then it seems to me,” Heron said, “that there need be no other victims. He has killed to protect himself and if there is no danger, then there will be no more killing.
Therefore you may go to Long End with a clear conscience.”

“You cannot guarantee he will not kill again,” I protested.

Heron nodded. “There is certainly one person he will seek to eliminate. You. Which brings me back to my original point. You will be much safer at Long End.”

He would not be moved from this logic. It was clear that it appealed to Hugh too, and to Alyson, who was becoming excitable again. “Heron’s absolutely right,” he said.
“Newcastle’s much too dangerous. There are too many people here, too many byways where you could be ambushed. At Long End we can control what happens. We can trap the
villain!”

“That’s a damn good idea,” Hugh exclaimed, sitting up abruptly. “I’ll come with you. I can prowl around and keep watch for anyone suspicious haunting the
park.”

“The justice will probably take you for a poacher and transport you,” I said, wearily.

“Come and stay at the house,” Alyson cried. “You can teach us the latest dances and keep an eye on Pattinson at the same time.”

“Patt
er
son!” Heron said.

Hugh struggled for a moment then gave way to his principles.

“What will the fee be? For teaching?”

I left them haggling over terms and stepped out to find the landlord. It was plain I was to have no choice in the matter. I bought pen, ink and paper and scribbled a note to Bedwalters, telling
him I was going back to Long End.

I hesitated before penning the last paragraphs.

I reconsidered that last sentiment, aware that it would only confirm Bedwalters in his decision to stay in Mrs McDonald’s house. But I thought he was already determined on that, so I let
the sentence stand.

I was hugely frustrated as I rode out of town behind the others. I could not drag my thoughts away from the murder scene. I could picture the murderer waiting where Hugh and I
had stood under the wrecked roof, hand poised above the wooden peg that secured the slate. Watching the chapman walking up the last few steps to his death, seeing him glance aside as he smelt the
fish cooking, waiting for him to pause and peer in. And then the heavy slate grinding down the roof and dropping vertiginously. The chapman must have heard it, he must have turned, lifted his head
to look up and – Alyson dropped back alongside me, nodded at the violin bag that lay across my saddle. “Weapon, Patterson?”

I wondered why he got my name right sometimes and not others. “A few clothes.”

We were going to the country, to idle through plentiful breakfasts and dinners, to play a few songs and deal a few cards, to read the latest marital scandals in the papers. And meanwhile the
murderer swaggered free in Newcastle, free to kill. Nell went unavenged, and the chapman’s widow had three children to raise and no wage to do it on. My only consolation was that the book was
out of harm’s way.

I stared at the passing countryside, blurred with the oncoming dusk. In front of me, Esther and Heron were riding side by side, talking quietly. They’d been talking a great deal at the
rehearsal yesterday. They were plotting something – I was certain of it.

Probably arranging the wedding.

Esther was intent on behaving conventionally; was her departure from Long End in company with Claudius Heron – even chaperoned by Catherine – a conventional act? It would certainly
have raised a few eyebrows.

Hugh brought up the rear of our party with a bag stuffed full of his best clothes and a kit fiddle slung over his shoulder. He’d not hurried over his packing – one reason we’d
set out later than expected. He was still blaming himself for the chapman’s death. And that picture came back into my mind. What kind of man would kill someone that way? So cruel, so
extravagantly risky, and yet so completely successful.