Airs and Graces

by Roz Southey

  ‘I don’t see what I can do. It’s surely just a question of searching the town. The watchmen will know the sort of places she might hide.’

  He ignored me. ‘The jury’s sorted, Fleming’s done that, and the inquest is tomorrow. Noon. In the Golden Fleece. Lawyer Armstrong is the sitting coroner.’ He seized my arm as I offered him back the key. ‘I need a man of sense to keep an eye on things for me, Mr Patterson!’

  It was pointless to deny him; he was frustrated at not being able to do things himself, and would rest easier if I agreed. ‘Certainly I will, if you think it will help.’

  He subsided into his blankets with a sigh of relief. ‘Nothing much to be done anyway. Not for three days.’

  I knew what he meant. The spirits of the dead do not separate from their bodies until around three days after death. Sometimes it can take even longer, and on rare occasions it has never happened at all. Presumably, Philips hoped that the Gregsons would be able to throw light on their murderer’s identity; I doubted it, given they’d been killed in their sleep.

  The daughter came back in again and hinted she wanted me off. I went back on to the Side; desultory flakes fluttered down from the heavily-clouded sky. Above the houses, I glimpsed the tops of buildings on the bridge. I thought of Alice Gregson, bending over her sleeping father and bringing the knife down again and again, then calmly climbing out of the window to make her escape . . .

  It’s been a good ten years since my own father died, and at times I can hardly remember his face. We had the coldest of relationships; he was never abusive, or violent, or offensive in his language, but at the same time, he made it plain he didn’t think much of me. I can’t remember why. We were on the worst of terms, yet never at any time did I consider doing him injury. But a mere girl – a ‘little fair thing’ according to Fleming – had struck her own father not once but five times and then proceeded to murder three others.

  I wanted to know why she’d done it. What had turned her relations with her family to such dramatic violence?

  The key to the shop was cold in my hand. I turned for the bridge.

  Four

  Everyone has a story of terror to tell, about the time they were robbed on this road or that; no one feels they have lived until they have been held up by at least one highwayman.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 17 January 1737]

  A watchman stood at the door of the shop, enjoying a chat with a maid from one of the other houses on the bridge. The bodies were still inside of course, awaiting the viewing by the inquest jury before they were moved; at least the freezing weather would preserve them in a reasonable state. A second watchman was the centre of an eager knot of sightseers who were trying to bribe him into letting them into the house. The sightseers had plainly, by their clothes, just come out of church; the watchman was enjoying the attention but, as far as I could judge, resisting all blandishments.

  Standing a little back, on his own, was John Balfour.

  He was staring at the shuttered windows of the shop, ignoring a spirit trying to attract his attention. He started in surprise when I spoke to him and flushed, the colour two bright spots on his white cheeks. Despite his thick greatcoat, he was shivering violently. ‘You must think me a vulgar sightseer like all the rest,’ he said.

  I said diplomatically, ‘It’s natural to be shaken by such an occurrence.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, then, with an effort and a sudden rush: ‘My father was stabbed to death.’

  I was taken aback. Balfour didn’t wait for me to respond. ‘He was a clergyman. A wealthy man, with everything one could hope for – a good living, a respectful family, a position of some consequence in the neighbourhood. But he could never leave well alone!’ He was staring at the house, but I fancied he didn’t see it. ‘It was a silly quarrel over a scrubbing brush. A neighbour had borrowed it, he thought it had been stolen . . .’

  I said, more sympathetically, ‘Did you witness the quarrel?’

  He nodded, lifted his right arm; I saw a white scar on the back of his hand. ‘I tried to stop them.’ He thrust his hand back into his pocket. ‘The neighbour was a butcher and had a knife in his apron. When my father said unforgivable things about the man’s wife, he flew into a fury – and my father reaped the whirlwind.’

  The snow drifted down; the sightseers admitted defeat and moved off. Balfour gestured helplessly. ‘How do these things happen? In one moment the world is turned upside down, everything destroyed.’ He said passionately, ‘How can anyone do such things!’

  I could give him no answer. We stared at the shop in silence.

  ‘She did do it, I suppose,’ he said at last.

  ‘We saw her.’

  ‘You saw her do it?’ he echoed incredulously.

  ‘We saw her running away.’

  ‘They say she climbed down into the river. Is that possible?’

  I nodded. ‘It was low tide. She clambered across the mud flats and up some landing steps. Risky – but she accomplished it successfully.’

  ‘And she killed them for money?’

  ‘There’s some missing, certainly.’

  Another couple strolled up to the watchmen, coins for the bribe openly in their hands. They were middle-aged, respectable-looking tradespeople, not the sort you’d think would regard dead bodies as a pleasant diversion on a Sunday morning after church. Maybe they were thinking of the moral lessons to be drawn: the transience of life, the bitterness of ingratitude, the ungratefulness of children . . . I doubted it.

  ‘And she didn’t have help? A girl killed four people on her own?’

  ‘They were asleep,’ I said, ‘and therefore didn’t struggle. There’s no evidence to suggest anyone else was involved.’ I was starting to shiver too; I said, ‘Forgive me. I need to look in the house and my wife’s expecting me home before too long.’

  I got out the key to the shop as I spoke and Balfour glanced at it in surprise. ‘Do you have authority here? Are you a Justice of the Peace?’

  ‘I’m helping the constable – he’s ill.’ It seemed necessary to have some reason for going in. I added, ‘I just want to check everything’s in order.’

  ‘May I come in with you?’ He forestalled my instinctive refusal. ‘I promise not to touch anything.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘It’s just . . . I’ve had such imaginings – it rouses such memories. It would help to see the reality.’

  I doubted that. But the house had been fully examined and the surgeon had looked at the bodies; it could do no harm. ‘Very well.’

  One of the elderly watchmen had gone off with the disappointed couple. His colleague clearly already knew about my deputizing for Philips. Informed by one of the spirits, no doubt – the efficiency of the spirits’ message system is legendary. He stood back to let us in with merely a quip or two: ‘Mind yourself, sir, they’re a dangerous lot in there. Don’t knock anything over – they’ll charge you!’

  Balfour came in after me, hesitantly, as if he was already having second thoughts. With the shutters fastened, the house was pitch-black but a branch of candles and a tinderbox stood on a shelf by the door. I lit the candles and held them up. The house, unheated, was ice-cold and the metallic stench of blood was almost overwhelming. Rats scratched in corners.

  Balfour looked around in the flickering candlelight. ‘It’s very elegant,’ he said, almost at random, as if he wanted to break the silence.

  I shared the feeling. Something about the still, empty house made me shudder. ‘Gregson must have decorated it himself, as an advertisement. He was the best upholsterer in town – he painted and decorated many of the shops and houses. His wallpapers were well thought of.’

  ‘And he had charges to match his reputation, no doubt,’ Balfour said with a ghost of a smile. He took a few steps forward, saw what lay behind the counter and grabbed blindly for support.

  I should have known this would happen. I started towards him, but he shook his head and drew himself up straig
hter. ‘I’m all right. It was just the shock.’

  ‘I need to look around,’ I said. ‘Stay here if you wish.’

  He shook his head, decisively.

  We climbed the stairs to the living room above. The fire was laid but unlit, the room chill. A psalm book lay on a small table; I opened it and read Mrs Gregson’s name inside. She must have put it ready for Sunday service.

  Balfour watched me from the door. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  There was one thing I should have thought of before. ‘The girl must have brought a travelling trunk from London but she would have had a smaller box too, for her trinkets – jewellery, ribbons, letters, a journal perhaps. She might have written something that might help us.’

  We went up the next flight of stairs to the bedrooms. Balfour stood on the landing, his handkerchief to his mouth, as I hesitated on the threshold of the room belonging to the two girls. The younger girl’s body still lay on the bed, facing away from me, as if curled around a stomach ache. I was glad I couldn’t see her face.

  It was a very small room, barely large enough to accommodate the bed, a wash-stand and a chair. Alice Gregson had slept on the far side; she would have had to crawl across the bed to reach the door. ‘She must have killed her sister first, else she would have woken as Alice clambered across the bed. Then she must have gone into her parents’ room and stabbed them.’

  Balfour was breathing heavily.

  ‘Which means she must have had a knife hidden on her own side of the bed, under the mattress or the pillow.’

  I didn’t like the look of that bed but there was no help for it – I half-crawled, half stumbled along the bottom of it, trying to avoid the bloodstained linen and the body. On the other side was a narrow area of bare floorboards. The window had been closed and the rope of sheets that had formed the girl’s escape lay curled in a bundle on the floor. The sheets had been torn, and the strips tied together with a knot I hadn’t seen before; when I tugged, the knots merely tightened.

  ‘This would have taken some time to make.’

  ‘That’s what must have disturbed the child,’ Balfour said. ‘Sheets don’t tear quietly.’

  ‘She wouldn’t kill, then calmly sit down to tear up a sheet,’ I said. ‘She made this earlier.’

  He stared. ‘You think she planned the killings?’

  I checked under the bed but there was no box and no loose floorboards where one might have been hidden. Nothing under the pillow either, and it was difficult feeling under the mattress while not disturbing the body that lay on top of it.

  We went up another floor, to the attic. The stairs were narrow and the steps shallow for a grown man’s foot. The attic was divided into two by a low partition wall, as in a stable. The near end was a cosy, cheerful little space with a small bed and bright bedding, thrown back as if the occupant had just got up; a toy cat sprawled across a pillow, a book was laid neatly on the table beside the bed.

  The other end of the attic, beyond the partition, appeared to be storage space. Stooping low under the sloping rafters, I made my way into it. The candlelight flickered over a travelling trunk, obviously recently deposited there, with not a speck of dust on it. The key was in the lock; I threw the lid open.

  The smell of roses came out in great wafts. Balfour sneezed. Dresses, virginal white, comparable in quality, even to my inexperienced eye, to the dresses Esther wore. The aunt and uncle in London must have had plenty of money to spend. Wraps and slippers, a pair of dancing pumps, ribbons laid carefully flat. And a small box hidden under an embroidered nightgown.

  I opened the box and found a fine piece of lace, faintly yellow with age. A necklace of cheap bright stones, the sort a child might like. More ribbons. A few newspaper cuttings and a letter.

  I unfolded the letter. Balfour peered over my shoulder at the impeccable copperplate writing.

  It’s no use, you can rail as much as you like but you should know by now you cannot have your own way by wheedling and whining. It’s about time you mended your ways and learned to behave as a young woman should. You’re coming back and there’s an end on it.

  It was signed, coldly: S. Gregson. No your loving father or anything of that affectionate sort. The kind of letter my father might have written, in fact.

  ‘No wonder she was angry,’ Balfour said.

  I refolded the letter and put it and the cuttings in my pocket to look at again later. ‘Nothing particularly helpful,’ I said, resigned. ‘Hardly surprising.’

  ‘I wonder if there are any other papers.’ Balfour glanced around.

  ‘She’ll have taken anything incriminating with her,’ I said ‘Another reason to believe she planned this.’

  We went downstairs again, to the shop with its blood-splattered wallpaper samples and spindly chairs. Balfour looked about. ‘I don’t know now why I wanted to see the place. I was looking for – something. Understanding, I think.’

  I nodded, knowing exactly how he felt. ‘Would you care to to dine with us? It can be lonely in a strange place where you know no one.’

  He was plainly tempted. ‘Will your wife not object?’

  I laughed. ‘My wife, sir, is capable of dealing with anyone and anything, no matter how short the notice!’

  I put the branch of candles back on its shelf. The shutter on the window by the door was loose; I pushed at it then realized that one of the brackets holding the bar was broken. I pulled half of the shutter open to give me room to fix the bracket—

  For one moment I saw gloomy daylight and a thin snow drifting down; the next there was a flash of darkness that made me start. Then I saw lantern light, outlining the figure of a woman, cloaked and hooded, standing in the middle of the bridge. Her face was hidden by her hood but she seemed to be staring at the house . . .

  Five

  The working sort of man is a very dull fellow indeed, always talking about his home, or his work, or his gin. But some of the gentlemen have a sense of adventure. Some indeed have been as far as Calais.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 17 January 1737]

  I flung the door open. The coldness of a winter’s night cut into my bones. Stars glittered like ice in the pitch-black sky; a sliver of moon hung over the bridge. There was no snow but frost sparkled on the cobbles.

  I knew at once what had happened. Strange though it may seem, our world is not alone. Another world lies beside it, as close as pages in a book. The two worlds are recognizably the same, and our own selves live in both; I once met my counterpart there and we were as alike as twins. But there are differences: some people do not exist in this other world. Esther does not; others are different – Hugh’s counterpart, for instance, is twenty years older than he is. Most importantly, there are no spirits there.

  It is possible to move between the worlds, to step through from one to the other, if you know how; great coldness, and a moment of darkness are the signs that stepping through is taking place. I came upon the knowledge by chance, and at times have not known whether to bless or curse the ability. I feared it greatly at one time; more recently it has begun to intrigue me. But one thing is very clear: when the gap between the worlds narrows and allows me to step through, it’s a time of crisis. Like now.

  The woman was staring at me. She was tall and held herself arrogantly. But her hood was close around her face and in the night on the unlit bridge all I could distinguish was a dark strand of hair fallen loose over her shoulder.

  She turned on her heels, towards the Gateshead end of the bridge. I called, ‘Stop – please! I want to talk.’

  She walked faster. ‘My name’s Patterson . . .’ Now she was picking up her skirts and running. I started after her, but she was already too far off to catch, dashing into the trees on Gateshead bank.

  Cursing, I came to a halt. She was gone and there was no point in lingering on the deserted bridge. I must get back to my own world, and quickly. The two worlds do not quite run in step; a f
ew minutes here can correspond to several hours in our own, or vice versa. I once stepped back to find I’d lost twelve hours, and half the town was looking for me. Was Balfour even now wondering what had happened?

  I turned back to Gregson’s shop and saw a large notice adorning the window.

  Matthew Ellison, Successor to S. Gregson. Mr Ellison wishes to inform the Public that he has taken over all the Stock of the late Mr Gregson and will do his Utmost to supply the Ladies and Gentlemen with all the latest Fashions in Furnishing, Chairs, Tables &c. and all at London Prices. Carriage free.

  I fingered the notice. The corners were torn, and coming free of the glue that had fixed them to the window. It wasn’t new – Samuel Gregson must have died some time ago in this world. I wondered if he’d died a natural death.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, shivered, blinked. Ice suddenly underfoot made me slip; I put out a hand to the wall of Gregson’s shop to steady myself. I was back in my own world.

  I walked back into the shop. Balfour glanced up from a scrutiny of a rather dull landscape on one wall. ‘Did you manage to fix the shutter?’

  I could hear voices in the street outside: the watchmen and some sightseers. Obviously, I’d been absent for a very short time. The relief was almost overwhelming. ‘No. The catch is broken.’

  Balfour gave me a weak smile. ‘Well, it’s given me time to consider – and I’ve come to the conclusion this is none of my business and I’d do a great deal better not to think of it.’ The smile settled more securely. ‘What’s done is done. I can’t dwell on it for ever. With relation to my father, I mean.’

  We walked up Westgate together; the snow was still crisp underfoot, hardly trodden down at all. The sky was looking heavier, the cloud layer thicker. Balfour, in pursuit of his good intentions, abandoned the subject of the Gregsons and quizzed me instead on my marriage. Was my wife of a very old family? Did we have any children? He had a fine line in tactlessness. ‘She’s a very wealthy woman, I hear. You were lucky to catch her. Of course, she’s not in the first flush of youth.’