Read Online Secret Lament by Roz Southey - Free Book Online Page B

over the rickety old table that
Richard had set up at the back of the theatre, with a dozen tankards and two or three glasses, a cask of beer and a bottle or two of poor wine. Bread and cheese were covered in cloths, reminding me
of the chunk of bread I had seen in the other world, in the girl’s room.
    “Mrs Baker.” I gave her an admiring look. “I wonder if you would introduce me to the Signora?”
    Her look was flirtatious. “Would you not rather speak to me, Mr Patterson?”
    “Much rather,” I said, promptly. “But alas…”
    She laughed but looked at me shrewdly. “You are getting quite a reputation, Mr Patterson, as the man to go to when trouble looms. And now you want to speak to Mrs Mazzanti. Is this
anything to do with the attack on her husband? And the attempted burglary last night?”
    It was and it was not. I had resolved to leave the matter alone, but that glimpse of Julia Mazzanti in the other world had undone my resolution. She had sneered and looked at me with contempt,
but there had been something in her eyes that the Julia in this world did not have – spirit. I admired that, even while a little feeling of disloyalty to Esther prodded at me. Besides, there
was the matter of the burglaries – one at Esther’s house, one at the Mazzantis’. If they were connected, solving one puzzle might help me solve the other.
    As Mrs Baker led me to the Signora, I saw Proctor the psalm teacher come into the theatre, sheened all over with a thin film of sweat, hugging his bassoon case to his chest. He looked lost. I
smiled at the Signora, bowed over her hand. The skirts of her dress were so vast that I could hardly get near her. The fabric was embroidered with a thousand tiny flowers – silver thread on
white material; I wondered how many seamstresses had lost their sight over it. Like Julia, she wore too much lace and too many ribbons, and much too much jewellery, though whether the latter was
real or fake I could not tell. Her hair was improbably gold, her skin improbably white. She murmured pleasantries and I realised she was as English as her husband; she even had a grating London
twang in her voice.
    And only lastly, after taking in all this ornamentation, did I look at her face. She was not looking at me, but at the stage, even while she acknowledged my greeting. And there was such
bleakness in her expression...
    “I was distressed to hear, madam, that you were burgled last night.”
    “It’s my fault,” she said. On the stage her daughter was prettily wheedling her supposed father, Mr Keregan; as usual, Julia was inaudible at the back of the theatre.
    “But surely…”
    “Now, love,” Mrs Baker said comfortably, coming round to pat the Signora’s arm. “You know it’s nothing of the sort.”
    “If only I got more engagements. They don’t ask me like they used to.” She probably had not even heard my reference to the burglary, I thought. “Julia should not have to
bear such a responsibility,” she said.
    I frowned at Mrs Baker; she mouthed “Money” at me and gave me a knowing look.
    It sounded more like envy to me; I said: “Your daughter still has a lot to learn.”
    For the first time she gave me her attention, in a slightly startled, almost shy way. I saw her daughter in her very clearly. “You think so?”
    “Stagecraft and the art of singing and acting well only come with experience,” I said, truthfully. “We should acknowledge maturity, not worship callow youth.”
    Mrs Baker gave me a look, as if to suggest I was a flatterer. The Signora was preening herself a little, in a charming way – she plainly did not realise she was doing it.
    “Sometimes,” she said, “I think one must simply have faith in God that all will come right in the end.”
    I nodded.
    “Always bearing in mind that God needs a little push from time to time,” Mrs Baker said with a wink. “He helps those that help themselves.”
    “Yes,” the Signora said dubiously. She held out her