Free Chords and Discords by Roz Southey Page B

strong.
    “I have decided to take up the harpsichord again,” she said.
    I looked sharply at her. Mrs Jerdoun’s interest in music is, by her own admission, tepid; she sees it, she says, as a pleasant way to pass an hour chatting with her friends.
    “I have after all inherited a fine example of the instrument.”
    “Indeed.”
    “But I find myself dreadfully out of practice.”
    There was no doubt now where this conversation was heading; I was at a loss to know whether to help it along, or merely to let the whole pleasure and fear of it break over my head unaided. We
strolled along in sunshine for another moment or two in silence.
    “I feel I should take the whole matter more seriously.” She cast me a sideways glance.
    I said: “Indeed, madam.”
    “So I intend to take lessons,” she said, with a touch of exasperation.
    Now the moment had come, I hardly knew whether to leap for joy or run away. Ridiculous. I took a firm grip on myself. “A wise move, madam.” Did she expect me to present her with my
terms: half a guinea entrance, madam, and half a guinea tuition per quarter ?
    “Shall we say tomorrow?” she said bluntly.
    I took fright. A single gentleman teaching a single lady with only a maid for chaperone? A lady moreover whose interest in music is known to be slight? And at her house? I hated that house.
    She must have read my thoughts in my face; she added quickly, “I thought we might use the harpsichord in the Assembly Rooms. The Steward frequently says he wishes it was played more over
the summer months.”
    “Indeed it should be.” I breathed more easily. The Assembly Rooms were a public place; the Steward would pop in and out, we could hardly be accused to being alone.
    “Very well,” I began – but then my name was bellowed along the street.
    William Bairstowe strode towards us. He had clearly not been to church; he was dressed in crumpled clothes that looked as if he had worn them for days, slept in them even.
    “What the devil are you about, Patterson?”
    “Good day, Mr Bairstowe,” Esther Jerdoun said.
    He ignored her. He was so forceful, I thought he might even seize hold of my coat to drag me into the alley. “I want results, man. I want this fellow’s name!” He sneered.
“I see what kind of fellow you are. You want the money but not the work, eh?” In the light of what Strolger had just told me, I considered that an unwise comment. “Well, question
the folks that matter. Like my wife. She’ll tell you all about the notes. I’ve told her often enough.”
    If all Mrs Bairstowe knew was what her husband told her, I did not consider that of much value. But Bairstowe was seizing me by the arm and propelling me back down the street towards the alley.
“Get in there, man! I’ve business to do so you have a clear run at it. Go on, man!” And he strode off down Silver Street.
    “So it is true,” Mrs Jerdoun said. “You are investigating this matter? Claudius Heron told me something of the sort but I could not believe it. I would have thought you would
steer well clear of such things after your experiences before Christmas.”
    “Needs must, madam,” I said dryly.
    “Money?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Debts?”
    “A few.” I did not wish to discuss the matter but she persisted.
    “Unpaid bills, sir? I mean, your bills are not paid by your pupils?”
    “A natural hazard in my profession.”
    She studied my face. A few lines showed around her own eyes and mouth – she was after all a woman in middle life.
    “I am not accustomed to letting problems defeat me, Mr Patterson,” she said at last. “Though I confess they often send me into a frenzy of frustration. I cannot abide to stand
back and do nothing!”
    “Madam – ”
    She gathered her cloak around her more tightly. “Tell me frankly – is it essential that you obtain this money from William Bairstowe?”
    “If I am to escape a debtor’s prison.” I spoke lightly but it was the stuff of my