Airs and Graces (17 page)

‘People say he bankrupted himself over it.’

He pursed up his lips. ‘Maybe. I’ve heard say he was planning to run from his creditors and set the fire to cover it up. Doesn’t seem logical to me.’

Nor to me, I reflected. ‘Who did the work?’

‘Gregson,’ he said promptly. ‘I was thinking of having some work done myself and kept an eye on the workmen. They were good, but from what Threlkeld told me, Gregson charged for everything three times over.’

‘Did Threlkeld argue with anyone?’

‘He tried,’ he said, with a wry grin. ‘But we all knew it wasn’t worth arguing back. We let him say his piece and just said,
yes, William, no, William
. He had a go at everyone in the street one time or another. We none of us held it against him – now and again, he did us a favour by pointing something out. You can live with a man who grumbles a little.’ He gave me that rueful smile again. ‘I’m used to it.’

I took it he was referring to his sister. ‘Did he have any servants?’

He shook his head. ‘He nagged so much none would stay. A woman came in during the day to clean and cook, but she was a soldier’s wife and went off some time back. Probably fighting the Frenchies by now.’

A pity. I would have liked to talk to her. ‘Can I have a word with your maid?’

He laughed. ‘You can if you can find her. Took herself off to find somewhere better. Said she didn’t like the stink of beer.’

‘What about her young man? Did he go with her?’

‘Oh, he’s still about,’ the landlord said. ‘Knew better than to lose a good place. He’s an apprentice at the deal yard. That’s what she liked about him,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘All those muscles from sawing up wood! Lemuel Atkinson, he’s called.’ He got up. ‘And talking of work, I’d better get back to it.’

I left him counting up his barrels.

The other neighbours were less reticent in their speculations about the fire. The woman who ran the lodging house on one corner of the street insisted six men had leapt out of the mercer’s windows in bursts of flame, carrying unimaginable treasure. The cheesemonger on the opposite corner enjoyed himself expiating at length on the faults of the mercer before piously saying, ‘Well, mustn’t talk ill of the dead.’ A hairdresser above the cheese-mongers said he was away the night of the fire but had heard
exactly
what had happened, but his story didn’t match the landlord’s, whom I rather trusted. And the wig maker who shared the hairdresser’s premises said she’d slept through it all but knew for a fact the mercer had kept a branch of six candles which he’d knocked over, setting his bed on fire.

I went in search of the apprentice.

Mr Usher’s deal yard is a large place, employing a considerable number of men. In the middle is a large warehouse which is sometimes used as a makeshift theatre; I performed in it myself this past June, in Race Week. In hot weather, the smell of freshly-sawn wood is almost overpowering; in winter, only the faintest whiff of it came to me on the icy air. The yard had been swept clear of snow, which lay in grimy piles around the walls of the buildings; men were stacking and turning wood, manning the saw pits, loading seasoned timber on to carts. Many of them wore only thin shirts and breeches, and were still sweating with effort.

I accosted a man and asked him if Lemuel Atkinson was at work. He directed me to a small hut in one corner of the yard; inside, I found a young man totting up figures in an account book. The landlord was right – Atkinson was a fine figure of a young man, not particularly tall but strongly built, and with bright chestnut hair falling about his shoulders.

I introduced myself. ‘I’m told you were one of those who tried to put the fire out at the mercer’s last year.’

He sat up, a little defiant. ‘I don’t hide the fact.’

‘I was wondering if you would tell me about it.’

‘Is there any problem?’

‘No.’

‘No one’s ever said I did anything wrong.’

I wondered if he was always so defensive. ‘I’m involved with the plans for the new Assembly Rooms on the site and I’m merely making sure nothing’s been overlooked. Some of the neighbours are convinced there was something untoward about the fire.’

He seemed to relax, laughed. ‘Their kind always look for excitement!’

I smiled back. ‘Six men leaping out of the windows, brandishing swords  . . .’

‘I was there,’ he said scornfully. ‘The
first
one there. There was no one inside but the mercer.’

‘I suppose you were warned when you saw the flames?’

He shook his head. ‘Heard the glass break.’ He reddened, said awkwardly, ‘I was –
visiting
someone at the tavern next door. When I heard glass, I thought someone was trying to get in. So I looked out of the window and that’s when I saw the flames.’

‘The glass shattered with the heat of the fire, I suppose.’

‘It was well alight.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing anyone could do, except keep it from spreading.’

‘That must have been hard work. Did you know the mercer?’

‘If anyone says I set fire to the place, he’s lying!’

I considered him for a moment; he dropped his gaze and fidgeted with his quill. ‘I presume the mercer had said something sharp to you about visiting the maid.’

He went a fiery red. ‘Stupid old man. I don’t suppose a woman ever looked at him once in his life!’

‘Then all the more credit to you for fighting the fire,’ I said, ‘when you didn’t have very charitable feelings towards him.’

His face was still flaming; he said, ‘He was a interfering old idiot.’ At that moment, he looked absurdly young; he added, almost resentfully, ‘Not a nice way to die.’

He was right.

I walked back out into the yard, musing on what Atkinson had told me, and almost walked into Mr Usher himself; he was dressed in his best and had his psalm book in his hand. ‘Just off to my sister’s wedding,’ he said, with a sly grin. ‘Never thought we’d get her off our hands.’ Mr Usher’s in his early sixties and his sister’s not much younger. ‘Were you looking for me? I’m willing to talk if you’ll walk with me.’

I fell into step beside him; we turned out of the yard, on to the snowy cobbles of the street. ‘I wanted to ask about Threlkeld, the mercer. He had work done on his house last year and I was wondering if you did it.’

Usher chuckled. ‘I did. That was a very profitable job. A houseproud man, William Threlkeld. Had a passion about draughts, I recall – had us running all over the house filling up mouseholes. As if you can ever get rid of draughts!’

‘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?’