by Roz Southey
‘Nonsense.’ He stepped briskly across to ring for the butler again. ‘There is no need for complicated arrangements. We will simply hide ourselves here and wait for the man’s arrival.’ The butler came and he gave orders that Fowler should be sent for. He glanced about the candlelit room. ‘Fowler and I will hide behind the curtains on either side of the window. You can crouch down behind the sofa.’
I looked at the furniture in question. Heron’s taste in sofas, unluckily, does not run to the substantial; it would offer very little protection.
‘Of course,’ Heron said, ‘you had better send word to your wife that you may be home very late tonight.’
I was shocked. ‘You want to do this tonight!’
Fowler came silently into the room, wearing Heron’s livery of blue; his gaze flickered to me but he didn’t otherwise acknowledge my presence. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘You and your pistol both,’ Heron said, looking around the room again. ‘We are going to set a trap for this murderer.’
Fowler looked at me again. I shook my head, but he merely said, ‘Certainly, sir.’ There was, of course, nothing else he could say. Not if he wished to keep his place. ‘At what time do you require me?’
‘The house usually retires at eleven,’ Heron said, more to me than to Fowler. ‘We will behave as usual, but as soon as everyone is in bed, we will keep watch here.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘It will be three hours yet.’ He looked Fowler up and down. ‘Wear something darker.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Fowler bowed and retreated.
‘And now,’ Heron said to me, ‘you may give me another violin lesson to pass the time.’
Single-minded as ever, Heron tackled his pieces with his usual cool efficiency and not a hint that he was distracted by what was to come. I was the one distracted. I’d sent a message to Esther, saying merely I was following up something Heron had told me, and would be late home; knowing she wouldn’t worry was all the consolation I had. How could Heron think this plan would work? We’d no proof the thief would try to get into the house again; how could he possibly know that tonight would be a good time to try? Would he not be suspicious when he found both the garden gate and a window unlocked? Why should he try this room in preference to any other that gave on to the terrace? Though admittedly it was the first one he’d come to.
And was the thief the murderer? Heron assumed he was. But what if it was someone else entirely, someone unconnected with the Gregsons’ deaths? That would be a coincidence, but couldn’t be discounted entirely. Even if thief and accomplice were the same, and a man (rather than the Alice from the other world), that man was Kane, and Kane was in Shields, no doubt on a boat destined for the Colonies. We’d probably sit here all night without anything happening. I hoped we would.
Events gathered a momentum of their own. Heron dismissed the servants to bed and went off on his usual rounds, making sure the doors and windows – with one exception – were locked. Fowler came down while Heron was absent. He was dressed completely in black, and looked pointedly at my light brown and green coat. ‘Not the best clothes for a midnight expedition,’ he said with a trace of malice.
‘I didn’t know I was going to be indulging in a fool’s errand when I came out,’ I retorted. ‘And if anyone does come through that window,’ I added, ‘don’t kill him!’
Fowler smiled.
‘He might be able to tell us what happened in that shop,’ I pointed out. ‘And exactly what part Alice Gregson had in it.’
‘I know what part she had in it,’ Fowler said. ‘She killed Ned.’
‘This fellow might be the only witness to that.’
He said nothing, but I saw he’d taken in what I said.
Heron came back; he too was now dressed in dark clothes. I vowed to stay well hidden. Let Heron and Fowler deal with any rough stuff; I wanted to get a good look at the face of any intruder. Even if he got away, I wanted to be able to identify him. I still thought, hoped, that nothing would happen.
Heron unlocked a cupboard and lifted out a wooden box; he unlocked this too, and took out a soft bag that chinked. He emptied coins on to the table, and took down a volume from the bookcase behind the table, opening it at some illustrations. A number of coins were sketched on the page; Heron arranged the coins and the book as if he’d been comparing the two.
He stood back and studied the effect. It looked suspiciously obvious to me; surely any collector would make sure his precious antiquities were locked away when he went to bed. But there was plainly no reasoning with him. He arranged us too. Fowler hid behind the curtains to the left of the window, one of his pistols in his hand and the other pushed into the waist of his breeches; I crouched down behind the sofa in just about as uncomfortable a position as I’ve ever been in. Heron blew out the candles and stood on the other side of the window behind the harpsichord.
My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. A red glow from the banked-down fire glinted on the coins. Heron had arranged the curtains to leave a tiny gap through which an intruder could peer; through that gap came a gleam of cold white light, reflected from the snow outside. The other pieces of furniture were indistinct hulks. I wondered if even Fowler could hit his target in the dark.
And there we stayed, for what seemed like forever. I wondered idly why Heron had not moved the harpsichord to the side of the room, out of his way. Perhaps he thought the fellow would blunder into it. Presumably he was confident he himself would not fall over the music stand when he came out of hiding. And that Fowler would not get tangled in the curtains. Come to think of it, the one thing I could be certain of was that Fowler wouldn’t get tangled in the curtains; he’d far too much experience in these matters to make such a childish mistake.
Perhaps Heron thought my calf muscles wouldn’t start trembling and shaking.
I put out a hand to shift my balance, went down on one knee. The rug was deep and soft but after a few minutes was just as uncomfortable – the floorboards beneath seemed to bore into my flesh. This was a ridiculous idea! I shifted again – and heard the window-latch click.
A draught of freezing air washed over me as the window opened, then eased as it was pulled to again. Soft footsteps, a thud and an oath as the intruder bumped into the harpsichord. A man, definitely a man, although I couldn’t identify his voice from the little I heard. Then he tripped over the harpsichord stool, and Heron said sharply, ‘Stand still or I’ll shoot.’
There was a silence, then the stool went over with a crash. Fowler shouted. A shot. Then two more, close together. Someone grunted in pain and went down. A shadow passed in front of the window. The cold air blew in again.
I scrambled to my feet. The window was wide open, and in the light reflected from the snow outside, I saw two figures. One lay prone on the floor in darkening blood, the other leaned over him.
‘Damn it,’ Heron said, in a rage so thick I hardly recognized his voice. ‘Get the servants. Get the barber-surgeon. Damn it, do something!’
Fowler had been shot.
Thirty-Two
Never offend a gentleman – he will not forget.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]
The servants were barging in at the door; I leapt for the open window and the terrace behind the house. Instantly, I skidded on soft snow. Arms flailing, I caught at the swinging window.
There was sufficient light, reflecting from the snow, to show me the eerie expanse of garden, the clumps of bushes and trees. I knew that a high wall surrounded the garden and the only gate was to the left. A line of shadowed footprints led in that direction.
I ploughed into the snow, taking care not to tread on top of the footprints. The drifts lay undisturbed here; I found myself at once ankle deep. Bushes loomed ahead, evergreens that had kept their leaves and were thick and concealing. I slowed. If I were the intruder I’d rush on regardless to the gate, but he hadn’t been far ahead of me . . .
A shot crashed out. I duc
ked, put my hand down in the freezing snow to prevent myself falling. I was an easy target. But the intruder had shot at least once in the house and now another shot out here . . . Even if he had a pair of pistols, he’d now have to reload, which gave me the advantage. I ran for the bushes. The glimpse I’d had of the intruder in the house had been of someone slight and about my own height. Someone I could tackle with a reasonable hope of overpowering. I plunged into the undergrowth . . .
At the last moment, I sensed movement behind me, swung in time to deflect the downward blow of the pistol. The blow glanced off my left shoulder. My arm went numb. I stumbled back and the fellow struck out again.
Heron crashed through the bushes, bellowing in rage.
The intruder took off. I caught a glimpse of him as he plunged into another thicket of trees and bushes. Heron stopped, took calm aim and fired.
The fellow ran on. Heron cursed. I plunged after the intruder, labouring through the deep snow. Behind, Heron shouted to the servants. Twigs clawed at my face; bushes whipped back into my eyes. The wall loomed up.
The gate was swinging open.
I ducked out into a narrow alley at the side of the house, glanced both ways. To my right was a dead end; to the left, the alley led back on to Northumberland Street. New footprints in the snow. And a dark spot or two that might have been blood . . .
Gasping for breath, I ploughed down the alley, following the prints. The intruder was already too far ahead of me; on Northumberland Street there’d be people, and a good chance of losing himself amongst them. I skidded to a halt at the point where alley met street. The footprints, so clear in the alley, headed out into the middle of the street where the snow was trampled into nothing, and were lost.
I looked around. Several huddles of drunken miners blundered up the street, singing loudly; a carter led a horse pulling an empty cart; a couple of whores talked to a customer. A travelling preacher crossed the street to talk to accost the drunken miners. Any one of the men might be the intruder – or none of them at all. He’d probably just dashed straight across the street into one of the alleys on the other side.
Heron came to my shoulder, breathing heavily. When I glanced round, his face was set in an ugly mask of anger.
‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘He could be anywhere.’
Without a word, Heron turned and strode back down the alley. I took one last look across the street and followed him.
I checked the gate as I went back into the garden. Raw gashes in the wood showed palely in the snow’s glow; the intruder hadn’t bothered to check whether the gate was locked or not – he’d forced it open. Inside the garden, a line of footprints cut off from the gate along the line of the wall under some shrubbery; I ducked under the low branches and followed the prints. They kept to the line of the wall until level with the house, then turned towards to the terrace. This must have been the way the intruder came; two very clear footprints told me he’d had worn boots – hardly surprising – and had large feet. And he’d stepped more heavily on the heel, particularly of the right foot; the impressions were deeper there than at the toe.
So now all I had to do was persuade every villain I could find to step in the snow and compare the footprints.
Or . . .
I pondered. Could it have been a woman? A woman may fire a pistol as well as a man, as Esther can prove. The intruder had been rather tall for a woman, but the second Alice – the one I’d met briefly in that other world – she’d been tall.
I stood in the chill night, with the snow gleaming around me, and cursed. No further forward, and Fowler was hurt. Not a good night’s work. And all the worse for being predictable.
When I pushed the window open into the house, servants were milling around. Fowler, half-conscious, was propped sitting against a chair, and the only person acting with any sense was a middle-aged housekeeper in nightgown and robe, with a grey braid of hair down her back, who was directing the other servants with confident authority. A bowl of reddened water lay at Fowler’s side; the housekeeper was pressing a pad of blood-soaked cloth to his left shoulder, close to the junction with his neck.
My arm was taken in a vice-like grip; Heron pulled me aside. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’
Reluctantly, I shook my head. ‘About my height, slender, young, I think.’ I told him about the footprints. He listened with that look of detached coolness settling back on his face. In front of servants, Heron would never be anything but the calm, restrained master; there would never be even a moment’s weakness displayed.
Gale arrived and took charge, examining Fowler, then insisting he be carried to his bed. Heron disposed of the milling servants with a few curt words. We were left alone in the library, and Heron poured brandy into two large glasses and threw back one of them in a single draught.
I bent to pick up Fowler’s pistol which had fallen behind a chair. I’d heard three shots, one alone, then two close together. From my position behind the sofa, I’d been able to gauge the different directions of the shots; I turned, trying to remember exactly what I’d heard. The first shot had been close to me; that was the intruder. Then the other two shots close together; that was Fowler and Heron. Fowler first from the left, then Heron. By that time, the intruder had already been running back towards the window.
I held up a candle to the wainscoting behind the curtain to the left of the window. It took some time to find where the shot had hit; I dug around in the hole with the letter opener and prised out a flattened pistol ball. The intruder had missed Fowler. Then I stood where Fowler had and looked across the room, aiming an imaginary pistol. And dear God, there was Fowler’s shot – embedded in the back of the sofa behind which I’d been hiding! Blood smeared across the satin upholstery. Fowler’s boast was good; he’d not missed, even though he had not incapacitated the intruder.
All of which meant that the third shot, the one that hit Fowler . . .
Heron had been watching me, bleakly. He poured himself more brandy. ‘The fellow was heading back towards the window when I fired,’ he said. ‘I missed him.’ He spoke with a curious blank finality.
I reached for my brandy. Heron tossed back his second glass. I was desperately trying to think what to say. These things happen? You weren’t to blame? Neither was true, nor untrue. Accidents do happen, but this had been a risky business from the start.
‘And for what?’ Heron said bitterly. ‘Nothing. He got away.’
Fowler’s blood was sticky underfoot. ‘For the moment,’ I said. Tomorrow I’d ride out to Shields. I’d probably be too late but in this weather there must be a chance that whatever ship Kane had found had not yet sailed.
Heron poured still more brandy. He didn’t look at me. ‘You had better go. Mrs Patterson will be worried.’
I hesitated. Leaving Heron alone at this moment seemed the most unwise thing I was ever likely to do, but I couldn’t find a good reason to stay, or anything to say that would in the slightest console him for what had happened. I nodded. ‘Send me a message to let me know how Fowler does.’
He said nothing and I let myself out of the house.
Thirty-Three
They are great ones for correspondence, which I particularly appreciate. I have any number of correspondents, some of whom write to me every day. And that is only the ladies . . .
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]
Snow was falling in a silent still cloud, flakes drifting down around me, muffling sounds and blurring the houses on either side of Northumberland Street. The whores had taken themselves indoors and only a couple of drunks stumbled along in the snow, arms affectionately around each other. St Nicholas’s church clock struck midnight.
I walked down the central strip of road, where a thin veil of snow was beginning to settle on top of the cobbles again. The intruder must have cut out into the middle of the street so his footsteps couldn’t be seen, but there was a chance he might have taken a side turning, i
nto one of the alleys where the snow was thicker. I looked for fresh prints as I passed each alley, hoping perhaps to see a trace of blood as well – but there was nothing.
Northumberland Street became Pilgrim Street and sloped down towards the river. It was more exposed here; the old snow had lingered longer and there were several tracks. Two sets of footprints close together – a small pair and a larger – turned into Silver Street going towards All Hallows’ church. Two other sets of larger prints went past Silver Street, and headed down Butcher Bank.
The steep slope of the Bank was treacherous. Under the newly falling snow, the old slush had frozen. Twice my feet went out from under me and I skidded, arms flailing, before regaining my balance. One of the sets of footprints stopped at a house door; there was a muddled patch on the threshold as if someone had stamped his feet to get the snow off his shoes before going indoors. Which left one more set of prints going on down the Bank, towards the Sandhill.
Where, of course, the passing of carts had obliterated all the previous snow, and no footprints at all were visible.
The flat Sandhill was easier to negotiate than Butcher Bank, even with the new snow falling. On the far side, the Guildhall was a dark hulk; beneath its columns, the open fish market was deserted. Behind the Guildhall was the slope up to the bridge and as I paused to draw in a long breath of icy air, I realized the bridge wasn’t deserted. Faint lantern light shimmered through the snow, and touched a figure staring at the Gregsons’ shop.
As I came up to him, Balfour looked round. He was huddled in his greatcoat, hands in pockets. ‘I suppose Demsey told you I’d walked out on the Directors?’ he said, straight away, with some belligerence. ‘I couldn’t face another meeting about those damn Rooms. I wish I’d never accepted the commission.’ He shifted his shoulders in his coat as if trying to make himself comfortable. ‘I can’t get out of my head what happened here last night. The spirit was so angry . . .’