The Ladder Dancer (17 page)

‘And most of the audience is female,’ Heron said, as if it was something slightly discreditable.

‘Jenison admires him,’ I pointed out.

‘I will talk to Jenison tomorrow.’ Heron turned. The anger on his face took me aback. ‘He cannot relish the idea of more incidents like this afternoon. And as for Nightingale—’

Hugh, out of Heron’s view, mimed swordplay. I searched for a way to defuse the situation.

‘I don’t stand on my dignity,’ I said. ‘I’ve suffered worse.’ Though, admittedly, not usually so publicly. Given a choice between a glamorous London performer he admired and a musical director who was merely workaday, I wondered how Jenison would choose. I was much cheaper than Nightingale, of course, which must count in my favour, but Jenison was plainly not comfortable with my newly ambiguous social position.

‘You should not have to put up with such indignities!’ Heron put his head back, threw the brandy down his throat in one draught. The bruise on his left cheek was vivid.

‘It’s not so unusual,’ Hugh said.

I intervened hurriedly; at any moment he’d point out that most ladies and gentlemen regarded musicians with contempt, which would be true but hardly uncomplimentary in present company. ‘I suspect the argument will simply add to the attractions of the series. Even before this, people were coming up to me in the street and asking for tickets. The remaining subscriptions will no doubt sell quickly now and the concert series will, financially at least, be a great success.’

Esther and Heron were staring at me as if I was a complete stranger.

‘
Money
?’ Esther said, with a touch of incredulity. ‘Money is not important, Charles!’ I couldn’t believe she could say such a thing, considering the circumstances we found ourselves in. ‘This is a matter of principle!’

‘A matter of honour,’ Heron said curtly. Hugh mimed swordplay again.

‘He insulted you, Charles!’

‘The matter cannot be allowed to rest,’ Heron ground out.

‘I wonder,’ I said cautiously, ‘if some compromise—’

‘No,’ Esther and Heron said together.

The doors were pushed open. We all turned to stare; Tom was hesitating in the doorway. He opened his mouth to speak— and George rushed past him so quickly I almost felt the breeze from his movement. He hung from one of the branches of unlit candles, and his glee was audible in his voice. ‘She’s gone, master! She’s gone!’

We looked at Tom. He started, ‘I regret to say—’

‘Ran off!’ George crowed.

‘The young lady has indeed—’

‘I told you she would! Never trust a girl, master.’

‘Have you searched the house?’ Esther asked.

‘Everywhere, mistress, everywhere!’

‘I was speaking to Tom,’ she said, barely restraining her annoyance.

‘The maids have searched the rooms upstairs, madam. And we know she couldn’t have come into the kitchen or slipped out the back door without us seeing her. But there is a window open in the library—’

‘She must have slipped out into the garden,’ Hugh said. ‘Is the gate into the street open?’

Esther sent Tom off to check the gate and search the gardens. George shot off after him to add his mite of provocation. I stared past Heron into the garden and knew Kate could not have gone that way. She couldn’t have slipped out unseen while Heron was staring out of the window and when he’d turned back into the room, I would have seen Kate behind him.

There was only one way she could have gone. She’d
stepped through
into that other world. She must be planning to step back and go down to the Fleece to confront Nightingale. That in itself didn’t worry me greatly; Kate was amply capable of looking after herself. They would argue and shout, and Nightingale would throw her out, or Kate would storm out, vowing vengeance.

What worried me was Kate’s apparent ability to step through and back again so precisely. I knew only too well the difficulties of stepping from one world to another; it was impossible to say how much time would pass or choose when to return to our own world. If Kate did intend to step into that other world then come back again, and was able to calculate where and when she would find herself, her abilities must be greater than I’d suspected.

I felt a distinct pang of envy.

We searched the house, but of course we didn’t find her. I wasn’t in the mood to care very much; in the morning we’d no doubt find her in her bed, and at breakfast she’d rant over Nightingale’s perfidy and make another attempt to persuade me to take her on as an apprentice.

Nothing to worry about.

In the middle of the night, I woke from a deep sleep to find Esther shaking my shoulder. ‘Charles . . . Charles!’

Blearily, I stared at her. ‘What time is it?’

‘Nearly three.’

‘In the morning!’

‘George has just had a message from a spirit at the Fleece.’

I propped myself on my elbows, rubbed at my eyes. I should have known. I’d been too cavalier about Kate. She was a child, no matter how independent-minded. She needed looking after.

‘It is Nightingale,’ Esther said. ‘He has been attacked.’

Twenty-Two

There are times when we must simply accept the dictates of Divine Providence with humility.

[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, November 1730]

Joseph, the lad who kept night watch at the Fleece, was wandering about the yard; he dashed over to me as soon as I trudged under the Fleece’s arch. ‘Mr Patterson. Thank goodness! He’s in a real temper.’

He nodded back at the inn. The landlord, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, was pacing up and down in front of the door to the kitchen passageway, being snappy with a maid who poked out her dishevelled head to see what was going on. He was snappy with me too, saying, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ in the tone of one who knows a nuisance when he sees it. I wasn’t looking at my best; I’d thrown on the first clothes that had come to hand, and I was unshaven and grubby. And tired. And tempted to snap back.

‘Thank you for taking care of Mr Nightingale,’ I said, and saw his broad red face soften somewhat. ‘Yes, well,’ he said, and led the way into the kitchen passageway.

‘Is he dead?’

‘Not yet.’

That didn’t sound very good.

‘Gale the surgeon’s with him,’ he said.

Well, that was something.

‘He’s up in his room.’ He nodded at a narrow staircase opposite the door to the beer cellar. ‘Go up if you want.’

‘I wouldn’t mind some refreshment,’ I said, allowing coins in my pocket to chink.

He melted at once. ‘I’ll send the girl up with some beer.’

A wooden stair led up from the kitchen passageway, four or five steps only, but musty and trapping the scent of beer so strongly as to make my senses reel. Five or six spirits came flocking towards me as I climbed, firing questions:
What happened? Do you know who did it?
Well, at least I’d not have to question them – they clearly had no useful information. Which meant that
no
spirits knew anything about it; they have such an efficient message system that if one spirit had seen anything, every spirit in town would know about it by now.

On a tiny landing with warped floorboards, a door stood open into a substantial room. It was dim, the curtains had been drawn and the room was lit only by three candles in a gleaming new holder that stood amongst a clutter of personal possessions on a table. But it was light enough to see Nightingale in bed.

He was propped up against pillows, his face almost as pale as the sheets in which he lay, as if he’d lost all his blood. His eyes were closed, his arms on the sheets limp and unresponsive. The room stank of blood; Nightingale’s bright pink clothes, stained and stiff, lay on a chair.

From the side of the bed, Gale the surgeon, a thin spare man with a round sombre face, nodded at me.

‘How is he?’ I asked.

‘Very bad.’ Gale was rarely so direct; such forthrightness could mean only one thing: Nightingale was at death’s door.

‘I was told he’d been attacked.’

Gale nodded. ‘Stabbed. At least four times, maybe five. And there are some small scratches that suggest other attempts.’

‘Attacked from behind or in front?’

‘Both.’ Gale considered, said at last, with judicious caution, ‘It’s hard to be certain but I think he was attacked first from behind; there’s one wound high on his right shoulder at the back. That wound’s not particularly deep or severe. Then I think he must have turned, for he was stabbed three times from the front. There are scratches on his hands which suggest he tried to defend himself.’

‘You’re sure there were not two attackers? One behind, one in front?’

‘I think not. If there were two, why did the one behind stab only once?’ He began to pack his instruments away.

‘And the wounds in front were more deep, more dangerous?’

He nodded. ‘One was in the left shoulder, the others in the belly.’

‘Can you tell what the weapon was like?’

‘I can tell you it wasn’t sharp,’ he said dryly. ‘There was a great deal of tearing and bruising around the wounds – always a sign of something blunt.’

‘And would there have been a lot of blood? Would the attacker not have been drenched in it?’

He shrugged. ‘There could have been a great deal. But if the attacker was wearing a dark coat, it could have gone unnoticed.’

I looked down at Nightingale’s pale face. It had been red with anger when I last saw it. ‘What are his chances?’

‘None at all,’ Gale said bluntly. ‘Even if he’d been found earlier, and hadn’t lost so much blood, the belly wounds would be fatal. I suspect he’ll not last the night.’

I looked on Nightingale’s pale face, listened to the breath that whispered through his bloodless lips. If he’d turned to face his attacker, he would have seen the man’s face, might be able to identify him. ‘Is he likely to wake? To talk?’

Gale shook his head.

A serving girl pushed open the door. She bore a tankard of ale for me and a glass of the sweet wine Gale prefers. He took the glass and downed the wine in one draught. I went across to the window. Nightingale’s travelling trunk was directly under the casement; I leant across it to lift the curtain. Outside there was a wall, scarcely three feet away on the other side of a narrow alley. It was pitch black, unlit; I could see nothing.

‘Who should I send the bill to?’ Gale put the glass down on the bedside table.

‘Jenison,’ I said, unhesitatingly, letting the curtain drop. When hiring Nightingale, he’d agreed to cover all the gentleman’s expenses. I doubted he’d envisaged something of this sort.

‘Good,’ Gale said shortly and nodded to the girl. ‘I want someone with him constantly.’

I took my beer downstairs, said goodbye to Gale at the door to the kitchen passageway and watched him cross the cobbled yard to the arch. The night was dark, lit only by a few stars, a sliver of moon. Behind me, I could hear talking in the scullery; the Fleece was a warren of extensions and additions and it was difficult to be sure of anything, but Nightingale’s room was probably directly above the kitchens. It would be noisy, but I fancied he would rather have liked that.

The landlord materialized at my shoulder. Before he could speak, I dropped a coin into his hand to pay for the beer. Mollified, he said, ‘There’s the cost of his room . . .’

‘Jenison,’ I said.

‘And his food and drink. He could drink the Tyne dry. My cellars—’

‘Jenison will pay,’ I said again, curbing my impatience.

‘And I had to give the two fellows who carried him back a penny each.’

‘Add it to the bill.’ I frowned. ‘Did they say where they found him?’

‘In the alley round the side.’ He jerked his head. ‘Between us and the mercers.’

‘When?’

‘Brought back maybe an hour ago. Surgeon said he must have been lying there a good while.’

The hall clock had said three a.m. when I let myself out of the house; Nightingale had been found at around two, perhaps attacked around midnight . . .

‘Who found him?’

‘Couple of sailors. Didn’t recognize them – visitors, I daresay.’

Useless to try and find a pair of unidentifiable sailors and ask if they’d seen anything or anyone suspicious. In any case, the attacker had probably been gone long before they’d come on the scene. ‘No weapon near him?’

He shrugged.

‘And money?’

‘None on him. But I don’t reckon it’d been stolen – he still had his watch.’

I vaguely remembered having seen a watch on the bedside table.

‘He’d probably spent all his money,’ the landlord said, chuckling. ‘He was a fine one for women and drink.’

An owl, white as snow, swooped over the yard, floated in to land on the peak of the inn roof.

‘Had anyone threatened him, do you know?’

He grinned. ‘More than a few. Couldn’t keep his hands off the ladies, married or no. There were a couple of lads objected. The ostler’s walking out with one of the maids and got uppity.’ He realized what he was saying, beat a hasty retreat. ‘But the lad’d never do anyone any harm.’

I tried to sound as casual as possible. ‘Have you seen Mr Cuthbert Ridley here at all?’

‘Oh, aye.’ He laughed. ‘Last night. Drunk as a lord.’ He added, almost admiringly, ‘Has a fine turn of phrase on him. Comes of being a lawyer, I daresay.’

‘Did he and Mr Nightingale meet?’

‘Never came near each other. Never saw Mr Nightingale at all last night.’

‘He didn’t come back from the afternoon concert?’

‘Not till they carried him back.’

I finished the beer and contemplated the owl, still as a statue on the roof. ‘Are there any spirits in the alley?’

‘One or two in the house that go there. But none as saw anything. We were all asleep and even the spirits tend to keep quiet in the small hours.’ He added tartly, ‘They know I’ll make it difficult for them if they don’t.’