Chords and Discords (21 page)

The cold hard wall of a house at my back was the only thing keeping me standing. I stared at my hands, at the unsullied cloth of my sleeve. My scalp was itchy; I ran my hands through my hair.
This hateful itchiness of the scalp is precisely the reason I wear my own hair rather than a wig – I cannot endure it. Now I wanted to scratch and scratch and scratch, and there was no
relief.

My legs gave way; I sat down on a coil of thick rope, buried my head in my hands. The dog. I should have taken heed of the dog. Dogs don’t like spirits. This had been another trap, though
the men could not have been a part of it – they had been as alarmed as I.

I raised my head. The men had gone, but Jennie McIntosh sat on a box in front of me, trembling hands clasped in her lap, the lantern light gleaming on her dark curls.

“Thank you,” I said.

Gone was the termagant that had raged at the ruffians. She said shakily: “Men! They boast about their great deeds but can’t face a few spirits!”

I had been frightened of them too, very frightened. I admired her courage in rescuing me and said so. She flushed and lowered her eyes.

“It’s my fault you was there.”

I nodded. “We heard you scream, in Holloway’s shop.”

She bit her lip. “I couldn’t bear it.” She was shaking more noticeably now. “Not a moment longer. I couldn’t.” I thought her bravery in helping me all the
more admirable for her experiences with Holloway.

“He could do you a great deal of harm,” I said, breathing deeply. “If he takes offence, he could persuade his sister to dismiss you.”

There were tears in her eyes, sparkling in the lantern light. She said, in almost inaudible tones, “I’m scared.”

“Of Holloway?”

“Everything.”

“You mean Tom Eade’s death?”

“It might have been me,” she burst out. “I could have been the one in the yard.”

“It was an accident.”

She shook her head. “It’s her
.
The fisher girl. She’s not forgiven me for taking Tom from her. She killed Tom and she’s going to kill me!”

For a moment, my mind went back to All Hallows’ graveyard. “You don’t stop loving someone because they’re dead,” she’d said. I was almost certain Tom
Eade’s death had been an accident, but could the fisher girl blame Jennie McIntosh for it? After all, if Tom had not succumbed to her charms, he would not have been in the yard.

“I can’t go back there,” Jennie McIntosh burst out. “She’ll kill me if I go back.”

I hesitated, trying to think of reassurance and finding none. This is not a big town like London; if the fisher girl was determined to kill Jennie, she could find her, no matter where she
was.

And then, like a firework bursting, I remembered. Hugh!

In God’s name, how had I forgotten him? He was still in that chare, still held by those men, still in danger. I needed to find him!

“And someone’s after the master now!” the maid said wretchedly. “They’re after him, and after the mistress, and next they’ll be after me! I don’t want
to go back there. I can’t bear to go back!”

She was beginning to work herself into a frenzy. I was only half-listening. I had to find Hugh! I said hurriedly: “Your master will look after you,” and started to get up. But the
knee I’d injured in the spirits’ first attack gave way; I collapsed back on to the coil of rope.

Jennie McIntosh laughed hysterically. “I’ll be turned off without a reference! And then how will I get another place? I’ll have to live –
there
.” She cast a
glance at the chare. “And there’s only one way for a woman to earn her keep there!”

She began to weep, silent tears that drained down her cheeks, dropped on to her hands and left translucent marks on the thin material of her apron.

The thought of Hugh’s plight was beginning to panic me. I struggled to my feet at last. The Key swung around me; I put out a hand to the wall for support. The knee held, though it
ached.

Tears were streaming down Jennie McIntosh’s cheeks. “What can I do? What can I do?”

Damn it, I could not abandon her. I forced myself to say, “I’ll find you somewhere safe.”

She looked up at me in alarm. “Sir!” She hesitated, said indistinctly: “My reputation...’

I was desperately trying to think what to do. “Unless you’re married,” she said hopefully. “If there was a lady in the house, that would be all right.”

“A lady,” I said. “Yes, a lady.”

Mrs Jerdoun. Could I deposit the girl with her? What would she think? It was obvious what she would think. But I had to get back to Hugh!

I began to give the maid instructions on how to reach Mrs Jerdoun’s house but she stared at me miserably. “She’ll turn me away,” she said. “How’s she to know
you sent me?”

I could not argue with this; a girl arriving on the doorstep with such an odd story would not get past the servants. And she fell to weeping again and twisting her apron to shreds, and in the
end, I had to take her to Mrs Jerdoun’s myself. Fretting constantly over Hugh, desperate to get back to him, trying to calm my fears. Hugh was a grown man who could take care of himself;
Jennie McIntosh was a young girl, a brave one certainly, but in need of help. I had to do what I could for her. I had no choice.

I approached Mrs Jerdoun’s house in Caroline Square with trepidation; it was the first time I had been there since the events of last November. Old fears and memories of
stepping through to that other world still lingered, but somehow, I realised with momentary surprise, they were losing their sharpness. This business of linked worlds was beginning to intrigue me
– I wanted to get to the bottom of it.

But for the moment there were more pressing matters I had to be rid of this girl and get back to find Hugh.

I marched up to the door, rapped smartly and asked the servant who answered if Mrs Jerdoun was at home. She was, and we were shown into the library, accompanied by the servant’s scornful
looks at Jennie.

Mrs Jerdoun was seated in an elegant chair with a book of music in her hand. Flickering candles cast uncertain shadows in the far corners of the room. As the servant announced us, she looked up
in surprise. Then her gaze settled on Jennie and I saw a look of cynical understanding, succeeded by a flash of anger.

“Mrs Jerdoun, madam. I have come to beg your assistance.”

“Indeed?” she said frostily.

Her inference was obvious – she thought the girl my mistress. I could not bear that she should believe such a thing. Despite my eagerness to be away and look for Hugh, I hurried to explain
everything that had happened since we had interviewed Mrs Bairstowe together, though I glossed over some of the abuse to the maid, out of consideration for the girl’s feelings. Mrs Jerdoun
looked at me sharply when I mentioned the attack by the spirits in the chare and said, “Again?” I tried to reassure her it had been of much less significance than the first attack but I
was far from sure she believed me.

When I at last stopped, Jennie said in her low voice, “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I won’t be any trouble. I’ll work hard.”

There was silence. Esther Jerdoun looked searchingly at the girl then at me. Then she stood up, walked over to the fireplace and rang the bell. We stood unspeaking until the servant arrived.

“Find this girl a room,” Mrs Jerdoun said. “She will be staying a few days. And give her work to occupy her hands.”

I realised I had been holding my breath. The two servants went off together, he in high dignity, she timidly.

Mrs Jerdoun smoothed her skirts. Tendrils of pale hair lay across her neck and gleamed in the candlelight. She was dressed in pale green, a colour particularly flattering to her; if it had not
been for my growing anxiety about Hugh, I would have been content to admire. As it was, I was searching my mind for a reason to hurry off.

“How long do you wish the girl to stay here?” she asked. Her tone was still cool.

“For as short a time as possible. This matter must be dealt with quickly, for the sake of all concerned.”

She nodded. “Her treatment has been appalling – I am assuming you did not tell me all the detail of it?” She was still holding the book and set it carefully on the mantelshelf.
Firelight gleamed on her gown. “You still believe William Bairstowe the author of the threats against himself?”

“I’m certain he wrecked his own workshop.”

“And the attack on Mrs Bairstowe? You think he did that too?”

“I think it possible. I think he may have come to do more damage to the workshop or house, and she went out to stop him. They argued and he struck her, perhaps harder than he intended. He
wouldn’t be the first husband to hit his wife. He is after all entitled to do so.”

“And she stays silent out of duty.”

I met her gaze and the dryness in her tone. For perhaps the first time I gave thought to the practicalities of her situation. A single woman over the age of majority has some independence
provided she has money, and Esther Jerdoun had a great deal of money, and the power of governing what she did with it. Were she to marry, however, that power would pass out of her hands. Why should
she do anything so foolish? Particularly with such examples as the Bairstowes to guide her?

She was waiting for an answer, the satin of her dress gleaming rosily in the firelight. I said, “Mary Bairstowe stays where she is because she has nowhere else to go and no money to live
on except what her husband allows her.”

Esther Jerdoun nodded. “She suffers, in short, the common lot of women.” She stirred, walked to the table to trim a candle that was guttering. “Well, Mr Patterson, I will
shelter the maid until she can be assured of safety. But I suggest you go down to the manufactory and speak to the mistress, or the master if you think it more appropriate. It is abominable that
she should suffer such abuse. It must stop.”

She straightened and added, “I trust you have not forgotten our lesson tomorrow?”

She stood before me in the shifting candlelight, a tall slim figure of presence and authority that almost intimidated me. And yet I felt exhilaration too. I could not conceive that she would
ever disappoint me. I left the house with an unbounded sense of regret and the words
if only
running through my mind.

But I had wasted too much time. I needed to find Hugh, and quickly.

Halfway down Pilgrim Street, the cat came trotting up to me. I kicked at it but it merely sidled away, then came back again at a more cautious distance. I was frustrated by the
delay forced upon me but I was sensible enough to know that I could not simply walk back into the chare and demand Hugh’s freedom.

Commonsense told me that Hugh must be in the hold of the ruffians in the chare and had probably been bundled into one of the houses so they could deal with me. Was he still there? And was he
uninjured? Damn it, if he had been hurt again because of my dealings, I would never forgive myself.

I walked along the Key towards the first of the chares. There were fifteen or sixteen of them, some broader and more civilised than others; it was the furthest one I wanted, the one nearest the
Sandhill. Night had gathered while I was in Esther Jerdoun’s house; trails of cloud drifted across the bright curve of the Milky Way above and the dog star sparkled. Sailors stood talking and
smoking; whores sauntered brazenly across to join them.

Cautiously, followed by the cat, I hesitated at the entrance to the chare. Ratten Row, it was called, and from the lamp-lit Key it looked like a black hole into hell. Not a light shining in it,
not a glimmer of brightness or movement.

“You’re a fool to come back,” a voice said.

I swung round. The man stood a little way off, outlined against the glow of lanterns, pipe in hand, still reeking of gin.

“I don’t desert my friends,” I said.

He considered. “Don’t seem it’s your friend you need worry about.” There was a calculating look in his eye. “Never seen spirits act like that afore.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Nuisance, the lot of ’em.” His lean face was shadowed, grotesque. “Poke their noses into everything. Ye can never plot in peace for fear they’ll hear you. But
vicious like that – never. Ye must have annoyed ’em plenty.”

I could barely control my temper. “Tell me where my friend is.”

He shook his head. “Can’t.” He sneered. “Ye see, I can’t betray
my
friends.”

“Thieves and rogues,” I said bitterly.

“Aye. What else is there to do?”

I said nothing.

“Well,” he said, “At least you don’t insult us, by saying what all the other gentlemen say. ‘You could do an honest day’s work.’”

I knew how hard it could be to earn a living. “I don’t care about Hugh’s possessions,” I said tightly. “I just want my friend safe and well. All else you can have
– his clothes, his money...”

He shook his head. “What’s done’s done.”

Cold fear gripped me. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

“It was all dealt with. While the spirits were having their fun.”

“Where is he?!”

He looked at his pipe, as if he was seeking the answer there. “Nay,” he said eventually.

I threw myself at him. The suddenness of my attack caught him by surprise. He staggered backwards, dropped his pipe. The cat skittered away in alarm. I got a handful of the fellow’s rough
coat in my hand, bore him against the shadowed wall of the chare with a force that snapped his head back against the stone. He groaned.

“Tell me or I’ll break your neck!” He gasped for air. “Then ye’ll be a dead man.” I gathered the rough material tighter. “Tell me where he is!” He
grunted. I sensed his punch coming, twisted out of the way, took it on my left arm. I swung my own fist but he slipped from my grasp, into the glare of the lights. He stumbled; I hooked out a foot,
caught his ankle and tipped him over. He sprawled on to hands and knees.

Like a fool, I went to grab him. His fingers curled around my ankle and tugged. I crashed into the wall of the chare with a force that took the breath out of me. The nearest lantern swung
wildly. I went down.