Butterfly Catchers – Part VIII

The little window was dark. He had known it would be dark and yet still he felt a pang of disappointment – anger that James had not chanced to waken and look out to see the gibbous moon hanging fat and low in the sky. Though of course he had not, such a well-behaved little boy would never think of doing something so naughty. He would have gone straight to bed on returning home, to lie quietly in his little cot all night, dreaming the sweetly innocent dreams of childhood.

Angelus snarled. He wanted to rip all the flowers from the silly prim little gardens, scatter the gravel across the lawns, snatch the jackdaws from their nests on the cathedral’s pinnacles and smear their blood and feathers across the clergymen’s doors. He should never have returned yet again to the close. Yet here he was, drifting about like a lovesick swain whilst the frost bit into the smarting cuts the glass had left on his cheeks, even as they healed over.

He turned abruptly away, striding out, seeking some reason for being abroad so late. The pubs were all closed now, the citizens soundly asleep, even the owl that had been calling mournfully from across the water meadows was gone. He needed a kill. The bloodier the better, something slow and vicious so he could lie fat in his bed and forget.

He was dragged from his thoughts by a dark figure appearing at the far side of the close, ducking out from one of the small houses where the minor canons lived and pulling on his gloves as he went. A young man, from his stride, though hunched against the cold, dressed in something close to clerical black and yet he wasn’t quite a clergyman. He seemed vaguely familiar. There was nothing guilty in his appearance, nothing remarkable in his behaviour except that he should be abroad so late. But it was unusual, and Angelus told himself that the unusual provided the cracks through which he could insinuate himself, that must be why his senses were tugging at him to investigate.

He strolled over and began to follow, ten paces behind.

The man was instantly aware of him – no fool this one – he never looked back but his stride lengthened, releasing his hands from his pockets to swing readily at his side, standing up taller. Not a local man then – it never occurred to the yokels that there might be anything dangerous in the night. A small place this, a comfortable place, where folk checked for friends, not hastened from the unknown, but not this one.

Angelus still followed, ten paces behind for every turn, every time the young man crossed the street, pausing when he paused, moving on when he did. Footfalls exactly timed to drop half a heartbeat later than the man’s own, and when the man cleared his throat, so did Angelus.

At last the young man stopped, clenched his fists, moved forwards a pace and stopped again, spinning round.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice was low, pitched with due consideration for the peace of the neighbours, but also fierce with unaccustomed fear.

Angelus stopped and considered the face under the low-pulled hat. ‘Mr Camberwell.’ The assistant organist.

Angelus moved slowly forward. Camberwell was healthy, his stance vigorous. Lean, the scant muscles of one who spent his days with notes and keyboard, but not incapable for all that. The dress was the product of a very small salary, and the missing button on his coat, the small stain on one sleeve, showed he lodged with a landlady, with never a wife or mother to care for him. But his gaze was steady, his eye bright, no hint of drink or tobacco on his breath, his scent sweet and clean, with just that little spice of nervousness to make things interesting.

‘Do you remember me, Mr Camberwell?’

Camberwell frowned, peering at Angelus, and then in an instant his anxiety and puzzlement changed to cold contempt. ‘What do you want, sir?’

Angelus held up a hand placatingly. ‘We met last week, after evensong.’

‘I recollect it, sir. You were talking to Mr Ashworth.’ Camberwell’s gentle green eyes flashed dangerously and for a moment Angelus wondered if he were going to sprout horns and a tail and prove that half the city was in fact populated with demons. Demons and angels.

‘Quite right, Mr Camberwell. My name is Aurelius.’ He held his hand out.

‘Indeed. You will excuse me, Mr Aurelius, it is very late and very cold.’ And pointedly ignoring the hand, Camberwell turned to go.

‘Please, Mr Camberwell, I do not know what I can possibly have done to perturb you, but it is vital we speak.’

Camberwell spun round again, his voice raised well above a polite level. ‘You have not perturbed me, but I will thank you to leave me alone, sir. You may tell Mr Harmonia that I have no interest in speaking to him, nor any of his… his people. I am not interested!’

Ah, so Harmonia’s pigs had been snouting in more than one trough, had they? This was becoming more and more engrossing.

‘Mr Camberwell, I do assure you that I have nothing at all to do with the man Harmonia. Quite the opposite, which is why I really must talk to you.’

And that got Camberwell’s attention. He goggled at Angelus for a little, then slowly rubbed a hand across his eyes. As if wishing to ensure his sight was clear. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You did indeed see me talking to Mr Ashworth in the cathedral, but I am not connected to Mr Harmonia. In fact it is precisely because there is a danger of Ashworth speaking to Harmonia that I have become involved.’

Camberwell’s eyes narrowed. ‘You represent a rival?’

‘No, Mr Camberwell. The Dean is concerned—’

‘The Dean!’

‘Indeed, the Dean has asked that I make particular enquiries as to what is going on in this city. Discreetly, of course, but I will uncover everything.’

‘Oh good heavens!’ The young face in front of him collapsed in relief. ‘Oh the Dean knows. Oh that is wonderful. Oh Mr Aurelius!’ Camberwell seized his hand and pumped it vigorously, his lean, muscular musician’s fingers wrapping around Angelus’s. ‘Oh I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that. I have been so concerned.’

Angelus smiled. ‘And I assure you I am here for no other reason than to help.’ He clapped Camberwell on the shoulder. ‘Now, let us get off the street. Are your lodgings close? Perhaps you would be kind enough to invite me in.’

‘Of course! Of course!’ Camberwell was beaming as he produced a set of keys and led the way up a little side street, then, peering at the lock in the moonlight, opened the door. ‘Please do come in, Mr Aurelius.’

The door gave straight onto a tiny stone-floored parlour, almost filled with a small upright piano. There was a rag rug before the empty hearth, a square clock ticking loudly over the mantle. Camberwell lit a stub of candle left on the battered gate-leg table and politely gestured for Angelus to take the only chair, settling himself on the piano stool, seeming to turn with regret away from the keyboard itself.

Angelus ignored the chair, standing over Camberwell, toying with the small things in his trouser pocket. ‘Tell me about James Grayling.’

Camberwell rubbed his hands together. ‘So the Dean is having enquiries made! This is splendid news. I have been so very worried for poor James – and the other boys, too, naturally, but James especially. He has such talent, such promise as a musician. And that… that man has no proper care for him, no concern beyond his own selfish ambition.’ He slapped his knee furiously. ‘Do you know why he wants this? Let me tell you Mr Aurelius, it is no concern to see James do well. Oh never that – his jealousy wouldn’t permit him to concede his stepson is a musician of far, far greater worth than he will ever be. No, he hopes that James will be his way in, so that his own unspeakably dreary compositions have a chance of being performed. His famous concerto.’ Camberwell sneered. ‘He as good as confessed as much to me, before he realised I would have no part of his disgusting schemes. Let me tell you, Mr Aurelius, that I have applied for the post in Lincoln. I want no more of this place. I shall be rid of it. But what will happen to the boys once I am gone? I fear for them. Oh if only poor Mr Grayling were alive, how it would break his heart to know what use is being made of his son – what beastliness, what… exploitation! They are monsters, all of them.’ And again he crashed one fist emphatically down. ‘She should never have married him,’ he muttered, looking away.

So that was the way of it. Young Camberwell was carrying a torch for Mrs Ashworth. How very promising.

‘Mr Camberwell, you must understand that I can make no promises. However, if it were to be proved that the organist of the cathedral was misusing his influence over the boys, was encouraging private performances not sanctioned by the cathedral, or worse, well…’ He quirked a knowing smile. ‘You perhaps should not be over hasty to leave for Lincoln.’

Camberwell said nothing, frowning as he digested this information.

Angelus changed his tone to dismissive practicality. ‘Of course it is possible that Mr Ashworth himself is an innocent dupe in all this – the man Harmonia is notorious. The Dean needs evidence and without it we can proceed no further.’

Camberwell cleared his throat. ‘Exactly what sort of proof would you need, Mr Aurelius?’

‘What can you tell me?’

‘Harmonia approached me two weeks ago, through one of his creatures. A letter inviting me to perform for him. I was naturally keen to accept. I had never heard of Harmonia but you must understand that I am not a wealthy man, and it is quite understood I may take on private engagements if I can obtain them.’

Angelus nodded. ‘Have no fear, Mr Camberwell, you yourself are not under the slightest suspicion.’

Camberwell nodded, as one fortified by a clean conscience but nevertheless reassured that others too believed in him. ‘However, later a second note arrived, this one very different in tone. This time it was suggested I should bring the best of the boys with me – one of the most skilled choristers. Nothing was said plainly but it was clear that they meant James, and that my own chances of a fee would depend on my bringing him. And the suggestion of secrecy, I found intolerable. Naturally I refused.’

‘Did you tell anyone of your concerns?’

‘I told Ashworth.’

‘Ah!’ Angelus leaned back against the little mantle-piece, feeling it dig pleasurably into his shoulder.

‘I showed him both letters – he asked to keep them; I have them no longer, I’m afraid. He said he wished to consider the matter for a day or so – he said he was worried that the boys might have been approached directly, that there might be more to it than met the eye. He said he must be sure of all the facts before he told the Dean. He bound me to silence.’

‘I need hardly tell you, that he never has spoken to the Dean.’

‘The brute!’

‘Calm yourself, Mr Camberwell. James has other friends than just you.’

Camberwell nodded apologetically, turning a little towards his keyboard, as if longing to seek reassurance in it. He brushed a hand lightly over the ivory.

‘And James himself?’ Angelus asked.

‘James? He knows nothing, I am sure. He is an innocent in all this if there ever was one. He loves to sing but that is all. Surely, sir, you would never hold that against the boy?’

Angelus smiled.

‘James wants to be an organist, a composer – and who can doubt that he should? He has great talent, yet Ashworth will promise nothing, will arrange nothing, will not let him spend time on learning even the rudiments of composition. Do you know he is only allowed to practice the piano for half an hour a day? And Ashworth will scarcely let him near the cathedral organ at all. It is scandalous. There are scholarships, teachers who would gladly take him, I myself could…’ Camberwell dropped his gaze. ‘But nothing is done – everything must concentrate on his singing.’

‘Surely though, his singing—’

‘Is remarkable, oh do not mistake me, Mr Aurelius, I know he has a wonderful voice. But more than that, James is a musician in a way that many of the boys are not. He does not just perform music, he understands it. He feels it. He wishes to create it. That is his true talent, the thing God gave him to last when his treble is silent and forgotten.’

Angelus felt his hand closing around the knife in his pocket. ‘It seems to me, Camberwell, that if Ashworth undervalues his musicianship then you undervalue his voice. That voice is a thing of wonder, of beauty beyond value—’

‘And one day it will break.’

I could gut you, Angelus thought. I could tease the bowels from your body an inch at a time and force you to strum tunes upon them as you died.

‘Oh why can no-one see this?’ Camberwell cried. ‘All they hear is his voice, all they think about is his voice. Why can’t they understand that it is James who matters, not the sound he makes?’

Your blood dripping slowly across the ivory keys of your piano, your fingers flayed to the bone.

‘His voice cannot be preserved, his growing up cannot be prevented.’

You cannot hear music if you have no ears.