Sword and Song (28 page)

He clearly took my meaning; if anything, he looked paler. “Yes, sir.” He didn’t look as if he was about to act on my advice.

“He’ll not say anything,” Hugh said as we emerged from the servants’ door into the main house. “Damn it, we’re no further forward! What now?”

I showed him Heron’s sword. “I’m going to return this.”

“And what do I do?”

“Continue to teach the ladies. And make damn sure Esther’s in sight every moment. Our murderer might try and exact revenge.”

When Fowler opened the door of Heron’s room to me, it looked much as it had before. But I saw from Fowler’s face that something had happened; the anger had subsided into irritation,
the fear into mere fussing.

“No, you can’t talk to him,” he said straightaway as if I’d asked. “He’s sleeping.”

I held out the sword. He looked at it for a moment without taking it. “You could have cleaned it.”

I shook my head. “And have you tell me I’ve used the wrong stuff and scratched it to blazes?”

He bared his teeth, in what was probably intended to be a grin.

“I need you to talk to Crompton,” I said.

“Talk to him yourself. I’ve got better things to do.”

“I’ve already tried. He won’t say anything.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like talking.”

“Hardly surprising,” I said dryly. “Fowler, I know what the pair of you are so desperate to keep quiet. I’ve known for several months in your case and never uttered a
word about it. But someone else knows too, about Crompton at least, and that someone has just done his damnedest to get Crompton accused of theft, assault and murder. I want to know who is
threatening Crompton. Because that person had the book and is therefore implicated in the murder of the girl and the chapman. I would remind you that that person is very likely the one who injured
Heron last night.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said sourly.

“I need his name, Fowler.”

He said nothing.

“I’ll find him,” I said, “I
will
find him. And if you try to obstruct me, you’ll have to take your chances on being caught up in whatever debacle
follows!”

And I walked away from him without another word.

I went back to my room, more to compose myself than to do anything purposeful; I lay down on my bed, in the hope that rest would clear my thoughts. But the things I knew, or
thought I knew, simply went round and round in my mind uselessly, making no more sense than they ever had. More often than I would have liked, I saw the look the attacker had given me as he stood
over Heron with the sword. Had he really intended to kill Heron? And would he take revenge on Esther?

He could not do so, surely; once he did that, he had no more hold over me.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I’d missed something. I could see the fellow standing in front of me. I’d been focused on that sword, on that look, but there’d been something else
about him that troubled me. Something I’d seen, but not understood.

It was no use. Perhaps I should play some music – music always clears my mind.

The drawing room was empty, the window on to the terrace standing open. I bent to unlock the harpsichord and realised that the volume of Scarlatti’s sonatas had been separated from the
rest of the music and set on the closed harpsichord lid. There was a note on top of it with my name elegantly subscribed; a blob of red sealing wax, unmarked, closed the paper.

The handwriting was Esther’s.

Inside, the note said,
Rose garden
.

I heard voices as I went cautiously down the steps from the terrace. Women’s voices. I hesitated, then went on quietly. Two ladies were sat on a shady bench, under the trailing stems of a
climbing rose. As I came softly along the walk behind them, I heard Esther say: “I often find the countryside dull. There are not the attractions there are in town.”

“The attractions of town are very much overrated,” Mrs Alyson said, obviously bored. I could just see her profile; her head was lifted, and she was staring down the length of the
rose garden. She seemed very stiff, I thought.

“I generally find one takes pleasure from a concert or theatre performance in due proportion to the effort one puts into it.” Esther delivered this rebuke with infinite civility and
with boredom at least equal to Mrs Alyson’s. I wondered if this was a conversation I’d had been intended to overhear, or if Esther had anticipated being on her own and wanted private
words with me.

Mrs Alyson said indifferently, “You may be right.” And then with sudden startling passion, “But what else is there for women to do but to sit and look pretty and gossip and fan
themselves in rose gardens!? Oh now pray, Mrs Jerdoun, you are about to talk of reading, or sewing, and of course a married woman has other
duties
. But can you see any point to it
all?”

“To what?” Esther asked, in evident confusion.

“To existing at all!” Mrs Alyson’s head turned; I saw her insolent contempt. “Oh, please do not talk about love, Mrs Jerdoun. Do you and Heron talk of love?”

Esther said nothing.

“And don’t talk of God either,” Mrs Alyson said without a breath. “There is no God. There is nothing but mere dull existence.”

“I find that a dispiriting point of view,” Esther said composedly. “Is there nothing you enjoy?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs Alyson said, with a tiny tight smile. “I enjoy setting everyone else at sixes and sevens. I enjoy scandalising people.”

“Even if they don’t know it?” Esther’s gaze was steady. “I refer, of course, to the fact that you are not married.”

Mrs Alyson laughed. “Oh, but I am. Just not to Edward. My husband, madam, wanders the remains in Italy and sends me back learned epistles on how the ancients behaved, and the duties of a
good wife. He was, many years ago – before I was born, in fact – tutor to the Archbishop’s sons, and he can write a sermon better, or worse, than any man living. And no, madam, he
does not know what I am about, and I do not feel the slightest need to enlighten him.”

Esther considered. “Of course, if you did, you would lose the allowance he makes you?”

“Exactly so. And money does at least make the dullness comfortable.”

A pause. Mrs Alyson said, “No comment, Mrs Jerdoun? No homily of your own to give me? No threat to tell the other guests? No? You are correct, of course. You have no proof – how
could they believe you?” She leant forward, said, “Do you know what I find most infuriating of all, Mrs Jerdoun? Self-satisfied, smug, middle-aged spinsters who think they have the
right to poke their noses in wherever they choose!”

She was on her feet before I had time to do more than catch my breath in fury. I heard the rustle of her skirts as she walked away down the length of the rose garden, to a gap in the trellis and
into the formal garden. A slender elegant figure walking faster than a woman generally thinks appropriate.

Something stirred in my memory...

I rounded the rose trellis, looked at Esther, who was still seated on the bench, with her hands in her lap. She looked at me quizzically. “Calm yourself, Charles. You cannot say I did not
bring that insult on myself.”

I stood looking down at her. “I arrived when you were defending the attractions of town. She’d clearly said something earlier to annoy you.”

She winced then sighed. “She said that it was not
edifying
to watch you mooning over me.”

I sat down beside her, said indignantly, “Mooning? I’ve never mooned in my life!”

She laughed, laid her hand on mine; her touch was warm and sent a frisson of pleasure through me. “Oh, what a mess this is!” she said ruefully. “But I did not ask you out here
to overhear my argument with Mrs Alyson. I wanted to tell you I have talked to Casper Fischer and discovered the entire history of his family. He has four daughters, three sons-in-law and six
grandchildren. But no sons. And the sons-in-law all sound too old to be our murderer.” She sighed again. “There seems to be no solution to it all!”

I was still haunted by that nagging feeling and it was beginning to take shape. I looked down at Esther’s hand, lying on the skirts of her pale gown. I still regretted those breeches.
“Well,” I said, “shall we do something so totally dull and conventional that it will relieve everyone’s anxieties.”

“Charles,” she said, laughing. “What are you talking about!?”

I smiled. “How would you like a picnic?”

A footman brought me a note from Bedwalters. It was short and sounded dispirited. He’d found plenty of evidence of the killer’s petty theft, of his taste in fine
clothes; he’d found someone who’d lost money to him at cards and was convinced he’d cheated. But there was no sign of the fellow in town at the moment.

Of course there wasn’t, I thought; he was hanging around Long End in the hope of getting the book from me.

I needed to get back to Newcastle and look at that book. Every answer must lie in its pages. But simply to ride off would have two undesirable effects: firstly, it would result in Alyson
dismissing me – and I was still determined on payment for my work – and secondly, the murderer or his accomplice would follow me back to town. Or, worse, one would follow me, the other
would stay within reach of Esther.

Whatever I did, I had to take Esther with me, to watch over her safety. But how was that to be managed without scandalising the ladies and gentlemen? I laughed over Mrs Alyson’s
determination to outrage society. She was doing nothing of the sort; she was sitting quietly at home, guarding her secret, making sure no one knew she was not married. She obviously found pleasure
in that but it was a safe pleasure. Our marriage would be acknowledged.

I climbed the steps back up to the terrace and was surprised to find Heron seated there in the sunshine, impeccably dressed, a glass of brandy and a folded newspaper at his side. His eyes were
closed but he opened them when he heard the sound of my footsteps. A dark bruise disfigured the left side of his temple.

“Yes, perfectly well,” he said irritably. “And if you start fussing like Fowler, I will take myself straight back to town and to the devil with all of you!” He
straightened. “I know that look, Patterson. You know who our murderer is!”

I shook my head, sat down beside him. “Not know. Suspect. Though I still don’t have the least idea why the book is so important.”

“Are you going to elucidate?”

I hesitated. There was the sound of conversation in the drawing room behind, loud voices – one, I thought, was Alyson’s, the other Fischer’s. I couldn’t hear what they
were saying but they sounded heated. I lowered my voice – I could not be explicit under the circumstances but I could hint.

“Why do you tend to dress in light colours, sir?”

He looked startled. “Who can account for personal preference? Fashion has a part in it too, I daresay. And practicality – I wear darker colours when I am out riding.”

“Our attackers last night were wrapped up in greatcoats, hats and scarves.”

“To disguise themselves, obviously.”

“I was watching one of them closely – the one who hit you over the head. He was wearing dark clothes underneath his greatcoat. And,” I added, reviewing my memory of the events,
“shoes more suitable for the house than the gardens.”

Heron frowned. “If he was an outsider watching the house, he would have been in boots of some sort. But you have been suspecting one of the servants, have you not?”

“There were also muddy footprints in the dining room. Made by the murderer certainly.
While the gentlemen were still there
.”

He studied me for a long moment. “I saw them on my way out,” he said finally, “They were all drunk. Alyson was prostrate on the floor. They would have seen nothing. But the
murderer could not guarantee that, so he would not have risked being there unless he had a purpose. As a servant would.”

“I think there are three of them,” I said.

Heron was startled. “Three?”

“Our assailants last night were both slight, were they not? Yet Esther witnessed the attack on myself and Alyson in the wood, and she says the attacker took his horse from a
burly
man.”

“God help us,” Heron said. “A conspiracy? But why?”

“I’d lay odds the burly man is the servant.”

“The butler?”

Shouting behind us. Heron twisted round. The next moment Fischer erupted from the drawing room. “Patterson. Patterson!”

He looked distraught; I automatically rose and he seized hold of my coat. “You must find it, Patterson! Find it!”

Alyson was behind him, gesturing helplessly.

“What’s happened?”

“The sword!” Fischer cried. “The sword has been stolen!”

Between us, we got a whole story out of him. Heron gave him brandy; Alyson put in what he’d already been told. The sword had been in Fischer’s room; it had disappeared while he ate
breakfast – about the time, Alyson said, that he and I had been questioning Crompton.

“One of the servants?” Heron suggested, glancing at me.

“Most of them were gathered outside the butler’s pantry.”

“But not all?”

I shook my head. “I can’t tell. It’s unlikely the outdoors servants would have been there – the grooms and the stable boy, for instance.”

“Why is this?” Fischer demanded. “Is someone waging a war against me? First the book, now the sword!”

“There is some anti-Colonial feeling in this country,” Alyson said doubtfully.

“I’d lay odds the sword was stolen for its monetary value,” I said.

“The servants,” Fischer said. “It must be the servants. No lady or gentleman could sink so low. You must search the servants’ quarters.”

I saw Alyson flinch at this. Given the reaction to his search of Crompton’s rooms, I fancied he suspected he’d find himself without any servants at all if he tried the same thing
again. But there was a noise at the drawing room door, and Crompton emerged in his scarlet and gold livery; behind him was a stocky man, in serviceable outdoor clothes.