Chords and Discords (2 page)

I came to the street that led into that most genteel of areas, Caroline Square, and paused to glance in. Tall elegant terraces of townhouses surrounded a central garden where trees reached bare
branches to the sky. The events before Christmas had been intimately tied up with one of the houses in that square – the house in the far corner – and I had not been back there
since.

It was not only the memory of murder that haunted my sleep, but the recollection of a greater mystery. In Caroline Square I had caught a glimpse of another world, lying next to our own, a world
very like ours, yet in some particulars unlike. There were no spirits in that world, for instance, but there were our own counterparts, sometimes identical, sometimes subtly different; I had met my
own self there. Someone had likened these worlds to the pages of a book, lying next to each other but entirely separate. Yet it is possible, for those who know how, to step directly from one world
to another.

It seemed I had this entirely unwanted ability. And I had nearly died as a result.

I took one last look and moved on. The memories unnerved me still.

The stuffy warmth of the Assembly Rooms settled round me as soon as I closed the door on the wind and the rain. God knew how many fires must have been burning in the building. The gentlemen who
were meeting here today were all men of substance who could afford the expense: gentlemen with coal on their estates, ships in the river, stocks and shares in their banks. Men who knew themselves
to be much better than me, without knowing very much about me.

The Steward of the Rooms greeted me with a face down which rivulets of sweat ran. “They’re upstairs, Mr Patterson,” he said. “In the small room.”

Rain stained the windows and cast patterns on the stairs as I climbed. At the top of the first flight, a door stood open on to the narrow gallery where the band played for dances; beyond and
below stretched the elegant assembly room itself with its marbled columns and sparkling chandeliers.

I paused to glance down; the chandeliers were devoid of candles and looked stunted and forlorn. Barely a week since the last concert and the last dancing assembly, and the floor was already
dusty. Not until June would it be polished up again, and new candles put in the chandeliers and the doors opened for the dancing assemblies in Race Week. Half a guinea every night of the week for
the lucky few musicians hired – no more than eight and sometimes less. There are eleven professional musicians in the town so we are always squabbling over the places. I shall argue as much
as the rest of them, with as little dignity; lack of money changes a man’s character.

Up another flight of stairs. The door to a second room stood open. A polished table gleamed like water in the light of dozens of candles augmenting the poor daylight; red wine glinted in crystal
glasses. The gentlemen at the table had not noticed me yet so I had leisure to stare at them. The twelve Gentlemen Directors of the concerts. Well-bred gentry who had never had to do more work than
to scan a page of accounts now and then, or wealthy tradesmen who could employ others to do their work. Twelve gentlemen who knew their worth, from Mr Jenison, at the head of the table and of an
ancient lineage, to Mr Sanderson, the clockmaker, and Mr Griffiths, the brewer, at the foot of the table.

Oh, and Claudius Heron, another of the wealthy gentry, who was leaning back in his seat with one hand outstretched to finger the stem of his wineglass. Heron had shared that unsettling
experience with me before Christmas though we never mentioned it. He was the only one to notice my arrival and turned his head to regard me with a perfectly neutral expression. No pleasure or
dismay in it, just the slightest quirk of an eyebrow. That’s when I knew there was trouble brewing.

“Ah, Patterson,” Jenison said, deigning to notice me. “This is Patterson, our harpsichordist,” he explained to the gentleman on his left, a newcomer to the group. I
tasted the bitter tang of resentment. I was a harpsichordist, true, but in the last season of concerts I had been their musical director too, which was musically and financially more rewarding. Why
did Jenison not use that term?

“As you know, Patterson,” Jenison said, “we have met today to peruse the accounts of the last year’s winter subscription concerts, and to consider the matter of the Race
Week’s entertainments, and indeed next year’s concerts too.”

Nobody around the table was meeting my gaze. My feeling of alarm intensified. What the devil had they decided?

“I was under the impression, sir,” I said carefully, “that the concerts would run in much the same manner as this last year.”

“Indeed. With – um – one or two minor alterations.” Good God, was the man embarrassed? No one was coming to his aid; the other gentlemen appeared greatly interested in
the antique table at which they sat. Claudius Heron regarded Jenison steadfastly.

“Twenty-one concerts, of course. At weekly intervals.”

I maintained a grim silence. The gentlemen were full of fine plans and would never listen to reason. It’s all very well to put on a concert every week, but you won’t get the audience
to turn out every week, particularly in cold weather. In any case, for two weeks out of four, the moon will be new and only a fool travels in the country at night without a full moon – you
might as well send out an invitation to robbers.

“One guinea subscription for the entire series,” Jenison said. “Or, for those who prefer to buy on the night – three shillings a ticket.”

I couldn’t help it; my voice rose incredulously: “Three shillings!”

Jenison looked up sharply. “You have an objection, Patterson?”

“Not at all, sir.” All I could do was practise a little guile and hope to persuade them to reconsider their plans. “I know,” I said with care, “that your intention
– and that of the gentlemen here present – is to make the concerts as good as any in the country.” I nodded respectfully round the table. “Better even than in
London.”

Jenison was plainly pleased at my understanding. “Exactly.”

“And that is bound to cost money.”

A tiny smile played around Heron’s lips. The expenditure of money must be Jenison’s least favourite occupation.

“And therefore,” I continued, “it will obviously be necessary to raise ticket prices.” I paused. “I’m sure no one will object to paying a little more than
last year.”

Since we had had a considerable discussion (some say argument) over the price of the tickets last year when they were raised to the previous level of two shillings and sixpence, my assertion was
doubtful.

“The matter has been decided,” Jenison said sharply, then added more mildly: “We have also been forced to think most carefully about the matter of a vocal soloist.”

Lord, here it came. Poor Tom Mountier. My old friend had almost certainly sung his last at our concerts. To roll into the concert room, enquiring loudly the way to the necessary-house, and to
sing a song that is not fit for the ears of gentlemen, let alone ladies, is beyond the pale. Drink had for a long time been getting the better of Mountier; now it had finally triumphed.

“We have come to the conclusion,” Jenison said, “that it would be a pleasant change to have a female singer.”

A young and attractive lady, no doubt, I thought.

“Signora Ciara Mazzanti,” Jenison clarified.

La Mazzanti! In heaven’s name, I thought, did Jenison know what the lady charged? I chose a bland tone. “I hear she’s very good,” I said. “She costs thirty guineas
a concert.”

Griffiths, the brewer, spluttered over his wine. “Thirty guineas! Devil take it – ”

“One pays for quality,” Heron said, speaking for the first time. His tone was so savage that the gentlemen all looked at him in puzzlement. He was in a rage about something, I knew
him well enough to be sure of that, although no hint of it appeared in his cool face. I had been right; some disaster was about to befall me.

“The lady,” Jenison said, with the air of being determined to quash all opposition, “is willing to accept a single sum for the Race Week concerts and for the winter series.
Providing, of course, that she is granted a benefit on both occasions.”

Nothing rankled with me more than the question of a benefit. It is usual to grant the musical director of the band a benefit at the end of a concert series; the profits would have kept me in
comfort over the summer. But Jenison had wanted to stage a concert that had been cancelled for snow in January and that took up the last available week before Lent began. So I had had no benefit,
and now had no money.

“In fact,” Jenison said, “the lady will sing for as little as one hundred guineas.”

A hundred guineas! How did the gentlemen think the concerts could bear the cost? There were also the other professional players to be paid, the hire of the hall, the cost of coals and candles,
and the remuneration of the Steward for opening up the rooms – at a very quick and rough estimate, something like a hundred and fifty subscribers would be necessary to pay the costs alone.
And how many subscribed last year? One hundred and two.

“Well worth the money,” Jenison was saying with satisfaction. Other gentlemen nodded, and Jenison cleared his throat. “And the lady has a husband who is, I am told, an
excellent violinist.”

My heart skipped a beat. I risked a quick glance at Claudius Heron but he was as still-faced as ever. Here it came – the blow.

“We have agreed,” Jenison said, avoiding my gaze, “that he will have direction of the concerts next year. And in Race Week.”

I was speechless with rage. Last year I rescued their concert series from disaster and near dissolution and now I was to be thrown over in favour of some Italian who had the good fortune to be
married to a singer Jenison lusted after!

“But in recognition of your sterling service to the concerts last season,” Jenison said, clearing his throat, “we would like to express our gratitude. We have therefore decided
that you should be paid more than the common run of musician. Instead of the two shillings and sixpence per concert enjoyed by the general players, we are pleased to offer you three
shillings.”

Enjoyed? I thought savagely. Can anyone enjoy himself on three shillings for a day’s work? Would gentlemen consider such a wage enjoyable? And as musical director, I had had ten shillings
and sixpence per concert.

I glanced at Heron; he responded with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. I swallowed my rage. It would not go away but I would not show it or give them the satisfaction of knowing how
keenly I felt the insult. “I am most grateful, sir,” I said, stonily.

If I could have afforded to resign from their concerts, I would have.

I was at the door to the street when I heard Heron call my name. He never needs to raise his voice; somehow there’s a note in it that stops you in your tracks. But at
that moment a carter in the street dropped some barrels with a clatter; I stepped out and strode off up Westgate, pretending I had not heard. I could not bear to speak to anyone just now. I could
not have been civil.

I stalked up the street. Women were walking home with empty baskets and pockets jingling with coins; children were shrieking at their games. I ignored them all. I turned into the alley beside
the clockmakers, into a door, up a narrow flight of stairs. Past the dancing-school door, up again past the widow’s lodging, where I heard her speaking sharply to her children, and up to the
attic where lives my good friend and dancing master (beloved of all the young ladies), Hugh Demsey. I banged on the door. It was ajar and I fell in.

“And they expect me to be grateful!” I roared. “For three shillings!”

Hugh had his back to me, he turned, gave me a measured look. A shirt lay folded in his arms. Even in my rage, I noticed how tired he looked.

“The managers of the concerts?”

“We are most grateful for your sterling service,” I said, in savage mimicry. “But thank you and farewell.”

Hugh was staring. “They haven’t sacked you!”

“As near as.”

“Good God!”

“And who saved their precious concerts last year?”

“Yes, yes,” Hugh said soothingly. “Calm down, Charles. Tell me all about it.”

For the first time I registered that the attic room was strewn with clothes – street clothes, evening clothes, dancing pumps. “My God, Hugh! You’re not still thinking of going
to Paris?”

He was pouring ale from a jug into the only two tankards he had. Anyone would think him a pauper, instead of the owner of this building (left to him by his late master) and the receiver of rents
from both clockmaker and widow. But then Hugh was never fond of possessions, except clothes. “Yes,” he said, and I fancy the word came out with more defiance than he intended.
“You know I always go to Paris in the spring, Charles, to learn all the latest dances.”

“You’ll never survive the trip.”

“Yes, I will.”

“You’ll collapse before you get to York.”

He gave me the tankard of ale with a mutinous expression on his face. In that matter before Christmas Hugh was shot while trying to help me apprehend the murderer, and he only survived because
of the quick wits of a lady. Of course he had insisted on being out of his bed and teaching long before he ought, with the inevitable result that the ill-effects of the wound still lingered.

“Save your breath, Charles,” he said. “I’m going.”

“You’re a fool,” I snapped.

“I’m going!”

We stared at each other. Outside, the carter yelled at a recalcitrant horse.

“What did the gentlemen say?” Hugh asked.

I told him. I got carried away and did a fine sarcastical imitation of Jenison and even sniped at Claudius Heron, who did not deserve it. The rest of them had plainly been set on the idea and
one man could not overrule them.

“Signora Mazzanti,” Hugh said doubtfully. He pronounced it the Italian way, which is to say properly, as Mat-zan-ti. Hugh is a damnably quick hand at picking up foreign tongues.
“Do you know her?”