Broken Harmony (28 page)

I went barefoot across soft rugs into a room that was plainly a gentleman’s study. A table shrouded in darkness was piled with books. At George’s insistence, I fetched a branch of
candles from the bedroom and set it on the table.

“The second book down, master. Look at it.”

It was a printed book of music in score in a handsome green binding, with the parts in a pocket at the back.

“Open it, master.”

Words stared up at me from the title page.

Seven Concertos in seven parts by Chas Patterson, Organist, Newcastle upon Tyne.
A dedication page was inscribed to Miss Ord of Fenham. “Look at the first concerto,
master.”

I turned the pages, read the first printed staves.

“It’s the one from the manuscript book Lady Anne gave us,” George said excitedly. He started humming but I had already read the tune for myself. “You never said
you’d had it printed.” He slid closer, lingering upon the silver candlestick. “I won’t tell them you didn’t really write it.”

“George –”

“You brought it yesterday. I saw you. Fresh from the press, you said. And I said,
I didn’t know you were having it printed, master.
And you said,
It’s cold in
here
, and the gent who lives here said,
Damn those children babbling in the street
. I told him it was me but he didn’t listen. Master, why didn’t you talk to me
yesterday?”

I stared at the music; the notes danced and blurred in the uncertain candlelight. George was right; they were the concerti from the book Lady Anne had lent me. And the other book, the one with
the unknown Thomas Powell’s signature – did that book belong in this place too?

George was insistently demanding my attention. I recalled, at last, that I had not spoken to him since his death and that, unlike Le Sac, he had taken no vow to protect his killer.

“George,” I said soothingly. “I’m sorry if I have ignored you – indeed, I did not mean to. I give you my word I was not here yesterday but I cannot explain why I am
here today or even where this place is. I need to know everything I can, before I can tell what has happened. I must know, George. How did you die?”

He began to weep, a thin sound in the darkened room. “It wasn’t my fault, sir.”

“Of course not. I know Mr Heron turned you away from the Fleshmarket.”

“He said there was to be no duel and I knew there was!”

“So you tried to go back.”

More snivelling. “Yes, sir.”

“And this time Mr Demsey intercepted you.”

“He said I didn’t want to get mixed up with men like Mr Ord and Mr Jenison.”

“He was right,” I said wholeheartedly. “And Mr Demsey saw you to the door of my house. And then?”

“I waited till he’d gone,” he said reluctantly. “Then I went back to Mrs Hill’s again.”

“With the Vivaldi,” I said with resignation, remembering the music clasped in the dead boy’s hand.

“It’s much better than the Corelli,” the boy burst out.

“Never mind that,” I said, hurrying on. “How far did you get this time, George?”

“The Bigg Market, sir. That’s where the lady picked me up in her carriage.”

My heart grew heavy. “Go on.”

“She said she was looking for me. She said she wanted me to do something for her again.”

“
Again
?”

“I thought she wanted me to take the violin again,” he said in a small voice.

“Le Sac’s violin!” I said. “
You
sneaked into his rooms while he was ill and took it.”

“He never stirred,” the spirit said proudly. “Fast asleep he was and snoring. And I knew where he kept it – under the floorboards.”

“That’s why you were so afraid of Le Sac. You kept thinking he’d find out you’d stolen the violin.”

“He deserved it,” George said viciously. “I
hated
him.”

I shifted the branch of candles and sat down on the edge of the table. “I wonder you wanted to help the lady again, since you were so afraid of the consequences the first time. What did
she ask you to do?”

George was a thin pool of light on a chair. “She said Mr Ord and Mr Jenison had stopped the duel this time but she was determined it should go ahead because she wanted to teach Mr Sac a
lesson. She said he was arrogant and designing and – and she regretted the day she ever saw him. And she asked me to play the Vivaldi to her – she said she’d give me two guineas.
Two guineas, master. Only – only –” His voice shook.

I said gently, “What happened, George?”

He seemed to sniff. “She brought me here, sir, to this house, and took me into a big big room, with a harpsichord in it. And she asked me to play.” Another sniff. “I just
turned away to get my violin out. And then there was such a pain …” He was crying now. “Such a pain, master, in my throat, and everything was wet and hot. And – and she
said, –˜Fly away, boy. You’re one spirit who will never be found’.”

“In
this
house?” I repeated.

“Well, I knew the house when we got out of her carriage, sir. But when I got in the big room, I felt a bit funny. And when I looked out of the window, when I was getting my violin, I
couldn’t seem to see the square – just a street with lots of houses instead.” The pool of light flickered; he whimpered, “I don’t know what happened, sir!”

I was remembering the drunk spirit in the square who never knew where he was, who had insisted I was organist of St Nicholas. I ran my fingers over the title page of the book. Here was the
explanation of that puzzle; the drunk spirit had been cast out of this mysterious place into my real world. Might not, then, a spirit from the real world – George – be cast
into
this place?

And, as George’s story seemed to suggest, could the lady come and go between the two places as she pleased? She had certainly used the uncanny connection between them to exile
George’s spirit and so cover up her crime.

I turned, hearing a noise at the bedroom door. She stood there, smiling in the flickering light of the shadows.

“Alas, Mr Patterson,” she said. “You really should have kept out of this affair. You really should.”

I saw the candle-light glint on the metal hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“Good evening, Lady Anne,” I said.

36

SONG FOR SOLO SOPRANO

She regarded me with amusement. “Confess, sir, did you suspect me before this moment?”

I sighed. “Indeed not, my lady, though I suspected everyone else in turn. Now, of course, I cannot conceive why I omitted you.”

How strange, I thought, to be talking in so light-hearted a fashion to a murderess. And she, without a trace of fear, set her head on one side as if curious to hear me out.

“You killed George,” I went on, “who trusted you because you had paid him to steal the violin. Then you killed Le Sac, making it look as if he had killed the boy and had done
away with himself from remorse. Le Sac of course was your real target.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“But is it not rather an excessive way to be rid of a protégé Why not merely tell him you refuse to fund him further?”

The flickering candlelight showed a swift spray of emotions across her face. I calculated the distance between us, confident that I could take the knife from her. Once I had heard her
explanations.

She laughed softly. “It is not so easy to be rid of a blackmailer.”

“A love affair?” I suggested, although I had never imagined Lady Anne susceptible to the softer passions. “An irregularity with money?”

She threw back her head and laughed uproariously. I heard George’s spirit whimper in fear. “Mr Patterson, do you not wonder where you are?”

“There have been times I have thought of little else,” I confessed. “And of the people in this place. There is a man, particularly, stocky, red-faced –”

“My father.”

“I thought him dead, long ago.”

She nodded. “In your world, yes. But not in this. Not in
my
world.”

I could hear a clock ticking faintly in the bedroom. One of the candles in the branch on the table flared; smoke and a spark drifted from it. The shadows licked at her. I am not a superstitious
man, and have only a conventional amount of religion in me, but in that moment I fancied her a devil.

She advanced, and I contemplated putting an end to all this. I was barefoot and wore only a dressing robe but nevertheless… She smiled and shook her head.

“Do not do anything foolish, Mr Patterson. I can come and go as I please. I could kill you and go straight back to your world. It would not trouble me if I never came back here.” Did
I detect a note of falsity in that statement? No matter, she was continuing. “And once I am back in your world, sir, I will go straight to Gateshead and finish the work I began this morning.
In short, sir, if you value your friend the dancing master’s life, you will do as I say.”

I held her gaze but she did not drop her eyes in shame or confusion. It was clear she meant what she said. I retreated a step or two, putting the table between us, conscious that the wall and
curtained window were at my back, preventing me from moving very far. An amused smile played about Lady Anne’s lips.

“You have abandoned your pistols, I see,” I remarked as coolly as I could. “Too noisy, I suppose. One of them was Le Sac’s, was it not? Stolen from him when you killed
him.”

She ignored my words. “You need not be afraid yet, Mr Patterson. I do not intend to kill you in this house. You seem to have an ability to step through between worlds and your spirit might
exhibit the same trait. I do not want you to escape into your own world and betray me there.”

“
Your
world,
my
world?” I said. “I know which is mine. Do you tell me that you originate in this place? That you are not Mrs Jerdoun’s cousin?”

She gestured with her hands. “Imagine, sir, a book. Like this music book.” She indicated the book I had left open upon the table. “A book has many separate leaves of paper, all
stacked neatly one upon another. Imagine that the whole of creation is like this book. Each page is a separate world, each entire unto itself – lying very close to its neighbours, yet with no
communication between them. In each of these worlds live sets of people going about their daily concerns with no knowledge of the people in the other worlds, or any contact with them. Yet many have
their counterparts in those other worlds. A man like yourself, Mr Patterson, may exist on two worlds, or perhaps more. Or, rather, two men with your name and your characteristics may so exist.
Similar, yet different. Two versions of the same man.”

She dropped her hands and the knife flashed in the candlelight. Her expression was again one of amusement. “You are a great deal more successful in this world, Mr Patterson. A
well-respected concert promoter, a composer much admired even at so young an age, in possession not merely of one organist’s post but two, and with dozens of rich pupils pleading for your
attention. Oh, certainly you must work hard, but you are recognised as above the average run of musicians, and the patronising speeches of men like my father are tempered by respect.”

She leaned forward, her brown hair slipping across her shoulder. “Would you not wish to change places with your other self, Mr Patterson? It would not really be like stepping into another
man’s shoes. And who knows,
he
might prefer the anonymity of being merely competent and scraping a living.”

I was stung by her assessment of me, although I could hardly deny it. But I was more concerned with the implications of what she had said.

“Is that what
you
did?” I asked. “Changed places with your other self in my world?”

She shrugged. “She died young, aged fourteen, an orphan in the care of an aunt and uncle in Norfolk. When I first stepped through to your world I had some considerable work to cover my
tracks, to hide the fact that my other self had died. But once I had succeeded in that, I had few difficulties. I inherited her father’s money and became a rich heiress. I confess, however,
that I was unnerved to discover I had a cousin. Esther does not exist in this world.”

She idly turned the printed pages of the music book. I considered disarming her now but the distance between us was too great, and I knew that if she escaped she would do as she threatened and
step through
to my world to kill Demsey. For all I knew she might be able to
step through
in a moment; perhaps she would one second be standing in front of me, the next be a fading
shadow. I could not risk that. I would disarm her only when I could be certain of success. If I could distract her…

“That manuscript book I lent you,” she mused. “I had it from the original author, of course, to practise a harpsichord lesson from it. It is easy enough to take material
objects between the worlds.”

“How – how do you
step through
to my world?”

She stared musingly at the rich hangings over the window. “I really do not know, sir. It is a gift I have always had. As a child I used to visit strange worlds in my play, or use them to
hide from my father.” She smiled. “My governesses always used to remark on my remarkable imagination. I only came to realise that the worlds were real many years later. And there is
something about this house.” She glanced about her as if seeking something. “It is as if the pages of the book have been stuck together, here, and certain people may step through from
one page to another at will. I am not the only person with the ability. Others possess it – the spirit in the garden, for instance, and yourself.” She smiled. “Why not ask how
you
do it, sir?”

“I do nothing,” I said. “It happens or it does not. A chill, a giddiness and the world shifts like a curtain blowing, then all is still and I am in a different place. I cannot
do it at will.”

She shrugged. “That skill would no doubt grow.”

I did not want it. “And you live two lives? Are you not missed in this world?”

“I am a semi-invalid, sir, so ill that I must keep to my bed all day. I cannot even bear to have a maid with me; such creatures fuss so, you know. I put in an appearance occasionally at
the dinner table. My father has lost all patience with me and constantly reminds me how one day my distant cousins in Norfolk will inherit the house and throw me out of it. It is all entailed to a
male
heir, of course.”