Authors: Roz Southey
Broken Harmony
... it is good to see a publisher investing in fresh work that, although definitely contemporary in mood and content, falls four-square within the
genre’s traditions.
- Martin Edwards, author of the highly acclaimed Harry Devlin Mysteries
Creme de la Crime… so far have not put a foot wrong.
- Reviewing the Evidence
First published in 2007 by Crème de la Crime P O Box 523, Chesterfield, S40 9AT
Copyright © 2007 Roz Southey
The moral right of Roz Southey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any
information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is
published.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting by Yvette Warren Cover design by Yvette Warren Front cover image by Peter Roman
Printed and bound in Germany by Bercker.
ISBN 978-0-9551589-3-3
A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library
www.cremedelacrime.com
Contents
About the author:
Roz Southey is a musicologist and historian, and lives in the North East of England.
My thanks …
… to Lynne Patrick and Crème de la Crime for allowing me to achieve a lifelong ambition, and to my editor, Douglas Hill, for his insightful and patient advice, and
unfailing encouragement.
… to Jackie, Jenny, Laura, Anuradha and Sandra for their support during rejections and disappointments. Without their insistence, I would never have dusted off the manuscript of
Broken
Harmony
and put it in the post.
… to all the staff of many libraries who over the years have hunted out old newspapers, diaries, tradesmen’s accounts and music manuscripts for me, particularly the staff of
Newcastle Central Library’s Local Studies Department.
… and to all my family, especially my husband Chris who has listened to the same stories again and again without complaint, and brewed untold cups of Yellow Label tea …
Wind sweeps across the fell, shivering the reeds and cotton grass at the pond’s edge. The water is misty in the early morning light. Cold drills
into my bones; a thin drizzle chills my face. I am talking to a dead man, trying to persuade him to give up the name of his murderer. Trying to persuade him that justice is more than private
vengeance. And getting nowhere.
His spirit is as secretive as the man himself ever was. It is infuriating, especially when spirits, as everyone knows, are generally eager to tell the whole world exactly how they died.
I have never even liked the fellow. Over these past few months he has done everything he can to drive me out of the town. He has been rude to my face and disparaging behind my back. He has
belittled my abilities and looked down that long nose of his as if he smelt something unpleasant every time he looked at me. Why should I care who killed him?
Because, of course, there is more at stake here than ‘mere’ justice. Because there has been more than one attack already, and who knows who may be the next victim? It may be me. Or
someone close to me.
The cold air chills my bones. A sheen lies upon the water.
“Tell me,” I say again to the spirit.
He is silent.
1
OVERTURE
The harpsichord is a reticent instrument, chiming delicately in the background of the music. For an audience (at the rehearsal in which we were engaged, for instance) the sound
would be as variable as the candlelight flickering among the cobwebby roof timbers of the ancient ale-house that sheltered us, the Turk’s Head. Among the violins and basses the harpsichord
could no doubt be heard only as a hint of sound – a metallic ping-ping – and perhaps even that would be suggested more by the energetic movement of my hands than by any actual sound. If
the instrument was heard clearly, it would be because the band had faltered or lost its place. (Which with this band happened all too frequently.)
I am not fond of playing the harpsichord. I am not a reticent man. Give me a church organ any day, filling the stone vaults with a thunder of noise.
But there were no vacancies for a church organist in the town, so I was forced to be content with my engagement in the Concerts. And I did not take kindly to sitting at the back of the band
rather than in the harpsichord’s usual place at the front. I had been relegated to that position by the enmity of, as the papers say,
a certain person
. So there I was, sitting in
semi-darkness even in the light of midday, gazing between the bobbing figures of my excellent-hearted but musically deficient gentlemen employers and the all-too-few professional players they
employed to keep them in time and tune, biting my tongue and restraining an impulse to lean forward and whisper in a few ears. (I am not a silent man, either.) The ear of Mr Ord in the second
violins, for instance, who persisted in trilling every held note and looking about him with a sly smile as if for compliments. Or the ear of young Henry Wright, our only player of the tenor violin,
who bit his lip in concentration as he carefully played every note just fractionally flat. No, I knew my place – though
a certain person
would allege otherwise.
As the harpsichordist to the Concerts, I was charged with ensuring that, no matter what happened among the gentlemen amateurs who sawed away at their violins, the harmony would continue. I must
bring down the chords decisively so that every man could pick up his place again when he lost it. Should the violins, playing an air, collapse completely, I must play the tune – and smile
when an elegant gentleman murmured, with raised eyebrows, “I didn’t know the harpsichord part had that melody, Patterson.” I must not say, “Only since you have given up
playing it for its difficulty, sir.” Not if I wanted to keep my wages.
Of course there was one gentleman who might be able to say such things. That
certain person
, the leader of the band, ought to have been using the rehearsal to say – diplomatically
– certain things that needed to be said. Why did he not turn to the enthusiastic gentlemen on the cellos and murmur, as I would, that he admired them most when they played their most delicate
pianissimo
? (To put it in other words, would they please, sirs, play more quietly!). Why did he not make it clear to Mr Ord that the only player who may ornament the melody is the leader of
the band?
Ladies and Gentlemen of Newcastle upon Tyne and its Environs in this year of our Lord 1735, behold our leader, our adored, exquisite, posturing leader, that damned black violin in his hand,
waving his bow-stick as enthusiastically as sly Mr Ord, then plunging into a morass of passage-work of the sort that gentlemen amateurs love to gape at. Trills here, mordents there, a cascade of
notes from top to bottom of the strings, a sawing away in alt like a pig squealing at slaughter. I once heard Mr Ord say admiringly that if our esteemed leader played any higher, he would be off
the strings altogether. But, damn it,
what was it for
? Did such scraping engage our passions? Our pity? Our piety? Not at all. It engaged only, as it intended, our admiration.
Monsieur Henri Le Sac’s playing succeeded, of course, in quietening the music lovers who had come to gossip knowledgeably over our scratchings. (Those who attended rehearsals were
generally those who did not choose to mix with the common sort at concerts, or who liked to know the pieces in advance so that they could talk learnedly of them later.) In the front, Lady Anne,
elegant as always despite her plainness, had naturally been silent all along; she could hardly chatter while her protégé displayed his skills. Her cousin too, by her side, had been
coolly restrained throughout; she looked so bored I wondered why she had come at all. Others were more animated. The ladies Brown, coming out of duty to papa on the cello, fluttered their fans to
cool their flushed and adoring faces; and Fleming the stationer, in his massive old-fashioned periwig, listened attentively to the sound of the fiddle strings he supplied at cost price. My friend
Demsey at the back scowled through the entire rehearsal; he of course had had a prejudice against Le Sac and his cronies ever since that unfortunate contretemps over the newspaper
advertisement.
In truth (and it is a truth that made me sigh heavily) our esteemed leader was an excellent technician. Somewhere in his youth in Switzerland, Le Sac had an careful master who trained his nimble
fingers and taught him to draw an excellent tone from his violin. A pity he did not also teach him manners. Or morals.
Of course, from where I sat, I could only see his back. A dark-coated back – dark blue, I fancied. Le Sac had excellent taste in clothes and, for all his squat, stocky figure, set them off
well. I sighed over that further injustice. I am not a plain man, but no matter how hard I tried I never quite seemed to be in fashion. I did not have the money for it. Le Sac’s hair was dark
and his own – wigs are the very devil to wear when you bob about as much as he does in performance. Occasionally, as he dipped into a phrase, I could see his profile, the sharp nose, the
distant gaze, the high forehead. Some even called him handsome.
I
did not think so, but then I daresay I was prejudiced.
A final flurry of notes and we were set at liberty for a few minutes while Le Sac received the tribute of his patroness. I slipped out of the room and rattled down the back stairs into the
tavern yard. The sunlight startled me – I am always so wrapt up in the music that I forget the time. An ostler led a horse clip-clop across the yard and nodded at me as I pissed against the
wall. A voice behind me said: “Bloody ale. Lousy stuff.”
The spirit of old Hoult, the former landlord, inhabits the scene of his death as all spirits must do. One dark night five or six years ago, Hoult crept out to add a few coins to his secret hoard
and was found dead in the frost the next morning. Mrs Hoult, his unbeloved wife, went some while later to look for the hiding place, argued with the spirit of her husband (who refused to give up
his treasure), and dropped down dead on almost the same spot. They bicker in death as they did in life.
I laced myself up again. “Lousy ale? I thought
you
passed the recipe on to your son.”
Hoult’s spirit had lodged itself temporarily in the wall by the door. “He’s never had the knack, Mr Patterson, sir. Always messes things up. Why d’you think I never let
him touch the business while I lived?”
His wife cackled from the lamp-bracket. “And you were better?”