Airs and Graces

by Roz Southey

  He was in the mood to mock everything and everyone, I perceived; Heron’s the only man who’s ever gained his loyalty and Fowler usually won’t hear a word against him. Years ago, during that disreputable period in London, Fowler took it into his head to rob a mild-looking, slight gentleman. When he found himself at Heron’s swordpoint, he must have expected a hempen end to his career, but Heron somehow saw possibilities in him that no one else ever did, and offered him an unlikely life as a manservant. It would be wrong to say Fowler has led a blameless life since, but his crimes have been small ones, and discreet. As far as I know.

  ‘Did you ever meet Alice?’

  ‘Saw her once in the shop while I was waiting for Ned. A wishy-washy little thing, with yellow curls. Dressed up as if she was going to a ball – I’ve seen countesses in London dressed simpler. Wide hoops, material worth a fortune over them. Lace and ribbons on her petticoats, and jewels on her shoes.’

  He drank beer, poured more. With any other man, I’d have worried but Fowler knows how to hold his drink. ‘Her father came in and said Go and talk to your mother, Alice. She’s got work for you to do.’

  ‘And did she go?’

  ‘She turned to Ned, and said Don’t stand there being lazy, boy. Get me my cloak – I’m going out.’

  Defying her father, scandalizing his customers and insulting a harmless boy all in two sentences. ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing!’ he said savagely. ‘Nothing, damn it! What could I say? What was there to say that wouldn’t draw attention to Ned all the more?’

  That must have hurt. Fowler’s not a man to do nothing. ‘And then?’

  ‘Gregson told Ned to serve a customer, took the girl’s arm and marched her into the back of the house. Ned told me later there’d been a huge row. Screaming and shouting and swearing.’

  ‘And this was when?’

  ‘Thursday, about noon. Told me all about it Friday night when I saw him.’ His mouth twisted. ‘The night before he died.’

  He took another long draught of the beer. His lean face was less flushed, more weary – he looked as if he’d not slept. Fowler’s loyalty is rarely given and never retracted. He’d never have betrayed the boy in any way, and wouldn’t let his death go unpunished now. The spirits sang on in their corner; a keelman in yellow waistcoat puffed out acrid clouds of smoke from a long pipe.

  ‘She was always after getting back to London,’ Fowler said. ‘Ned thought she’d decided to annoy everyone so they’d get exasperated and send her back. Not that there was ever any chance of that.’

  ‘No one left there for her to go to, I take it.’

  ‘There was a brother but he wouldn’t have her. Got a wife and family of his own and she was always arguing with them, or something of the sort. Besides, the other girl was getting married.’

  ‘Sarah? The youngest daughter?’ I was surprised.

  He nodded. ‘She was the one supposed to stay at home and care for her parents in their old age. But one of the Baltic merchants took a fancy to her – he’s old but she liked the look of him. And his money, no doubt,’ he added waspishly. ‘If she married, Alice would have to stay at home.’

  From what I’d heard of Alice, she’d not have liked that in the least. I sipped my own beer. It was surprisingly good, and my estimation of the tavern went up. ‘Did she have a lover, do you think?’

  He nodded. This was the old Fowler, in control of himself, perhaps even a little too much so. ‘Ned said she was always on the look-out for someone. Staring out the windows all the time, glancing at the clock. She slipped away from the shop more than once but he couldn’t follow, of course, so he didn’t know where she went.’

  He finished his beer and I poured more. ‘When did you last see Ned?’

  ‘Saturday night.’ Fowler met my gaze. ‘If I’d kept him an hour longer, he’d be alive now.’

  ‘You couldn’t have known that.’ The spirits roared with laughter over something the keelman said. ‘Did he mention anything about her demeanour that day?’

  ‘There was another argument. Alice was supposed to take over from Ned in the shop about noon, so he could have his afternoon off. Sarah and her mother were shopping, and there was no one else who could do it. But she went out late morning and never came back, so Ned was stuck there. I went in to see why he wasn’t leaving the shop, and Gregson was in a foul mood. I made some excuse about wanting his catalogue for Heron, and got out quick. Ned said she didn’t come back till teatime.’

  ‘Did he know where she’d been?’

  He shook his head. ‘But she’d had a good time – she went out all whiny and sullen, and came back insolent and laughing. Seemed a different girl, he said. She got a message too – she had three or four of them in the time she was there. Ned took one from a boy and said he could hardly read the writing.’

  I thought of the dreadful scrawl on the note Mrs Fletcher had given me. More and more, I was convinced Alice hadn’t been acting on her own.

  ‘She had it in mind all the time, didn’t she?’ Fowler said savagely. ‘She was planning to kill them all from the moment she got here.’

  I wasn’t prepared to go that far. I sipped my beer. ‘Something was certainly planned. Alice probably removed a box of money from the cellar in advance and spent some considerable time knotting together a rope from sheets. But how long it was planned, or what was planned, I don’t know. Perhaps she – they – only intended to rob the house and something went badly wrong.’

  ‘I want her,’ Fowler said again. ‘And if this lover had something to do with it, I want him as well.’

  ‘The killer goes to the Assizes.’

  ‘The devil she does!’

  ‘Heron didn’t save your neck in London to have you run it in a noose now!’ I said, exasperated. ‘She’ll not get away, I promise you that.’

  As soon as I said it, I knew it was foolish. Alice had not one but two worlds to hide in. But I’d said it now, and I wasn’t about to take it back. Fowler was right in one respect: Ned was the least regarded of those who’d died. The others had been respectable, fine upstanding citizens and Ned a mere apprentice, and, worse, an apprentice with a secret most people would regard with abhorrence. But he deserved justice as much as the others.

  I finished my beer. ‘I must go – I’ll be late for my lesson.’ No chance of seeing Esther now, I thought ruefully. ‘Will you be there tonight, for the disembodiment?’

  Fowler nodded. ‘He’ll be distressed – he’ll need me.’

  I hesitated. But Fowler didn’t need telling to be careful; he’d been living with this secret all his life. I nodded farewell and left him sitting, dark and silent amongst all the jollity of the other customers, reaching for the last of the beer in the jug.

  Fourteen

  They have no literature of speak of, although they are always speaking of it.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 19 January 1737]

  I spent the afternoon going from one lesson to another, from one giddy girl to another, rebuffing all attempts to drag the details of the murders out of me. Emma Blackett, the fourteen-year-old daughter of a very wealthy family, was typical of the breed. She spread the score out on the harpsichord music stand, wriggled herself comfortable on the stool, raised her hands melodramatically as if to strike the first chord, then looked winningly sideways at me. ‘Were you at the inquest yesterday, Mr Patterson?’

  ‘Play the piece at half speed,’ I said. ‘I want to make sure you get the notes right.’

  She pouted and started off at least three times too fast.

  ‘This is an adagio,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s supposed to be slow and heartfelt.’

  She fluttered her eyelashes at me. ‘Was that girl so dreadful?’

  ‘Very. Now . . .’

  ‘She must have found Newcastle very dull after London. I’d love to go to London,’ she added wistfully, ‘but Mama says it’s not suitable for a very young lady.’

>   ‘It’s very noisy,’ I said repressively.

  She looked excited. ‘Is it? Have you been there?’

  A fraught few minutes ensued, while I attempted to redirect her thoughts from parties and balls and shops, to one of Mr Handel’s best works. As soon as I’d lured her away from thinking of London, she was back on the subject of Alice Gregson. ‘She can’t be as bad as they say! She couldn’t have killed all those people!’

  Gossip had clearly given her a mistakenly glamorous view of Alice.

  After an afternoon of conversations of this sort, I staggered back home, longing for peace and quiet. I could easily escape the starry-eyed curiosity of adolescent girls, but I couldn’t escape the confusion of my own thoughts. I had to go out again for the disembodiment of the Gregson spirits too, and the thin snow was falling with more determination – a bad night to wait in an unheated house.

  Esther was browsing through the latest edition of The Ladies’ Magazine in the drawing room and looking bored. ‘I was too tired to make the accounts add up,’ she admitted, ‘and the Ladies’ Magazine is not what it once was.’ She was pale again; I frowned and was about to comment, when she put her hand on my arm and said severely, ‘Dinner, Charles, or the cook will leave!’

  If anyone was running the risk of offending the cook, it was Esther. She picked listlessly though the fish and meat, although she attacked a syllabub with some relish. Which was odd; she was not usually fond of sweet things.

  She hardly let me finish my soup before she murmured, ‘So what have you found out?’

  I could hardly tell her about Fowler but I did regale her with his tales of Alice’s behaviour, saying merely I’d had them on reliable authority. When I’d finished, Esther said, ‘So you are no longer sure Alice killed them?’

  ‘There was certainly a lover.’

  ‘A man would have the necessary detachment to kill.’

  ‘Detachment?’

  ‘It must be easier to kill someone you do not know. To kill the parents who bore you, the family that gave you life, is entirely a different matter.’

  I helped myself to meat and bread; the bread was still deliciously warm. ‘But Alice hardly knew them. They can’t have seemed like family to her.’

  She shook her head. I thought of the insolent, mischievous girl I’d seen today; could I imagine her killing her family, and in such a brutal way?

  I had to force myself to leave the warmth of the house an hour or so later and the cold was deep in my bones long before I reached the bridge. A swirling shower of snow came out of the heavens as I climbed the slope towards the shop. I’d anticipated the only people there would be myself and Abraham McLintoch, with perhaps one or two of the other watchmen as support. There’s nothing dramatic about these events; spirits generally disembody silently, often unseen – one moment there’s nothing, the next you become aware of a faint gleam somewhere in the room, a sense of a presence that wasn’t there before.

  These spirits would be distressed, of course, and there would be some uncomfortable moments as everything was explained to them. But there was plainly a general expectation of some exciting revelation. There was a huge crowd. All the neighbours had turned out, muffled up in warm clothing; sailors had wandered up from the Key, tankards in hand, and more than one whore was taking the opportunity to drum up some business. The man who sells buttered barley at the Cale Cross had come up in the well-justified hope of customers. And all of them speculating on the story the spirits would tell, relishing the thought of wild arguments, horrible fights and spurting blood . . .

  At the back of the crowd, I saw a figure I recognized at once: Fowler, lounging in a doorway on his own. He saw me, curled his lip. I would have liked to speak, but that would only have drawn attention to him, which was decidedly not a good idea.

  McLintoch was smoking a pipe in the shelter of the shop doorway; he greeted me with a grimace. ‘Reckon we should go in, Mr Patterson, sir. That way we can speak to the spirits private. And it’ll be warmer.’

  He was wrong. There was the chill of a hundred winters in the house. McLintoch lit a branch of candles and set a couple of the delicate chairs upright; we perched in the oppressive darkness, made worse by McLintoch’s acrid pipe smoke, listening to the hubbub of conversation outside. I wondered if there was any way of getting Fowler into the house without drawing suspicion down on him. Probably not.

  ‘Can’t properly get my mind round this,’ McLintoch said after a long pause, adding conscientiously, ‘sir. Don’t seem right that a slip of a girl should kill four people. Daresay it comes of her having been in London.’

  ‘There’s no news of her?’ I was startled by the sound of my own voice in the near darkness.

  ‘We’ve had the spirits asking,’ McLintoch said, ‘but they’ve heard nothing. Not of the girl nor the money. She’s left town, sir, I’m sure of it. It weren’t too bad weather Sunday morning. She might have got out then.’

  We fell silent again. Outside, it seemed to have gone quiet. ‘Snowing hard, I warrant you,’ McLintoch said imperturbably.

  He had a flask of brandy which he generously shared. We sat for two hours, growing colder by the minute, glancing round every so often in case we’d missed the faint gleam of a new spirit. Towards the end of the time, McLintoch began to shiver almost uncontrollably. He was not a young man and occasions like this must try him sorely. A church bell distantly struck; we counted the chimes – two. Outside was only silence.

  McLintoch dragged himself out of his chair and stumbled over to the door. He pulled it open and I saw the snow-spattered form of a watchman, looking miserable. Behind him, snow was falling almost as heavily as it had on Saturday night. McLintoch gestured the watchman in.

  ‘Here.’ He gave him the flask of brandy. ‘Not much left, but you’re welcome to what there is. Stay for the rest of the night. There’s blankets in the press upstairs to keep you warm. But don’t fall asleep! And if the spirits disembody, send word to me and Mr Patterson at once. At once!’

  The watchman, beaming with delight, promised to do everything required; we left him clutching the brandy with a blissful smile.

  McLintoch drew the door closed behind him and we stood on the doorstep in the driving snow. The crowd had entirely dissipated and the surrounding houses were dark. I looked about for Fowler; I couldn’t see him but I was sure he’d still be there, taking shelter in the small chapel at the end of the bridge, perhaps.

  ‘I’m off to my bed,’ McLintoch said. ‘Looks like we’ll have to wait a while.’ He glanced at me; something in my expression must have elicited his sympathy. ‘Never you mind, sir,’ he said soothingly. ‘Spirits who’ve died a violent death often disembody late. They’ll be here by tonight, I warrant you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course.’

  It was an unpleasant journey home. Snow drove in my face all the way up Westgate; I put my head down and plodded against it, feeling its cold fingers on my exposed skin. The streets were deserted, and I imagined thieves and robbers in every alley and doorway. I was excessively glad to see the street that led to Caroline Square.

  I’d taken a house key with me so I didn’t need to disturb the servants, but there was one occupant of the house who never slept; it was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Master?’ George whispered, a bright gleam clinging to the banister. ‘It’s cold.’

  Compared to the weather outside, the house was delightful. ‘Go into the kitchen,’ I whispered back. ‘That’ll still be warm.’

  ‘It smells of onions,’ the spirit said peevishly. ‘There’s a note for you.’

  The note sat on the hall table, a rectangle of greyish paper with my name neatly written on it, in large childish letters. I felt a sudden surge of excitement.

  ‘Thank you, George.’

  ‘Master . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  There was a little silence; the spirit said in a very small voice, ‘I don’t mean to annoy you, Master.’ The words came out
in a rush. ‘It’s just— I don’t like being dead.’

  That brought me up short. Thinking of Fowler’s Ned. I said, ‘I’m sorry too, George. I should have taken greater care of you when you were alive. If I had . . .’

  ‘It was my fault, Master,’ he said, sounding as if he was about to cry. ‘You told me what to do and what not to, and I didn’t take any notice.’

  That was true. ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we can get on better now.’

  ‘I’d like that, Master,’ he said, brightening with mercurial speed. ‘You really don’t mind me living here?’

  ‘Not if you don’t argue with the servants.’

  ‘I’ll try, Master!’ the spirit said exuberantly and shot off in the direction of the kitchen. I wondered how long this display of contrition would last.

  The note was sealed with black wax, of the type one finds in cheap inns. The ink was watery, the words written in that big childlike hand. There was only one sentence; it said:

  I did not steal the money.

  Fifteen

  I forgot to advise you to go to every tea party you are invited to; the conversation will be dull, but the women are well worth looking at.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 20 January 1737]

  Esther was asleep when I crawled into bed and still asleep when I dragged myself out again. I had almost a full day of lessons ahead of me and the disturbed night had left me with a headache and tired eyes. Worse, I found a note on the breakfast table, left there by Esther the previous night; she was visiting Mrs Blackett later that morning and, knowing I taught the Blackett children, wondered if I would be there. The note depressed me hugely. Married only five months and we were already communicating by notes.

  It was still snowing, a steady silent fall of heavy flakes that piled up on windowsills and doorsteps, in street corners and hedge bottoms. The snow, almost untrodden in Caroline Square, was crunchy underfoot; flakes trickled through the gaps in my clothing and down my neck. A thick layer of it coated the front of my greatcoat before I was on Westgate.