Heron out of the drawing-room. Through the half-open door behind him, I could hear the women conversing, Mrs Baker
in soothing murmurs, Signora Mazzanti in broken, helpless phrases. I had a brief glimpse of the Signora, holding a crumpled handkerchief; she seemed no longer to be sobbing. Heron’s presence
had apparently had a calming effect.
Mazzanti shook off Bedwalters’s grip and, only a little unsteadily, made his way past Heron, into the drawing room. “Do not fear, my dear,” we heard him say. “We will not
be penniless. I will find someone else to take Julia’s place.”
He closed the door, very pointedly.
Heron broke the silence. “She is not a woman of business,” he said. “I have recommended lawyer Armstrong to her if she and her husband require assistance.”
I have become accustomed to hearing what Heron did not say; the Signora, he implied, was one of those women who sink thankfully into the metaphorical arms of a capable man; I suspected she had
hinted that Heron might like to fill the part and he had recommended another. Thank God Esther was not of that kind.
“There is little more I can do here, I fancy,” Bedwalters said. “It looks very much as if the girl was eloping and was attacked by a chance passer by. She had a little money
and jewellery on her person and that was untouched, so robbery could not have been the motive. Whoever attacked was a villain of the worst kind. I will put the hue and cry in Thomas Saint’s
paper on Saturday and I will attempt to find the man with whom she intended to elope.”
He cast a glance at me. “Could it have been one of the theatre company, do you think, Mr Patterson?”
Dear God. Ned.
13
Never be surprised at the unexpected vagaries of your acquaintances; it is not polite.
[ Instructions to a Son newly come of Age , Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
Nobody is more suspicious than a man hovering on a doorstep at three in the morning, shivering in the unexpected chill of a cloudless June night. Behind me, I could hear the
murmur of Mazzanti’s voice in the drawing room and Mrs Baker’s sharp protests. Bedwalters had just gone, striding off towards his house on Westgate Road; Heron’s carriage had been
waiting for him, the coachman walking the horses up and down the street. He had driven off without a word to either of us.
My own lodgings were not far away but I still lingered, going over in my mind the route Julia would have had to take to get from this house to Amen Corner. Not an easy one and she was a near
stranger to the town too, with only two weeks’ acquaintance with it. And I warrant she would not have walked very far during her stay. Why had she gone to Amen Corner? Had she been attacked
there or elsewhere? If elsewhere, why should her body have been taken to Amen Corner? And Amen Corner, as it turned out, had very few spirits in it; a three-year-old girl is no danger as a
witness.
Bright stars flickered over my head, the Great Bear swung slowly round the pole star, the full moon rode high down the street, making it almost light as day but washed of all its colour.
Had Ned killed Julia? I did not doubt that he was capable of it – I had seen him in huge tight-lipped rages. But he had apparently wanted to marry the girl – why should he kill her?
Had she spurned him?
A lazy voice spoke above my head. Mrs Baker had relit the extinguished lantern on our arrival to light the way for the barber surgeon, and a spirit lodged on the hook from which the lantern
hung.
“Busy tonight,” the spirit said. A young man in life by the sound of him, and, I’d warrant, dissolute.
“I didn’t know Mrs Baker’s house had a spirit,” I said.
“Chambermaid,” he said. “Keeps herself in the attics. I’m next door.” I looked closely and saw the hook was indeed hammered into the neighbouring house’s
masonry.
“Pity,” he added. “She was just the kind of girl I like.”
“The
in soothing murmurs, Signora Mazzanti in broken, helpless phrases. I had a brief glimpse of the Signora, holding a crumpled handkerchief; she seemed no longer to be sobbing. Heron’s presence
had apparently had a calming effect.
Mazzanti shook off Bedwalters’s grip and, only a little unsteadily, made his way past Heron, into the drawing room. “Do not fear, my dear,” we heard him say. “We will not
be penniless. I will find someone else to take Julia’s place.”
He closed the door, very pointedly.
Heron broke the silence. “She is not a woman of business,” he said. “I have recommended lawyer Armstrong to her if she and her husband require assistance.”
I have become accustomed to hearing what Heron did not say; the Signora, he implied, was one of those women who sink thankfully into the metaphorical arms of a capable man; I suspected she had
hinted that Heron might like to fill the part and he had recommended another. Thank God Esther was not of that kind.
“There is little more I can do here, I fancy,” Bedwalters said. “It looks very much as if the girl was eloping and was attacked by a chance passer by. She had a little money
and jewellery on her person and that was untouched, so robbery could not have been the motive. Whoever attacked was a villain of the worst kind. I will put the hue and cry in Thomas Saint’s
paper on Saturday and I will attempt to find the man with whom she intended to elope.”
He cast a glance at me. “Could it have been one of the theatre company, do you think, Mr Patterson?”
Dear God. Ned.
13
Never be surprised at the unexpected vagaries of your acquaintances; it is not polite.
[ Instructions to a Son newly come of Age , Revd. Peter Morgan (London: published for the Author, 1691)]
Nobody is more suspicious than a man hovering on a doorstep at three in the morning, shivering in the unexpected chill of a cloudless June night. Behind me, I could hear the
murmur of Mazzanti’s voice in the drawing room and Mrs Baker’s sharp protests. Bedwalters had just gone, striding off towards his house on Westgate Road; Heron’s carriage had been
waiting for him, the coachman walking the horses up and down the street. He had driven off without a word to either of us.
My own lodgings were not far away but I still lingered, going over in my mind the route Julia would have had to take to get from this house to Amen Corner. Not an easy one and she was a near
stranger to the town too, with only two weeks’ acquaintance with it. And I warrant she would not have walked very far during her stay. Why had she gone to Amen Corner? Had she been attacked
there or elsewhere? If elsewhere, why should her body have been taken to Amen Corner? And Amen Corner, as it turned out, had very few spirits in it; a three-year-old girl is no danger as a
witness.
Bright stars flickered over my head, the Great Bear swung slowly round the pole star, the full moon rode high down the street, making it almost light as day but washed of all its colour.
Had Ned killed Julia? I did not doubt that he was capable of it – I had seen him in huge tight-lipped rages. But he had apparently wanted to marry the girl – why should he kill her?
Had she spurned him?
A lazy voice spoke above my head. Mrs Baker had relit the extinguished lantern on our arrival to light the way for the barber surgeon, and a spirit lodged on the hook from which the lantern
hung.
“Busy tonight,” the spirit said. A young man in life by the sound of him, and, I’d warrant, dissolute.
“I didn’t know Mrs Baker’s house had a spirit,” I said.
“Chambermaid,” he said. “Keeps herself in the attics. I’m next door.” I looked closely and saw the hook was indeed hammered into the neighbouring house’s
masonry.
“Pity,” he added. “She was just the kind of girl I like.”
“The
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