Chords and Discords (23 page)

“So many spirits,” Hugh said, pulling the blankets closer. “I could hear them chattering all the time. Like in that fellow’s shop. When was the last time you heard
spirits talking to each other, Charles? Yo u can’t normally hear a thing. It was as if they didn’t care.”

The candle was on the verge of going out; I found another stub and lit one from the other. “Could you make out any specific words?”

“Nothing of significance. One said it had been fun.”

That struck a chill into me.

“And I caught something about London. Someone was going there. From Shields, I think – there was talk of finding a ship there. And something about a fellow organising everything. Not
a living man though, a spirit.”

My heart near stopped; my voice sounded quite unlike my own. “A spirit? “Did they name it?”

He shook his head, took refuge in the brandy. “Said something about a stone. Yes, I know,” he added before I could say anything. “Half the spirits in this world are on stones.
But this was somewhere blue.” He shook his head, puzzled. “Some painted house, do you think?” He glanced at me, stared. “That means something to you?”’

“Oh yes,” I said, grimly. “It means a very great deal.”

It was early morning when I walked back on to the bridge. I was so tired I could hardly think what day it was. Wednesday? Yes, it was Wednesday.

I felt I had hardly slept for days. I had huddled in Hugh’s chair while he had fallen asleep like a baby and snored his way through what was left of the night. I had dozed, got up, walked
about, sat down again, dozed, got up –

The blue stones. The stones that marked the division between Gateshead and Newcastle on the bridge. Edward Bairstowe was lodged barely a foot or two inside the boundary on the Newcastle
side.

A family feud carried beyond death. Edward had resented and hated his brother and, even in death, was pursuing him still. He had had disreputable friends; no doubt some had followed him to the
grave and were willing to play a trick or two on his behalf, frightening a sick, miserable man.

And the attacks on me, the first of which had taken place before I even met Edward Bairstowe? They must have been intended to frighten me off, to deprive William of his only ally.

So I came to the bridge in the grey early morning of a March Wednesday, shivering with cold and tiredness, and bitter with annoyance. I wanted to get this business over and done with, before
anyone else got hurt. There were few people about: a brace of chapmen sauntered out across the bridge into the countryside; a few women came the other way with cheeses and eggs to sell. A wind beat
down the river and rippled the water into wavelets flecked with white.

I stepped up to Edward Bairstowe’s stone, stepped on him, stepped past. He howled in rage. I squatted down beside him. “Time for a reckoning, Bairstowe.”

“Oh, very harsh,” the spirit scoffed. “Some female crossed you, Patterson?”

“Not as much as you have.”

“Me?” he mocked. “What can I have done? I’m anchored here when I shouldn’t be. Just because my own hand did the fatal deed by accident!”

He sounded calm enough but I could see the agitation in the dull stain on the cobble.

“Spare me your whining,” I snapped. “And if you’re even now plotting to send a message to your former friends, telling them to lure me into another trap, don’t even
consider it.”

“Mad,” the spirit said. “Quite mad!”

“It’s not a particularly efficient weapon,” I pointed out. “Spirits can hardly seek out a man to beat him up, can they? They have to wait until he comes to them. And once
warned, he can keep out of the most dangerous places.”

“My dear fellow, I don’t have the slightest...”

A horseman clattered past at speed, heading out of town. “Why attack William?”

He abandoned subterfuge. “A little entertainment brightens a dull death,” he said, blandly.

“You must hate him beyond measure to carry the feud beyond death.”

“He’s alive,” Bairstowe snarled. “That’s enough.”

“Ah,” I said, shivering as the wind swept over me. “It’s all about what happened that night, isn’t it? The night you died.”

The spirit was silent.

“Don’t want to talk about it?”

“The inquest dealt with it.”

“Talked to you, did they?”

“I told them the truth.”

“Don’t strain my credulity too far.” Frustration with his obstinacy was making my palms sweat even in this chill. I balled my fists. I was going to punish Edward Bairstowe for
his vicious tricks. “You argued over the deed, didn’t you?” I said. “Where is it?”

“Go to the devil.”

“Buried, you said. In your grave?”

He laughed at me. No, he was right – a foolish suggestion. How could a spirit have arranged that? He must have buried it before death. But where? Or had he buried it at all? Had he said
that merely to mislead me?

“If William could sell the land,” I pointed out, “he could leave the town. Wouldn’t that suit you?”

“Off to London?” he snapped. “All the pleasures of the town while I’m trapped here! Never!”

So Edward shared the family’s fascination with the metropolis.

I considered a moment. “He’ll get – oh, perhaps two hundred guineas for the land?” (I had no idea what it was worth; I chose a figure at random.) “Consider, sir.
First, all his creditors will be on his back, clamouring for payment – he’ll not get away without paying some of them at least. Then there’s the cost of the boat to London and
lodgings there. He’ll need fine new clothes...”

“I won’t do it,” the spirit said. But some of the anger was dying out of his voice. I talked on, listing all the expenses of London which I knew only too well. The spirit
murmured, occasionally put in a word or two and began to sound almost cheerful. He was plainly plotting something. I didn’t trust him one inch but if I could get the deed out of him,
I’d think the beatings the spirits had given me at least half paid for.

The cat came up, sniffing at the spirit on its stone, with the curiosity all cats have for spirits – as if they have a particularly flavoursome smell. I owed it a debt for finding Hugh so
I scratched behind its ears. Edward Bairstowe swore at it.

“Very well,” he said, at last. “I’ll tell you where the deed is.”

I did not believe he acted from the goodness of his heart. “What do you want in exchange?”

“Company,” he said. “Your time. An hour a day.”

“Two hours a week.”

He hummed and hawed. I didn’t care what he decided, for I had no intention of keeping any promise made to him.

“And you’ll make sure William goes off to London?” he demanded.

“I doubt I’ll have to do more than drop the word into conversation.”

“Oh very well,” he said, irritably. “But you’ll have to send William for the deed. Only he will be able to get it.”

I had no intention of agreeing to that condition either; I needed to recover the deed myself in order to obtain Armstrong’s payment.

“Of course,” I said. “Where is it?”

Solomon Strolger called to me from the street as I reached the great west door of All Hallows. He was full of glee. “He’s there – for the second day in a
row!”

“He?” I asked blankly.

“Bairstowe!” Strolger hadn’t an ounce of reticence in him – he didn’t care if he broadcast his business (or anyone else’s) to the respectable tradesmen
walking along Silver Street. “He came up yesterday afternoon with his bag of tools and stomped inside as if it was the devil’s own home. He swore at my second youngest who happened to
get in his way,” he added reflectively, “but he paid the price because the child still hasn’t learnt not to bite.”

I could not help laughing. “I warrant he was in a rage at that! So he’s repairing the organ at last.” I wondered why; I couldn’t imagine that William had suddenly turned
over a new leaf and resolved to work harder. Maybe he wanted the money.

“Repairing it?” Strolger said impishly. “He’s dismantling it! He has taken away half a dozen ranks of pipes already and says we need a new soundboard. Well, I could have
told him that years ago.” His face changed – he had seen the cat which had followed me up from the Key. To my surprise, he crouched down and held out his hand to the animal.
“Well, well, cat – life has been treating you hard, hasn’t it?” There was almost a caress in his voice. The cat sniffed suspiciously at his fingertips. “Yours,
Patterson?”

“God, no. It has been following me for days.”

“You need some good food and a warm blanket,” Strolger crooned. He dived forward, scooped up the cat. It did not struggle. “Something to keep the children amused, eh,
Patterson? Go on in – I daresay William will be glad of an excuse to stop work.”

The church was still as I walked up the nave. At the foot of the loft stairs, I glanced back to the gallery above the west door where the organ stood. If Bairstowe was working there, he was
remarkably quiet. No doubt he was behind the curtain, in the bowels of the organ. Or helping himself to Strolger’s ale.

I climbed up the stairs and walked along the Sailors’ Gallery, my footsteps echoing. I could hear Strolger’s voice below and the excited chatter of children. The charity pews were
closed and locked; behind them the curtain hung slightly askew. Bairstowe’s tools were spread out across the organ stool and across the floor in front of the console.

I called his name but heard no answer. No sound of movement. I began to think that he had fooled Strolger; he must have crept out of the vestry when Strolger wasn’t looking. I lifted the
curtain.

The organ looked in greater chaos than before. The rank of pipes I had seen before still stood against the wall, but more pipes had been moved and lay haphazardly in another corner. Pallets,
sliders and other more mysterious pieces of wood lay scattered about the floor.

William Bairstowe lay on the floor by the bellows blower’s chair.

Bairstowe lay with his hand on one of the pallets, as if he had been in the act of putting it down when he fell. His right arm was extended, his legs crumpled up, his head
turned away from me.

I stood very still, taking in the scene. I was shocked, but a part of my mind was curiously detached and businesslike. I noted the dusty floor, patterned with footprints, some old and
half-covered with dust, others newer. One set, by the shelf that held the ale jug, were plainly mine from yesterday. A confused mess by the bellows handle was made by big patched boots, no doubt
belonging to the blower. A smaller foot was probably Strolger’s. The vast majority were certainly Bairstowe’s, made as he came and went about his work. I could not see any marks that
were inexplicable.

I noted also that there was no blood.

I stepped carefully across Bairstowe’s body – and at the same moment he gave a great snort. Startled to realise he was still alive, I looked down, and saw that his eyes were open and
moving. The left side of his face seemed oddly slack, dragged down.

I went swiftly back along the Sailors’ Gallery, leant over the railing to peer down at the open west door under the organ. Just outside, I could see half a dozen children playing with the
complacent cat; Solomon Strolger was approaching with a dishful of meat.

“Bairstowe’s had a seizure!” I called. “Fetch a surgeon!”

Strolger calmly put the dish down and said something to the oldest boy who ran off; Strolger himself turned into the nave. I went quickly back to the organ. I had something to find and I wanted
no witnesses, least of all Strolger – he was a notorious gossip.

I ducked under the curtain again, stepped across Bairstowe and reached for the rank of pipes that stood against the wall – the ones I had seen on my first visit. The deed was in the
largest of the rank, Edward Bairstowe had said; I upended the pipe.

Nothing fell out but dust.

I could hear Strolger’s steps in the Sailors’ Gallery. Curbing my impatience, I went methodically through each pipe against the wall. Behind me, Bairstowe was making odd noises,
guttural sounds. I glanced back – his frantic eyes darted this way and that. I went back to my search.

The deed was not there. Edward Bairstowe had lied to me.

Strolger lifted the curtain, clicking his tongue as he saw Bairstowe. He was followed by the cat, which stepped delicately round Bairstowe and went to sniff at corners here and there. Behind
both of them came a burly man who looked like a labourer.

Strolger walked carefully round Bairstowe’s feet then astonished me by bending down and put his hand consolingly on Bairstowe’s shoulder. “Don’t fret yourself,
William,” he said kindly. “We’ll get you home.”

Another noise from Bairstowe’s tortured throat, a dreadful hacking sound. After an appalled moment, I recognised it for what it was – Bairstowe was racked with vicious, bitter
laughter.

Gale the barber surgeon came at last, a man of slight stature and quick movements. Strolger came to my side as Gale looked Bairstowe over, and said in a low voice: “This was how old
William died.” He shook his head. “These things run in families.”

An apoplexy, he meant. After all these threats, had William been struck down not by man, but by God?

We waited an age for Gale to be done. Strolger held up the curtain to let light in and I fidgeted; the labourer looked placidly on. The cat roamed round the loft, sniffing delicately at holes in
the floorboards, at the pipes standing against the wall, glancing sideways as if a mouse or spider had caught its attention. The dust on the pipes, I saw to my horror, showed the imprint of my
fingers.

At last Gale straightened and looked about him. “That door.” He was pointing in fact to part of the organ case which had been propped, years ago to judge by the dust, against the
wall. “We need it to carry him back to his house.”