Authors: Roz Southey
She thrust back her chair and started walking about the room. I pushed my empty plate away and watched her. She seemed to be debating something within herself; once or twice she seemed about to
say something then changed her mind.
At last she turned. “Charles,” she said. “It is no good. I cannot live with this anxiety as well. If there is to be any to-ing and fro-ing between this world and the other,
then it must be at least in some part under my control. I will not go through my days in fear at what might be happening to you. I want you here, Charles. I know daily business will take us in
separate directions, but nonetheless I will be able to keep a closer watch on you for at least some of the time.”
We stared at each other. I did not know what to say. For a woman to proposition a man – and with no word of love, or romantic flights of language, or the suggestion of undying devotion
–
There was a little kernel of scandalised outrage in my heart. Not because of Esther’s outrageous proposal. Because of my own temptation –
I got up, hurriedly. “I can’t – I mean – I must think – ”
A gleam of amusement showed in her eyes. “I won’t give you long, Charles.”
“Or what?” I retorted. “You will withdraw the offer?”
She strolled across to me, lifted a hand to touch the graze under my hairline. “No,” she whispered. “Never that. I might just – ”
I could hardly breathe. “Yes?”
“I might just take matters into my own hands,” she whispered and leant closer.
Catherine scratched on the door.
In Caroline Square the heat was already burning off the houses, pressing close around me. As I crossed towards Westgate Road, the drunken spirit in the central gardens of the
square called out to me; I pretended not to hear him and walked out on to Westgate Road, stood for the moment, calming myself.
Dangerous waters, Hugh had said. He’d been right. All too right. The currents were dragging me under and the devil of it was that I wanted them to. I knew I should keep clear of Esther,
and I knew I couldn’t do it. Moreover, she was a determined woman and would certainly take matters into her own hands if I did not fall in with her wishes. What in heaven’s name was I
to do?
I turned down Westgate towards St John’s Church. I knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to tell myself that it was silly to agonise over the matter at the moment, that I had
far more important things to deal with. That I should concentrate on finding Julia Mazzanti’s murderer and Esther’s burglar, and then think about other matters, when I had time to do
them justice.
If that is not cowardice, I don’t know what is. But it was the only decision I was capable of taking at that moment.
I was looking for a tavern, a reasonably respectable one where I was not well known and where gentlemen did not generally go, so I could sit down and read Ord’s letters without being
disturbed. The idea of reading another man’s love letters was distasteful – no man can ever appear sensible in love letters – but it had to be done. I was no nearer deciding who
had killed Julia but I was certain that Ord knew more than he was saying. And he could fit the description of the man the spirit had seen watching Mrs Baker’s house; he might at a pinch, too,
fit the man I had chased from Esther’s garden.
There was a tavern in a back street just this side of the West Gate itself; I crossed the road towards it and almost walked into Bedwalters who came quietly out of his house to stand directly in
front of me.
“If I may have a word, Mr Patterson?”
I took a deep breath. “About last night? I owe you an apology – ”
“I am grateful,” he said with a flush in his cheek, “but I believe that matter is closed. I wished to inform you that you will have no more problems with the ruffians who have
been following you.”
I stared at him blankly. “No more trouble?”
“I have spoken with Jem Harris and represented to him that it was most unwise for him to pursue the matter.”
I wished, not for the first time, that Bedwalters would speak plainly.
“Jem – ?”
“Their leader now recognises that sometimes it is wiser to let matters drop.”
His steadfast gaze met mine. I saw how it must be. Bedwalters must know something to this Harris’s discredit, something that might land him in jail waiting for the Assizes, for
transportation or possibly even the hangman’s noose. And he had chosen to remind Harris of it, to protect me. More than ever, I regretted that scene in the small hours. It had been my fault
that Bedwalters had suffered that humiliation and yet he had gone out, perhaps straightaway, and taken it upon himself to help me.
“I am very grateful,” I said humbly. The words seemed hugely inadequate. I was overwhelmed by his generosity. I added, “I did not kill Julia Mazzanti.”
“I never imagined you did,” he said and turned back into the house.
I found a tavern in a side street, took a pint of beer and wearily sat down in a corner to read Ord’s letters. The matter of Bedwalters weighed heavily on me; half-distracted, I pulled the
bundle from my pocket, slipped off the ribbon. It was expensive stuff; I pushed it into my pocket out of the way. The tavern was not busy; a carter was enjoying a joke with a couple of spirits
across the room and two women at the door were quietly discussing the price of meat.
I took a deep draught of beer. It had been as I told Heron – Bedwalters was a conscientious man, who felt duty bound to follow up every piece of information he was given. And my absence
from the town had been unquestionably suspicious. John Mazzanti’s lies that I was pursuing Julia had to be investigated too, though why he should want to involve me, I could not fathom. And
at the possible cost of letting the real murderer get away with it too!
A man pushed his way into the tavern, glanced about then came straight for me. It took me a moment to recognise him; tall, thin, harsh of face, a little out of breath, neatly dressed. Fowler,
Heron’s manservant.
He pulled out a stool opposite me and sat astride it without asking permission. “I saw you talking to the writing master but couldn’t catch you up before now. I thought for a moment
I’d lost you.”
Out of Heron’s hearing, he had lost the deferential manner and was a trifle over-familiar – nothing objectionable, just a little encroaching. He glanced round.
“I thought you’d want this.”
He dug his hand in his pocket, pulled something out and pushed it under. Glancing down, I saw something bright crushed in his fist – and an end of yellow ribbon.
Always have a good tale in mind to entertain the company – but make sure it is a respectable story. Nothing disgraces a man more than an indecent tale.
[
Instructions to a Son newly come of Age
, Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
“Picked your pocket,” Fowler said. “As you left Mr Heron’s rooms.” He grinned. “Used to do it for a living. Go on, take it.”
I took it, slid it into my pocket. Fowler straightened, called for beer, and sat, smiling maliciously, until the girl had poured it. He drank deeply.
“Damn this weather. I can’t take it. Heron was all for Italy last year but decided against it, thank God. I’d have been fit for nothing.” He looked at me.
“I’ll not leave him,” he said, as if I’d questioned his loyalty. “It’s thanks to him I’m not six feet under. If he says Italy, Italy it is. But I
don’t have to like it.”
“What happened?” I asked. He began to intrigue me.
He gave me a quick look and drank his beer. “That’s between him and me. But I’ll tell you this. I wasn’t living a good life.” He nodded at the ribbon, presumably
implying he had been a thief. “Another man might just have left me to it. He didn’t.”
“In London?”
He grinned. “You can tell by my voice, I warrant!” He drank more. “You should be more careful, Mr Patterson. Left a good inch of that ribbon hanging out of your
pocket.”
“I was in a rush,” I said ruefully. “How did you know what it was?”
“That missing ribbon’s the talk of the town,” he said. “And I saw it in the girl’s hair myself.”
“Then why didn’t you report me as the murderer?”
He shook his head. “I’ve heard of you, Mr Patterson. You sorted out that matter of William Bairstowe’s a couple of months ago and there was more funny business before Christmas
too, wasn’t there? Heron came home from that pretty shaken – I’ve never seen him that overset by anything before or since.” He glanced around but the women had gone and the
serving girl had joined the carter and the boisterous spirits; all the same, he spoke more quietly. “And I’m a friend of Ned Reynolds, if you take my meaning.”
His gaze met mine and I saw in his expression a wealth of experience I could only guess at. I wondered again how he had met Heron and what had made Heron think he was worth saving.
“You’ve known Ned long?”
“London,” he said. “When the company was playing in the Haymarket theatre. Before Richard came on the scene.” He snorted. “Ned’s a fool over that
boy.”
I sighed, checked that the ribbon was well-hidden in my pocket. “Ned’s a fool, pure and simple,” I said.
Fowler nodded. “But the best meaning of fellows. Always has excellent good intentions, heart good and sound – and no judgement at all.”
“When did you see the girl wearing the ribbons?” I asked.
He drained his beer and called for more. “That night.”
“The night she died?”
He nodded. “We were drinking. Me, Ned and the boy. Leastways, Ned was drinking.” The girl refilled his tankard and he dropped coins into her palm; she went back to the carter.
“The boy doesn’t care for beer much and I know better than to overindulge – that’s how I got myself into the trouble Heron rescued me from. Well, Ned got more and more
drunk. And more and more angry.”
“With Julia?”
Another quick glance around. “She knew.”
“So he told me.”
“She said that if he married her, she’d keep quiet about it. Well, what could he do? She even said he could keep seeing Richard. Wouldn’t you have agreed?”
“What choice would I have had?” I contemplated sly demure little Julia. Or was it desperate, frightened little Julia? Desperate to find a husband so she could have her baby
respectably. So desperate that she had courted two possible husbands at once – Ned and Ord. But was one of them the father of the baby? Not Ned certainly, but Ord? And if it was not Ord, why
had she not turned to the real father? Because he was already married? “I would not have trusted her though,” I added. “What was to stop her giving the secret away at a later
date, if she wanted to be rid of Ned? What did you say to him?”
He laughed. “Told ’em to run off to the Colonies. Change their names, call themselves brothers and no one would be the wiser!”
“France would be better,” I said. “I’m told they are much more relaxed about these things on the continent. Ned didn’t think much of the idea?”
The tavern was hot and stuffy, the straw on the floor stinking in the heat. Fowler drank deeply, almost recklessly. I began to wonder if he generally drank little because once started he found
it difficult to stop.
“He hates deception,” Fowler said. “Me – it’s a way of life.”
“Keeping it secret from Heron?”
He smiled, said nothing, drank. “Ned wanted to – to
get rid
of the girl.”
I sat up. “Kill her, you mean?”
Another glance round. The spirits were still recounting a long and hilarious tale; reassured, Fowler said, “It was all wild talk! Richard and I kept trying to calm him down but he just got more and more foolish with the drink. In the end, he wanted to go to her lodgings, do away with her there and then. So off we staggered
along the street, Ned swearing vengeance and Richard and me hanging on to his coat tails, and trying to bring him to reason.”
“How far did you get?”
“The street where she lodged. And there she was walking up and down in her best. Including those ribbons.” He picked up the tankard to drink again, looked twice and pushed it away.
“Yellow ribbons with yellow hair. No taste at all. Her dress was all lace and flounces and bows too.”
“No one with her?”
He shook his head. “She was all impatient. Waiting for someone, I reckon.”
“What time was this?”
“About midnight.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
His lip curled. “Philip Ord.” He lifted the tankard in an ironic toast. “Want to know what Heron thinks of him?”
“I can guess,” I said dryly. “Anyone else?”
“That psalm teacher fellow. All meek and mild and frightened. Jumping every time the spirit talked to him.”
“He was keeping vigil. To make sure she was safe.”
Fowler burst out laughing, making the serving girl glance round. “Didn’t do it very well then, did he? And we saw her father too.”
“You saw Mazzanti?” I said, startled.
“Staring out of the window.”
“But he didn’t come out?”
“Not that I saw.”
“And was there a confrontation between Ned and Julia?”
“Never a bit.” Fowler grinned. “I sorted him out.”
With a sense of foreboding, I said, “What did you do?”
“Hit him over the head! Richard and I had a devil of a struggle getting him back to his lodgings, I can tell you, but no one thought it odd. Just thought he’d passed out. And in the
morning, he didn’t remember a damn thing!”
I thought of how scared Ned had been at that. How he had been frightened that he had killed Julia in a drunken stupor. “You could at least have reassured him.”
“Nothing I could do. I had to get back and I was late as it was – I’m supposed to be back by midnight. I only get one evening off a week. Heron’s generous with his
servants but I won’t take advantage of him. I told Richard to straighten him out. I suppose Ned ran off before the boy could tell him.”
“And Julia?” I asked.
“Still there when we carried Ned off. Walking up and down, up and down. Waiting for some fellow who didn’t turn up.” He frowned. “But he did, didn’t he? He turned
up eventually and he murderered her.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who it was?”