Airs and Graces

by Roz Southey

  A bang and a clatter; something seemed to snap. ‘I’ll be back,’ Fowler yelled and, yet again, we ran for it.

  The minute we were out of the shop, the noise and the rumbling stopped. ‘Well, that message is clear enough,’ I said. ‘He wants everyone out of the house.’

  It was a difficult night and it got worse. Esther wanted Fowler to see the surgeon about the cuts on his hands – we could see fragments of glass in the wounds. Fowler was adamant he didn’t want to be fussed over. He was going home, he said, before Heron missed him. I didn’t believe him – he was probably going to lurk in an alley until he could get back to the bridge unseen. Esther solved the problem by putting her arm through his and turning him along the street towards Gale’s house. Fowler might know exactly how to handle women like the whores at the Old Man Inn, but he didn’t know how to deal with a lady. It doesn’t come within his experience, Heron being a widower.

  Balfour insisted on accompanying us, asking questions all the while. Had Gregson done all that damage? Why? Had he said anything? What would happen now? I put up with him as long as I could, even stood on the street with him outside the surgeon’s house, in the hope that the cold would drive him away. It didn’t.

  ‘It’s late,’ I said eventually. ‘There’s nothing more to be done tonight. Why don’t you go home?’

  He thrust his hands into his pockets, hunched against the cold. ‘You’re right, I suppose.’ He still didn’t seem inclined to move. ‘My father was killed in the house,’ he said, ‘and his spirit was so bitterly angry he couldn’t say anything that wasn’t an insult. He made our lives a misery and we couldn’t move.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose I’m looking for understanding – wanting to know how such things happen.’

  ‘You’ll find no understanding in the Gregson house,’ I said bluntly. ‘Because Samuel Gregson has no understanding himself. And his family will have a worse time than you did. As spirits they’re trapped with him for the next eighty or hundred years.’

  He sighed and gave me an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had a dreadfully trying day. I suppose this is all of a piece with it.’

  I didn’t see how he could equate having to redraw architectural plans with what had happened to Ned or Sarah.

  He went off at last, glancing back several times through the thickening snow. He was heading in the wrong direction for the George; I suspected he’d probably duck into the first tavern he saw.

  Fowler was uncharacteristically quiet when he came out of the barber-surgeon’s house, and went home with only a token protest. I didn’t think he had given in; I thought that he’d abandoned his first impulsive thoughts and was hatching some other, more carefully considered plan.

  I slept badly, dreaming of being caught in blizzards of glass and snow. And in the morning, there was another note sitting on the table at the foot of the stairs, a folded piece of rough paper, of the sort one gets in inns. George hung on the edge of the table and said disapprovingly, ‘It must be from a ruffian, Master. Why are you mixing with ruffians so much now?’

  So much for his good intentions. I bit my lip in an attempt to say nothing but it was useless. ‘George. Mind your manners!’

  The spirit flared green for a moment, then faded, ‘Yes, Master,’ it said, subdued.

  Esther was already in the breakfast room, reading a newspaper over her coffee and toast. She smiled up at me, then saw what I held. ‘Is that another note from Alice Gregson?’

  ‘It looks very like it.’ I eased up the blob of sealing wax on the back of the folded note. The neat childish hand was very familiar by now, but this time Alice had gone beyond a mere protestation of innocence. I read aloud:

  You have not heeded me. I told you I did not steal the money. Now I tell you plainly – I did not kill my parents, nor my sister, nor the boy. I suppose you will take no notice of this either. You are a fool like all the rest.

  Esther grimaced wryly. ‘She knows how to win people to her side, does she not?’

  I waved the note. ‘Does she expect me to act on this? Does she think it will enlist my goodwill on her behalf ?’

  Esther poured me coffee. ‘I suspect she doesn’t think very much at all. She is a silly girl, though dangerous.’

  I sipped the coffee and tried to be more calm. ‘I suppose I ought to go down to the shop and see if there have been any developments overnight.’

  ‘Do you not have lessons today?’

  I sighed. ‘I’ll have to cut some short, and be late for others. No way to recommend myself to pupils.’

  ‘Cancel them,’ Esther recommended. ‘If you were ill, you would not hesitate to do so.’

  Last time I was ill, before my marriage, I worked through all my lessons as usual. Esther was brought up in a household that was never short of money; I was brought up in one that knew you should earn as much as you can today in case disaster strikes tomorrow.

  ‘If Alice does have an accomplice,’ Esther said, ‘he must surely have followed her up from London.’

  I nodded.

  ‘And of course,’ Esther said, ‘we do know someone who came up from London recently.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘The thief-catcher,’ she said, ‘Joseph Kane.’

  ‘Kane?’ I echoed incredulously.

  ‘Think about it,’ she recommended. ‘You only have his word for it that he is a thief-catcher. Or that he was hired by someone in Kent. Or has followed someone north. You only have his description of this exciseman he says he’s looking for – this Hitchings might be entirely fictional.’

  ‘It can’t be Kane,’ I protested. ‘Hugh and I saw him arrive in town on Monday evening, nearly two days after the murders.’

  ‘But who is to say he was not here before that? Perhaps he was staying out of town – Gateshead, perhaps – and crept into town on Saturday night to meet Alice. If everything had gone to plan, no one would ever have known he was in the area. But things went wrong and he invented the tale of a thief-catcher to divert suspicion.’

  ‘Why did he not simply flee?’

  She considered, sipping her coffee. ‘Because he wants to know how the investigation is proceeding. He wants to be aware if any danger threatens him.’

  ‘He’d be in no danger if he hadn’t stayed in town!’

  Esther was not discouraged. ‘Then perhaps he is looking for Alice. Suppose she was the one who killed the family and tried to blame it on him, and he is trying to get his revenge. And,’ she added, ‘he is personable, in a rough sort of way – he might have charmed Alice.’

  I didn’t entirely agree with her, but I couldn’t afford to ignore the idea. I sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better go and talk to him again.’ If I could find him, I thought uncomfortably. Yesterday he’d been talking of following someone to Shields; what if that had been simply an excuse to flee? ‘I want to go up to Heron’s too, and check on Fowler.’

  Esther played with her toast. ‘I saw Claudius Heron yesterday.’

  ‘He wasn’t in the vicinity of the Groat Market, was he?’

  ‘Only a street or two away. He ignored me.’

  I stared at her in outrage. ‘He snubbed you!’

  ‘No, no.’ She smiled in amusement. ‘I do not think he even registered who I was – he was very preoccupied.’

  ‘It’s these damn antiquities. He seems to think of nothing else. He didn’t attend the meeting Balfour had with the Directors of the Rooms yesterday.’

  Esther looked thoughtful. ‘I admit that my acquaintance with Mr Balfour is slight, but I probably would happily have missed a meeting with him too. He was full of his own woes last night.’

  I laughed. ‘I’ll go up to Heron’s house now and challenge him to give me satisfaction for ignoring you.’

  ‘Do so,’ she said cordially. ‘Would you care to invite him to dinner too? Now I am better, I feel like being sociable again.’

  I promised I would, but doubted I could persuade Heron to it.

  The day was overcast and cold but at leas
t it wasn’t snowing. I went to the house on the bridge and found a watchman supervising the fastening of boards over the shattered windows. The watchman was a big man, and cheerful despite the cold.

  ‘All quiet, sir. Hardly seen sight nor sound of any of the spirits.’

  ‘Not even the apprentice?’

  He shook his head. ‘Heard weeping upstairs once, or thought I did, but it stopped pretty quick.’

  ‘That would be the daughter.’ I glanced around; a few sightseers lingered but mainly in passing rather than coming specifically to watch. ‘And no one’s tried to get in the house?’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ he said, almost in happy anticipation of an attempt, ‘no one’ll get past me.’

  I believed him. I also believed Fowler wouldn’t sit passively at home. And just at the moment, keeping Fowler from running his head into a noose was more important to me even than finding Alice Gregson, and this mysterious accomplice of hers.

  But I was going to do both.

  I went off to talk to Joseph Kane.

  Twenty-Six

  There is no point in trying to disabuse a gentleman of any idea he has formed; once he has conceived it, he’ll never give it up.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 22 January 1737]

  Kane was in one of the Golden Fleece’s parlours, eating his way through a breakfast of cold meats, pies, bread and cheese, and copious amounts of beer. He sat back with his habitual insolence.

  ‘Didn’t know you paid social calls on the likes of me.’ He sneered. ‘Didn’t leave your card.’

  I refused to rise to the bait, relieved to see him; surely his return from his trip meant he wasn’t our man. I leant my hands on the back of a chair. ‘Did you have any success in finding your man yesterday?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be here if I had,’ he said. ‘Never was in this town before and I can tell you I never will be again. What’s with you Scotch? Suspicious lot, all of you.’

  I bit my tongue on the ‘Scotch’ insult. Kane was doing his best to annoy me, and I wasn’t going to show him he was succeeding. ‘No one cooperating?’

  ‘So,’ he drawled, spearing a piece of beef on his knife, ‘have you found your girl yet?’ A malicious grin blossomed on his face. ‘A slip of a lass, they tell me. A flighty, flirty sort, with nothing on her mind but pretty little ribbons and shoes.’

  I sat down on the chair, crossed my legs and cultivated a nonchalant air. He hadn’t told me what had happened in Shields; I suspected he’d not got through the snow and was refusing to admit it. ‘I thought you were of the opinion your man was behind the murders. That he’d seduced the girl with sweet nothings and got the keys from her to rob the house.’

  He was chewing hard on the beef, knife in hand. ‘Devil take it, say what you came to say, instead of all this dancing around the subject. If you’ve got it in mind to accuse me of something, do it.’

  This was rather more confrontational than I liked, but I was committed to it now. ‘I want proof of this fellow you’re after.’ I saw his face darken. ‘I’ve only your word he exists.’

  He roared with fury. ‘Damn you! You’re still the same insolent know-it-all you were on the boat! Smirking and preening at your own cleverness! Accusing honest men!’ He jabbed his knife in my direction. ‘Get out of here before I do something I don’t regret! Get out!’

  With a flick of his wrist, he threw the knife.

  I sat rigidly still, felt the draught as it skimmed past my cheek, heard it thud into the door behind me. And saw Kane’s face twist in fury, because I didn’t react as he wanted me to.

  ‘Well,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast.’ I turned my back on him. The knife was still quivering in the door jamb; I took hold of it. It resisted for a moment, then jerked out. I leant across the table and held the handle out to Kane. ‘Your knife.’

  Then I made a quick exit while he was still gawping.

  That went well.

  In the freezing cold, I walked up the Side to St Nicholas’s church, cut across the High Bridge and came out on to Pilgrim Street, brooding on Kane. He’d seemed genuinely outraged, but if he’d had the audacity to commit such murders and stay in town, he’d certainly be capable of lying convincingly. On the whole, I was inclined to believe in his innocence.

  At the top of Pilgrim Street, I came on to Northumberland Street where the houses of the wealthy lie in extensive gardens. Fresh snow lay at the edges of the street, against the walls, but in the centre of the road, the snow had been worn to slush by the passing of carts and pedestrians and was uncomfortably slippery.

  Heron’s house is in the upper part of the street behind a high wall, one of the oldest houses in town, its old-style architecture forbidding. The carriage drive to the door had been cleared, as had a path round to the stables at the back, but the wide lawns on either side were snow-covered. Heron’s butler bowed me in and asked me to wait, disappearing towards the back of the house. I waited, looking round the hall, faintly intimidated, as always, by its expensive floor-to-ceiling mirrors, fashionable wallpaper and elegant Chinese statuettes. A niche was filled with three ancient figures: athletes poised forever in the act of throwing javelins, their skin polished to a fine smoothness, marred only by a chip or two that time had taken out of them.

  The butler came back and bowed me into Heron’s study, a room heavy with old wainscoting and tall bookcases. To my astonishment, the curtains were still drawn and the room lit by dozens of candles. Heron himself was standing behind a large table, draining a wineglass. He looked tired; his coat was wrinkled as if he’d been wearing it too long. I was astonished – I’ve never seen Heron less than immaculate.

  He told the butler to bring coffee and startled me further by asking, ‘Is it morning?’ Maps and plans were spread on the table, a few ancient coins placed carefully on a bed of cloth in a small box. Heron pushed them towards me.

  ‘These are the best preserved coins from the hoard. I have tentatively dated them to the first arrival of the Romans in this part of the country, but they could be a little later – it is difficult to be certain. I have been correlating what is already known . . .’

  I watched as he shifted papers. Horrified was perhaps too strong a word for my feelings on seeing him, but only by a trifle. Heron is always rational and cool; this seemed to be bordering on obsession. He’d not greeted me, or asked me if I’d come for any particular reason, or asked after Esther, which he was usually punctilious in doing.

  The butler came back bearing a salver with coffee and two dishes; he gave me a long steady look, as if trying to convey some meaning without disturbing the impassive demeanour expected of a man in his position. Heron pushed a map across the table. ‘As you can see, the present Tyne Bridge is built almost exactly over the original Roman construction. Here is the line of the main road cutting through the town. The Romans tended to build in straight lines, so it is easy enough to trace.’ He pointed out numbers he’d marked on the map. ‘These indicate the finds discovered in the vicinity of the mercer’s shop: a skeleton found last century, the coins, and Demsey’s ring.’ He glanced up at me. ‘I take it the ring has still not been recovered.’

  I poured two dishes of coffee. The butler had also brought a few wedges of bread and cheese but Heron shook his head when I offered them to him.

  ‘There’s no sign of the ring.’ There was plainly no point in talking to Heron about anything but the antiquities; I said, ‘Were you approached last year – about June or July – with the offer of coins like these?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘No. Do you mean to say there are more?’

  ‘I believe similar coins were in one of the boxes in Gregson’s cellar.’ I explained my reasoning. ‘It’s not clear whether Gregson acquired the coins legitimately, or stole them, but his intention was probably to sell the coins on to a collector like yourself.’

  Heron shifted the papers, sipped at his coffee, put the dish down, shifted
the papers again. ‘Do you know where these coins are now?’

  I decided against mentioning Fowler directly. ‘I’ve asked someone to check whether they’ve been offered for melting down.’

  ‘Melting down!’ Heron gripped my arm. ‘You must find them! If they have fallen into criminal hands, I will buy them back. No questions asked, no charges brought. We must move quickly. They must not be destroyed!’

  This was beginning to seem like madness. ‘I’ll find them,’ I said rashly, merely intent on calming him. ‘I’ve no reason to believe they’ve yet been offered to anyone. I suspect the murderer is waiting for the fuss to die down before trying to dispose of them.’

  Heron paused, let go of my arm, reached for the coffee again. ‘Of course. I was worrying unnecessarily. Of course.’

  ‘The reason I came,’ I said, ‘was that I was worried an attempt might be made to steal your artefacts.’ I indicated the coins in their box.

  He frowned. Heavens, but he was thinking slowly today!

  ‘When I was attacked in the street,’ I explained, ‘I thought the villain was after the keys to Gregson’s shop. That may be true, but he also took the coin I’d picked up in the street. Demsey’s ring was stolen. Balfour’s rooms were also ransacked and a Roman coin was taken. It’s beginning to look like this villain is specifically after the antiquities.’

  ‘You think he is a collector too?’

  ‘Or he knows one who’ll pay handsomely for them.’ I nodded at the coins. ‘If our villain knows about Hugh’s ring, he’ll certainly know about your coins – he only needs to buy beer for one of your workmen and he’ll have the whole story. He may decide to burgle this house to try and obtain them.’

  Heron laughed without humour. ‘There is not the slightest chance anyone could break into this house.’ He looked uncomfortable, however, and bent to ring the bell for the butler.

  I persisted. ‘The villain may be a man from Kent – he’s broken into a number of houses there. His usual method is to woo one of the maids and get the keys from her.’