For the first time, Armstrong looked uncertain. “Perhaps he had changed his mind. Perhaps he hated the thought of the pain, and believed throwing himself from the bridge would hurt less.”

  “Then why take the knife with him?”

  Armstrong began to show signs of enjoying himself. “He forgot he held it,” he speculated. “Or he feared that his brother would overwhelm him before he could get to the bridge. Edward was a slighter man than William.”

  That theory I could accept. I could imagine Edward Bairstowe brandishing the knife and threatening to use it if they came near him. “So he rushed down to the bridge, climbed up on to the parapet and threatened to throw himself into the river.”

  “Indeed.”

  “How did he climb up on to the parapet with a knife in his hand?”

  Armstrong started to speak, changed his mind. “Ah,” he said.

  “Indeed, I’m not sure how he could pull himself up on to the parapet at all, even with the use of two hands.” I tried to picture the scene. “ To clamber over the parapet is one thing, to stand on it quite another, particularly for any length of time. It is very narrow, and just at the point where Edward must have stood there is nothing to hold on to.”

  Armstrong perused the papers again with pursed lips. “I have been most remarkably remiss. You have a very practical mind, Mr Patterson.”

  I was in my stride now. I did not know precisely how Edward’s death related to his brother’s present predicament but I sensed it must do. Perhaps both brothers had been the victim of one malevolent attacker? “Let us suppose Edward did climb up on to the parapet. According to all the accounts, his brother persuaded him to abandon his scheme and climb down.”

  “With the knife in his hand,” Armstrong murmured.

  “Edward says that the ground was slippery.”

  “The first sleet of the year.”

  “He says he lost his balance and fell forward on to the knife. But in that case, his death must surely have been accidental. Yet the confinement of the spirit tells us otherwise. For the spirit to be anchored to the stone, there must have been some element of intention in his death. And that is not explained by any of the accounts. If William had indeed just persuaded Edward not to jump, why should he set his feet on solid ground and immediately cut his throat?”

  “He was – ” Armstrong paused, and chose his words carefully. “An unstable man. One never knew what he would do next. I had dealings with him over various business matters and could never predict how he would react. He was capable of great vindictiveness.” He chuckled dryly. “He and his sister-in-law were a matched pair.”

  “Perhaps that’s why they hated each other.”

  He stretched against the confines of the small desk. “Oh, that is relatively new. There was a time when they were thick as thieves. Kindred spirits. She would excuse him anything, tell you he was only a lad. A lad! He was a mere year younger than she – both of them in their forties when she married William.”

  “What changed?”

  He shook his head. “I have long since given up fathoming the ways of women, and Edward Bairstowe, as I have said, always confounded me. He had but one guiding principle.”

  “His own interests?”

  “Precisely.” Armstrong refilled his glass. “Mr Patterson, I do not find the behaviour of the Bairstowes at the time of the inquest difficult to understand. They were shocked by what had happened – confused, puzzled, distressed. And relatives in that situation always plead for a verdict of accidental death. Then they may bury the deceased in hallowed ground.”

  “But in this case there was a verdict of suicide.”

  He looked at me over his newly-filled glass, nodding slowly. “You want the truth, Patterson? There were too many men on the jury who were owed money by Edward Bairstowe, and had been for years. They seized their chance for revenge.”

  We sat in silence for a moment or two. “The bridge,” I said at last. That is the part of the story that sticks in my craw. I cannot believe Edward climbed up and stood there. Yet he said he did. Why should the spirit lie?”

  Armstrong said nothing but sipped his wine. After a moment, he stirred. “Now, this matter of William Bairstowe. I have heard little of it, barring some rumours that he is being threatened.”

  I outlined the story as quickly and accurately as I could, summarising at the end. “William Bairstowe swears he did not wreck his own workshop, write the notes, or attack his wife.”

  “And there is no hint as to who hit her?”

  “I have a witness to the attack who heard Mrs Bairstowe talking, apparently calmly, to her attacker.”

  “She knew him, eh? What does she say to that?”

  “I have not yet had time to ask her, sir.”

  Armstrong chuckled again. “She’ll deny it, of course. You think it was Bairstowe and she is simply being loyal?”

  “She says very firmly that she knows her duty.”

  “Oh yes,” he said grimly. “I’ve heard that tale from her too, at the inquest. She is very keen on her duty.”

  “She is sister to Holloway, the leather merchant, I understand?”

  He nodded. “Of a farming family somewhere Berwick way.”

  “I cannot imagine why she and Bairstowe married.”

  “Expediency, my dear sir. She had money, or her father did – he was fond of her and gave her a big dowry. William needed money for the business which was in difficulties at the time. William has never been good with financial matters and Edward was less than honest. He had friends I would not allow near my dog. Ruffians and villains.”

  He mused over his wine. “The Bairstowes have been married around ten years and she was forty or more when the marriage took place. That’s why there’s no children – she wasn’t quite beyond child-bearing, I fancy, when they married but nothing came of it. Her money’s all spent, long since. Now there’s this matter of the land. An unlucky family, I fancy, very unlucky.”

  “The land?”

  He regarded me for a moment, in careful assessment. “Do you mean to tell me you know nothing of the deed, Mr Patterson?”

  I gave up on playing my hand cautiously. “The one Edward Bairstowe buried?”

  “Ah-ha,” he said. “Is that what he did with it? Mr Patterson, I congratulate you. I have been chasing this matter for the past six months and never even knew for certain that the deed does indeed exist.”

  “Edward could be lying,” I pointed out.

  Armstrong poured yet more wine – he was clearly used to a large intake. “Let me be plain, Mr Patterson. I am acting for the vestry of All Hallows in the matter of the deed. They want to extend their graveyard, and the land on which the manufactory stands would be excellent for the purpose.”

  That startled me. I had seen that events in that other world mimicked ours, though they did not necessarily repeat them exactly. Could it be that in that other world Bairstowe’s manufactory had already been done away with and the graveyard extended? That would explain the tombstones I had glimpsed.

  Armstrong was consulting his papers. “William Bairstowe – I’m talking about the old man now, William and Edward’s father – he acquired the land from the church fifty years ago. Bought it for almost nothing, I’m told. But the devil’s in the detail. The matter’s not in the parish books – not a record of it anywhere. The parish clerk was drunk most of the time, I’m told, and never wrote anything up. So unless the Bairstowes can produce the deed there’s nothing to say the transaction ever took place. And if it didn’t take place – ”

  “The vestry can reclaim the land at no cost, making the Bairstowes homeless and penniless.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What does the spirit of the old man say? William Bairstowe senior, I mean.”

  “Absolutely nothing. He collapsed in the street on a visit to Dundee – he was building an organ there. The Bairstowes do not have the money to visit and ask him. Or so they say.”

  I would have thought the prize worth the expense, but the information suggested that the Bairstowes’ financial situation was worse than I thought. Either that, or they knew William senior would not give the answer they needed.

  “In any case,” Armstrong pursued. “The unsupported word of a spirit would be not be sufficient in a court of law. There must be documentation, good written proof of ownership.”

  He leant forward, the small table shifting as his long legs straightened. “Mr Patterson, I have a proposition. Find that deed and I will pay you ten guineas.”

  I stared at him, astonished. “Forgive me sir, but is it not an advantage to your clients if the deed is never found?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all, Mr Patterson. Consider what might happen. The vestry claims the land, demolishes the buildings, buries half a dozen people there. Then the deed is found, showing that the Bairstowes did indeed own the land. What a mess that would be! Besides, William Bairstowe is threatening to take them all to court over the matter. If he does that, nothing will ever get done – these things drag on for years. No, sir, find me that deed, then the Bairstowes will have their claim, the church will buy the land off them and everyone will be happy.”

  Ten guineas. And Armstrong would keep his promises, while William Bairstowe might not.

  How could I say no?

  21

  The Divine Art of Music has powers to draw all the Cares from our Shoulders, to soothe the evil Passions and to encourage the good...

  [Abbé de Troyes, De l’art divin de la musique, Paris, 1721]

  “You look tired,” Esther Jerdoun said.

  There was a caress in her voice, a tilt to her head, the slightest of smiles that made me breathless. I glanced across the Assembly Room but the maid, Catherine, sat bowed over her needlework.

  “I had a disturbed night.”

  She turned in a flurry of rustling skirts, lifted a basket from the harpsichord stool and showed me a bottle of wine and three glasses. I had not long since come from Armstrong’s claret but not for the world would I have refused this wine. She poured the sparkling pale liquid and took a glass to the maid, who accepted this generosity, I saw, with no sign of surprise. I could not imagine the Bairstowes treating their maid with such courtesy.

  We sat on chairs at the side of the room, in a weak patch of stray sunshine. I felt lazy and contented, the anger and frustration over this matter of Bairstowe’s seeping out of me. I recounted the tale of my night. In retrospect, it seemed funnier than it had at the time – Holloway’s dishevelled appearance, Mrs Bairstowe’s rudeness, the abortive attempt to retrieve the candle, Hugh and I hiding in the undercrypt at All Hallows. Perhaps my contentment made me look at it all more favourably.

  Mrs Jerdoun listened to everything with attention, smiling at times, raising her eyebrows now and again. “You say William Bairstowe was not there? Might he not have attacked his wife and hurried away again? Perhaps she railed at him for coming home late!”

  I shook my head. “I’ve spoken to him since. I’m certain he had nothing to do with it.”

  “I saw him myself this afternoon,” she said. “At the Cordwainers’ Hall. I was intrigued, I confess, at what you told me of him and wanted to see if he was as rude as I remembered.”

  “And was he?”

  She laughed. “He trapped me into buying some tickets for his wretched organ – I could not think of a way out of it without being offensive. He was worse than I remembered.”

  “You could always sell the organ if you win it. The song school at Durham evidently want one.”

  “I shall bear that in mind.”

  “Was he – ” I hesitated. “Was he disturbed in manner?”

  “No. At least, no more than usual.”

  I regarded her with pleasure; the sunshine seeping through the windows silvered her pale hair, gleamed off the silk of her gown and highlighted a myriad tiny embroidered flowers on the fabric. How much had that gown cost? More than I could earn in five years, no doubt. There was no question – Esther Jerdoun was not for me.

  She said, “Are you well?”

  I shook myself out of my introspection. “When I saw Bairstowe this morning, I feared for him.” I searched for words. “I thought he was... descending into a lethargy that is unhealthy in the extreme.”

  “His brother killed himself, did he not? Do you think William might do the same?”

  I shook my head. “He thinks death is even worse than life and he finds that intolerable enough.”

  “The father died young, I’m told.”

  “Of an apoplexy. Dropped down dead in the street.” The wine gleamed in the glass, the sunshine warmed me, Mrs Jerdoun’s regard pleased me. Well, a man can dream – what is wrong with dreaming?

  “It’s the maid I feel sorry for,” she said. “She is in an unenviable position.”

  “Most maids are.”

  Mrs Jerdoun cast a glance at her own maid, sitting placidly across the room, a neat figure in a neat dress with even a little lace at cuffs and collar, industriously sewing, and sipping at her mistress’s freely offered wine. “I have never understood why servants are treated so badly. We rely on them so much; it seems only sensible to keep their goodwill. And why be at outs with any of our fellow creatures, except the most evil of them?” She finished her own wine. “So you are no nearer discovering the identity of the man threatening Bairstowe?”

  “Further from it,” I said. “The matter gets more complicated, not less.” But at least, I reflected, I had Armstrong’s offer to fall back on now; retrieving the deed might be easier than disentangling Bairstowe’s affairs. And why spoil the pleasant hour with unpalatable thoughts? I finished my wine. “Shall we proceed with the lesson?”

  I was walking on air when I left the Assembly Rooms late in the afternoon, although I would not for the world have admitted it. The late sun was just touching the tops of the houses opposite in a red flare of light; the street itself was shadowed and chill. I sauntered along in a pleasant haze. Esther Jerdoun combined the delights of a diligent pupil and an attractive woman, and no teacher could ask for more. So I would enjoy the memories of the delightful hour just past, and the anticipation of such an hour every day, and banish discontent.

  A whisper made me stop in my tracks, a tiny apologetic cough from a spirit lodged in one of the trees of the vicarage garden, which I was just passing. “Mr Patterson sir?” It sounded like a very elderly, very prim lady. “Forgive me for disturbing you, sir, but Mr Demsey was asking to see you.”

  I listened to Hugh’s message and found myself wondering if it was genuine. The spirit was plainly an old lady of timid disposition, yet I was listening for something in her voice, in her manner, something untoward, something threatening. I must not do this, I told myself. I must not allow one incident to make me doubt all spirits. I was in danger of becoming like one of those young women who fear that all gentlemen will try to take advantage merely because one has been over-familiar.

  How ridiculous to doubt!

  But how irresistible.

  22

  There were bystanders, sir, who never raised a finger to help the poor woman. What can be said of present day society, when so many stand callously by?

  [Rev. A. E., Letter to Newcastle Courant, 27 November 1731]

  The spirit had told me the truth. Hugh was leaning against the wall of the breeches shop and scowling, looking like the sort of fellow you’d cross the street to be away from.

  “Hugh,” I said, glancing across the street at the leather shop. “Why are you haunting John Holloway?”

  “Because she is.”

  “The maid?”

  He seemed to slide lower against the wall. “God, she leads a dull life, Charles! Cooking, cleaning, shopping – the highlight of her life is staring at ribbons in shop windows. Oh, and at the engravings of rich ladies prancing in the streets of London.”

  “Damn London. Why are people so obsessed with it?”

  I leant beside Demsey and we stared at the façade of John Holloway’s house, ancient and timbered, slightly leaning, touched by the last of the sun. The door was out of true – I wondered how it shut. It was only mid-evening yet the place was already shuttered. “Why is the shop closed?”

  “They all went off to the Eade lad’s funeral. Holloway told them not to come back tonight.” Hugh shivered in the cold. He was dressed in his finest for some reason, in the dark blue coat with huge buttons, turquoise knee breeches, and shoes with big buckles. And here was I in drab green and threadbare brown.

  “I was following the girl and she got here too early – Holloway was just seeing them off from the doorstep. So she hid round the corner.”

  I frowned at the tipsy windows, flashing back the last redness of the setting sun. “That doesn’t make sense. The other day she went in bold as brass while the lads were there, yet today she doesn’t want them to see her. Why not?”

  He wasn’t listening, stamping his feet against the evening chill. Two children ran past, giggling over some escapade. “She’s been in there three hours, Charles, three hours!”

  Well, someone’s having a good time at any rate, I thought, then castigated myself for my flippancy. In all likelihood, the maid had no choice in what she was doing. If she offended Holloway, he had the power to get her dismissed without a reference. No reference meant destitution. And there would be only one profession left to her then.

  “Hugh,” I said. “That girl’s situation is abominable and if I could help her I would, but – ”

  A woman’s scream tore the air.

  We were both startled into immobility. I stared at the ancient, leaning house, the blank reddened windows, the shuttered shop, the slant of sunshine across the lichened tiles.

  “In heaven’s name!” Hugh said.

  Then we were both running, dodging carts that trundled down the hill. I stumbled on a projecting cobble, and Hugh drew ahead, dashing up to Holloway’s door and battering on it.

  “The back of the house!” I called. Hugh spun for the alley between Holloway’s shop and its neighbour; I was so close behind, I almost trod on his heels. The alley was narrow and dark, the yard at the back small; the bulk of the Castle mound reared up suddenly behind the house, overshadowing the yard and making it gloomier still.

 

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