fiddle and would fetch a pretty penny, but only if
sold to some person with musical knowledge. And such a person would at once be suspicious, particularly if the violin was offered by someone down at heel. Of course there were unscrupulous
gentlemen who would accept goods without asking questions, but then the payment offered would be much lower.
And where might the thief offer the instrument for sale? Not in Newcastle or Durham or even Sunderland, in all of which places Le Sac had played; the violin might be recognised there by its
unusual colour. Somewhere further afield, then – Edinburgh or York? London would be the safest place of all, but a thief would surely want to dispose of his booty as quickly as possible and
not sit in a post-chaise with it for days on end.
I inscribed my first letter to Mr Ambrose Brownless, organ-builder of the City of York, reminding the gentleman of his kindness to me a year or two before, when I had been travelling north from
London, and thanking him for his hospitality on that occasion. “And if I may trouble you further, sir,” I wrote. “I am in search of a violin which has gone astray, (no one is
quite sure how)…”
Finishing the note, I added the address and sealed it, then wrote another letter to an old acquaintance in Edinburgh. When George returned, I gave him both notes together with a shilling, and
told him to make haste to the Post Office to send them off. He laid the bundle of quills upon the table. “Out again, sir?”
“Now,” I said sharply. “And then meet me on the Sandhill. It is time you had your lesson.”
He hung back. “Why not here, sir?”
“Because I have no instrument, fool! We’ll use the harpsichord belonging to the Concerts – the one stored at Hoult’s.” (I was not sufficiently aforehand with the
world to afford such an expensive instrument.)
His face fell further; he hated the keyboard and played it only under protest, because I told him no musician could hope to earn a living knowing one instrument alone. I planned to start him on
the German flute, too; it is an instrument many gentlemen play, and can be very profitable. I said nothing of that, however; he was surly enough already.
“Go,” I said.
He went, although it was plain he was mutinous.
After putting ready the books I needed for George’s lesson and the practice of my own which I intended afterwards, I walked to the foot of the Side, to the office of Mr Jenison’s
agent, who keeps the key to the Concerts’ instruments, feeling a good deal better for having done something about at least one of the matters that besieged me. There was a great bustle about
the Golden Fleece next to the office. A coach stood ready for departure and I found George already gawping at the preparations. I left him there while I went up the stairs to the agent’s for
the key; perhaps letting him gaze his fill on the commotion would put him in a better temper.
I came to the foot of the stairs again just as the coachman climbed into the box of the coach and decided to stay where I was rather than struggle through the crowd. And while I was standing
there, my attention was caught by an ostler leading out a glossy chestnut horse; behind him came a lady, striding out to mount the animal, flouting the proprieties outrageously by wearing breeches
(although a long, full greatcoat somewhat disguised the fact) and flinging herself astride a man’s saddle. Surely only one woman could scorn convention like this and face down any criticism
– Lady Anne.
But as the lady turned to send her horse trotting along the Key, I saw that I was wrong. Not Lady Anne but her cousin, Esther Jerdoun. I hardly knew whether to admire her or condemn her. The
women in that house were altogether out of my common experience. As was the house itself.
Fortunately, George was full of the joys of the coach. We made our way to the Sandhill in silence; I was thinking of one thing, George was talking of another, and
sold to some person with musical knowledge. And such a person would at once be suspicious, particularly if the violin was offered by someone down at heel. Of course there were unscrupulous
gentlemen who would accept goods without asking questions, but then the payment offered would be much lower.
And where might the thief offer the instrument for sale? Not in Newcastle or Durham or even Sunderland, in all of which places Le Sac had played; the violin might be recognised there by its
unusual colour. Somewhere further afield, then – Edinburgh or York? London would be the safest place of all, but a thief would surely want to dispose of his booty as quickly as possible and
not sit in a post-chaise with it for days on end.
I inscribed my first letter to Mr Ambrose Brownless, organ-builder of the City of York, reminding the gentleman of his kindness to me a year or two before, when I had been travelling north from
London, and thanking him for his hospitality on that occasion. “And if I may trouble you further, sir,” I wrote. “I am in search of a violin which has gone astray, (no one is
quite sure how)…”
Finishing the note, I added the address and sealed it, then wrote another letter to an old acquaintance in Edinburgh. When George returned, I gave him both notes together with a shilling, and
told him to make haste to the Post Office to send them off. He laid the bundle of quills upon the table. “Out again, sir?”
“Now,” I said sharply. “And then meet me on the Sandhill. It is time you had your lesson.”
He hung back. “Why not here, sir?”
“Because I have no instrument, fool! We’ll use the harpsichord belonging to the Concerts – the one stored at Hoult’s.” (I was not sufficiently aforehand with the
world to afford such an expensive instrument.)
His face fell further; he hated the keyboard and played it only under protest, because I told him no musician could hope to earn a living knowing one instrument alone. I planned to start him on
the German flute, too; it is an instrument many gentlemen play, and can be very profitable. I said nothing of that, however; he was surly enough already.
“Go,” I said.
He went, although it was plain he was mutinous.
After putting ready the books I needed for George’s lesson and the practice of my own which I intended afterwards, I walked to the foot of the Side, to the office of Mr Jenison’s
agent, who keeps the key to the Concerts’ instruments, feeling a good deal better for having done something about at least one of the matters that besieged me. There was a great bustle about
the Golden Fleece next to the office. A coach stood ready for departure and I found George already gawping at the preparations. I left him there while I went up the stairs to the agent’s for
the key; perhaps letting him gaze his fill on the commotion would put him in a better temper.
I came to the foot of the stairs again just as the coachman climbed into the box of the coach and decided to stay where I was rather than struggle through the crowd. And while I was standing
there, my attention was caught by an ostler leading out a glossy chestnut horse; behind him came a lady, striding out to mount the animal, flouting the proprieties outrageously by wearing breeches
(although a long, full greatcoat somewhat disguised the fact) and flinging herself astride a man’s saddle. Surely only one woman could scorn convention like this and face down any criticism
– Lady Anne.
But as the lady turned to send her horse trotting along the Key, I saw that I was wrong. Not Lady Anne but her cousin, Esther Jerdoun. I hardly knew whether to admire her or condemn her. The
women in that house were altogether out of my common experience. As was the house itself.
Fortunately, George was full of the joys of the coach. We made our way to the Sandhill in silence; I was thinking of one thing, George was talking of another, and
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