Airs and Graces (16 page)

I leapt up and started pacing about the room. ‘They can’t have. The coins could only have been found during work on the cellar and Gregson’s men wouldn’t go down there – no one decorates their cellars! That sounds much more like
building
work. I wonder if Threlkeld had any repairs done first.’

‘But if that box did contain ancient coins found in the course of building work,’ Esther mused, ‘how did Gregson get his hands on them? Did Threlkeld offer them in lieu of payment? He surely would not have simply given them away.’

I stared at her, beginning to feel very uneasy. ‘A spirit in the tavern next door told me there was something unnatural about the fire. Everyone assumed the mercer was bankrupt and trying to do a midnight flit. But suppose—’ I took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Fletcher told me her father was a violent man.’

Esther’s eyes widened. ‘You are suggesting that Samuel Gregson attacked the mercer, stole the coins, then set the fire to hide the fact? And then he took the coins home and simply left them in open view in the cellar?’

‘In a money box which he knew, or believed, his family wouldn’t touch.’ I threw back my brandy. ‘It looks like he could have been a murderer too.’

Esther contemplated her glass. ‘That’s a wild theory, Charles.’

It was, but now I’d thought of it, I couldn’t let it go. ‘I wish I could talk to the apprentice’s spirit. He might know more about the box and what was in it. I can’t understand why the spirits are taking so long to disembody.’

‘That doesn’t usually bode well,’ Esther agreed. The brandy was bringing colour back to her cheeks; she looked at the macaroons consideringly as if wondering whether to take another. I went off on another tack.

‘If the antiquities
are
the object of the thefts,’ I said, ‘What does the thief plan to do with them? Such things can’t be spent.’

‘The thief could be a collector.’

I thought fleetingly of Heron – no, I couldn’t see him sneaking into Balfour’s room at the George and ransacking the place. Actually, that theft had been particularly foolish; if the thief had taken only the ancient coin, Balfour might not have missed it for some time. Ransacking the room simply drew attention to the theft. But then our murderer didn’t seem a careful thinker.

I went back to the main point. ‘The thief might
know
a collector. Or might simply plan to melt the coins down.’

Esther reached for another macaroon.

‘Alice must have found the coins when she came back to the town,’ I mused. ‘She told her accomplice – her lover – when he followed her.’

Esther nibbled genteelly on the macaroon. ‘That coin you found in the snow – perhaps that was a sample she took to show him?’

That sounded very possible. I paced again. ‘The thief might have found the coin in my pocket by chance when he went for the keys to Gregson’s shop. As for Hugh’s ring, he was showing it to anyone who asked. And any servant in the George could have seen the coin on Balfour’s mantelpiece and mentioned it casually to someone else, or in the thief’s hearing.’

‘If the thief, or thieves, want to melt them down,’ Esther said, ‘the Watch will know the likeliest places they would be taken.’

I nodded. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s what they’re doing. If they wanted to melt them down, one or two stray coins would be neither here nor there. But a collector would want every coin he could lay his hands on. And it’s unlikely you’d melt down a ring.’

I pounded my fist against the mantelshelf. ‘Nothing, but
nothing
, alters the fact that the victims were all asleep when they were killed.
They were no threat
. Why should they be killed?’

I straightened the ornaments on the mantelshelf, then unstraightened them again.

‘Charles,’ Esther said patiently. ‘There is no point in repeatedly going over the same ground. You are tired. Let us think of something else.’

I looked at her. At her fair hair shimmering in the candlelight, the curve of neck and shoulder. The amused look in her eyes.

‘It’s late,’ I said.

She giggled. ‘Charles, it’s only eight o’clock.’ As if to emphasize her point, the clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour.

‘Very late,’ I said and took her hand.

I came down to breakfast the following morning feeling much refreshed, if a trifle guilty about not having gone out to attend the disembodiment. Nothing could have happened, however, or McLintoch would have sent a message. There was indeed a note resting on the salver at the bottom of the stairs, but I knew at once who
that
was from.

This time, it said:
I didn’t kill them.

I turned the note over in my fingers. Why was Alice sending me these messages? If she meant to be helpful, there were better ways. These notes came over as merely taunting. I remembered the girl who’d tempted me into the other world, her insolent mischievous look. I felt I was being manipulated.

I was hardly in the breakfast room before George came rushing in. ‘Message for you, Master. From Mr McLintoch. He just says
no news yet
.’

‘Thank you, George. Could you send a message to Mr Heron’s house? To his manservant, Fowler. Ask if I could speak to him sometime today.’

‘Yes, Master!’

The spirit rushed out of the room again; its cooperative mood clearly lingered. I poured myself coffee and took some eggs. Esther was still asleep so I presumed I’d be alone for breakfast. She seemed worse in the mornings, so it was good she was sleeping so well for once. I cast a glance at the window. The clouds were low and grey; the garden was blanketed in thick snow. Nothing had changed; it was plainly impossible to get out into the country. I had a whole day to dedicate to this affair.

George was back before I’d had a chance to work my way through my first dish of coffee. The spirit looked very bright; it said nervously, ‘Master – do you want me to repeat the
exact
words Mr Fowler used?’

‘The general gist will do.’

The spirit was plainly relieved. ‘He says he does have a job to do and do you think he can jump to it the minute you ask? He says he’ll see you at noon.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘In the Old Man Inn, Master.’

Trust Fowler to pick the most disreputable tavern in town.

Esther was not awake before I left; I scribbled a note saying I’d try to get home in the early afternoon, and went off to fit as much as I could into the day.

The part of the town to the west of the Sandhill, close upon the ruins of the town wall, is relatively little frequented, although there were some footprints to be seen in the snow: a tribe of children had run through recently, and a dog, besides the ever present spider-like tracks of small birds. But no one had gone into the alley that led to the derelict court. The spirit let me get well into the alley before sliding down a drainpipe to flicker, evilly green, in front of my nose.

‘Get out!’ she said stridently. ‘I won’t have you in here!’

Shivering, the cold biting at my nose and ears, I lounged against the wall. ‘What are you going to do? Cry
rape
again? What’s the point? No one came last time.’

‘No one ever comes,’ the spirit said contemptuously. ‘They hear a woman scream and they just laugh.’

‘Is that why you’re protecting Alice Gregson?’

‘I ain’t protecting her. She ain’t here.’

‘Not now,’ I agreed. ‘But she was last Saturday night. And you
knew
she was here. More than that, you knew she was
going
to be here.’

The spirit said nothing, clinging to a broken length of guttering.

‘She never stayed an entire night, in a derelict house, with no fire, in the middle of the coldest part of the winter, in heavily falling snow, without some sort of protection,’ I pointed out. ‘She probably didn’t expect the snow, but she’d certainly have known it was going to be an extremely cold night. At the very least, she must have had blankets.’

Still nothing from the spirit. I huddled in my greatcoat, and wondered why Alice should have stayed here at all when she could simply have stepped through to safety in the other world.

‘She would have brought those blankets here earlier,’ I said, ‘perhaps some food too. You must have seen her while she was making her preparations, and
she
must have been confident you wouldn’t give her away. You only told the Watch about her when someone directly questioned you, when she was long gone and it no longer mattered. Why are you protecting her?’

‘Why not!’ the spirit burst out, the guttering creaking. ‘Do you know what Samuel Gregson was like?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘How do
you
know?’

But the spirit had recovered its composure. ‘I don’t have to tell you nothing,’ it said, sulkily. ‘Anyhow, it wouldn’t count if I did. Judges don’t take no notice of spirits.’

That was unfortunately true; spirits can’t give evidence in a court of law, perhaps because there’s no means to penalize them if they lie.

I leant back against the wall feeling, unexpectedly, pity. Spirits like company as much as living men, and this spirit patently had none in this derelict place. There was talk of tearing these streets down – what would happen to the spirit then? Spirits evicted from their place of death have a hard time of it. Some have been known to make the transition to a new building on the site without any problem; others disappear without trace. Old spirits and new have the most trouble: spirits on the verge of final dissolution, or spirits not well established.

‘Four people have died,’ I said, at last. ‘Not only Samuel Gregson but his wife and daughter and an apprentice as well. Innocents who deserved a chance at life. Whatever you thought of Gregson himself, surely you can have pity on them.’

The spirit shrieked with bitter laughter. ‘Pity! When did they ever have pity on me! Samuel Gregson was the foulest, nastiest, unkindest, most filthy-minded, miserly, miserable man that ever lived. And his wife wasn’t much better. I’m glad they’re dead!’

It shifted, rapidly. I heard a loud creak, then a snap. I had a moment’s warning, enough to step back smartly out of the way. Then a portion of the rotten gutter came rocketing down, four or five huge slates with it. They smashed against the wall on the way down and shattered; a fragment flew off and stung my cheek.

I shouted up into the derelict eaves. ‘I know she had a lover! Did
he
kill them?’

There was no reply. The spirit had gone.

It was unwise to linger. I left the alley, hurrying past the debris in case any more slates came crashing down on my head.

At least I’d learned one thing – or had my suspicions confirmed, at any rate. Samuel Gregson was not an innocent victim; his dealings began to seem murky in the extreme. His misdeeds could not justify his murder but they might explain it.

I needed to know more.

Twenty

There are few things more enjoyable than a disaster – you will find the English react very little differently from us in this regard.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 21 January 1737]

The small room at the back of the tavern stank overwhelmingly of beer. And pickles – two shelves were laden with home preserves. The landlord looked up from his contemplation of an array of barrels, a spare man with thin dark hair receding from his unlined forehead, and straggling over his shoulders. He wore a stained apron over an old shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and looked relieved to be interrupted.

‘She’s away for the day,’ he said.

‘Wife?’

‘Sister.’ He gave me a rueful smile. ‘Runs my life. Mind you, I let her. Easier that way. You’re Mr Patterson, aren’t you? Saw you yesterday looking at the ruins next door.’

‘I’m helping with the plans for the Assembly Rooms.’

‘Reckon I’ll get more custom if that goes ahead,’ he said.

‘You must have been worried when the fire broke out.’

He nodded. ‘Middle of the night. And the maid comes screeching in to say we’re all going to be burned in our beds.’ He grinned. ‘Must have given her a shock, given what she was doing. She thought we didn’t know she had a young man in, silly girl.’

‘So the maid was – er –
entertaining
her young man, and they smelt the fire?’

‘Give the lad credit,’ he said, sitting down on top of one of the barrels. ‘He put his clothes back on and stayed to put out the fire. The whole street turned out, of course. Lucky there was a bit of a wind and it was blowing away from us.’

‘You couldn’t save the mercer?’

He sighed. ‘Reckon the smoke got him in his sleep. At least he’d have known nothing about it.’ He gave me a shrewd look. ‘Think there’s something odd about it, do you?’ Perhaps my expression gave me away; he added, ‘There aren’t many who don’t know your name, Mr Patterson, and haven’t heard you’ve found out a few villains this past year.’

I wasn’t entirely sure I appreciated that kind of notoriety. ‘Do you know how the fire started?’

‘William Threlkeld,’ he said, ‘was just about the most annoying neighbour a man could have. Always coming in to tell you your lantern was out, or a roof tile about to fall off, or the gutter was loose, or you weren’t supposed to put barrels out in the street. Lived on his own all his life, and got fussier as the years went by.’

‘Not the sort of man to leave a candle burning carelessly?’

He shook his head. ‘He was particular about everything. Checked the windows and doors were locked three or four times every night.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘Oh no,’ he said, wryly. ‘You’ll not get me guessing. I’m just telling you what I know of the fellow. Make your own mind up from that.’

I perched on a barrel under the shelf of pickles. ‘Did he have many visitors, other than customers?’

‘Not much of a man for friends, poor soul. Went out to the Literary Club every Thursday night but I never saw anyone come here. Spent most of his time beautifying his shop and house. He liked his home comforts.’

‘I heard he’d just had the place redecorated before the fire.’

The landlord nodded. ‘Had some work done on the roof, and other bits and pieces. Then had the place painted and papered to within an inch of its life.’