by Roz Southey
‘Was there anything more substantial wrong?’
‘Foundations,’ Usher said. ‘Subsidence. Half of the house was sinking into the ground. A crack as long as my arm in the shop wall. When we dug it out, there was a hole down there. Some previous building on the site.’
That wasn’t in itself unusual; in Newcastle, as in most towns, every site is built on again and again. But given the coins, I wondered if occupation on the site had been long-lived indeed.
‘Was Threlkeld easy to work for? According to the neighbours, he seemed always to have his own ideas.’
Usher made a so-so gesture, as we turned on to Westgate. ‘He was sensible enough to know he didn’t know anything about building.’ He laughed. ‘He did have one fit of madness. We got there one morning to find he’d torn down part of a brick wall in the cellar. We’d just put it up, but he had the audacity to say it had fallen down of its own accord. My men,’ he said vehemently, ‘do not do shoddy work.’
‘Why should he tear down a wall?’
‘Wanted to see what was behind it. We’d found a lot of old pottery and when he saw it on the carts, he wanted to know if there was anything valuable. We kept telling him there wasn’t, but he didn’t believe us, insisted we left it all behind for him to look at. Just bits and pieces and a coin or two. Nothing special.’
Usher was patently not a collector of antiquities. ‘When was this?’
‘April sometime.’ We came to St John’s church and he paused at the porch. Three or four people were gathering there in fine clothes, looking miserably cold in the icy weather. ‘I can check for you in my books.’
I shook my head. It was enough to know Threlkeld must have discovered the coins about two months before the fire, perhaps when he tore that wall down. He must have put them aside, only for Gregson to discover them while the redecoration was being done. And then? Had Gregson bought them from Threlkeld or taken them in lieu of his bill? Or had there been something more sinister?
‘And two months later he was dead,’ Usher said reflectively. ‘The Lord has his own ways and we can only guess at them. Doesn’t do to get above ourselves. Shouldn’t give ourselves airs and graces – we could be dead tomorrow.’
And on that cheerful note, he walked into the church.
Twenty-One
The conversation of gentlemen is rather more to my taste – providing you can get them talking about horseracing and gambling. Avoid politics, unless you particularly want to tease them.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 21 January 1737]
The Key was busy with sailors and the passing of feet had worn most of the snow into muddy slush; Fowler was already waiting for me outside the Old Man Inn, a savage sneer on his face. ‘I can’t just jump to your commands, you know,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to get myself fired, do I?’
I stamped snow from my boots. ‘I’d wager you can sneak out of the house any time you like without Heron knowing.’
‘He’s working his way through those old coins,’ Fowler said, tacitly acknowledging the point. He pushed open the door of the inn. ‘Cleaning ’em, cataloguing ’em, writing ’em up. Keeps him quiet.’
A cloud of smoke billowed out of the inn. Through the fog, I saw it was crowded with the rougher sort of man – sailors, labourers, ruffians of all sorts. Two or three greeted Fowler cordially; one of the serving girls clung on his arm with obvious affection.
He ordered beer and worked his way through the crowd to a bench in a corner; men playing with dice shifted to make space for us. The girl brought the beer and hung over Fowler with the neckline of her dress deliberately loosened. He gave her a lascivious grin. ‘Later, Meg, later. Got to talk to the fine gent first.’
She withdrew, pouting. I watched her go and turned to see Fowler watching me in turn, with that malicious sneer. ‘Got to look after my reputation, haven’t I?’ He took a great gulp of his beer. ‘Wouldn’t want people thinking I didn’t like the ladies. A little activity now and then, and no one suspects a thing.’
I couldn’t believe his recklessness, talking so openly. I glanced around. ‘For God’s sake!’
He ignored me. ‘You know what they’re saying, don’t you? They’re saying Ned let a robber in. They’re saying they planned to rob the house together. They’re saying Ned killed all the family before the fellow arrived and then got killed himself in a quarrel. They’re saying well, he was an apprentice, wasn’t he? We all know what apprentices are like!’
‘Be quiet,’ I said. Several men were looking in our direction. Fowler started again; I said sharply, ‘Damn you, be quiet!’
His face twisted; he stared down into the beer.
‘The inquest said Alice Gregson killed her family,’ I said. ‘That’s the official verdict. And you know how the Watch and the Constable and the Coroner and the Justices of the Peace will defend official decisions to the death. No one thinks your Ned had anything to do with it!’
He glowered down into the tankard. ‘That’s not what they’re saying.’
‘It doesn’t matter what they’re saying.’
‘The devil it does!’ He flared up again. ‘It’s Ned’s reputation and he can’t defend himself. I won’t have it! It’s her fault – that witch! When I get my hands on her—’
It took some minutes to calm him down. He cosseted the fury as if it was all that was left to him; he didn’t want to let it go. He’d settled on Alice as the villain and wouldn’t hear anything else. I poured more beer and let him talk himself out.
He wound to a halt eventually, breathing heavily, his face flushed. After a long silence, he said, ‘You know me, Patterson. Never thought anyone in this world but Heron worth putting myself out for – and only Heron because he rescued me from a sure death at the noose’s end, because he doesn’t judge. But Ned – he was different somehow.’ He glanced round, for the first time checking if anyone was listening, a sign of returning sense I noted with some relief. ‘A little innocent he was – devil take it, he was only seventeen! But he had a sense of fun, a real joy in being alive.’
He fell into a brooding silence, obviously lost in the past. ‘I’ll have her, Patterson,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t care, I’ll have her.’
‘I need your help,’ I said, hoping to distract him.
He looked at me sharply. ‘To catch her?’
‘Possibly. It’s about the money that was stolen from Gregson. I think at least some of it may have been made up of ancient coins.’
‘Like Heron’s?’
I nodded. ‘From the same source, as far as I can tell. Those ancient coins can’t be spent, so the chances are the murderer will be looking to sell them – probably for melting down.’
‘Melting down? That’d break Heron’s heart,’ Fowler said sarcastically. He leant forward to pour himself more beer and drained the last of the jug into my tankard.
‘I need to know if anyone has been approached about the coins.’
Fowler bared his teeth at me. ‘You think I’m likely to know that sort of low life?’
I glanced pointedly round the rowdy clientele of the Old Man. ‘I thought you might. Alternatively, of course, the thief might try to sell them to a collector.’
‘Heron’d buy them, no questions asked.’
‘And you’re in a good position to know if he’s offered them, aren’t you?’
Fowler gave me a malicious grin. ‘I’d be the one he’d get to do the dirty work of buying them.’
I thought – sincerely hoped – that Heron wouldn’t be so tempted by the thought of the coins that he’d forget to take steps to apprehend the villain who offered them. ‘And you’d tell me of the offer straight away, of course.’
‘I might,’ Fowler said mockingly.
‘You wouldn’t know if he was approached about something similar last June or July?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that I heard.’
I digested this, conscious of a little disappointment. However Gr
egson had obtained the coins, he must have had some reason for wanting them; financial gain – selling the coins to some collector – was the most obvious. As an upholsterer, he’d have known what value some people place on genuine antiquities; he’d certainly have known, or been able to discover, those gentlemen who were interested in such things and had money enough to acquire them. He might, of course, have decided to allow some time to elapse before selling, to make sure the coins weren’t connected with the mercer’s shop.
Fowler signalled for more beer; the girl came with a seductive flounce in her step. She didn’t give me a second glance, which was unflattering.
‘You should tell Heron to be careful,’ I said, when she was gone. ‘It looks very much as if someone’s stealing all the antiquities he can find; he – or she – may may attempt to get hold of Heron’s coins.’
Fowler laughed. ‘Steal from Heron? Have you any idea how locked up tight that house is?’
‘I realize that. A thief may not.’
‘You reckon this thief might be the girl?’
‘Or her lover.’
‘Maybe we ought to encourage them to try,’ Fowler said, only half-joking. ‘We could lay a trap.’
I’ve set the odd trap in my time. Too much can go wrong. ‘There’s one other thing.’
‘There always is with you,’ Fowler said. He swore at a man who knocked against him as he barged past.
‘There’s a thief-taker in town, looking for a man who’s robbed houses in Kent.’ I hesitated, reluctant to give Kane’s robber more importance than he warranted. ‘There’s a possibility – no more than that – that the Kent fellow could be Alice’s lover. He poses as an exciseman, apparently.’ I gave him Kane’s description of the man: burly, middle-aged, strong and charming.
Fowler shrugged. ‘Sounds like a dozen men.’
‘He’ll be new to town and have a Kentish accent. You’re a southerner yourself, you’ll recognize that kind of accent faster than most. But don’t go near him if you spot him. He’s apparently killed twice already – he could be dangerous.’
‘And you think I’m not, do you?’ Fowler said with soft mockery. He contemplated me for a long moment. ‘Does this really have something to do with the killings or are you just trying to give me something to do, to distract me from what happened to Ned?’
‘Both,’ I said.
He laughed sourly.
Outside it was snowing heavily again, softly, silently. Merchants trudged, heads down, along the Key; whores huddled in doorways. Ice edged the keels of the boats; across the river, the trees on Gateshead bank were dark behind a curtain of white.
I hurried for the protection of the coffee-house, to wash away the taste of the Old Man’s thin beer. The cobbles were slippery; the previous snow, worn to slush, had frozen during the night and the fresh snow, falling on top, hid the icy patches. I was watching my feet when I heard my name and glanced up to see Joseph Kane hailing me. He broke away from a group of sailors and strode across, slipping and sliding.
‘Any luck?’ I asked.
He was exuberant, bullish. ‘Maybe, maybe! A couple of fellows who might be my man. One made off yesterday to Shields for a boat.’
‘He won’t have got far.’
‘Nonsense!’ His lip curled; it was clearly my day for being sneered at. ‘It was a fine sunny day yesterday! I’m off following him. If you get any news—’ his expression said he thought my chances of finding anything were pretty small— ‘leave a message at the Fleece.’
I watched him stride away, his dignity marred by a slip on the cobbles. Perhaps someone who knew the area might have got through to the coast yesterday – though I doubted it – but only a fool would try it today in the thickening snow.
Nellie’s coffee house was surprisingly quiet, perhaps the weather was keeping everyone at home. But sitting in the far corner, scribbling away on a scrap of paper, was Hugh.
He glanced up as I settled into the chair opposite him. ‘I can’t get this damn advertisement right. Here, you have a look.’
He pushed the paper at me; I read:
NEWCASTLE: JANUARY 21st 1737
Mr HUGH DEMSEY, Dancing-master, begs the honour of informing the Ladies and Gentlemen of this Town, as well as the Public, that his Ball, originally intended to be held on the 29th Inst., is now postponed until—
I glanced up at him. ‘I don’t see a problem. This seems very wise – the weather’s much too bad to risk any public entertainments.’
‘It’s not the postponement that’s the problem,’ Hugh said irritably. ‘It’s the wording. You know how touchy the ladies and gentlemen are. I’ve got to make it clear I’m putting this off for their convenience, not mine.’
I’d ordered coffee and a hot pie on my way in; the serving girl laid them in front of me and I tucked in with relish. My toes were warming up again.
Hugh threw down his pen, and swore as ink splashed over his draft. ‘All this running around about the Rooms is tiring me out. Balfour is meeting with the Directors right now. The meeting started late because Heron didn’t turn up on time, and when he did turn up, he just wanted to interrogate me on how the ring was stolen! Thought he’d never stop. The other directors were not best pleased – started to get very fractious. So I pleaded other business and made a quick escape.’
‘And left poor Balfour to deal with it?’
Hugh was unrepentant. ‘He’s in a good mood today – very chirpy. I thought he was a nice quiet, restrained fellow, Charles, but let me tell you, now he’s got over his sea-sickness, he’s working his way through every whore in town!’
I cradled the hot coffee dish in my hands. ‘Damn it, I knew I’d forgotten something. McLintoch said to tell you they’ve found your buttons.’
Hugh sat bolt upright. ‘They’ve caught the thief ?’
‘Not exactly. He tossed the buttons off the Low Bridge into the Lort Burn.’
Hugh’s mouth dropped open. I resigned myself to an indignant tirade and sat through it patiently. Or more or less patiently, until he started repeating himself.
‘Hugh,’ I said, businesslike. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘You are talking to me,’ he said irritably. ‘My buttons! Tossed away as if they didn’t matter!’
‘That,’ I said, ‘is proof our thief was after the antiquities. Hugh – I think I know how the murders were done.’
Twenty-Two
The English gentleman has as many affairs d’amour as you do, my friend – he merely does not brag about it as much.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 21 January 1737]
I drew circles in the condensation on the table. ‘Alice Gregson has been brought up in London and doesn’t want to come back to the “barbaric” north. She especially doesn’t want to leave her lover, whom we have to presume no one knows about.’
Hugh’s brows drew together in disapproval. ‘I still don’t entirely believe in the existence of this unknown man.’
‘Of course he exists! He’s robbed three of us now and I’ve seen a letter from him. And your widow saw him run from your rooms. And neighbours say Alice was constantly looking out for someone.’ I went back to my theory. ‘Newcastle is conveniently close to Scotland, ideal if you’re planning to run away and be married. They make their plans. Alice will come back home and search her father’s house – he’s wealthy so they think there’s bound to be some money about. Even a small amount might be sufficient to enable them to run off. After they’ve eloped, they reckon the family will have to be reconciled to them, to save Alice’s good name. And Sarah’s name too – her rich merchant won’t want a girl from a disgraced family.’
Hugh looked begrudging. ‘Go on.’
‘Alice comes home, searches the house and finds two boxes of coins in the cellar.’
I explained about the coins, and the mercer, and my suspicions about Samuel Gregson; Hugh whistled. An elderly gentleman gave him a disapproving look from behind hi
s paper.
‘Alice took at least one of those boxes of coins, probably both. At some point she took a single specimen from the old coins, possibly to show her lover – she dropped it in the snow after the murders and I picked it up.’
I sipped at the coffee, to give myself a little time to sort out details.
‘Alice then knotted a rope made of sheets and hid it. She may have done this on Friday afternoon. She may have met her lover then too – she absented herself from the shop and no one knew where she went. On the night of the murders, she crept downstairs to meet her lover, opening the front door with the key which was easily accessible to anyone in the house. She was going to walk out of there with him and head for Scotland. Only something happened.’
‘Wait!’ Hugh held up a hand. ‘If they were going to walk out the front door, why the rope?’
‘To make people think she’d escaped that way.’
He wrinkled up his nose. ‘Doesn’t sound convincing to me.’
‘Maybe it was a contingency measure, an alternative means of escape if they were caught.’ He made a sceptical face; I doggedly went on. ‘There was an argument. Alice fled upstairs and . . .’
I ground to a halt. Hugh was shaking his head.
‘Yes, I know,’ I said wearily. ‘If there’d been an argument, the family would have woken up.’
‘And,’ Hugh pointed out. ‘If they’d argued in the shop, the apprentice would have been the first to wake and therefore the first to die. But the murder weapon was with his body, so he was presumably the last to die. Unless there were two murder weapons.’
I grimaced. ‘I don’t need more complications, Hugh!’
He had a bright gleam in his eye. ‘I know what happened! She double-crossed him in some way, he chased her upstairs. She escaped down the rope and he killed the rest of them in a raging fury . . .’
‘The timing won’t work,’ I said, gloomily. ‘We heard the child screaming very shortly after Alice had climbed off the end of the rope. There wouldn’t have been time for the accomplice to kill everyone before she raised the alarm. And if I’d been him, I’d have raced downstairs and tried to cut Alice off as she came ashore. There was simply no need for the killings.’
