by Roz Southey
‘Have I? I had an encounter with a thief last night.’
‘Really!’ He didn’t look particularly shocked. ‘Some shady rough?’
‘I don’t know – I didn’t get a good look at him. Will you please come?’
He grumbled but reached for his coat.
‘The plans?’ I suggested. He looked round, puzzled, then spotted a roll of parchment on a sofa and swooped to grab it up.
I needn’t have been so anxious. In the larger room, the wine had been neglected; Heron was engaged in examining Hugh’s ring. He angled the cameo so he could see the figure more clearly. ‘This is extremely valuable.’
Hugh was taken aback. ‘I thought it was just a trinket.’
Heron shook his head. ‘I’ll give you twenty guineas for it.’
There was a moment’s respectful silence. Twenty guineas was extremely generous. Hugh cast me a surreptitious look. ‘Actually,’ he said, a trifle nervously, ‘I’d rather keep it. The dancing connection, you see.’ I fancied I heard a distinct note of regret; Hugh’s an excellent businessman and not in the practice of turning down large amounts of money.
Heron gave the ring back at once. ‘If you change your mind at any time, let me know.’
The plans were unrolled and the proposed building was revealed in section, plan and other views I couldn’t name, beautifully drawn, with annotations in impeccable copperplate. Balfour became enthusiastic and launched into explanations. I let the details wash over me, disturbed a little by Heron’s demeanour; he was surprisingly distracted. I saw him glance at the window once or twice; following his gaze, I saw the snow was beginning to ease.
The servant came back in again and signalled to me. I went across and was treated to a voice lowered conspiratorially. ‘Lady to see you, sir.’ He winked.
Balfour’s exploits had clearly given the servant erroneous ideas; I followed him to the yard with some trepidation. In the thinning snow, an ostler was bringing out a matched pair of horses. Beyond the horses, under the arch to the street, I saw, with some relief, Mrs Fletcher.
She waited for me as I walked around the edge of the yard to avoid the nervous horses. ‘I wanted to tell you I’ve taken lodgings on the High Bridge,’ she said as soon as I was in earshot. ‘With Mrs Mountain. And to ask if you’ve heard anything more of my sister?’
No polite greeting, no sir, I noted; Mrs Fletcher was apparently contemptuous of the ordinary courtesies of life.
‘No one can find her.’
She contemplated me for a moment. Snow drifted in under the arch. ‘I’ve heard of the attack on you, Mr Patterson,’ she said. ‘And the raid on the shop.’
Well, the story had been bound to come to her ears; it was her inheritance at stake, after all. I told her what had happened.
Her lip curled. ‘Was anything taken?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘Let me look,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you.’
There was no point in resisting any further. ‘I’ll ask Armstrong if he’ll allow it,’ I agreed.
She inclined her head; at least she wasn’t triumphant in victory. ‘I believe I know what the thief was after.’
The ostler led the horses in our direction, intent on taking them out into the street; we stood aside to let him pass. The horses’ breath blew out in great clouds in the cold air. Mrs Fletcher reached into the folds of her skirt, to her pocket, and brought out a grimy sheet of paper, folded into the shape of a letter. ‘This was brought to me this morning by a rogue. He said he found it in the mud by one of the wharfs on Sunday. He wanted a shilling for it.’ She turned it over in her fingers then held it out to me. ‘He seemed to be telling the truth as far as I could tell.’
The letter had been written on what had once been good quality paper and was addressed to Alice Gregson in London. It had been superscribed in a different hand 24 December 1736.
‘The date looks very like what I know of Alice’s writing,’ Mrs Fletcher said.
I unfolded the letter and blinked at the dreadful scrawl that spidered its way across the sheet. The lines were not straight even by comparison with each other; letters sprawled and tangled promiscuously. I could make out only a few words but those words were incriminating: dearest Alice . . . in your arms . . . your kisses . . . leave . . . morning . . . heart aches . . . dear love . . . The letter was signed with a single initial which might have been T or I or J or F or even, at a pinch, S.
‘A love letter,’ I said, refolding it.
‘It’s reprehensible,’ she said tartly, drawing her cloak more tightly against the last flakes of snow. ‘But then Alice was always easily led.’
‘You’ve no notion who the sender might be?’
‘None. But you must see this supports my contention that there was a man involved. A lover. He must have followed her north.’
‘I thought you believed Alice fled from a burglar.’
‘A burglar she may herself have let into the house! Perhaps they plotted together to rob my father. If this man knows the town better than she does, that would explain why they can’t be found. You must see that I’m right! Alice did not commit this crime.’
I held the letter out to her; she took it back with a set face. I said, ‘Rest assured that if there was someone else involved in this affair, I will find him. There’s no point in hanging the wrong person and leaving the real killer running free.’
She contemplated me for a moment longer, then, as was her habit, walked away into the street without a further word.
I found it odd she should plainly have such a low opinion of her sister, yet still refuse to believe her guilty. But I couldn’t deny that both the letter and my own experience of the previous day were inclining me to think she was right.
Twelve
The English are never in error. At least, that’s what they tell me.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 19 January 1737]
When I went back into the inn, Hugh was asking questions about the practical aspects of the Assembly Room design: where was the supper room, the withdrawing rooms? How many sets would the room accommodate? Heron was still staring out of the window.
He said, ‘I believe it has stopped snowing. We should look at the site.’
I thought it would have been much more convenient if Heron had come on the expedition yesterday. Hugh went amiably enough, however, and Balfour, in his boyish enthusiasm of the morning, was happy for any jaunt. Heron, in any case, brooked no opposition and strode before us out of the room, waving away the servant who came to enquire if he wanted his carriage. ‘Nonsense – we can easily walk!’
I tagged along, irritable and cold but resigned; there’s no resisting Heron when he’s in a mood like this.
Only two or three streets separated us from the Groat Market site and we were quickly there. Heron leant precariously on the fence, looking down into the snow-covered ruins. There was a mess of footprints down there, mostly covered by the snow that had recently fallen, but the jumbled timbers had obviously been turned over again recently in search of fuel. The tavern next door was probably extremely warm, which was more than I was.
Balfour started to talk about the plans; Heron interrupted him unceremoniously, looking at Hugh. ‘Where did you find the ring?’
I huddled in my greatcoat while Hugh pointed out the place. A few flakes of snow drifted down again. ‘Just under the bank on the far side,’ Hugh said. ‘Some of the earth must have collapsed and the ring slid down with it.’
Heron pulled one of the horizontal bars on the fence free. ‘I don’t think this is safe,’ I said in alarm. He gave not the slightest sign of having heard me, he stepped over the remaining horizontal bar, stood for a moment looking at the ramp of snow that led down into the ruins, then decisively started down. Hugh, grinning, followed. Balfour jumped down after them.
I sighed. I ought to have realized Hugh’s find would appeal to the collector in Heron. They were engaged in a
treasure hunt now, and that sort of thing had never appealed to me. Who wants to dig around in snow-covered ground for dirty bits of ancient jewellery?
I sensed movement, looked around. In the snow-covered alley that ran along the back of the ruins was a woman, cloaked and hooded. The cloak was pulled tightly around her and I could see nothing of her features. She reminded me of the woman I’d seen in the other world, although she wasn’t as tall. She gave a little flounce and turned away. I saw an elegant foot beneath her cloak, a hint of a thin white petticoat. A glimpse of improbably bright yellow hair.
‘Alice!’ I said sharply.
Devil take it, the empty site lay between us with its cellar pit and protecting fences – I’d have to go round the end of the street. By the time I’d done that, she’d be well away. She cast a look back over her shoulder; I saw her face, almost childishly young, impish, mischievous. She danced round to face me, retreating step by step. ‘Catch me!’ she called, and, turning, ran lightly off.
I bolted for the end of the street, found a passageway down the side of the tavern, raced out again into the alley. In the ruins, no one was taking the slightest bit of notice; they were all hunkered down, prodding at the frozen soil. Alice was at the far end of the alley, just turning into another. She seemed to taunt me, waiting at the corner until I came within reach. A sudden piercing cold stabbed through me; the woman’s figure shimmered and flickered. Then she was gone.
She’d stepped through to the other world.
I had to react quickly; because of the difference in pace between the two worlds, a moment’s hesitation might leave me minutes or more behind her. I took a deep breath and a step forward, felt cold stab, saw darkness flicker. Then I was staring at the same alley in that other world. Close by, a horse whinnied from what seemed to be stables.
Alice was already gone. And in the snow was scrawled a single word in huge letters: WRONG.
I stared at the letters. What was wrong? Did she mean she wasn’t Alice? Or that she wasn’t the killer? Did she mean my surmises about what had happened were wrong? How could she know what those surmises were? Devil take her – why did she have to be so enigmatic!
I looked about but there was no sign of her and I had no time to spare. I needed to get back to my own world. I concentrated on thinking of Hugh and Heron pottering in the ruins, took a step back, felt a wave of cold and darkness . . .
Heron was still poking at the frozen earth with what looked like a charred stick. Hugh glanced round, was obviously surprised to see I’d moved to the other side of the site. He got up and came across, held something up. I bent to peer at it. ‘What is it?’
‘Come on, Charles! It may be filthy and tarnished, but isn’t it obvious?’
I took the small object off his palm, rubbed the earth away. The object was flat, and almost, but not quite, circular. A gleam of brightness showed through the dirt. And the curve of a distinctive hairline . . . A coin.
‘Silver,’ Hugh said. ‘And there are a lot more like it in that earth bank. Someone must have buried his worldly wealth there centuries ago, to keep it safe, and never got back to retrieve it. Heron says they’re Roman.’
‘Roman?’ I echoed. The coin Alice had dropped in the snow had been just like this – that hairline was unmistakeable. How could Alice have been in possession of a Roman coin?
I felt a sudden longing to talk to Esther. She has a calm way of looking at things that encourages me to be logical and methodical. Hugh was looking up at me expectantly; I handed him back the coin. ‘Very nice,’ I said. He looked indignant. Damn the thief that had taken the other coin from my pocket! Without it, I couldn’t prove the two were the same. ‘I must go. I’ve a lesson to give.’
Heron, for some mysterious reason, heard that. He glanced up, rose and picked his way across to me. Balfour took over digging in the frozen earth.
‘Come up to the house tomorrow,’ Heron said. ‘We will have a look at these coins in more detail.’
I couldn’t conceive why he should think I’d be interested. But Balfour was calling out he’d found some pottery, and Heron turned on his heel and went back. Hugh gave me a grin. ‘Well, you’ve got to admit they’re interesting, Charles!’ He leant closer confidentially. ‘Even if not quite as interesting as Heron thinks. And the only other thing I have to do today is to polish the dancing room floor!’
‘Polishing the floor would at least have the virtue of being in the warm,’ I retorted.
I left them before Heron could decide to enlighten me further on his finds, cut back to St Nicholas’s church and thence along Westgate towards Caroline Square. All this exercise had made me hungry; I could snatch a bite to eat at home, talk to Esther, and still be in plenty of time for my afternoon lessons.
I passed St John’s church and came level with the vicarage garden. Idle flakes of snow fell on to the dark sleeves of my greatcoat. Tonight the Gregsons’ spirits ought to disembody; it was unlikely they’d have much to say about their deaths given they’d been asleep but they might be able to enlighten us as to Alice’s motives, or might have seen her with a man they didn’t know. At least one thing was now certain; Alice was hiding in that other world. Though why she should risk returning, I didn’t understand.
Someone seized hold of my arm.
Thirteen
Every English person you meet wants to tell you their life history; I have found it best just to doze during these recitals – any attempt to divert them is perfectly useless.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 19 January 1737]
Not again! I swung round, raising my fist – and looked into the furious face of Fowler, Heron’s manservant.
‘Damn you to hell, Patterson,’ he said, gripping my arm like steel. ‘You’re avoiding me!’
‘Avoiding you?’ I remembered him hovering in the hallway at Heron’s house that morning; he’d had no reason to be there. Unless . . . ‘You want to talk to me?’
He was in a savage mood. Fowler has never used the deferential servant’s tone with me, but this was worse than usual. His lean sardonic face was white. ‘Damn it, you can’t even catch a slip of a girl!’
His grip on my arm was bruising; I said, as calmly as I could, ‘I have been trying to find Alice Gregson, I promise you that. What’s your interest in the matter?’
His face worked as he struggled to control his anger. Fowler was once a ruffian in the back streets of London and there’s a part of him, under the surface civilization, that remains a ruffian. ‘Ned,’ he said thickly.
‘Ned?’
‘Edward Hills.’ He looked impatient at my obtuseness. ‘The apprentice! Slaughtered by that bitch while he lay asleep on his bed. The boy who’d only spoken to her twice and then only to say yes, madam, no, madam. The boy who never said a word against her and certainly never made any advances to her!’
I knew what that meant. Fowler leant forward and hissed in my face. ‘She killed him, Patterson. She slaughtered an innocent boy and I want her. And if you’ve any sense, you’ll not ask what I intend to do to her.’
I glanced up and down Westgate. The street was quieter than normal but there were still people within earshot. ‘We need to find somewhere private to discuss this.’
I pulled my arm out of his grip; he let me go, his lean face twisting in derision. ‘That’s right, Patterson. Hide me in a corner somewhere, hide Ned.’
‘You know I don’t care about that.’
‘He was just a boy,’ he said bitterly, changing tack because he knew what I said was true. ‘An apprentice. You know what apprentices are like – you know what roughs and toughs they are. Nothing like Samuel Gregson, a respected citizen with his business and his money, or his wife, with her hair and her clothes and nothing in her head. Good upstanding citizens, both! Mustn’t let anyone get away with hurting them. But who cares about an apprentice?’
I hauled him into the nearest tavern, on the other side of the street. It wasn’t the smartest
of places but a huge fire was roaring in the grate and the straw on the floor was reasonably clean. I pushed Fowler on to a bench in a quiet corner and signalled for beer. He was losing some of the first flush of anger; he put his head back against the wall and swore at a spirit who came across to chat. I said, ‘Just found out his wife has been entertaining the neighbour,’ and the spirit chortled and withdrew.
Fowler’s thin mouth twisted in derision. ‘Not likely that will happen, is it?’
I’ve been acquainted with Fowler about a year now, and known his secret almost from the first. No woman is likely to find herself marrying him; his tastes run in entirely another direction. It’s not information he gives out freely, given it could get him hanged. I’ve never considered it any of my business, any more than my marriage is any of his.
But the boy’s death was my business. I said in a deliberately mild tone, ‘Have you known him long?’
He shrugged. His voice was still sharp, his accent aggressively London, but he was calmer now. ‘Six months maybe. Damn it, Patterson, he was seventeen years old – did his tasks well, never answered his master back. Trustworthy, honest and lighthearted. He talked of having his own shop. And all that taken away by a girl who never gave him the time of day! Why? Damn it, why?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘There was money involved but not enough to warrant killing four people.’
‘Money? In the house?’
I nodded.
‘That was something new, then.’
The landlord brought a jug of beer and two tankards. I paid him and poured it out. The spirit had joined two or three others singing in a corner – there are always drunken spirits in taverns; I was glad of the noise that covered our conversation. ‘Did Gregson not keep much there, then?’
‘Hardly anything, according to Ned. Just enough to pay his bills. The rest he invested.’ Fowler bared his teeth at me. ‘Heron has most of it – good investment, Heron. All that coal, all those ships. Gives four and a half per cent on every pound invested with him, just like government stocks!’
