by Roz Southey
We contemplated the problem in silence. The gentleman with the paper expounded loudly, and at length, on the iniquities of the government.
‘I’d just have cut her rope,’ Hugh said. ‘Let her get out of that!’
‘Some of it’s right,’ I said obstinately. ‘I know the events leading up to the murders – I’m sure of that. But what exactly happened on the night . . .’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Hugh mused, ‘is where she’s hiding now. If there is an accomplice, well, by the sound of it, he’s a rough fellow and the town’s full of rough fellows. No one would notice one extra. But a gently reared girl who’s a stranger here – where the devil could she hide?’
I sighed, and told him about my encounter with Alice in the other world. He scowled; he loathes the very idea of the other world. His one experience of it was not happy. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I said. ‘I didn’t invite this ability to step through – it just happened.’
‘You’re going to get yourself in serious trouble one day, Charles,’ he said, and refused to talk about it any further.
I left him rewording his advertisement yet again, and went to find Abraham McLintoch in his cosy room behind the Printing Office. In the Watch office, two men were enjoying the huge fire, smoking long pipes with the contented air of men who intend to spend the rest of the day there. A jug of ale stood on McLintoch’s table, beside a platter that held a few crumbs. He was writing an advertisement too, though both he and Hugh were far too late for this week’s Courant.
‘Good day, Mr Patterson, sir.’ The smoke got in the back of my throat; McLintoch paused to let me cough. ‘I was just writing a notice for the paper. Mr Philips sent to tell me to put one in.’ He handed me a sheet of paper, rather grimy. ‘Would you do me the honour, sir, of giving me your opinion on the wording.’
The note was written in large unformed childish letters, but impeccably spelt and punctuated.
Wanted [it read]. Alice Gregson, 23 years old, five feet four inches high, pale Complexion, fair Hair, blue Eyes, small Hands and Feet. Speaks in a London Accent. Last seen wearing a white Dress with blue Flowers, a flowered Shawl and white Slippers. Wanted for the Murder of Joseph Gregson, Alice Gregson his Wife, Sarah Gregson their Daughter and Edward Hills, Apprentice, on Saturday 16 January 1737 at their Shop on the Tyne Bridge. Anyone having Information on the Whereabouts of the said Alice Gregson should deliver it to Abraham McLintoch at the Watch office, or at the House of Charles Patterson, Esq. A Reward of one Guinea will be paid if the Suspect is apprehended. N.B. No more will be offered at any time.
‘Well?’ McLintoch asked anxiously.
Oddly, the thing that most impressed itself on me was that I’d never seen my name with ‘Esq’ after it before; it made me feel quite a different person. I stifled another cough. ‘Where did you get the description of her?’
‘Mr Fleming, the stationer.’
‘Then it will be accurate,’ I said. ‘I presume that’s what she was wearing when he last saw her?’ McLintoch nodded. ‘A pity I didn’t see her more clearly when she fled. She was certainly wearing something dark then.’
McLintoch handed the notice to one of the other watchmen. ‘Here, Sam – take this to the Printing Office.’
The watchman departed, grumbling at having to leave the fire. ‘Do you think it will do any good?’ I asked.
McLintoch picked up his pipe again. ‘It does, sometimes. But it depends.’
‘On?’
He lit the pipe. Damp logs on the fire spat and crackled. ‘On whether it’ll pay her associates better to hide her or betray her.’
‘A guinea’s a lot of money.’
‘It is to a working man,’ he agreed.
I interpreted that easily enough. ‘You think she’s being sheltered by someone more respectable?’
‘Stands to reason,’ he said. ‘This is nothing personal, sir, you understand, but no working man’s going to shelter a girl like that. He’d want her to work for her living. He’d pimp her, use her to attract men and then help to rob them, mebbe. But there’re plenty of girls he could use that way – why should he take the risk on a girl the whole town’s looking for? He wouldn’t do it. Any working man would have turned her in days ago. It would get him some credit with the Watch and the constable – always useful.’
‘And a respectable man?’
‘Now that’s a different matter,’ he said. ‘She’s his own kind. You don’t give away your own kind.’
‘I wouldn’t have her in my house.’
He nodded. ‘But you don’t know her, Mr Patterson. Suppose there’s someone as does, someone she manages to convince she didn’t do it? And she’s got money, Mr Patterson, remember, the money she stole from her father – that’d help.’
‘It would appeal to a working man too.’
‘True, but all that means is he’d take the money first, then turn her in.’
‘You’ve a very jaundiced view of human nature.’
He nodded, almost proudly. ‘You would too, if you did my job, Mr Patterson.’
I’d no doubt of that. I thought of the letters Alice had sent me: I didn’t steal the money; I didn’t kill them. Was I the respectable man she was working on? She certainly knew I was the person to appeal to – that I was investigating the matter. But how did she know? Someone must be keeping her informed.
‘The thief-taker from London – Kane – thinks the man he’s looking for had something to do with this matter.’
‘Aye,’ McLintoch said. ‘Sounds a nasty sort.’
‘Kane thinks he might have wanted to rob the house, wooed the girl—’
The watchman threw another log on the fire; I shifted my chair away from the blaze. McLintoch looked in annoyance at his pipe, which had apparently gone out again. ‘Mebbe he did, mebbe he didn’t. But I knows who killed the Gregsons, and it wasn’t no fellow from Kent.’
I didn’t pursue the matter; McLintoch was an efficient, hard-working man, but he believed what was in front of his eyes and went after it with dogged determination. Very like Fowler, in fact.
‘Anyhow,’ he said. ‘This Kentish fellow’s probably on a ship and long gone. If he’s any sense, that is.’
I rather agreed with him. Weather permitting, of course. ‘There was something else,’ I said. ‘The spirit in the court. I’ve my suspicions about her. She didn’t trouble herself to tell us about the girl hiding there until it was too late to do anything. Do you know who she was?’
‘Lydia Letitia Mountfort,’ McLintoch said with some relish.
‘She was never from this town!’ I said. ‘Not with a name like that.’
McLintoch chortled. ‘Born in Amen Corner, right under the spire of St Nicholas’s church. Her mother was a bit fanciful.’
‘And her father?’
‘Wouldn’t know. I’d be surprised if her mother did either. She was plain Smith – Letty was the one who called herself Mountfort, years later.’
‘Her mother was a whore?’
He nodded. ‘I reckon her father was a sailor, mebbe a foreigner – little Letty was pretty but in a dark sort of way, if you get my meaning. When her mama died, she was put out to a woman who kept a flock of hens, out by St Ann’s chapel, and wanted someone to help. Don’t reckon Letty liked it much, judging by the number of times she ran off. You can guess what happened.’
‘A child?’
McLintoch nodded. ‘The baby died, I remember, and the midwife said she’d never have another. I don’t know much what happened to her after that. I went off to sea, and by the time I got back, she was dead. I heard a man she was living with took offence at something she said, there was a fight and she fell and hit her head.’
‘When was that?’
He mused, obviously working out dates. ‘Twenty years back, maybe.’
So Alice Gregson might have known Letty Mountfort. But surely she wouldn’t remember a woman she’d last seen at the age of three or four? ‘Why is this spirit so intent on prote
cting Alice? Did she know the Gregsons?’
McLintoch winked at me. ‘Course she did. Samuel Gregson liked the ladies – spent more money on them that he did on his own wife. Why d’you think Mrs G never had anything nice in the jewellery line? Mind you, she was a sour individual.’
‘Maybe she was a sour individual because he spent his money on whores,’ I said dryly. ‘And Letty Mountfort was one of them?’
‘Word is he was the father of Letty’s baby.’
This put quite a different complexion on things. The spirit in the court had once been Samuel Gregson’s whore – she’d borne his child. Had his treatment of her made her sympathetic to anyone who hated him?
McLintoch took his pipe from his mouth. ‘The spirits ought to disembody tonight, Mr Patterson.’
‘We’ve been saying that for the last three days.’
He shook his head. ‘Never known it take longer than five days. They’ll be here tonight at the latest.’
He seemed confident; I said, with resignation, ‘I’ll be there.’
We glanced round as the door opened, blowing in a gust of cold air and a flurry of snow. Mrs Fletcher stood looking at us with obvious distaste.
‘Well,’ she said with thinly veiled sarcasm, ‘all the great minds thinking together. Have you come to any conclusions?’
We’d both risen, of course, when we saw the newcomer was female. McLintoch bowed and dipped, said, ‘Madam, madam, my lady,’ as if to make sure he was being polite enough. I knew by Mrs Fletcher’s tone, and by her malicious smile, that she was enjoying the effect her rudeness was having.
‘No? Well, I’ve been doing your job for you. I,’ she said, ‘have identified the man who killed my parents.’
Twenty-Three
Honesty is prized here, but not taken to extremes.
[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
Froidevaux, 21 January 1737]
She gave us a contemptuous look, waved her hand across her face to make a point about the smoke. McLintoch hurriedly put down his pipe and launched into a flurry of apologies. Mrs Fletcher looked both pleased and annoyed with his urgent droppings of Madam, my lady and not used to having ladies here.
She said, ‘I am not used to sitting doing nothing, gentlemen. If you cannot find the man who killed my family, then I will.’
McLintoch glanced at me. ‘Your sister, madam . . .’
‘My sister is a silly fool taken in by a plausible rogue. And there’s a man in this town who can tell you exactly who that plausible rogue is.’
‘Joseph Kane,’ I said.
That took her aback. If she’d spoken to Kane, he’d not told her he’d already talked with me. I wasn’t surprised; from the moment I’d met him on the boat north, Kane had struck me as a man who’d do anything to achieve his own ends. He’d tried to enlist my help and not succeeded to his own satisfaction, and had therefore tried elsewhere.
‘The man Kane’s searching for,’ I said, ‘seems hardly the sort to appeal to your sister. A burly, middle-aged man, with the sort of charm that attracts country servant girls? I’d have thought your sister would prefer someone younger, more handsome, more cultured.’
She gave me a long hard look. ‘At the very least, you should be investigating the matter!’
‘The fellow’s long gone by now, madam,’ McLintoch said. ‘Hopped on the first boat to the Colonies, madam, I shouldn’t wonder, madam.’
‘There have been no such boats,’ Mrs Fletcher said. ‘I’ve enquired. It’s hardly the weather to be sailing across the oceans, is it?’
McLintoch changed tack masterfully, with not a blink. ‘I’ve yet to see any proof he was in the town at all, madam. And as for this Kane fellow, who says he knows anything of the matter, madam?’
I can spot a conversation that’s going nowhere at six paces. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘But I’ve an appointment I mustn’t miss.’
Outside, the snow had eased to a drifting flake or two but the pewter-coloured sky promised more. New snow lay thickly on top of the cobbles on the Key, and a smartly dressed young man tottered towards me, obviously with no confidence he was going to stay upright; he gave me a nervous look as he passed. Outside one of the chandlers’ shops, a group of sailors looked morosely at the icy river. Even the Old Man Inn was quiet, the door shut tight.
I turned for home. For a quiet hour or two with Esther, something to eat and time to get myself ready to go out for the disembodiment. Surely it must take place tonight; it was already astonishingly late. I turned into the Sandhill, and saw two men on the other side, apparently having just come out of the coffee house. I knew one of those men too well to mistake. ‘Hugh!’
He glanced round and stopped, waiting as I negotiated the treacherous slippery road. It was Balfour with him; as I came up, Hugh raised his eyebrows in exasperation. ‘Anything new?’ he said, with a look of pleading.
‘No,’ I said regretfully. I glanced at Balfour; he looked sullen and resentful, not chirpy as Hugh had described him. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Apparently,’ Balfour said moodily.
Hugh was shaking his head. I said, ‘The Directors were not pleased with the design?’
‘The design,’ Balfour said with heavy sarcasm, ‘is too elaborate, too fancy – too fashionable.’
‘Too London,’ Hugh said.
‘Ah,’ I said, understanding. ‘Too expensive.’
‘They were kind enough,’ Balfour said bitingly, ‘to suggest ways in which economies might be made.’
‘Of course, they are businessmen,’ Hugh said placatingly, slapping at his arms to keep warm. ‘It’s natural they should want to bargain.’
‘I told them the truth,’ Balfour said obstinately. ‘I know my business and they don’t.’
Hugh and I exchanged glances. Never tell a gentleman the truth. Unless, that is, you wrap it up in six compliments, three assurances of your undying belief in his infallibility, and at least three different ways of interpreting what you say, so he may choose which one he prefers.
‘I told them plainly,’ Balfour said. ‘Any economies will result in a building that won’t be worth having and that will probably fall down around their ears!’
What he should have done, of course, was to praise their discernment and their taste, and assure them that someone in London had paid twice as much for a building half the size. All the while giving the impression that he deferred to their judgement totally. Anyone who deals with gentlemen on a regular basis soon learns useful little tricks; I could only presume that, as an assistant on previous projects, Balfour had been accustomed to someone else dealing with the clients.
‘And what did they decide in the end?’
‘They want new plans drawn up,’ Hugh said.
‘Won’t that cost more?’ I asked. Which also should have been pointed out to the gentlemen.
Hugh nodded, brushed a few errant snowflakes off the shoulders of his greatcoat. ‘Time, effort, more materials for the new plans – ink, quills, all the rest of it. And the cost of staying at the George.’
‘First the burglary, then this,’ Balfour said sullenly. ‘Devil take it, who’d want to stay in a dirty, miserable town like this a moment longer than necessary!’
This was hardly tactful; Hugh pretended nonchalance, I curbed my irritation. Balfour had liked the town well enough last night.
‘He should just wait a few days,’ Hugh said, ‘then take the same plans back and tell them he’s done what they asked.’
I winced at this; there were certainly one or two gentlemen who wouldn’t notice, but others were extremely acute. Heron, for instance. I said, ‘Gentlemen like to exert their authority over these matters – I generally find it best to humour them.’
Balfour scowled; I hurriedly changed the topic of conversation. ‘I’ve been talking to Abraham McLintoch. We’re hoping the spirits will disembody tonight. It can hardly be delayed much longer.’
I saw Hugh shudder. Last time we saw a disem
bodiment, it was a young girl we knew and it had been an unpleasant experience. ‘Well, I shan’t be there,’ he said. ‘I’m for an early night. I’ve lessons to give tomorrow morning.’
We walked up the Side together, towards St Nicholas’s church. The snow started to come down again, as if it was gathering itself up for something severe. It was an uneasy walk; Balfour could talk of nothing but the insult he’d been given; I thought of changing the subject, but the more Balfour talked, the less I was able to think of something to say. Hugh had apparently exhausted all his resources long ago. At the top of the Side, he said brightly, ‘I’m off home. Do let me know if the spirits disembody, Charles!’ Behind Balfour’s back, he gave me a grin and a wink of mock sympathy, and was off before either of us could object.
Balfour and I walked past St Nicholas’s church, up into the Clothmarket. At least it wasn’t far to the George and I wasn’t prepared to go even one step into the inn yard. ‘They don’t understand,’ Balfour said morosely. ‘You can’t draw up plans like this in an hour or two! The whole idea will have to be thrown out of the window, and started again!’
It was obvious he’d no intention of redoing the plans and was looking for an excuse to avoid the exercise. If he wasn’t prepared to give way to the wishes of his clients, I predicted his career as an architect would be short. He began to dissect the characters of the gentlemen. ‘That fellow Ord was dead set against everything I said, but there was an elderly man who looked approachable. He might take my part. Do you think it would be worth approaching him privately, see if he can use his influence to convince the others?’
I didn’t have the least idea who he was talking about; there are three or four elderly men amongst the Directors. ‘Why the devil wasn’t Heron there!’ Balfour burst out. ‘He was happy with the plans!’
‘Heron wasn’t there?’
‘People always let me down,’ Balfour muttered, in unattractive self-pity.
