Airs and Graces

by Roz Southey

  I took the letters. He was right; the address was in the sort of street that’s patronized by people who make their living from trade. The letters were dreadfully written but I eventually deciphered enough to see that Balfour had not been cautious or wise. He referred to that little plan I put to you concerning your father and added that . . . no need to be careful of his feelings – he’s not been careful of yours. In another letter, he said: does your father keep much money in the house? Something, something, something illegible, then . . . won’t miss it . . . always make more.

  All of which suggested that Balfour had indeed been the one to suggest the theft. I turned on my heels in the middle of the room, musing.

  ‘Do you believe her?’ Hugh asked. ‘Mrs Fletcher, I mean. Do you think she committed the murders?’

  I looked at the cosy, everyday objects. Owned, and used, by her own admission, by a murderess.

  ‘She’s certainly strong enough, and determined enough, to have done it. And all the planning bears her stamp. The other Alice is a creature of impulse, not careful preparation.’

  ‘But?’ he prompted.

  ‘I still don’t know,’ I admitted.

  ‘Maybe they both did it?’

  ‘They certainly planned it together. But which wielded the knife—?’

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘They were accomplices – they’ll both hang if we catch them.’

  ‘It matters to me.’ Particularly after last night.

  From Mrs Mountain’s lodging house, we went to the Old Man Inn on the Key in search of Fowler. The serving girls swore he’d not been there. I asked several spirits if they knew where he was. They didn’t.

  ‘He can’t get far,’ Hugh pointed out as we came back out on to the snowy Key. ‘He has a hole in his shoulder. Any exertion will probably send him into a fever.’

  ‘Something will have to be done,’ I said, ‘And quickly. As long as Alice is at large, Fowler won’t let this matter rest. And I shudder to think what he might do if he gets desperate. I wouldn’t put it past him to try and get at Balfour, for instance – he’ll probably know exactly which watchman to bribe to let him into the cell. And if he does something stupid, like killing Balfour—’

  ‘He’ll hang too.’

  ‘Besides,’ I said. ‘I object to being manipulated, and laughed at, and being made the object of a girl’s silly spoilt wiles! I want them, Hugh!’

  ‘They’re certainly in the other world by now.’

  ‘We could tempt them back . . .’ I stared at the ships at the wharfs, in the icy water, outlined against the bank of bare trees on the Gateshead side of the river. The sky was growing darker; more snow was certainly on the way.

  ‘Charles,’ Hugh said sharply. ‘You promised your wife you wouldn’t get in any more trouble.’

  ‘I promised her I wouldn’t get myself hurt.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be her understanding,’ Hugh said. ‘What are you planning, Charles? Charles!’

  I swung round, heading back along the Key towards the Printing Office.

  ‘Charles! Where are we going?’

  ‘To talk to Balfour,’ I said.

  The watchmen’s hut was hot as a furnace as usual, and full of smoke both from the fire and from the four watchmen who were smoking in there. McLintoch was holding forth to his subordinates on his own courageous behaviour in apprehending Balfour and wasn’t in the least embarrassed to realize we’d overheard as we came in.

  ‘I was wondering if I could speak to Balfour,’ I said. ‘I need his help in finding Alice Gregson.’

  ‘Won’t talk, sir,’ McLintoch said philosophically. ‘Tried every way I know and he just sits there dumb.’

  ‘Can you take me to him?’

  He was shocked. ‘Certainly not, sir! A gentleman like you oughtn’t to go in a place like that. I’ll bring him up here.’

  He went off with two of his men; another two hurriedly put out their pipes and talked loudly of going off and doing their duty. Before they could be driven to such desperate straits, however, McLintoch came back with Balfour. The watchmen were bristling with pistols – two each – and Balfour’s hands and feet were manacled. He was pushed down into a chair and regarded me resentfully. His clothes were filthy and he smelt badly.

  ‘I’m glad to see you haven’t taken any ill from your soaking in the river,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll be well enough to hang.’

  The watchmen laughed cheerfully.

  ‘I’ve had a talk with Alice,’ I said, suddenly realizing how awkward this was going to be. Balfour had no idea there were two Alices and the watchmen couldn’t be given any such suspicion. ‘Unfortunately, she escaped.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ McLintoch said. ‘Mr Heron sent me a message. Pity.’

  ‘She did at least make it clear that she killed the family.’

  Balfour gave me a sharp look. I said, ‘She killed most of them before you got there but left the apprentice alive because he snored, so you’d be reassured everything was well. When you went down into the cellar, she killed the apprentice, ran upstairs, and slid down the rope – she had to make it look as if she was fleeing from you in panic. But you were too quick and escaped before the neighbours came on the scene.’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘It’s good to know I put one spoke in her wheel.’

  ‘You may yet put another,’ I said.

  ‘Charles,’ Hugh said uneasily.

  ‘We can set a trap for her.’

  ‘No!’ Hugh said sharply.

  McLintoch took his pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘Don’t like the sound of that, sir.’

  ‘You wrote to her?’ I said. ‘Did she ever reply?’

  ‘Of course she did,’ Balfour said contemptuously.

  ‘And you kept the letters?’ He hesitated. I said, ‘You’re a thief by nature, Balfour, you want money and you want as much as possible. You’d keep any letter Alice sent you. If the plan to rob her father never came off, you might be able to use those letters for a little blackmail.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘I don’t care whether I’m right or not about the blackmail,’ I said. ‘Were Alice’s letters indiscreet? Do they incriminate her in the plot to rob her father?’

  After a moment, he nodded. ‘But they’re in London. Somewhere safe.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We have the basis of a plot.’ I glanced up at McLintoch. ‘Can we use your spirits to spread a message? We need Letty Mountfort’s spirit in the derelict court to think Alice’s letters are in the hiding place Balfour’s used for the coins.’

  ‘Easy done,’ McLintoch said, nodding. ‘You reckon she’ll try and get her hands on them? And we keep watch on the hiding place and apprehend her when she does.’

  I shook my head. ‘Alice is too clever for such a ploy. We need something more subtle.’

  I told them my plan. None of them liked it.

  Forty-One

  Alas, all is at an end. I must return.

  [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

  Froidevaux, 24 January 1737]

  The snow came down steadily, unceasingly, leaving a thick layer of new powder on top of the slush and ice of the previous days’ fall. In the porch of the little chapel at the end of the bridge, a cold breeze teased our ankles and stirred the skirts of our greatcoats. The clock of All Hallows’ struck eleven. Only a week ago, we had been laughing over a glass of wine at home, proposing an outing in the snow. Only a week ago, Samuel Gregson and his family had been alive, and Fowler’s Ned . . .

  Kane was not happy. I gathered he’d spent an hour last night arguing with McLintoch over the custody of Balfour and then another hour drinking away his sorrows in the Fleece. He’d not slept well and woken with a hangover which still lingered. From the moment he’d stepped into the porch of the chapel, he’d talked of nothing but his maltreatment.

  ‘Damn it, Patterson! I was the one who told you about this fellow! If i
t wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have your hands on him now!’

  I resisted pointing out that his description of Balfour had been very wide of the mark and had misled me – I didn’t have the energy for an argument. I wasn’t feeling particularly happy myself. Esther had said nothing when I told her about tonight’s expedition but she’d plainly indicated she didn’t wish me to get involved in dangerous matters. It was undeniable that both Alices were potentially very dangerous. The thought of never holding my child, of never even seeing it, was enough to make me want to walk away from here directly, straight home to the warmth of the house in Caroline Square.

  But I wouldn’t leave those two women to enjoy themselves travelling from world to world, secure from justice and punishment. If they succeeded in getting away with these crimes, who knows what havoc they might try to wreak? No, I had to have one more try to catch them. They’d want those letters, to make sure nothing hampered their freedom of movement. They’d want Balfour too, because he was the only one who could definitely tie them in to the murders. And perhaps they’d want me too . . .

  Through the thickening snow came the hoot of an owl. Assuming it wasn’t a real owl, it was the signal McLintoch had promised me, from his watchmen stationed along the Key. ‘Balfour’s on his way,’ I said.

  ‘Letting him out of prison!’ Kane grumbled. ‘The fellow will just run away.’

  ‘He knows this is his only chance of cheating the noose.’

  ‘He should hang!’ Kane said vehemently. ‘He killed in Kent and he killed here! He shouldn’t have been promised anything else.’

  I sighed. ‘Transportation isn’t exactly an attractive alternative. He won’t have an easy life in the Colonies.’

  ‘He should hang,’ Kane said obstinately.

  I contemplated the driving snow, the silent street, the dark buildings. I was putting Balfour at risk and deliberately using him as bait, knowing he might get injured or killed. And the fact that he had no alternative if he wanted even the possibility of escaping the hangman’s noose, hardly made it better.

  I brooded, letting Kane grumble on, not looking for answers, merely indulging his sense of grievance. I set my head back against the chapel walls, admitting to myself that I had a certain amount of admiration for Mrs Fletcher. She’d a great deal of courage to stay right under our noses, spying on us, gathering information. And to fearlessly take on two men, one of whom was armed . . .

  Of course, by her own admission, she was a murderer. If I believed her. Which I didn’t. That complicated tale she’d spun of Alice stepping backwards and forwards between worlds, letting Balfour in, going upstairs, taking Mrs Fletcher back to the other world, coming back again to slide down the rope . . . It couldn’t be done. Given the differences in time between the worlds, stepping from one to the other so precisely simply could not be guaranteed. And there was too much to fit in, in too short a time.

  If Mrs Fletcher was not the murderer, then Alice Gregson must be. Our Alice. All fashionable clothes and demure manners, her disarming looks and impish glances, sweet pleas and delightful vivacity. So innocent. On the surface. She’d killed probably for no better reason than spite, because she hadn’t been allowed to stay in London. Yet Mrs Fletcher had said she loved her dearly, and she’d plainly entranced Balfour, if only for a short time.

  A figure coalesced out of the blizzard: Heron, shaking the snow from his hat and brushing it from his shoulders. He took not the slightest notice of Kane, and said without preamble, ‘Fowler is still missing. But at least we have some idea as to the reason. One of the spirits in the house passed a message on to him from the apprentice’s spirit, about the fire and Balfour’s attempt to dispose of him.’

  ‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘Fowler is looking for Balfour now?’ At any moment Balfour, apparently free and happy, was going to be walking through the streets; if Fowler saw him and didn’t realize we were setting a plot, if he took a fancy to shoot him, the plan would crash to the ground and the real murderer go free. I’d cursed Fowler for persisting in his suspicions of Alice, and now, at just the wrong moment, he changed his target!

  ‘I am still trying to find him,’ Heron said grimly. ‘But he is not in any of the obvious places.’

  I thought of the apprentice’s spirit. ‘Ned can get a message to him, tell him what is going on, and ask him to stay his hand. He’d listen to the boy.’

  ‘Any message might come to the ears of the spirit in the derelict court,’ Heron pointed out, ‘And she will warn Alice we are trying to trap her.’

  I swore. Heron nodded. ‘The only choice is to walk the streets looking for him.’

  ‘Hugh’s in one of the chares off the Key,’ I said. ‘He’s supposed to follow Balfour after he leaves the prison but there are plenty of watchmen doing that. If two of you are looking for Fowler, you’ll have a better chance of finding him.’

  Heron’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘I would not place a wager on that.’

  Kane stared sulkily after Heron, as he walked away into the snow. ‘You gents think a lot of yourselves, don’t you? Think you can just ignore the likes of us lower folk.’

  Considering Heron was desperately trying to find a sick servant who was intent on running his head into a noose, Kane was decidedly wide of the mark. He lapsed back into silence and so did I. Thinking again of Esther and the child. Of Alice and her father. Of Balfour and his. Of mine. Dear God, I wasn’t ready for this.

  Another owl hoot. This one sounded closer – halfway along the Key perhaps. Balfour was clearly heading this way. So far, so good.

  It was surprising that Balfour still would not reveal the location of the coins, even after agreeing to our plan; he must think there was still a chance he could get away with them. The hiding place must surely be relatively near the bridge. Balfour hadn’t had long to hide the coins after the murders – he must have been panicking and would have wanted to get them off his hands as soon as possible. A pity he wouldn’t talk; if we had known exactly where the hiding place was, we could have stationed watchmen there and increased our chances of catching Alice.

  I wondered what I’d say to Kane if both Alices turned up.

  Snow drifted into our faces; Kane swore and wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his greatcoat. The chapel was tiny and the porch hardly worth the name; by putting out the lanterns at this end of the bridge, however, we’d created deep shadows and were tolerably certain Balfour wouldn’t see us. More to the point, Alice wouldn’t see us.

  A dog bounded along the Key, paused to sniff at the foot of a post and to raise its leg. It trotted off. A moment later, a figure loomed out of the snow. Balfour.

  He was huddled in a greatcoat, hugging himself as if he was cold, shuffling along in the snow like an old man; I wondered if the manacles he’d been wearing over the past few hours had chafed. I had little sympathy, but I did want him to last until this trap was sprung. As he passed, I caught a glimpse of his face under his hat; his expression was bleak.

  Kane started to move out into the snow to follow. I pulled him back. ‘Wait!’

  Moments passed. The snow fell silently. Then another figure. A woman. Tall and cloaked, walking upright and proud, as if she had every right to be there. She glanced in our direction as she passed the chapel; Kane caught his breath and froze. I did not move. I saw Mrs Fletcher’s expression, and it was a hard mask of pain.

  She knew. She knew we were there; she knew this was a trap. What was she doing?

  We let them get a few steps ahead and then followed. Kane was quiet; I had to admit he knew how to follow someone without being seen, even though we were forced to keep closer than I’d have liked because of the limited visibility. The footprints in the snow gave me the oddest sense of repeating what I’d done last Saturday night: the fresh prints of the dog, the man’s prints and the woman’s . . .

  Balfour paused, looking about him as if checking there was no one watching. Kane and I instinctively slid into the shelter of a doorway.

  A spirit whispere
d in my ear and made me start. ‘Message from Mr Heron, sir. He says the gent he’s been looking for has been seen heading this way.’

  ‘Damn!’

  Balfour seemed to straighten and walked on with more confidence, heading for the ruins of the town wall which jutted out into the street. Last week, Alice – our Alice – had run straight past these ruins, on along the Key and into the derelict streets beyond; tonight, Balfour was keeping to the inner side of the wall. Houses were built on to the side of the wall and a narrow alley ran in front of them; I thought Balfour must be heading for the alley, but he went straight to the place where the first house jutted from the town wall. The wall was tumbledown here; stones had fallen away or been robbed out. There was even a suggestion of what might once have been a small fireplace.

  Balfour had his back to me; I shifted until I could see him in profile. He was removing stones from the wall at the bottom of the fireplace niche; bricks crumbled in his hands. And from behind the stones, he lifted out a large bag.

  It was obviously heavy; he seemed to weigh it in his hands. He brought it to his chest as if he was cradling it, like something precious.

  Kane said, ‘What the devil . . .?’

  Mrs Fletcher was strolling towards Balfour, although he had his back to her and hadn’t yet noticed her. But Kane was looking at the space beside Mrs Fletcher, at the shimmer forming in the air.

  I’ve always tried to step through where there are no people around, precisely to avoid causing the kind of stupefaction Kane was obviously experiencing. Alice plainly didn’t care. We saw the girl solidify. She was wearing a cloak but it swung open, and underneath she had only a white dress in some flimsy floaty material. Her golden hair and bright ribbons drifted in the breeze.

  Mrs Fletcher was plainly not expecting her. She stopped, said, ‘Alice! No!’