Chords and Discords by Roz Southey

Heron said, astounding me. “For the decision of the Gentlemen Directors of the Concerts.”
    I did not know what to say. A gentleman apologising to a musician? Unheard of.
    “I tried to persuade them to give you a benefit,” he said.
    “I’d rather not speak – ”
    “And as for this business of the Italian woman,” he said, instantly changing the direction of the conversation. “The matter will be simply ruinous. They cannot recoup their
costs.”
    “So I judge.”
    “Well,” he said. “So be it. They will learn. I – ”
    A discreet cough behind us; we turned to see a servant, in dark-blue livery, standing in the middle of the polished floor. “A message for Mr Patterson, sir,” he said deferentially.
“From Mr Bairstowe.”
    The message had been brought by the maid, Tom Eade’s bereaved lover. She was a slip of a girl maybe seventeen years old, timid and wary, with eyes permanently cast down,
and answered all our questions in a soft Scotch accent. Jennie, she said her name was, Jennie McIntosh, and Mr Bairstowe wanted me urgently to ‘see what has been done now’.
    Heron insisted upon coming with me and we walked down to Silver Street together. We must have made a strange group: the demure maid, the self-possessed gentleman in his brocaded coat, and the
tradesman (myself) in drab brown with green cuffs. A crowd of eager beggar children gathered around us as we walked down Pilgrim Street into Silver Street but I had nothing to give them and Heron
merely looked on with distaste.
    The alley to Bairstowe’s manufactory looked worse in daylight than it had at night; the light displayed the dog turds and discarded apple cores all too clearly. Distantly, I heard the
sound of singing.
    William Bairstowe came striding out of the house into the chill, cluttered yard, and sent the maid back inside. He baulked when he saw Heron. “What the devil are you here for?”
    Heron was unperturbed by the rudeness. “I came to see how the work on my organ goes on.”
    Bairstowe sneered at him. “You want to see how the work goes? Well, come look.” He gestured melodramatically at the workshop.
    The door was jammed half-open; we sidled in through a narrow gap to behold a scene of chaos. Pipes and lengths of wood were scattered everywhere, tools cast down from their places and trampled
underfoot. An adze had been smashed into the half-made soundboard along the grain, splitting a great portion of it away. Leather had been tossed in a corner and liquid poured over it; the pungent
reek of piss was unmistakeable.
    I thought I heard a new voice, but when I glanced around I saw only Heron, examining the lock on the door.
    “Aye,” Bairstowe said. “That’s the way he came in. Broke down the door.”
    I kicked at the soundboard. There was plainly no salvaging it.
    Bairstowe swore at me. “Stop gawping, damn you, and get down to earning your ten guineas!”
    Ten guineas? He had offered me twenty. In fury, I started to speak but Claudius Heron interrupted. “I believe the sum was thirty guineas,” he said lazily.
    We both looked at him. He stood nonchalantly just inside the door, his hand on the lock he had been examining. His tone was bored. Bairstowe started to speak but Heron said again, “Thirty
guineas.”
    “I offered – ” Bairstowe stopped under Heron’s steady gaze. “Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly. “Thirty guineas. Of course. Get going, man. Get
going!”
    “When I’ve had a good look around,” I said, determined to assert myself.
    I trampled over the smashed pipes and the crushed lead, deriving a great deal of satisfaction from the crunching and crackling of the debris under my feet. I examined the windows and the door,
and looked for footprints in the dust and the sawdust. Bairstowe stood in the middle of the floor and glared at me; Claudius Heron hardly moved. I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was
looking for, and I found nothing. Or rather – only the one thing Claudius Heron