Sword and Song (24 page)

I played through my entire repertoire of Scarlatti and Corelli in an empty drawing room. It at least saved me from thinking too much, and gave me some much-needed practice. Hugh’s kit
fiddle sounded still from the library; I saw gentlemen, talking excitedly, stride down the formal gardens into the distance, dogs yapping at their heels. Crompton came in to tell me luncheon was
being served; I accepted his offer to bring me something to eat in the drawing room. Hugh’s voice accompanied chattering ladies to the dining room.

Alyson popped his head around the door, as affable now as he’d been curt earlier. “Ah, my dear fellow. I thought I’d find you here. We’re going to rehearse the opera this
afternoon. Make sure the harpsichord’s tuned properly, will you?”

As if it had not been tuned properly before.

“Certainly,” I said.

I heard his footsteps receding in the hallway, sighed and reached for the tuning key. But I couldn’t find it, even though I knew I’d brought it down with me this morning. Someone
could have come in and purloined it while I was in the rose garden talking to Esther, I supposed. But why?

Or had I brought it down earlier? I thought I had. But it wasn’t here now. The only thing to do was to check in my room. I climbed the deserted stairs, hearing laughter from the
diners.

Something grated under the door of my room as I pushed it open. A fold of paper. I bent to pick it up.

Opened it on to seven words.

Return the book or the lady dies.

One moment of cold hard fear, then I raged downstairs, note in hand, looking for someone, anyone, to take my anger out on.

There was no one. Conversation still echoed from the dining room; the drawing room was as empty as I’d left it. In the hallway, I almost walked into Crompton but whisked myself out of his
way. It was all very well to turn a blind eye to Fowler’s activities, but to be branded his
friend
, to have a servant think I was of the same persuasion – God, but that was
dangerous ground! I stalked on.

Heron met me at the library door, took one look at my face and ushered me outside. We stood on the gravel of the drive with a thin rain spitting in our faces; he took my arm and guided me to the
shelter of the nearest tree. Unable to trust myself to speak, I handed him the note; as he read it, his lean cheeks went dull. He said flatly, “This is abominable.”

I outlined what had happened. Heron turned over the note as he listened, as if he suspected there might be some clue on it, some hint as to its author. He said finally, when I’d finished,
“We must approach this in a sensible, logical frame of mind.”

“Which is precisely what I can’t do,” I retorted. But I gripped a low-hanging branch and tried to be objective. “The fellow who wrote this note knows two things –
that I have the book and that Esther’s welfare is dear to me. Neither of those things is common knowledge.”

“The betrothal is not,” Heron said, “but your fondness for Mrs Jerdoun is. There has been gossip. And Alyson hints from time to time that he knows more than he is prepared to
say.”

“For heaven’s sake!” I exploded. “Only yesterday he was eager to keep the whole matter quiet.”

“He is a boy,” Heron said dismissively, “with a boy’s love of secrets. But the book is a different matter. Have you told anyone else about it?”

“No one but yourself,” I said. “Given the danger, I didn’t want to put anyone else at risk.”

“So, logically, only one other person can know you have it.”

“The murderer.”

“Exactly.” Heron waved the note. “Then we know that whoever sent this is indeed the murderer and must be taken seriously. And he clearly has access to the house...”

“He has an accomplice,” I said. “Two men were involved in the attack in the wood. One could be a servant here. A servant would have little difficulty in pushing the note under
my door.”

“Or purloining the harpsichord key,” Heron agreed, then looked exasperated at my puzzlement. “Really, Patterson, think! You did indeed have the key earlier today – I
heard you tuning the instrument. The key was taken so you would go back to your room to look for it, thus ensuring you discovered the note. I warrant you the key’s now back in the drawing
room. Hidden in the stack of music perhaps?”

“Damn...”

“We must question the butler – he should know of the servants’ movements.”

“I’ve already asked Fowler to do that,” I admitted. “I told him to be subtle.”

Heron gave me a long measured look. “Then he will have to be more brutal. I will not allow this fellow to roam unpunished abroad any longer. This must be an end of it.”

I knew he was thinking of something I wouldn’t like – he had a familiar look in his eye, a look that said he was prepared to ride roughshod over all obstacles.

“The murderer will send you another note,” he said, “detailing what he wants you to do. When you receive it, let me know at once. We will pretend to give in to his demands and
set a trap to catch him.”

My heart sank. “But I do not have the book here.”

He gestured away the problem. “We will take one of roughly equal size and weight from the library.”

“And when he discovers it’s not the book he wants?”

“We will have caught him by then.” He handed the note back to me. “Continue as if nothing is wrong. Wait for the murderer to give us further instructions. I will deal with
everything else.”

And he strode off before I could raise further objections.

Lizzie Ord was in the drawing room, looking about hesitantly. She was wearing a pretty gown and had dressed her hair less severely. She must have seen me glance at it for she
said anxiously. “You do think I look well, Mr Patterson? It is a style Mrs Jerdoun suggested.” She giggled. “She sent her maid to teach the style to my maid, and my maid was so
frosty it was like midwinter!”

I summoned strength to answer her in a natural manner. “It suits you very well.”

She looked shyly pleased. “I am going for a walk in the gardens, but I was wondering...” Now she looked nervous. “I would greatly like to go on with my harpsichord lessons in
the winter – ”

“Of course,” I said, smiling despite myself at her shy enthusiasm. “Shall we discuss it when we get back to town?”

“Oh, please, yes!”

She was more at ease now. She leant on the harpsichord as I bent to unlock it. “I have been looking at Mr Fischer’s sword.” She shuddered with delicious horror. “It is so
beautiful – and frightening too. I’d rather look at the book.”

So would I, I thought dryly. She stepped back so I could prop up the harpsichord’s lid. “It’s a shame it was so damaged. It must be the glue – I daresay it had been kept
in a damp place. That’s what makes the flypapers come away from the covers. And I do wish people wouldn’t hook their fingers over the spines of books when they pull them off the shelf
– that’s how they get torn. Oh!”

Philip Ord had come into the room, immaculately, if conservatively, dressed, and carrying a cane. “Are you ready, my dear?”

“Oh, yes,” she said shyly.

And he gave her his arm and bore her off on to the terrace. It dawned on me that Philip Ord, brusque and no-nonsense gentleman of the world, with a new mistress every other month, was in the
process of falling in love with his own wife.

I rifled through the music. The tuning key had been pushed between two songs – it had been done in a hurry, for it had torn a page. A second note was wrapped round it.

I was furious. Not just at the notes but at the way I’d been manipulated, sent running round the house while the murderer or his accomplices sauntered in and out of rooms and carried out
their plans unmolested. I was on the verge of summoning Crompton and demanding he line up every servant for me to question. A moment’s thought told me I couldn’t do it.
Tell no
one
. I couldn’t defy the fellow’s instructions; Esther’s safety was more important than my pride.

I heard a noise at the door, looked up – and there was Esther regarding me steadfastly. She looked particularly fine in a gown of the palest green spotted with tiny flowers; her fair hair
was drawn up and two little ringlets allowed to fall over one shoulder. And she was wearing one of those hideous caps.

She wasted no time. She left the door open and came across the room, with a challenging look in her eyes. The sun drifted in through the window and touched her with brightness.

“I’ve been talking to Mr Heron,” she said.

“Indeed?”

“He told me you received a note this morning, threatening me.”

“Damn the man!” I exploded before I could stop myself. “I beg your pardon – I meant –”

“You were not going to tell me?”

“I was not,” I said forcibly.

I knew what she was going to say. She was going to demand a part in tonight’s plotting, in whatever Heron had in mind. And that was out of the question.

“Oh really, Charles,” she said in exasperation. “So I am to know nothing of a threat against me? What if I decide to walk alone in the rose garden, or to ride out across
country to the village, totally unprotected, unconscious of any danger?”

“I would hope you’d have your maid with you at least!”

“Yesterday you were railing at my decision to wear a respectable riding dress rather than breeches,” she said irritably. “Do be consistent, Charles. Do you wish me to follow
the conventions or not?”

I scowled.

“Exactly,” she said. “Now I am aware there might be some danger to me, I can take precautions. I can make sure that indeed I do not go out alone. And I can have a loaded pistol
at hand at all times. Is anything the matter?”

I was staring at her.

“Yes,” she said. “I do know that you must have some sort of plot in hand to catch this man.”

“And you don’t wish – ”

“I do not wish to set the whole of society in uproar,” she said. “And the people here have contacts with almost all of society – or at least that part of it that is
significant. If our marriage is to be accepted, Charles, we must be cautious about our behaviour from now on. And it is not appropriate for a lady to take part in this kind of activity.”

She swept from the room.

Leaving me unhappily ambivalent. I was glad to have Esther safe, to ensure she was not involved in anything dangerous. But I missed, oh how I missed, her no-nonsense disregard for convention
where it was at its worst. Even a week or two ago, she would unhesitatingly have insisted on accompanying me – she’d ridden out to protect me from that attack in the wood only a few
days ago. But now we were betrothed and Esther was insisting on acting the conventional wife.

And I hated it.

More than hated it.

And why did it make me itch? As if there was something I was missing, some crucial detail...

I have a great respect for Heron – indeed, a sneaking liking. He’s cynical, overbearing and exacting, but he can be an excellent conversationalist and I’ve
spent many a pleasant evening in his company. But if he chooses to take charge of any matter, there is no gainsaying him. When I told him of the second note, he was swift to lay plans. He, Hugh and
I would deal with the matter between us. I would obey the instructions and leave a substitute book on the parapet. Hugh was to hide in the shrubbery, Heron in the rose garden – Heron among
the roses for heaven’s sake! – and leap out to apprehend the villain when he came for the book. He prowled about the drawing room, dizzying me as I sat at the harpsichord, planning
every detail with minute precision.

“The approach to the canal bridge is across grass,” I said at last, when he paused for breath. “The rose garden and the shrubbery are a considerable distance off –
you’ll be seen the moment you leave their shelter. There’s no possibility of catching this fellow by surprise.”

“There is, I think, a wood on the other side of the bridge.” Heron stared out of the window. “I wonder if we should place someone at the far side in case the murderer flees
that way.”

“I’ve walked through that wood. There’s an access on to the road certainly, but also into the kitchen garden, and back to the house. We can’t keep an eye on them
all.”

“Then we will stop him at the bridge,” Heron said decisively.

He was off without another word, leaving me staring at the pages of one of Mr Scarlatti’s abominably difficult sonatas and wondering if there was any prospect at all of bringing the matter
off. If the murderer did escape, he’d discover the book was a substitute – would he not then take his anger out on Esther?

None of this brought us any nearer to uncovering the identity of the villains. A young man and an older man, according to Esther. I could still not discount Fischer. He could have left the
notes; he could have been in Newcastle to attack the chapman. But surely he’d not have been fit enough to chase me up Butcher Bank? That might have been a hypothetical son. But if such a
person existed, he probably had attacked the chapman too and it didn’t matter whether Fischer was in town at the right time or not.

And I’d swear Fischer had known nothing of Nell’s death until I told him.

My thoughts turned to Crompton. He had secrets that could send him to a noose if they were known, and was being threatened with exposure. He could easily have left notes in any part of the
house; he could have attacked me in the grounds. He had no motive that I could think of, but perhaps he was acting under duress. But of course he couldn’t have killed the chapman – he
could never have left the house for any length of time.

And there was Fowler, who’d been reluctant to promise me the name I wanted. Had he even questioned Crompton? Was he protecting a man for whom he must inevitably have all the sympathy in
the world? Was he protecting himself? He and Crompton were more than –
friends
.