Free The Ladder Dancer by Roz Southey Page B

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.
    Damn it, what the devil was I to do?
    After the lesson we walked down together to Jenison’s agent’s office. The long stretch of Northumberland Street, where Heron lives, was dark with the continuing drizzle; a tiny wind skittered leaves and fragments of straw towards us. Walking down the hill towards the Key, Heron was in an unusually talkative mood; he was, he said, planning a trip the following year to Italy. I knew exactly what his manservant thought of hot countries, and fancied he’d work on Heron to change his mind, but I let him tell me about the attractions and the perils of the Alps, and how the best way was to sail from Marseilles to Genoa, providing one took plenty of weapons to protect oneself against pirates. And then, just as we turned in the door to Jenison’s agent, I realized why he was telling me all this.
    ‘Of course,’ he said, going ahead of me up the stairs, ‘I can give you recommendations to several gentlemen in Rome who will help you make the necessary arrangements.’
    Dear God, he thought Esther and I should make the trip! Worse than that – we could afford it!
    We emerged into a dark room, full of books and clerks scribbling at desks. Jenison’s agent is a spare man, who looks as if he never eats; he bowed very politely – too politely – to Heron and bestowed a much smaller bow on me. ‘And how is Mrs Patterson?’ he asked. There was a sneer in his voice.
    ‘Mr Jenison is expecting us,’ Heron snapped.
    We were shown into an inner sanctum, where Jenison sat in splendour in a huge winged armchair, behind a desk overrun with papers. Jenison plainly didn’t believe in shelves and books and boxes; he preferred piles on the desk. He frowned when he saw us. ‘Is Mr Nightingale not here?’
    In five years, I’ve never got a Mr to my name from Jenison.
    ‘He wanted refreshment and rest before seeing you,’ I said, and then, because I was tired and distracted, I foolishly added: ‘I left him at the Fleece.’
    Jenison frowned. ‘You didn’t take him to the George?’
    I cursed my own carelessness. ‘He bespoke a room at the Fleece. He said he likes somewhere busy and noisy.’
    Heron shot me a look.
    ‘But I recommended the George to him,’ Jenison insisted, puzzled.
    There was nothing I could say to this, so I kept quiet. Later, I’d point out that the Fleece was much cheaper than the George; Jenison would appreciate that.
    A noise was heard downstairs. I said, with some relief, ‘Here he is now.’
    He was drunk. He reeled in, clipping the door jamb as he misjudged the opening, and staggered to a halt in front of Heron’s fastidious – and condemnatory – gaze. I made the introductions.
    ‘Damn fine town,’ Nightingale said. ‘Fine women.’ He snagged his fingers in my coat sleeve. ‘Shame you couldn’t come.’
    Jenison was a rotund ridiculous-looking man but he knew how to deal with his social inferiors. He said, ‘Sit, sir,’ in a certain tone of voice, and Nightingale sank into the nearest chair instantly. Jenison nodded at the clerk who’d brought Nightingale in. ‘Coffee, and a great deal of it.’ He looked back at Nightingale. ‘Would you prefer this meeting postponed until tomorrow? When you are less . . . indisposed ?’
    Heron and I exchanged glances. I doubted Nightingale would be any less ‘indisposed’ tomorrow or any day of his stay. The clerk returned; Nightingale snatched up the dish with shaking hands, drank the coffee down in