by Roz Southey
‘And they’ve heard nothing?’
His gloom deepened. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir. We’ll get her, sir. Bound to. No one can hide from us for long, sir.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’
On the Key again, the snow crunched beneath my feet, the seagulls screamed, the sailors loaded the boats with much shouting and swearing. Something was wrong. Alice Gregson was a young girl who’d been in the town no more than four days; she couldn’t know it well enough to hide from watchmen who’d been born and brought up here. Under other circumstances, I’d have been anxious for a pretty young woman who’d gone missing – there were all too many people ready to take advantage of the defenceless. It would be ironic if something had happened to her.
Although of course, a woman who’d just killed four people could hardly be described as defenceless. Anyone who tried to take advantage of her would probably regret it very quickly.
But I was beginning to wonder if there was another reason she couldn’t be found. What if she was not in Newcastle any longer? Not this Newcastle at any rate.
Seven
I had nearly forgot! At all costs bring a good wine with you when you come; here there is only beer, which is tolerable, and gin, which is not.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 18 January 1737]
I passed the bridge on my way up to the George where I was to meet Hugh and Balfour. There was still a watchman on guard outside the shop; he was reconciling his duty and his inclinations, by refusing to let sightseers into the house but charging them for a look through an unshuttered window.
I walked up the Side, passed St Nicholas’s church and cut off into the Clothmarket, from which an alley led to the George Inn. Hugh and Balfour were waiting for me in the inn yard.
‘I told you the snow would go!’ Hugh said triumphantly. ‘That’ll be it for the winter.’
‘I hope so,’ Balfour said. He looked cold and subdued.
‘Come on then!’ Hugh said. ‘Got to make sure we’re finished before the inquest.’ He grinned at me. ‘Had a message this morning to say I wouldn’t be needed.’ He nudged me in the ribs. ‘Lawyer Armstrong says he trusts you to give an accurate account of what happened.’
‘I don’t think I’ll go,’ Balfour said.
‘Very wise,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Bound to be a crush. Half the town’ll be there.’
Now, that was a cheering thought.
The proposed site for the new Assembly Rooms is in the Groat Market, separated from the Clothmarket by a block of houses and shops. The place was easy to find. Six months ago, on one of the hottest nights in June, a fire broke out in a mercer’s shop and within an hour the property was consumed, along with the empty house next door; the mercer’s body was found in the ruins. What remained of the buildings had been considered too dangerous to leave standing and the walls had been pulled down, leaving only the remains of the cellar creating a deep hole in the ground crisscrossed by charred timbers. The timbers were now under a layer of snow, showing here and there as black smudges in the white. The mercer’s spirit must have evaporated in the fire.
Balfour looked at the ruins with a jaundiced eye. ‘The space occupied by both properties is to be used?’
‘Robert Jenison, the director of the Assemblies and the Concerts, owns both. He’s willing to donate the sites to the town.’
Hugh leant over a wooden fence that had been put up round the ruin, to prevent anyone falling in. Footsteps in the snow suggested that several people had climbed the fence this morning and gone down into the cellar pit. ‘What on earth were they after?’
‘Wood. Free fuel for the fire.’
‘Break their necks,’ Hugh said with a grin.
Balfour was shivering, although it seemed warm to me in the sunshine. He searched his pockets, took out a measure, and asked Hugh to hold one end of it while he plodded up and down, muttering under his breath. He seemed to be making a great show of it, as if wanting to impress us with his efficiency – surely he must have all this information already. But he’d worked on the new Assembly Rooms in York, so he must be competent. And I knew from experience how a good performance can inspire confidence in an audience.
What he found didn’t seem to please him. He muttered, ‘Not really long enough. Or wide enough for that matter.’ The site was only one property deep; on its far side ran a narrow alley covered in snow. Balfour scowled. ‘Is there any chance of that property being incorporated?’ He waved a hand at the tavern next door.
‘I think Jenison owns that too,’ I said, not entirely certain. ‘But you won’t be popular pulling down a tavern.’
Hugh was still peering down into the hole. He swung his leg over the fence. I grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing!’
‘I can see something shiny down there. Look – under the far bank.’
Cautiously, I peered over the edge. ‘It’s probably just a dropped coin.’ Just? A few months ago, before my marriage to Esther, I’d been an impecunious musician and every penny meant a great deal; I’d have been thinking of climbing down there. How quickly things change. ‘Hugh, it’s dangerous!’
‘Nonsense!’ Hugh said with magnificent inconsistency. ‘Half a dozen people have already been down there!’ And without more ado he launched himself down the slope.
I stopped talking; distracting him would only make it more dangerous. Besides, he wasn’t after a dropped coin. He was after a little excitement; Hugh was not a sit-at-home man – he liked to be always doing.
Inevitably, his feet went out from under him; he waved his arms wildly for balance, slid a foot or two then righted himself. He put down a hand to one of the large snow-covered timbers and it shifted. A faint waft of charred timbers drifted up. Hugh bent down, took off his glove, and with white fingers tried to dig something from the frozen earth. He had to work at it but at last eased it loose.
Something caught the sunlight.
We helped Hugh clamber back up the slope; his boots were encrusted with snow and thick smudges of it adorned his greatcoat. He opened his hand, grinning.
A ring, mostly tarnished and blackened, lay on his palm, with just a trace of brightness on one edge. An oval stone was attached to the ring. Hugh rubbed with a thumb, cleaned off some of the dirt. A greenish cameo slowly emerged, with a figure engraved on it; we peered at a woman in flowing draperies, holding what might be a tambourine. A graceful nymph, dancing.
‘Looks like it’s been there since before the fire,’ Hugh said, prising earth from the loop of the ring itself.
‘It must have belonged to the mercer.’
Balfour shook his head. ‘It’s very old.’ He took the ring from Hugh’s cold fingers. ‘I’ve seen things like this in London.’ I’ve rarely seen such pleasure on a man’s face. ‘It’s Roman.’
We contemplated the ring, as Balfour turned it this way and that. Its age and provenance were not particularly surprising. This is a very old town; the bridge is on the site of a Roman predecessor and from time to time, when the river’s dredged, ancient pieces of stone or metal are pulled out. The churches are full of bits and pieces that were allegedly part of some older building, an arch here, an engraved stone there; now and then, pieces of human bone are even found.
‘Quite nice,’ Balfour said, nonchalantly. ‘If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.’
The casualness of this remark made me look at him sharply. But Hugh merely took the ring back, saying, ‘No, no. I like it. A dancing nymph seems an appropriate possession for a dancing master.’
‘I’ll give you a guinea for it,’ Balfour said.
‘You should show it to Heron,’ I said. ‘He’ll know how old it is.’ My patron, Claudius Heron, is a collector of all things ancient. He’s also a wealthy gentleman which means he can afford to indulge his fancy; his house is full of antiquities, usually rather dull and battered. It all seems a waste of money to me.
‘I wonder if there’s anything else down there,’
Balfour said, peering over the fence.
Hugh looked up from his contemplation of the ring. ‘There could be, couldn’t there?’
‘You can’t be intending—’
It was too late. They were already eagerly scanning the pit in the hopes of seeing something else glint in the sunshine.
‘It’s very cold,’ I said, knowing they wouldn’t listen. ‘Why don’t we go into the tavern and warm up?’
They climbed over the fence.
If they wanted to freeze themselves to death in search of trifles, I wasn’t going to stop them. I’ve known Hugh since our charity school days, and have long since realized that any opposition merely makes him more obstinate. But how two grown men could work themselves into such excitement about grimy tarnished bits of metal, I couldn’t comprehend. Heron is the same. Amazing.
Warmth slapped at me as soon as I pushed open the tavern door. A huge fire roared in an ancient fireplace and filled the room with smoke. So this was where most of the timber from the burnt-down houses had gone.
I accosted one of the serving girls, ordered a beer and slumped into a chair in a corner. Water dripped from my boots on to the floor and started to steam. The tavern was moderately busy; a group of colliers gambled in one corner, a sailor sat morosely on his own. High above the fire, lights clustered in the corner where wall meets ceiling – five or six spirits, keeping warm.
The girl who brought my beer confirmed that Jenison owned the tavern. So it might indeed be possible to add this property to the new Assembly Rooms, particularly as I knew Jenison thought the poor drank too much; he might think it his civic duty to address the problem of riotous behaviour. Alternatively, he might think he was getting a nice rent, thank you very much, and that civic duty sometimes has to take a back seat.
A spirit dropped down on to my table to talk.
‘Still snowing, is it?’ it asked.
‘No, a nice bright sunny day.’
The spirit flickered. ‘It won’t be nice till spring comes. I hates the cold.’
It was a friendly spirit; the living man clearly had had wit and cheerfulness and knew a good few jokes, some of which might even have been repeatable in front of ladies, if they’d been broad-minded. All in all, conversation with him made the time pass very agreeably, as I drank my beer and warmed my freezing toes.
‘Just passing, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘We’re examining the site next door – they’re proposing to build Assembly Rooms there.’
‘I heard that, sir. Bad luck if you ask me.’
I cocked an eyebrow at the bright gleam. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Stands to reason after what happened.’
‘The fire, you mean?’
The spirit slid closer, said confidentially, ‘Well, we all know it wasn’t an accident, don’t we?’
I stared. ‘Do we? I mean, I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Money troubles,’ the spirit said with some relish. ‘Never had any sense, that fellow.’
‘The mercer?’
‘Had his house and shop all done out – beautiful it looked, all in the latest London fashions. Spent a fortune on it. Said it would attract customers. Silly fool – spent so much he couldn’t afford to buy his stock!’
‘You think he set the fire himself ?’
‘Was going to do a runner!’ the spirit said with glee. ‘Take the valuable stuff with him, sell it off, keep the money for himself and to the devil with his creditors.’
‘But the fire caught him.’
‘Some people are just plain incompetent,’ the spirit said philosophically.
I finished my beer and went back outside. Hugh and Balfour were still down in the cellar, tramping about in the snow and ash and apparently having the time of their lives. I wondered if I was getting a bit old and staid – after all, I was married now. The idea was lowering.
I called down to them. ‘I have to go to the inquest.’
Hugh didn’t even glance up. ‘Fine. Fine.’
I left them to it.
A private coach stood in the yard of the Golden Fleece, the luggage being unloaded from its top. The paint was freshly scraped along one side and a footman was recounting tales of disaster to the Fleece’s ostler. The party had set out before the snow started, got caught in the blizzard, spent the night in a barn. Despite his constant protestations of how awful it had been, the footman had plainly enjoyed himself. ‘Well nigh impassable on Gateshead Fell,’ he said with relish. ‘Any more snow and you’ll not get through!’
Well, at least that meant Alice Gregson couldn’t leave the town.
The inquest was being held in the Long Room on the first floor, and the stairs were crowded. I was about to push my way up when I heard my name called. Glancing round, I saw a slim figure in the passage that led to the tap room. Even muffled up in greatcoat and hat, my patron, Mr Claudius Heron, was unmistakeable.
Heron’s a gentleman born and bred, in his forties, and he looked on the general populace crowding the inn stairs with a jaundiced eye. He jerked his head at me, and I followed him back out into the yard, stood shivering on the cobbles as Heron seemed to breathe more deeply away from the hoi polloi. He’s fair-haired, and this morning the cold had turned his pale skin to pure white.
‘Not a pleasant business,’ he said. ‘I hear you are directing the search for the girl.’
I shook my head. ‘The watchmen have that in hand. She’s hiding well.’
‘She will long since have left the town.’
‘If she has,’ I said, looking at the scratched paintwork of the coach, ‘she’ll be frozen in the snow by now.’ I wondered if I could tactfully steer Heron inside again, out of the cold.
‘Not a mystery then?’
‘Not at all. Except for her motive in killing them.’
A faint smile touched his lips. ‘I know better than to think it will be that simple when you are involved.’
Heron has intimate knowledge of my recent adventures – he’s been involved in one or two of them himself.
There was a stir in the inn; someone called out that the jury were returning from the Gregsons’ shop. ‘I suppose you give evidence?’ Heron said, turning for the inn again. ‘I thought I might call in to see what was decided. I was sorry not to make the meeting with the architect this morning. I had an appointment with other shipowners.’
‘You missed very little,’ I said, as we came into the crowded passageway. ‘Except for a great deal of measuring.’
‘I have heard good things of Balfour. He has extensive experience in this type of building and his correspondence makes him sound a sensible man. I was glad he changed his mind and came after all. Though I did not expect it – he was quite adamant when he wrote that his health was not good enough.’
‘He was greatly incommoded by the journey.’
‘I think it is a more deep-seated matter than that,’ Heron said.
We were back in the crush of bodies again, but Heron has an effortless way of cutting through crowds. Something to do with his look – his raised eyebrow, particularly. The crowds parted before him and we climbed the stairs unobstructed. In the Long Room above, a table and chair had been set out for Armstrong the coroner, and a few seats for the elderly and infirm around the walls. A thick press of people milled about.
‘Do you have time to give me a violin lesson?’ Heron said, surveying the crowd. ‘I would be obliged if you could come up to the house, tomorrow morning.’
I bowed my agreement; I had little choice – patrons must be kept sweet. Heron nodded and went off to exchange a few words with an acquaintance.
Lawyer Armstrong strode into the room.
Eight
They are proud of their law – all the questions and enquirings. But oddly, the people with the final say as to whether this person is guilty or that, have no qualifications in the law whatsoever!
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 18 January 1737]
All eyes
were on the members of the jury who filed into the room behind Armstrong. Everybody knew they must have come direct from viewing the bodies, and were on the lookout for signs of horror. They were not disappointed; the eight men, all sensible no-nonsense tradesmen, were white-faced and plainly shocked. It cannot have helped that they were all neighbours of the Gregsons and must have known them well.
The jury shuffled into their chairs and Armstrong spread out his papers on his table. I glanced round for people I knew. Fleming was on the jury, of course, and his wife was sitting comfortably on a sofa in a window embrasure, with the little Gregson girl beside her, playing with a rag doll. Just in front of her was Heron, talking to his manservant, Fowler, who was bowing deferentially. Not even Heron can think it necessary to bring his manservant to an inquest, so I presumed Fowler must have come on his own account, out of mere interest. Gregson’s surviving daughter, Mrs Fletcher, stood alone at the back, severe as ever.
Armstrong sat down. He has the lined face of a man, but is lanky as a boy; when he folded himself under the table, his knees knocked against the underside of it.
Formalities over, the first witness was called. Myself. ‘Mr Patterson?’ Armstrong said. ‘Could you tell us what happened on Saturday night? Sunday morning, I should say.’
I told them, omitting the snowball fight, saying merely I’d been walking on the Keyside with my wife and friend. The story of the figure climbing down the makeshift rope caused great excitement, as did our discovery of the bodies and the blood – I’ve never had such a gratifying audience reaction in the concert hall. Armstrong wanted to know if I’d seen the escaping girl carrying anything and I said I had not, although she might have had something in her pocket, but nothing very heavy.
Armstrong moved from the musical profession to the medical, calling Gale the barber-surgeon. Gale, an unprepossessing figure, slight in stature and round in face, is a man who likes to think he is master of all things medicinal, and has offended both the apothecaries of the town and the physicians by his wide-ranging activities. There is no questioning his competence, however, and he made an even bigger impact than I had, with his detailed description of the wounds. ‘All but the apprentice had been stabbed many times,’ he said. ‘Mr Gregson five times.’