Airs and Graces

by Roz Southey

  ‘Yes,’ he said, almost inaudibly.

  ‘Which leads us to your imposture as John Balfour, architect.’

  He pulled the blankets tighter. ‘My master,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘What, the one that took you to Italy?’

  He nodded. ‘Saw him in London. He’s old, ill. When I said I was coming north, he gave me the plans, To bring with me.’

  ‘All neatly drawn and annotated,’ I said. ‘No wonder you were in despair when the Directors wanted new ones. Your scrawl would have given away that you weren’t the original architect. And I wager you didn’t finish your apprenticeship, so you didn’t have the expertise needed.’

  He nodded again. ‘Inherited money from my father, went off to enjoy myself.’

  ‘And the money didn’t last long. Did the trip to Italy give you a taste for antiquities?’

  ‘Better than people,’ he said bitterly. ‘Good solid gold and silver don’t change. Never argue, never shout.’

  I wondered what kind of a childhood he’d had. My own had been strict and cold, as far as my father had been concerned, but always impeccably well-mannered. ‘So you took my coin and Hugh’s ring, and staged the robbery in your own rooms. And then you tried to rob Mr Heron’s house.’

  Heron was standing over me, blocking out most of the light from the lanterns carried by the watchmen. Odd shadows fell across his face; he was at his most impassive. The epitome of a fashionable man. And dangerous.

  ‘Had to rush it,’ Balfour said with a trace of bitter amusement. ‘Should have waited, wooed a maid to get the key. Wanted to be able to get out of town quickly, when the snow stopped.’

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘We come to what happened on Saturday night.’

  Balfour said nothing.

  ‘I know what led up to it,’ I said. ‘Alice came to Newcastle on the Tuesday, you followed on the Thursday. All that seasickness was faked so you could keep to your lodgings. That ensured as few people as possible saw you. If things had gone right, you’d have carried out the robbery on Saturday night, ridden out of town and got away almost unnoticed. Did you intend to marry Alice?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘she was planning to double-cross you too, so you’re even on that score. Of course, as far as the robbery was concerned, each of you was counting on the other to keep quiet for fear of being apprehended.’

  He set his head back against the wall behind him. His face was white, his body still trembling with cold.

  ‘You managed to have a word with Alice,’ I said, ‘perhaps with the help of the female spirit who hated Gregson. Alice told you to come to the door of the shop at a certain time and she’d let you in. So what happened then?’

  He turned his head to look at me in silence. Kane started to say something; McLintoch seized his arm.

  Balfour took a deep breath.

  ‘I didn’t kill them,’ he said, obstinately.

  Thirty-Seven

  I was in love the other day, you know, but alas, there was already another, younger, man in the field before me.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]

  He slid his knees up, embracing them with his arms. Water ran off his hair and down his face. He looked around his audience, his gaze lingering on Kane. ‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ he said, ‘but only if you promise I’ll not go back to Kent.’

  ‘You’ll hang,’ McLintoch said. ‘Here or in Kent, what’s the difference?’

  ‘Not if I didn’t kill them,’ Balfour said. He was regaining a little of his old confidence, I thought, which was not altogether a good thing. ‘Promise me I won’t hang and I’ll bear witness against her.’

  ‘And she’ll bear witness against you,’ Heron said dryly, hand on sword hilt. ‘Which one of you are we supposed to believe?’

  ‘I won’t say a word unless you promise me,’ Balfour said doggedly.

  ‘There’s no point in going through all this rigmarole!’ Kane exploded. ‘There’s evidence against him in Kent. I’m taking him back.’

  Balfour stared at me. I simply looked back. The snow fell around us. Kane shifted impatiently. Balfour’s eyes dropped; he said, ‘She let me in the shop door.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The apprentice was snoring, behind the counter. I didn’t know there was an apprentice till then – she never said.’ He coughed briefly and McLintoch offered him what was left of the brandy; he shook his head. ‘She said the coins were in the cellar but the box was too heavy for her to lift. She said to go down and get it, while she went upstairs for her bag. So I did. I found the box easy enough – it was on the table, open, and a bag beside it. It was full,’ he said almost reverentially, ‘full of ancient coins.’ He paused for a moment to catch his breath. ‘There was a scrap of paper there too, I didn’t look at that. I pushed the coins into the bag – it took some time.’

  He started to smooth down the blankets that lay over his knees, regular, slow, almost obsessive movements. ‘I knew something was wrong as soon as I went back up into the shop, only I couldn’t decide what. Then I realized the apprentice wasn’t snoring. I was worried maybe he’d woken up, so I looked round the edge of the counter.’ The rubbing action speeded up. ‘And I saw the blood—’

  ‘The boy was alive when you went down into the cellar,’ Heron said, ‘but not when you came up again?’

  Balfour nodded. ‘Then I heard a noise upstairs. I panicked.’ The rubbing action slowed. ‘I thought I’d be found with the body. Alice had left the key in the door so I simply ran out. And I’d hardly taken four or five steps when the child screamed.’ He looked at me. ‘I had to stay in town – all that snow. What choice did I have but to brazen it out?’

  No wonder he’d looked ill on the Sunday. Or that he’d gone back to the house that afternoon. Perhaps he’d been trying to convince himself it had never happened.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I could keep an eye on what was happening, try and distract attention from myself if need be.’

  ‘According to this version of events,’ Heron said. ‘The girl must have killed the apprentice before she went back upstairs.’

  I nodded. ‘And she had already killed the others before coming down to let Balfour in, because she knew she wouldn’t have time later. That’s why the knife was downstairs, near the boy. He was the last one killed.’

  ‘But why go back up again? Why not simply walk out of the front door?’

  ‘She had to wake the child,’ I said, ‘so the alarm would be raised. And the rope was to give credence to her story of running in panic from a murderer.’ I glanced at Balfour. ‘She must have planned to come out of hiding immediately, when you were caught. But you were too quick for her – you got away, and that left her the only suspect. What excuse did she give you for not doing the robbery on the Sunday, when the house would be empty and everyone out?’

  ‘She said her mother was ill and wouldn’t be going to church.’

  ‘She had to have some excuse,’ Heron said, ‘because she wanted to kill her family.’

  ‘But why?’ McLintoch said, with more passion than I’d heard from him. ‘A lass like that killing the parents that bore her? What could bring her to do anything so unnatural?’

  Balfour laughed bitterly. ‘I don’t know. Why did my father pick the quarrel that killed him?’

  I heard that self-pity again in his complaint. But I believed Balfour, nevertheless – his was a detailed account, not vague like Alice’s. She was the killer. But, in one way, we were still no further forward. There were two Alices. Which one of them had done the killing?

  McLintoch said, ‘It’s the old story – we need to find the lass.’

  ‘Don’t care about that,’ Kane said. He reached down, grabbed Balfour’s arm and dragged him up. ‘I’m having you.’

  ‘No,’ McLintoch said. ‘I am. And I’m the one with two watchmen here, and I’m sure Mr Patterson and Mr Heron will give me a hand
if I need it. We’re taking this fellow off to jail and no one’s getting their hands on him until Mr Patterson here says so. Mr Patterson,’ he said to Kane with an air of triumph, ‘is standing in for Mr Philips, so I does what he says. Come on, my lad.’

  And the watchmen, with distinct pleasure, bore Balfour off into the snow, followed by a cursing Kane.

  The landlord of the Fleece, with an ostentatious sigh, retreated, cradling his sodden blankets and empty bottle. Heron and I were left alone under the Fish Market with snow floating around us. I said, with some annoyance, ‘I forgot to ask Balfour where he hid the coins.’

  ‘Leave them hidden,’ Heron said. ‘I wish they had never been found.’ He gave me a long hard look. ‘So what now?’

  I got up with some difficulty; one foot was numb and my left arm still ached. ‘We go and talk to Alice.’

  His head lifted. ‘You know where she is?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Balfour told me.’

  Heron raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He said that staying in the town helped him to keep an eye on what was going on,’ I pointed out. ‘That was exactly what Alice decided to do. And she’s done more than keep watch,’ I added angrily. ‘She’s been manipulating me, encouraging me to think there might be an accomplice, then that the accomplice might have been the killer. Giving me letters from him. Trying to mislead me by claiming jewellery had been stolen . . .’

  I smiled bleakly on Heron. ‘She’s been right under our noses from the beginning. Mrs Fletcher.’

  Thirty-Eight

  I have tried to relate my experiences as honestly as I can, my dear friend, but there is always something I forget. Never mind, we will gossip about it when I am back home.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]

  The snow drifted down; the dog on the boat barked once and was quiet. ‘Mrs Fletcher is dark,’ Heron said. ‘All the descriptions of Alice Gregson say she is fair.’

  I nodded. ‘But there’s another Alice from the other world, and she’s dark.’

  He listened grimly as I explained my recent encounters with the two women. ‘Our Alice was the one acquainted with Balfour,’ I said. ‘She let him in the house. Mrs Fletcher is the Alice from the other world. But which killed the Gregson family? I’ve met both Mrs Fletcher and Alice Gregson – and Mrs Fletcher is by far the more ruthless woman.’

  ‘You will never find out,’ Heron said. ‘If this is a conspiracy, they will protect each other.’

  ‘I don’t think I care which one did it,’ I said. ‘They planned this together, they acted in concert and killed at least two innocents. That’s unforgivable. I want both of them.’ And so I did, though if I could find out which of them struck the blows, I would.

  We walked briskly across the snowy Sandhill to Butcher Bank. We were probably already too late to capture either of the women; the business with Balfour would have spread on the spirits’ message network, and the spirit of Letitia Mountfort would make sure it got to Alice’s ears. But I was determined to at least try.

  On the steep slippery slope of Butcher Bank, the scents of meat and blood were thin but distinct in the freezing air; over our heads and the tops of the houses loomed the squat tower of All Hallows’ church. We strode up a deserted Pilgrim Street and came to the door of Mrs Mountain’s lodging house on the corner of the High Bridge. A light shone in a downstairs room; I knocked on the window and after a moment, the curtains parted and the lady herself, fully dressed, peered out. She looked surprised, though not alarmed; she signalled to us to wait, and came to open the front door. She beckoned us into her room with a finger to her lips.

  ‘You’re lucky to catch me up, gents,’ she said cheerfully. She was a rotund elderly woman and even walking to open her front door had made her breathe heavily. ‘Waiting for one of the comedians to arrive, I am. Supposed to be here tonight but don’t suppose he’ll make it in all this snow. There’ll be no dashing villain at the theatre this week! Was you looking for someone?’

  ‘One of your lodgers.’

  ‘All asleep,’ she said fondly.

  ‘I think you’ll find this one isn’t,’ I said.

  We knocked on Mrs Fletcher’s door. There was no reply. Mrs Mountain hovered encouragingly on the stairs. ‘Knock again, sir. She often has visitors late, her cousin comes to see her.’

  Heron turned; Mrs Mountain took an uncertain step back at his expression. ‘A fair-haired girl? Flighty and insolent?’

  ‘That’s her, sir,’ Mrs Mountain said.

  ‘Like the one the whole town is looking for?’

  Now she was seriously alarmed. ‘I’m sure I didn’t – I never thought. One girl’s just like another . . .’

  ‘You may go,’ Heron said coldly. Mrs Mountain retreated instantly.

  I knocked again and this time heard footsteps. The door opened, and there was Mrs Fletcher, in her outdoor clothes and boots, looking faintly amused. I thought how like her counterpart she was: taller and darker in colouring, but with very similar features. I’d put the resemblance down to the family connection of course.

  ‘Alice Gregson?’ I said.

  ‘I’d an inkling you’d discover us sooner or later,’ she said, ignoring Heron as if he didn’t exist. ‘Alice’s tale set you on guard, of course.’

  I nodded. ‘Why did she tell me so much?’

  ‘I love her dearly,’ she said, in a flat resigned tone. ‘But she has no common sense. I knew there’d be trouble if I left her kicking her heels while I took care of things. She was bored and my methods were too subtle for her. She told you everything, of course?’

  ‘Not quite everything. Her story was only convincing up to the point where she let Balfour into the house. What happened then?’

  She considered me for a long moment, then said blandly, ‘I don’t have time to talk. You’ve picked an inconvenient moment – I was just on my way out.’

  I laughed. ‘At two in the morning? Letty Mountfort’s spirit has told you Balfour’s in custody, I suppose. Why don’t you just step through to the other world – surely that would be your quickest escape?’

  She grimaced. ‘I can’t. Only Alice can do so – she takes me with her when she comes and goes. And Alice is at the moment in my lodgings in that other world, my world, blissfully asleep, no doubt, and doesn’t have the least notion I’m in any danger.’ She stood back. ‘Very well, if you must know, come in before you wake the whole house.’

  She held the door open. Heron gestured me in front of him, came behind, hand on sword hilt. It was a large room, comfortably, if shabbily, furnished for sitting. Mrs Fletcher – Alice – strolled to the table in the middle of the room, where a book lay open, beside the remains of her supper of bread and cheese on a plate. I glimpsed an unmade bed through a half-open door; she must have been sleeping when the spirit’s warning came.

  ‘And when I’ve told you everything,’ she mused, toying with the plate. ‘What then? Will you let me go?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I thought not.’

  She swung round. I caught a glint of metal in the candlelight. Heron shouted; his sword sang out of its scabbard. But it was too late – Alice had an arm round my neck and a knife at my throat.

  I choked, more from fear than from the pressure of the cold metal against my skin. Alice was a tall woman, and her arm round my neck dragged me back, and down. Her voice was close to my ear.

  ‘Put the sword down! Now! Or he dies.’

  From my uncomfortable position, I could just see Heron, in the doorway, sword at the ready. He stood for a long, frightening moment, before lowering the sword point to the floor. Without taking his eyes off us, he closed the door behind him. He sounded almost conversational. ‘If you hurt him, you will die.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Alice said grimly.

  I could hardly talk for the pressure on my throat. ‘While – while we’re here, why not tell us—’

  ‘Onl
y if you guarantee our freedom.’

  ‘You have that guarantee already,’ Heron said. ‘Even if we put you both in prison, you can easily escape to that other world.’

  She nodded. The knife twitched unpleasantly at my throat; my back and knees ached from bending over backwards. My awkward position sent a stab of pain through my bruised shoulder.

  ‘We want freedom to come and go as we please, in both worlds.’ Mrs Fletcher – Alice – laughed softly. ‘Why should we suffer for what Balfour did? That patronizing, condescending idiot! So careful not to tax puny female brains! And Alice liked him!’

  The old doubts resurfaced. Had Balfour been telling the truth? Or was he the killer after all?

  I gestured feebly. ‘I can’t breathe . . .’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t fool me that way. You talk like this or not at all.’

  Struggling for breath, trying to crane back away from that knife blade, I managed, ‘If you’re innocent of the killings, why didn’t you just tell me about Balfour, and what happened that night? Instead of all this complicated plotting and planning?’

  ‘Would you have believed us?’ she said. I had to admit I probably would not. ‘Besides, you’re a dangerous man, Mr Patterson. You can step through between worlds. We didn’t want to be looking over our shoulders the whole time, wondering if we’d see you in hot pursuit. We had to make sure you were so convinced of Balfour’s guilt you didn’t even attempt to look for us – which meant allowing you to come to your own conclusions.’

  ‘So you posed as your sister from Bristol.’ Heron was calm again, cool. I knew that look – he was waiting his opportunity. He’d sheathed his sword but still had his hand on its hilt.

  ‘Dear Sophia.’ Mrs Fletcher nodded. ‘I’ve derived a great deal of satisfaction from offending people in her name – we’ve never got on. Of course, I mean in my own world.’

  ‘Nor with the rest of your family, I suppose,’ I said.