Chords and Discords Read Free Page A

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?”
    “I’ve heard of her.”
    “Good, is she?”
    “I’m told.”
    “And the husband.”
    “Never heard of him.”
    “She’ll have insisted on them employing him. Probably wouldn’t come unless they did.”
    “That’s no consolation, Hugh.”
    “Well, at least they haven’t fired you altogether.”
    “Three shillings!” I said savagely.
    “Don’t let’s start that again,” he said hurriedly. He hesitated. “Charles – tell me to go to the devil if you like but – how much money do you
have?”
    I pulled out my pockets dramatically. Two halfpennies fell out. Hugh bent to pick them up, and gasped in pain.
    “You’ll not get to Darlington, let alone York!” I pushed him back on to the bed.
    He had gone pale but rallied. “Let me fund you.”
    “No.”
    I sat down again and stared at him with obstinacy equal to his own. After a moment he sighed. “At least it’s only three weeks till the end of the quarter. You’ll get paid then,
surely.”
    “Some of ’em haven’t paid me for last quarter!”
    Hugh considered this carefully. He was still sickly pale and a trickle of sweat ran down his right cheek.
    “What about Heron? He’s appointed himself your patron.”
    “I can’t dun Heron! Fastest way I know to lose a patron.”
    My whole mind revolted at the idea of asking Heron for money. He’d look at me with that expressionless face of his and say nothing. He already had a poor opinion of the generality of
mankind – my asking for money