Sword and Song (8 page)

“There was something else,” Fowler said, pausing in drawing the razor down my left cheek.

Dozy again and trying to keep at bay that nagging ache that kept prodding at the back of my head, I said lazily, “What?”

His eyes met mine in the mirror; light winked off the razor’s edge. “Don’t get Heron involved in anything dangerous.”

Yes, I thought, staring into his reflected gaze, there was still a considerable portion of the ruffian lurking beneath Fowler’s bland exterior. “I can’t govern what Heron
does,” I pointed out.

His mouth twisted wryly. “No one can. I know that better than anyone. But you don’t need to encourage him.”

I knew that wasn’t a request. It was a warning.

On my way down to breakfast, I heard low furious voices coming from one of the bedrooms. It took me a moment to work out that the room in question was the Alysons’.
Husband and wife, if that was what they truly were, were having a bitter argument. I couldn’t quite hear what was being said; I hurried on, before I could be tempted to eavesdrop.

The breakfast room was a small chamber in the corner of one of the turrets; a long table and a longer sideboard loaded with serving dishes were pretty much the only furniture. I couldn’t
understand why anyone should have a room especially for breakfast when they already had a perfectly good dining room.

There were only two occupants. The severe gentleman who had been eying Esther yesterday was reading one of the London newspapers over a massive plate of eggs and devilled kidneys; on the other
side of the table, Casper Fischer was just rising from his chair. He looked far too alert for a man who’d not been long out of his bed.

“My dear sir, are you well?” He greeted me with enthusiasm. “I hear one of the local villains had a go at you last night.”

I gave him an abbreviated version of what had happened; Fischer sympathised wholeheartedly. His tone was just right, conveying sufficient sympathy to make me feel he was genuinely concerned for
my well-being, but not lingering on the matter so long as to embarrass me.

“You need some fresh air,” he said at last. “Marvellous for clearing a bruised head. I was just about to go for a walk. Nothing too long – only four or five miles. Why
don’t you come with me?”

“I’ll probably have to play for one of the ladies,” I said, trying to sound regretful.

“Of course,” he said immediately, without rancour. “Work must always come first.”

Now that was a sentiment I’d never expected to hear in a gentleman’s house.

The severe gentleman cleared his throat, obviously annoyed at our talking; Fischer went off for his walk and I helped myself to coffee and a plate of bread and cheese. Sitting under that fierce
glare would probably curdle the milk, so I retired to the library. But it was already occupied by Heron, writing letters at the large table in the middle of the room. He had a dish of coffee and a
slice of toast to one side, and was dressed in sombre brown, clothes more suitable for a day’s work on his estates than for a houseparty. He glanced up as I came in, finished his sentence and
put down his pen.

“I’ve been to the village,” he said.

“Fowler said you had,” I admitted. “My thanks for lending me his assistance, sir.”

He waved away my gratitude. “I have spoken to the local justice. There are no poachers in this area.”

I laughed, and took the chair he nodded to. “Don’t all countrymen say that?”

“In this case it appears to be true,” he said dryly. “The local justice was annoyed by half his deer disappearing and undertook to wage war on the villains. Three weeks ago, he
sentenced seven men to transportation and cleared the country of poachers at one fell swoop. They are all now in Newcastle, awaiting a ship.”

“Can we be sure he caught them all?”

“Naturally not, but the strong possibility is that he did. The matter is more complicated than that, however.” Heron broke his dry toast into two pieces. “Six of the men left
families that are of course now destitute, and at least two of those families have male children of an age to take to poaching themselves. They may have to,” he added, “if they
don’t want their siblings to starve.”

“And you think one of these boys was out on a poaching expedition, saw me and thought I was an easy target.”

Heron broke the toast into smaller pieces. “Possibly.”

“Forgive me, sir,” I said, “but you don’t sound convinced.”

He sighed. “It is plain you were hit by someone much the same height as yourself. The oldest boy is twelve years old. He may of course be unnaturally tall but it seems unlikely.”

I contemplated the view from the window; Fischer was striding down the formal gardens, two spaniels bounding joyously at his heels. Heron put down the fragments of toast uneaten, and sipped at
his coffee.

“If I was not the victim of a poacher,” I said, “then there’s an inevitable conclusion to be drawn.”

“Indeed,” Heron said.

“Either it was one of the servants trying to rob me...”

Heron shook his head. “Why risk attacking you in person when they could slip into your room when you were not there and take what they want?”

“... or it was one of our fellow guests.”

Heron set the coffee dish down very precisely. “Interesting, do you not think?”

“No,” I retorted. “Believe me, sir, I have offended no one here, disadvantaged no one, cheated no one. Indeed, until yesterday, I knew no one, except for yourself and Mrs
Jerdoun.”

“I suggest you think a little more deeply,” Heron recommended. He went on, “Did you see Mr and Mrs Ord have arrived, fresh from their wedding trip?”

Heron has a low opinion of marriage; his own was apparently merely tolerable, and its end, with the death of his wife, a great relief. His cynicism showed in his voice. I recognised he’d
drawn a line under the previous part of the conversation.

I nodded. “I heard their carriage. They arrived remarkably late.”

“A broken wheel, I understand.” He picked up his pen again. “Do you think Mrs Ord looks well?”

“I haven’t seen her yet.”

“I fancy Ord did not much like your influence with her before the marriage.”

“Lizzie Saint was my pupil,” I said, “and a keen musician. Nothing more.”

“I never thought otherwise.” He picked up his pen again, returned his attention to his letter. “I will let you know if I hear anything more about the poachers,
Patterson.”

Unmistakeably dismissed, I picked up my breakfast and went into the hall. Unlike Heron, I knew Ord’s objection to me was nothing to do with his wife. I’d recovered some letters that
would almost certainly have ruined any chance of his marriage taking place; worse, I knew exactly what the letters contained.

But the thought of Philip Ord riding over in darkness on the off-chance of having an opportunity to dispose of me? Preposterous.

I was hesitating in the hall when the breakfast room door opened and the plump gentleman – what was his name? Ridley, William Ridley – came out, followed closely by a
scarlet-and-gold-clad servant.

“My lawyer? At long last, what the devil’s kept the fellow? Where have you put him? Very well, I’ll go and talk to him. Tell your master he’s here.”

The servant bowed and they took themselves off in different directions. It looked, I thought, as if Alyson was about to discover the legal complications of running a large estate. And I thought
of Esther and her estates in Norfolk and Northumberland – the estates that must inevitably pass, if she married, to her husband. That was yet another reason – if one more was needed
– why I could not marry her. What experience did I have in such matters? I’d probably ruin her inheritance in months.

I heard my name called and looked up the stairs to see the two lively middle-aged ladies of the previous evening waving down at me.

“Mr Patterson!” one called. “We were saying how delightful it would be to have a few songs. Will you play for us?”

I said I would. The ladies disappeared upstairs to ‘fetch the music’; I suspected this would occupy half an hour at least and took my bread and cheese out to the terrace to the steps
where I had been attacked.

There was little to see. The gravel path at the foot of the steps was scuffed; a faint trace of blood on the bottom step was dried to a dull brown. I looked up at the windows of the house above.
One must be Heron’s. I’d been lucky; if he’d been given one of the rooms at the back, it might be all over for me.

One thing was clear – the attack could not have been premeditated. No one could have guessed I’d decide to walk in the gardens. Someone must have seen me from the house, seized a
weapon, come out to attack me –

But why
?

I heard voices from the rose garden to my right. At least one of the musical ladies was there; they’d probably already forgotten the idea of singing. And a glimpse of part of the drive
showed me Alyson riding off on a spirited black horse, accompanied by Ridley and a cheerful young man in sombre clothing – the visiting lawyer, perhaps. It appeared that the various members
of the party were entertaining themselves very well without my help. This could be the easiest – if most tedious – fifteen guineas I’d ever earnt. Although it allowed me much too
much time to think about Nell and Bedwalters.

I went to my room for the key to tune the harpsichord. A couple of disgruntled servants helped me move the instrument into a better light and I set to with some considerable pleasure. It was an
hour or more later before one of the musical ladies came hurrying into the room, her arms full of music.

“Oh, pray, do forgive us, Mr Patterson!” The second lady came in behind her. “But you know how it is. You see someone you haven’t seen for years and find you have six
cousins in common you never knew about – ”

“And then,” said the older lady with a mischievous smile,“they insist upon telling you all about them from cradle to grave, in the utmost detail.”

“Particularly their illnesses,” said the first lady with a groan. “And they
won’t
listen when you say you have an appointment – Oh!”

She broke off in surprise as movement in the doorway caught her attention. It was Esther, in the palest of yellow gowns, a book in her hand. She looked at me for a moment, with her coolest
gaze.

“Dear Mrs Jerdoun,” said the younger lady. “Do join us. We are about to sing a few airs.”

Esther shook her head. The lappets on her cap rippled against her neck. Why was she wearing so ridiculous a thing? She’d never cared for such conventional trifles. And it didn’t suit
her.

I reddened as her cool, ironic gaze lingered on me.

“No, thank you,” she said. “I was merely looking for a place to read – I thought the room was empty.” And she withdrew, the long fall of her gown swishing against
the open door.

The ladies surprised me, both by their excellent voices and the serious manner in which they approached the Art. They were critical of their own performances where appropriate and insisted on
rehearsing several parts to get them just right. Even more surprisingly, they complimented me on my playing. An hour or more passed very pleasantly.

We attracted some attention. One or two other ladies wandered in and out, then Mrs Alyson came in alone. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, still with the freshness of youth but with an edge
of weariness. Her dress was of the finest material, with intricate embroidery and lace that must have been worth a fortune. Jewels glittered in her ears and round her throat.

She was restless, sitting down, standing up again, picking up a book, glancing inside, putting it down again, careful to line it up with the edge of the table. She walked to the fireplace,
glanced down at the huge bowl of flowers set in the grate, bent to finger one of them. She seemed tense, unapproachable. I thought that the position of mistress must be damnably insecure –
she must know how the ladies and gentlemen would react if they knew her real relationship with Alyson.

But he seemed so in love with her – why the devil did he not just marry her? Of course, Hugh often said the same of myself and Esther. How could I know the imperatives that governed their
lives? I felt a surge of sympathy.

It lasted only a moment. “Mr Patterson,” Mrs Alyson said loudly.

I’d been about to play the first chord of a new song, and caught myself just in time. “Madam?”

“I heard there was an unpleasant incident last night.”

I had of course risen to address her; I bowed. “Indeed.”

“I trust such a thing will not happen again.”

This seemed in the nature of an order, as if I was to blame for the whole affair. She was staring at the huge portrait that hung over the fireplace, a picture of a slightly amused elderly
gentleman. “I am aware you have ‘low’ connections, Mr Patterson. Perhaps that is hardly surprising. I made it perfectly clear to Alyson that I wanted no tradesmen here but he
chose otherwise. Very well, I submit to his judgement. But you will oblige me by not bringing your cronies or their affairs into this house. Do you understand me, sir?”

I was speechless.

“I trust I make myself clear,” she said, and walked out.

Just before dinner, while I was still fuming over Mrs Alyson’s rudeness (and her curt dismissal of my friends), I received another letter from Hugh.