Authors: Roz Southey
Heron pursed his lips as he leant close to a mirror to arrange his cravat. “Do you think that all this might simply be a smokescreen to cover up some other crime? Did Julia perhaps have
something the murderer wanted?” He frowned as Fowler brushed down his coat. “Or perhaps Mazzanti possesses something. The girl was wooed and the villain persuaded her to bring this
something with her, then killed her so she could not talk.”
I thought of Ord’s letters and could see that Heron was thinking of them too. They sat in my pocket still, as did the ribbon.
“But that would not work,” I said. “Once the girl’s spirit disembodies, she will tell all she knows. She will certainly reveal if someone has been trying to persuade her
to some such plan.”
I tried to work out days and dates. Spirits usually disembody three or four days after death, although it has been known to take longer. My trips between the worlds and the lapse in time caused
by them confused me, but Julia’s spirit must surely disembody soon.
“Bedwalters thinks that she may not have been killed in Amen Corner,” Heron said. “He has found some more spirits there and they know nothing of it.”
“Damn,” I said. The spirit clings to the place of death, not to the body; were we to be reduced to wandering the local streets looking for the girl’s spirit? It would not be
the first time I had done something of the sort. I wondered what these spirits in Amen Corner had been doing when I was searching for help after finding Julia’s body. Minding their own
business, no doubt.
“Then the body was moved deliberately to confuse us.”
“Indeed.”
“But a man carrying a dead body is hardly inconspicuous! What if he was seen?”
“He was not,” Heron pointed out.
He turned on his heels so Fowler could help him into his coat. “Bedwalters also told me that the murderer took a souvenir – one of the girl’s ribbons. As a kind of memento of
the occasion, I suppose. Logically, if we can find the murderer, he will have the ribbon in his possession, so we may be sure of his identity.”
The ribbon was almost burning a hole in my pocket. “It could have been taken by a passer by,” I pointed out. “The man I surprised bending over the body, for
instance.”
The servant smoothed the coat on Heron’s shoulders. Heron stared into the air. “Possibly. But I don’t like coincidences.”
Nor did I.
And neither would Bedwalters.
The law must be respected!
[Letter from JUSTICIA to Mayor of Newcastle upon Tyne, printed in the
Newcastle Courant
, 15 May 1736.]
Only an hour earlier I had come alone through the night, with my heart in my mouth every time I saw a shadow move. Now I walked back with Heron and a footman tall enough to
bang his head against every door in town. The footman carried a cudgel in one beefy hand; Heron himself, slight and lean, walked with his hand on his sword.
Across town we went. The night had become unexpectedly chill – not a cloud in the sky and the stars sparking like diamonds. We didn’t see a single person though laughter echoed from
behind tavern windows. An owl swooped along Pilgrim Street, a silent white shadow in the darkness.
In Westgate Road there was no lantern left burning. The hulk of the West Gate itself blocked out the end of the road as we crossed to the tall row of narrow-faced houses just below it.
Bedwalters’s writing school was shut up and in darkness. Heron thumped on the door. When there was no reply, he signalled to the footman, who used his fist. After a moment, a light flickered
in an upstairs room. A window was pushed up. A woman’s voice, shrewish and sharp, snapped indistinguishable words; a man’s head ducked under the window sash.
I had never seen Bedwalters without his wig before; I stared at the bald head for a moment without recognising him. Then his gaze rested on me; he said. “I will be down,” and ducked
back inside. In the moment before the sash was pulled down, I heard him say, “Official business, dear.”
When he pulled the door open for us, he was in nightgown and robe, but he had stopped to put on his wig and looked reassuringly more familiar. Heron pushed in without a word, cut me off when I
started to explain our visit and said brusquely: “I am told you have been seeking to apprehend Mr Patterson in connection with the murder of Julia Mazzanti.”
“Indeed,” Bedwalters said with composure. He shut the door, picked up a candle from a small table, and led the way into the schoolroom. We stood in the middle of low tables and
chairs, the feeble light of the candle glinting on pictures and bookshelves. Bedwalters cast me a measuring glance. I felt horribly self-conscious. What must this look like to him? He must think I
had brought Heron and the dominating footman to intimidate him.
“Do you intend to charge Mr Patterson with this crime?” Heron demanded.
Bedwalters blinked at the repetition of Mr. It was a warning and both of us knew it. It meant Heron was treating me as his equal in this, that he chose to take me under his protection.
Bedwalters took his time to respond. “Mr Mazzanti has informed me of certain matters – ”
“Such as?”
“I understand that Mr Patterson had – if I may put it discreetly – ”
“Come to the point, man!”
“That he had formed a liking for Miss Mazzanti,” Bedwalters finished calmly.
I started to protest but Heron silenced me with a brusque gesture.
“And that she did not return his regard.”
“Good God, man. Are you suggesting Patterson killed the girl because his pride was offended!”
“Mr Mazzanti says – ”
“The man’s a fool.”
Bedwalters tried again. “He says his daughter had expressed concern.”
“She had more after her than Patterson,” Heron snapped. “Half the company wanted her.”
I cursed silently. I did not want to point Bedwalters in Ned Reynolds’s direction.
“And if she was concerned, she shouldn’t have led them on!”
“I understand that Miss – ”
“Devil take it, are you going to believe a silly girl above a man you’ve known for years?”
And so it went on. Bedwalters began his sentences patiently; Heron snapped back with all the brusqueness and hauteur of a duke. Bedwalters’s suggestions were dismissed, Mazzanti’s
information condemned, and Julia Mazzanti’s fears ridiculed. Everything Bedwalters tried to argue was quashed with a ruthlessness that made me feel sick. In the end, the bullying had its
desired effect; Bedwalters ground to a halt, staring at Heron with flushed cheeks and a dull look in his eyes. I have never been so sorry to be involved with a matter.
“There is no evidence against Mr Patterson,” Heron said.
“No sir,” Bedwalters said dully.
“And this Italian fellow, Corelli, is a far more likely suspect.”
“Yes,” Bedwalters said.
“Moreover, it is likely that the girl merely got caught up with whoever is mounting these attacks against her father. That it is all one matter.”
Bedwalters hesitated. “Possibly.”
“Well?” Heron demanded.
“Yes,” Bedwalters said.
“Very well,” Heron said. “Then we may all go our beds. Good night.”
Bedwalters’s fists were clenched at his side. The candlelight flickered on his haggard face. “There is one matter left to clear up, sir.”
Heron was halfway to the door; he swung back. “Which is?”
“Mr Mazzanti reports that one of his daughter’s possessions has been stolen.”
“Stolen? What?”
“A ribbon, sir.”
I felt abruptly hot. A ribbon. Which I had pushed into my pocket at the last moment for fear Bedwalters would search my rooms. Damn, damn, damn.
“It was taken from Miss Mazzanti’s hair by the murderer, sir. If Mr Patterson would not object – ”
“You want to search me,” I said.
“Damn it,” Heron said furiously. “I thought we had dealt with this! But you are still accusing Patterson – ”
“On the contrary,” Bedwalters said. “I am attempting to exonerate him.”
A moment’s silence. I found I was holding my breath and let it out gradually. If Bedwalters searched me, he would find the ribbon. Five minutes earlier, I had been willing Heron to
silence, now I wanted him to demolish Bedwalters again with that bullying, imperious manner.
“Oh, very well,” Heron said irritably. “Let’s be done with it!”
New ideas should always be regarded with suspicion until they are proven beyond doubt.
[
Instructions to a Son newly come of Age
, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
Apologetically, Bedwalters asked for my coat and waistcoat. I stripped them off and handed them to him one by one.
He went through each pocket in turn pulling out my meagre possessions and placing them in little piles on one of the low tables. The candlelight flickered over my grubby and bloodstained
handkerchief, on three guinea coins and a handful of pennies and farthings, on my resin box which I had stuffed into my pocket the other day at the theatre and forgotten about. There was a loose
button whose provenance I could not recall, and a scrap of note, which Bedwalters looked at closely. Fortunately it was the notepaper on which I had scribbled figures for Thomas Saint’s bill
before writing the account out neatly.
My heart stammered when he pulled out the thin bundle of letters from Philip Ord to Julia Mazzanti. The thin pink ribbon around them and the tiny silk rose tucked beneath the ribbon made it
painfully obvious what they were.
“Damn it, Patterson,” Heron said, without missing a beat. “Why the devil did you not tell me you had retrieved the letters?”
I had told him, so I kept quiet. Heron held out his hand imperiously. “Those are mine, Bedwalters. If you please.”
Bedwalters looked from one to the other of us. It must surely have been in the back of his mind that love letters were not in Heron’s style. I said nothing. I was half-inclined to tell
Bedwalters the truth; it would be awkward explaining to Ord but if he had been planning to elope with Julia, it would not hurt him to have to face the consequences. But to tell Bedwalters the truth
would have been to brand Heron a liar which was plainly impossible.
“Patterson was retrieving them for me,” Heron said. “From the lady in question. You understand – once an affair is over, it is only proper that letters and such like
should be returned. Patterson was acting as my intermediary.”
I prayed that Bedwalters would not ask the identity of the lady. An affair! Was there a spirit in Bedwalters’s house? If so, the story would be halfway round town by dawn and half a dozen
ladies would have their reputations in shreds.
“The lady’s name… ”
“I cannot divulge it,” Heron said inexorably.
Bedwalters looked at me a moment longer.
“You’re looking for the ribbon, man!” Heron snapped.
“Do you give me your word, sir,” Bedwalters said to me, “that you did not write these letters to Miss Mazzanti?”
“Neither to her nor to any woman,” I said, relieved to be able to tell the truth. “You know my hand, Bedwalters – look at the superscription.”
He turned the bundle over and looked at which could be seen there, shifting the pink ribbon slightly. I had glanced at the topmost letter and knew that Ord had merely scrawled
Darling
in
a dashing script as the direction.
Bedwalters looked a moment longer then silently handed the bundle to Heron. He was staring at me as he did so, in a manner that plainly said he knew something untoward was going on. Damn Heron
for this; damn myself for bringing him into the matter. And yet – Heron was displaying a great deal of trust in me despite what might be considered to be incriminating evidence.
Heron slipped the letters into his coat pocket and proceeded to rub in his triumph. “I rely on your discretion, Bedwalters.”
“Of course.”
“If the story gets about, the lady might suffer.”
I intervened. Bedwalters had suffered too, more than enough. And it was time to bring this farce to an end.
“There is another pocket you have missed in the coat,” I said, and pointed it out. It was the pocket into which I had stuffed the ribbon. All I could do was to let Bedwalters find
it, tell him the whole story of Esther’s burglar and hope he believed me.
The ribbon was not there.
Hugh leapt out of the darkness of my room and practically bowled me over. “What happened!? Why are you back? Mrs Foxton says she’s been told you’ve seen
Bedwalters.”
I hoped Mrs Foxton was keeping herself to herself and not eavesdropping. She usually respects her lodgers’ privacy. Except for the miners.
I disentangled myself and locked the bedroom door. Sufficient moonlight came in through the window for me to see the room clearly, albeit drained of colour. I slumped on the bed.
“He didn’t find it.”
“Find what?”
“The ribbon.”
“What ribbon? The one taken from the girl’s body?” Hugh crawled on to the bed and sat with his back to the wall. “The one you found in Mrs Jerdoun’s
garden?”
I longed for some more of Heron’s brandy. The non-appearance of the ribbon had been a shock and I was still worried about what had happened to it. Most likely it had dropped out of my
pocket as I clambered over one of the half dozen walls I had scaled that night. Which meant that it probably lay in the back alley behind Mrs Foxton’s house, or – heaven forbid –
in Heron’s garden. But all I could do was bid Bedwalters a civilised farewell and walk off across town with Heron again. Heron had handed me back the letters without comment and had insisted
on seeing me to my door with his footman before returning to his own house. And now here I was, telling Hugh as much as I could remember of the night’s events.
And worrying about Esther. While I had been distracted by all this, was the murderer trying to gain access to her house again?
I heard the church clock strike four.
“You’re swimming in dangerous waters, Charles,” Hugh said at last with distinct amusement. “With Mrs Jerdoun particularly.”
“I am not,” I said sharply. “I am carefully avoiding doing anything of the sort.”
He chortled.