The Ladder Dancer (8 page)

The girl led me round the end of the Guildhall where the fish market is held, and on to the Key. Two fishing boats were unloading their catches there as the rain started to come down heavier, and a bevy of daughters and wives stood ready to gut the fish. There were whores too, eager to make off with as many of the single men as they could lay their hands on, once the unloading was done. One of these, a woman of about thirty, was sprawling on the Guildhall steps under the shelter of a porch but sat up straight when she saw me.

‘Nah,’ the girl said. ‘He’s not interested in you. He wants to know about Letty.’

‘Oh, it’s him,’ the woman said. ‘The mystery solver.’

She still managed to arrange herself so I was looking down her low-cut gown. I sighed and said again, ‘I’m a newly married man.’

‘There’s room for more than one woman in every man’s life,’ she said. ‘Well, get on with it! If you’re not interested, there’s those as are.’ She nodded at a young sailor on one of the boats; he was looking at us in some annoyance. ‘Kate says you want to know about the fellow as rode the horse.’

Kate
was evidently the girl; she nodded enthusiastically, prodded me with her elbow. I eased myself into the shelter of the porch.

‘Me and Letty were outside the Old Man when he came past,’ the woman said.

The Old Man Inn is the most notorious haunt of whores on the Key; I nodded. The rain spat against my shoulder.

‘He was in the devil of a temper,’ she said. ‘As if the whole world was against him. Thank God it was Letty he wanted.’ She laughed raucously. ‘Told me to hold his horse and he’d give me a penny. A penny! I don’t work for pennies, love.’ She grinned. ‘Picked his pocket, didn’t I?’

‘Get much?’ I asked sympathetically.

The smile broadened. ‘A sovereign!’

Kate giggled. ‘Serve him right.’

‘So they went off into the alley. Didn’t take long. Did I say he was drunk too? Letty said he couldn’t do much. Didn’t help his temper. Well,’ she said philosophically, ‘he paid her. That’s what matters.’

I remembered the spirit at the lodging house had mentioned a man who’d been unable to perform. ‘And then?’

She shrugged. ‘Rode off. Hadn’t been gone half a minute before we heard the screaming. Didn’t think anything of it; you get a lot of that round here. Then we heard the sailors yelling.’ She raised her voice. ‘
Man overboard!
Poor soul. By the time we got there, they had the lass out but took them a while to find the baby.’ She stared at me. ‘I know who you are. You were there. You sent for the constable.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You telling me it wasn’t an accident?’

‘I’m not convinced,’ I said evasively. ‘Did you get a good look at this man?’

‘Never once.’ The young sailor was heaving boxes on to the quay and scowling ferociously at us; she gave him a friendly little wave. He scowled even more and slipped on the wet cobbles as he turned away; I heard him curse. ‘He was all muffled up in greatcoat and hat. And it wasn’t the weather for hanging around looking at people, not in that fog. Letty and me just wanted a nice friendly customer who’d treat us to a few beers in the warm. The horse was a nice one though. Grey. All his worldly wealth on the back.’

I said carefully, ‘Did you get a good look at any of the bags?’

‘There was one nice one,’ she agreed. ‘Had a picture on it in gold.’

‘What kind of a picture?’

She shrugged. I realized, with resignation, that she probably couldn’t read. ‘What about his accent?’

She considered. ‘Might have been local, but well taught.’

That could be a description of Ridley’s voice. He’d lived in London then in Oxford for a good while; his north-east origins were occasionally proclaimed in his vowels, but only slightly.

‘Tall?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Slim? Well-built?’

She thought. ‘Couldn’t tell. Not with that coat on him.’ The young sailor had finished his unloading and was exchanging words with his friends. Rain slashed across the Key in a sudden flurry that sent everyone scurrying for shelter. The woman got up and dusted her petticoats. ‘Got to go, love.’

‘Where can I find Letty?’

She grinned at me. ‘Halfway to London! The lads on the boat took a fancy to her and she went with them.’

‘The boat?’ I echoed incredulously. ‘I thought sailors believe it unlucky to have women on board.’

‘They count themselves even more unlucky
not
to have them!’ she retorted.

The young sailor was walking towards us, oblivious to the downpour, talking himself into a fine belligerence, fists clenched, face set into what he clearly thought was intimidating anger. ‘I got work to do,’ the woman said. ‘And you, sir, owe me a little re-mun-er-a-tion.’

The first coin I pulled out of my pocket was a shilling, and she looked at it with approval. Well, I could afford it now; I was a rich man. I gave it to her. ‘I like generous gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell Letty to come see you when she’s back.’

Which was what I’d hoped for.

The girl – Kate – fell into step beside me as I ducked into the shelter of the fish market under the Guildhall. It was crowded with women, shrieking, laughing, hands already slimy with blood and fish scales. The stink was overpowering. Kate had been remarkably quiet while I was questioning the whore; I’d known it wouldn’t last. ‘You owe me, too,’ she said.

I took a deep breath. ‘Not as much as an apprenticeship.’

She stopped dead. ‘You promised!’

‘I did not. But I did think—’

‘I ain’t giving up, you know,’ she said glaring. ‘Wait here.’ And she darted away into the crowd of fishwives.

I considered walking off while she was gone. It was a tempting idea, but I knew it would solve nothing. The girl would find me again. Best to deal with her now. Seagulls squawked and darted at the piles of fish entrails, pecked pieces away, dropped them under attack, flew back for more. Women screeched with laughter. Fish flapped silver and pink on to ever increasing piles. A few more respectable women were already out shopping, haggling over choice specimens. The rain eased; drops splattered off the Fishmarket roof on to the cobbles of the Key. And then the girl was back, with an ancient battered fiddle in her hand and a bow so threadbare it looked unusable.

Without a word, she launched into a jig.

The fiddle was appallingly out of tune; the bow scraped and squealed. Her hold on the neck of the instrument was bad and if she played for long in that posture she’d end up with permanent pain in her back. But her speed of playing was amazing and she had the joy of the dance in her fingers. The fisher-women started singing along with her (though the words they used weren’t the respectable ones); children danced with excitement.

Kate threw herself into the playing. She couldn’t stand still; she jerked about as if she wanted to join in the dance and when she finished, she flung up the bow and screeched in delight, as out of breath as if she’d run a race. And I suddenly thought of what I must do to make her into a violinist fit to play in a concert band: slow her down, keep her still, take that energy out of her fingers and make them controlled and disciplined and polite. I’d have to turn her into a violinist like any other. Even if the Directors allowed a woman to play in the band and not a word of gossip passed any old maid’s lips, I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it. It would ruin her.

‘Well?’ she asked, face glowing.

‘No,’ I said.

I went home to breakfast, hurrying through the drizzle before it turned into another downpour. In the breakfast room, Esther, coffee dish in hand, was browsing through a London newspaper that had evidently arrived from a correspondent. I loved the way her face lit up when she saw me; I bent to set a kiss on her cheek, trailed my fingers across her bare neck and saw her shiver with pleasure.

‘Breakfast, Charles!’ she said in a mock condemnatory tone.

I was ravenous. Getting up early always does that to me and seeing Nightingale wolfing down his victuals had only made the matter worse. I tucked into kidneys and eggs and bread. The room was warm and cosy as thin drops of rain sprinkled the window. I told Esther about Nightingale; looking back, the encounter had its humorous side, and I even brought myself to tell her about Nightingale’s reaction to my coat.

She gave me a severe look. ‘I told you so, Charles.’

I loved her honesty. ‘I did order two new coats yesterday,’ I reminded her.

‘But no breeches.’

I scowled. ‘Very well. I’ll go and order breeches.’

‘Today?’

‘As soon as possible,’ I temporized. ‘I’ve promised Heron a violin lesson.’ She frowned; I said, ‘You know I don’t particularly care about clothes.’

‘I had noticed,’ she said. ‘It is because you have never been able to afford to do anything about the matter.’ She forestalled me as I started to speak. ‘However, I am grateful for small mercies, Charles. If you allow me to buy you a few handkerchiefs and shirts, oh, and a new pair of shoes, I shall be content. And a pair of boots.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Though that greatcoat of yours is rather threadbare. And that hat!’

I looked at her; she giggled. I had now of course been privileged to see Esther’s wardrobe and was horrified by its extent; what she was asking me to do was very little by comparison, but it still appalled me. All that money!

‘Will you be teaching Heron’s son this morning as well?’ she asked brightly.

This was plainly an attempt to pass on to more congenial subjects. I expiated at length on the musical defects of Heron’s son. ‘And later I must go to Jenison’s meeting with Nightingale. What are your plans for the day?’

I saw her withdraw at once. She put down her coffee dish. She said reluctantly, ‘I have arranged to see lawyer Armstrong, about the dispute with the tenants in Norfolk.’

The eggs no longer seemed quite so appetizing; I forced myself to finish them. ‘Then you’ll have papers for me to sign tonight?’

‘No doubt,’ she agreed formally.

I could think of nothing else to say.

‘Well,’ she said, rising. ‘I had better go, or I will be late. Pray give Mr Heron my compliments.’

‘Of course.’

She hesitated, then nodded and composedly left the room.

Leaving me cursing. Myself, rather than her. Why the devil could I not simply give in gracefully and take the winning hand fate and my marriage had dealt me?

I would deal with it. I must. For Esther’s sake if not my own.

After I’d sorted out this matter of the dead child.

Twelve

Entertainments of a suitable kind always ornament a town; gentlemen should be at the forefront of providing elegant and civilized amusements.

[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, November 1735]

The lesson with Heron did not go particularly well. I was distracted by the argument with Esther, wishing it had never happened, wishing I could persuade myself to enjoy my new-found wealth. But that was the point. It did not seem like mine, it
was
not mine.

I looked around Heron’s elegant home, the expensive mirrors, the fashionable Chinese wallpaper, the vases, a small Roman statue I could have sworn was the genuine article, not a reproduction (there was a small chip on the base and some discoloration as if it had at one time been buried in soil). I stared out of the windows at the rain-drenched gardens, immaculately kept, with their formal flower beds and statuary; a satyr adorning the fountain looked Roman too. This must seem natural to Heron, part of the established order of things, money and property passing down from father to son to grandson. To me, my own new-found wealth –
my
house,
my
gardens,
my
servants – seemed unreal, as if my imagination was creating wishful fantasies. I didn’t want these things; I was half afraid of them. I merely wanted Esther.

Heron himself was businesslike as usual, tuning his violin and running through a few lines to warm up although I was certain he’d have been playing at least half an hour before I arrived to loosen up his muscles and let the instrument play in. But he disconcerted me by saying he needed music to calm him down.

‘I have just seen lawyer Armstrong,’ he said curtly, opening the music on his stand and looking for the right movement to play. ‘Negotiating a place there for Ridley.’

I didn’t want to think of Armstrong; it reminded me of Esther’s planned visit there. I could hardly say so.

‘Armstrong doesn’t want help?’

‘He wants help,’ Heron said. ‘He has more work than he can deal with and he is not getting any younger. He is, however, not certain he wants help from Ridley. He has heard stories from colleagues in London.’ He glanced at me grimly. ‘Why do you think Ridley was sent home? His behaviour began to threaten his uncle’s good name; he considered he had no alternative.’

I wondered if I could ask what Ridley had done; it might throw light on what he was capable of. I reminded myself to be careful. I was convincing myself Ridley was the villain of the piece without any proof.

Heron was continuing. ‘Armstrong is understandably torn between doing a favour for his old friend, the boy’s father, and anxiety over the possible damage to his business.’ He smoothed the music down as the pages threatened to drift closed. ‘I met Mrs Patterson at Armstrong’s.’

My heart sank but I kept my voice matter of fact. ‘She’s seeing him about the estates in Norfolk. Tenant problems.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I was surprised not to see you there. Nothing can be done without your agreement.’

‘It’s an urgent matter,’ I said, saying the first thing that came into my head, ‘and I’m not yet fully conversant with the issues.’

He was still surprised. The eyebrow hovered; he looked for a moment longer before turning back to the music. ‘Indeed?’

And he launched into the first movement of one of Geminiani’s sonatas, leaving me embarrassed and depressed. I’d lied to him, if not explicitly, then by implication. But to admit the truth would be to forfeit his good opinion of me.