by Roz Southey
A female voice above my head said, ‘And what do you think you’re doing?’
I looked up. In the driving snow, it was difficult to be certain of anything but I thought I saw a gleam high up under the eaves of a house at the entrance to the alley. A spirit. And plainly an unfriendly one.
My heart sank. Every living person must come to this sooner or later; death claims us all. After death, the spirit lingers on in the place of death, for eighty or a hundred years, before final dissolution, and fate is kinder to some more than to others. Those that die in the comfort of their own homes can enjoy the company of friends and family, almost as if they still live. That is my ambition, as it is of every living man or woman.
But there are all too many who die alone and angry, and who grow angrier by the day. By the sound of her voice, this spirit had been a young woman; anyone dying in an alley like this was likely to have been less than respectable in life. And the weather could only make things worse – spirits don’t like the cold; it bleeds the strength out of them.
But it’s never wise to offend spirits; they possess a surprising ability to do harm, if only by spreading malicious tales. I said in as friendly a tone as I could manage, ‘I’m looking for a woman . . .’
‘I wager you are,’ she said. ‘That’s all any man thinks of !’
‘She may be in danger—’
‘Yes,’ she said, stridently, ‘And I know who from! Well, I can do for you, sir!’ And she shrieked at the top of her voice. ‘Help! Rape! Help!’
No one came in response, no one poked their heads out of the broken windows in the abandoned houses. Her cries became ever more shrill.
There was no point in staying to argue; my quarry was long gone. I turned back for the bridge. The blizzard was behind me now and blew me along, almost faster than I wanted to go. Ahead, on the bridge, lanterns blazed; shadows moved between the snow-shrouded shops; pools of light glimmered on the river and on the snow around the landing steps. Something gleamed where the woman had fallen.
A coin. Tarnished and old, badly misshapen and thinned by years of use. I turned it over and saw an effort had been made to shine it, revealing an unfamiliar design, a strange shaggy head. A foreign coin, no doubt, brought in by a sailor. I dropped it in my pocket. Had she been a thief after all, looking for the shop’s takings? This foreign coin could have been among them.
The bridge was crowded with people. All the neighbours, and whores and sailors who’d run up from the taverns on the Key. Esther and the child were nowhere to be seen. A watchman, big and burly, stood at the door of the shop to keep people out; he smelt of beer, and turned a bleary eye on me as I came up, obviously knowing who I was. ‘No luck, eh?’
I shook my head.
He let me in and closed the door behind me. Several branches of candles had been lit in the shop; I blinked against their brilliance. The only occupants were Hugh and the new constable of All Hallows’ parish, Mr Philips, the brewer. Philips turned as he heard me come in; his face was sheened with sweat and he was trembling visibly, despite being fully dressed and covered with a heavy greatcoat. Hugh gave me a speaking look.
‘Mr Philips is not at all well, Charles,’ he said. ‘I was trying to persuade him to get back to his bed.’
Philips coughed, a hack he obviously couldn’t control. He shook his head, croaked, ‘My duty—’ More coughing. I brought one of the ridiculously delicate chairs and insisted he sit.
He broke into another coughing fit. I whispered to Hugh, ‘Where are Esther and the child?’
He jerked his head towards the stairs. ‘They’ve gone up to the drawing room. You didn’t catch her then?’
‘Lost her in the alleys outside the town wall.’
Footsteps on the stairs. A great hulk of a man stepped down into the room: James Fleming, the stationer, who has the shop next door. He was in his nightshirt and dressing robe, and the nightcap still clung crookedly to his bald head. He said bluntly, ‘It’s Samuel Gregson all right. And his wife. The girl’s his youngest daughter, Sarah. Sixteen years old, she was.’
Hugh swore.
‘And the lad?’ I asked.
‘The apprentice, Ned. Sixteen, maybe seventeen.’
A watchman came down the stairs behind Fleming, with an opened bottle of brandy and several glasses. He looked startled to see us but we weren’t in the mood to complain about petty depredations; Hugh took the brandy and poured a large glass for Philips, and another for me. Fleming shook his head. The watchman went back upstairs.
I sipped the brandy and felt warmth creep back into me. ‘Tell us about the Gregsons.’ I suddenly remembered Philips’ presence – he had the authority here – but he waved a hand at me to carry on, still struggling to control his cough.
Fleming pursed his lips judiciously. ‘I’ve lived next to them nigh on thirty years. Gregson was a decent man. Hardworking, thrifty.’
This sounded faint praise to me. ‘How old?’
‘Fifty-five last All Souls’ Day.’ Fleming drew himself up with a sigh. ‘His wife, Sophia, was a year or two younger. Good housekeeper but there was always something wrong with her world. Too cold, too hot, too few customers, too many – you know the kind.’
I nodded. ‘And the daughter who died?’
‘Sarah? A gentle girl. Wouldn’t hurt a soul.’
‘The apprentice?’ Philips managed, hoarsely.
‘Good lad. Bit shy.’
‘And the child?’ I asked.
‘That’s the granddaughter, Judith. Her mother died when she was born and the father couldn’t be bothered with her, so the grandparents took her in.’
‘She sleeps in the attic,’ Hugh said. ‘I’ve been up there while you were away. Little cubby hole under the roof. Nice dolls, pretty clothes.’
‘They idolized her,’ Fleming agreed.
‘Just before the child screamed, we saw a woman climbing down a rope from the window over the river,’ I said. ‘She ran off into the town and I couldn’t catch her. Do you know who she might be?’
Fleming said heavily, ‘She killed them?’
‘She certainly has questions to answer,’ I said, then relented my evasiveness. I said, ‘The victims have only just died, and she was seen fleeing from the house. Who is she?’
‘The other daughter,’ Fleming said. ‘The one from London.’
The Gregsons, according to Fleming, had ten children of whom five had survived to adulthood. Even these had evidently been too many for Gregson’s purse; two of the older children, a boy and a girl, had been packed off to Mrs Gregson’s childless elder brother in London; another daughter was sent to Bristol to a cousin. The woman I’d seen running off was Alice, the daughter who’d been brought up in London.
‘Mrs Gregson’s brother died,’ Fleming said, ‘and there was nowhere for the girl, except to come home to her parents.’
‘When had she last seen them?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Probably not for twenty years or more. She left when she was three.’
I wondered how Alice Gregson had felt about coming back to live with people who must have been complete strangers. We paused for Philips to splutter over his brandy; Hugh trimmed a guttering candle.
‘She arrived on Tuesday,’ Fleming said. ‘Less than a week ago. A little fair thing with ringlets and a simper. Petticoats worth a fortune on her back.’
The watchman came down the stairs again and said, somewhat unnecessarily, ‘The surgeon says they’ve all been stabbed, sir. More than once too. Except for the boy.’ The watchman made a point of shuddering. ‘Stabbed the old gent five times and the woman four.’
I glanced at Philips but he was huddled round his brandy glass and made no effort to ask questions. ‘Does it look like there’s anything missing? Any sign of robbery?’
‘There’s some jewellery upstairs that’s been left – trumpery stuff. But there’s an empty box in the cellar that mebbe had money in it.’
Fleming frowned. ‘There won’t have been much. Samuel
wasn’t one for keeping money in the house. He invested it with local coal owners almost as soon as it came in. He was worried about those burglaries we had last year.’
I remembered those – a couple of local lads had netted a surprisingly large amount of money before being caught; they’re presumably now robbing the residents of the Colonies. And from the way the woman had moved, I couldn’t think she was carrying anything particularly heavy, like a bag of coins.
‘Surely it doesn’t matter whether Gregson kept money here or not,’ Hugh said. ‘It only needed someone to think he might.’
‘It must have been a burglar,’ Fleming said. ‘How could a girl murder her parents? It’s not natural.’
I poured myself more brandy. ‘Did she get on well with them?’
He shook his head. ‘She wanted to go back to London. Nagged her father all the time over it, no matter who else was present. I heard her myself.’
Philips moved convulsively. We had to wait while he got over another coughing fit. ‘Need an inquest. Swear in a jury.’
‘You’re in no state to do anything of the sort, sir,’ Fleming said bluntly. ‘In any case, we can’t do anything on a Sunday. Put a guard on the door and get home to your rest.’
Philips staggered up. ‘Mr Patterson, Mr Demsey – you’ll be on the jury of course?’
Hugh looked alarmed; I said, ‘As witnesses, I think it would be better not.’
Fleming turned Philips firmly to the door. ‘I’ll sort out your jury, Mr Philips; the neighbours’ll be more than willing. Now get you home!’
Philips spluttered into his handkerchief. His shoulders sagged. He was on the verge of giving in; Fleming hastened the process. ‘The girl’s been in the town only four days, sir. She doesn’t know the town. She’ll be in custody before morning.’
She was not, of course.
Three
Mind you, all the grand ladies and gentlemen can be as prosy as anything when it comes to their pet subjects: religion, and the rule of law.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 17 January 1737]
‘The child saw nothing,’ Esther said as we strolled along the Key towards All Hallows’ church the following morning. The snow was thick and crisp and we had to concentrate on keeping our footing. I’d suggesting hiring a chair, but Esther was feeling unwell again and wanted fresh air. We were early of course, as I was playing the organ for the morning service. At least it had stopped snowing, although the sky was still grey.
‘She was sleeping in the attic,’ Esther continued, ‘and woke thinking she heard someone calling her name. She thought it was her grandfather – he often cannot sleep, apparently.’ Her face darkened. ‘She’s young, Charles, but she knew straight away they were dead.’ She nodded at an acquaintance in a carriage.
‘Did she tell you anything else of interest?’
‘She heard the front door open but cannot remember when. It could have been much earlier, when she first went to bed. And she didn’t like her aunt – Alice evidently sneered at her for being silly.’
All Hallows’ church stands on a hill raised above the Key, approached either by a steep hill or a flight of steps, both very slippery on this day. Esther stopped to take a breather, and a young couple with a baby passed us.
‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘What in heaven’s name could make a girl stab her parents, her sister, and an innocent boy!’
Alice was twenty-three years old, I reflected, hardly a girl. ‘For the money, I presume. To get back to London. What puzzles me more is how she found the strength to do it. And why in the middle of the night? Why didn’t she wait until this morning when everyone went off to church? She could plead illness, stay at home, take the money and be away an hour or more before anyone got back.’
‘She is plainly a silly spoilt young woman.’
‘No one can be that silly,’ I protested. ‘Why kill at all? They were all asleep – no threat whatsoever!’
The congregation in church was plentiful, although the weather had plainly kept the invalids and elderly indoors. Hugh sat at the back of the church and winked as we walked past. A tall thin man of about thirty years old sat beside him; Esther whispered, ‘Is that the architect?’
‘For the new Assembly Rooms? I think so. Hugh’s looking after him while he’s in town.’
Fleming was in a pew halfway down the church, with the little girl, Judith, between him and his wife. The child looked bewildered and confused; Mrs Fleming kept patting her consolingly on the shoulder. And that was another mystery – why kill everyone else without pity but leave the child? She’d nearly foiled the killer’s escape. I left Esther in our pew and climbed the stairs to the organ loft, to play the voluntary while the rest of the congregation came in. And to brood.
At the end of the service, Esther waited for me inside the church porch as usual; by the time I’d collected my music together and negotiated the worn steps down from the organ loft, she was conversing with Hugh and the London architect, whose name, I gathered, was John Balfour. He was a stiff man, with a stiff bow; he wore his own mousy hair loose and his clothes were neat rather than in the latest fashion.
‘Is this the first time you have been in Newcastle?’ Esther asked.
Balfour bowed. He looked strained, as if he hadn’t slept properly.
‘Staying at the George,’ Hugh said, ‘courtesy of the Directors of the Assembly Rooms. Had a dreadful journey north. Came by boat to Shields.’
Hugh sounded rather too cheerful about this; I said diplomatically. ‘I’m sympathetic; four or five years ago, I had a rough sea journey coming back from London.’
Balfour cleared his throat. ‘The weather was inclement.’ His voice was light and a little hoarse.
‘I hope you were not too indisposed,’ Esther said.
‘In bed two days,’ Hugh said with indecent relish.
‘But you are better now, I hope?’
Balfour bowed.
‘Everybody’s very much looking forward to the new Rooms,’ I said, wondering if it would simply be better to let Balfour retreat to his bed. First Philips, now Balfour – and Esther was sickening too. Winter is always an unhealthy time of year. I glanced at Esther’s pale face. She had not been eating very much recently, and had complained of feeling queasy. Perhaps I ought to insist she consult an apothecary?
‘Except for Charles.’ Hugh said to Balfour, ‘Charles is the musical director of the concert series.’
Balfour looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure the rooms will be suitable for concerts.’
‘My point exactly,’ I said, dryly.
‘The design’s based on the Rooms in York, apparently,’ Hugh said.
‘Oh, they are very elegant,’ Esther said, in admiration. ‘Do you know them well, Mr Balfour?’
‘I had the honour of being the assistant architect, madam.’
‘We’re lucky to have him,’ Hugh said. ‘Nearly said no!’
‘I was unwell,’ Balfour said, reddening. ‘But I changed my mind. I thought it was better to have something to occupy me.’
Only, of course, to be struck down again by the journey north.
Esther was starting to shiver; I made our apologies and led her out of the church. Thankfully, it was still not snowing. A swift farewell to the curate, and we started down the churchyard path, only to be accosted by a boy with a note for me. I gave him a penny for it and he dashed off, happy.
The note was from Philips the constable and said:
Honour’d Sir,
I would be grateful for the Pleasure of your Company as soon as you judge it practical, to discuss the unfortunate Deaths of Mr Samuel Gregson, Upholsterer, and his Wife and Daughter; also the Death of Edward Hills, Apprentice. If you could see your Way to paying me a Visit this Day, despite it being the Day of Rest, I would remain, Dear Sir,
Your Obedt Servt
E. Philips
‘They obviously still have not found the girl,’ Esthe
r said, reading the note over my shoulder. ‘He is anxious and wants help. I think you have another investigation on your hands, Charles.’ And she looked at me with a mixture of good humour and exasperation.
Balfour had been accosted by the curate; I put Esther into Hugh’s care and started down the snow-covered steps.
Philips lives on the Side, the steep and winding street that leads from the Sandhill to the upper reaches of town where more genteel people reside. To reach it from All Hallows’ church meant slipping and sliding down Butcher Bank, and in two or three inches of snow that wasn’t an attractive prospect. But I negotiated the bank safely, and a maid of no more than fourteen opened Philips’s door and showed me into his study.
The constable sat in front of a fierce fire, wrapped up in three blankets and a rug, and was still shivering. Yet sweat was pouring off him. I began to think I’d not been sensible in coming here. I kept as far back from Philips as was polite.
His teeth battered together audibly. He managed to get out, ‘You see how I am.’
‘Won’t go to his bed,’ said a woman coming in behind me. She looked of an age to be Philips’s daughter; I knew him to be a widower. ‘Insisted on talking to you.’
‘Got to catch her,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘A woman like that – kill her own parents and sister. Abomination of nature! God knows what she might do next.’
He jerked his head at his daughter and she gave me a speaking look before going out. Philips reached with shaking hands for a key that lay on the table beside him, amongst all the paraphernalia of illness: papers of powders, jugs of weak ale, dry bread. He held the key out. ‘I know what I’m asking, Mr Patterson, sir – it’s not the sort of thing a man of your station in life ought to have to do, but I don’t have much choice. Can hardly keep my feet.’
I frowned. ‘You want me to supervise the watchmen?’
Philips shook his head and I had to wait until he coughed himself hoarse. ‘No need for that. McLintoch’s the man in charge. Has all his men out looking – they’re willing but they’ve not got much sense. I want the girl found, Mr Patterson, and I need someone capable to do it! I leave you to decide how to go about it. I know you have experience in these matters.’
