Airs and Graces (19 page)

‘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 protecting 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 c
hirpy
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 disembodiment, 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.

It was too cold to be standing in the street. I made an excuse about wanting to see if my wife was better and took my leave. I wasn’t sure Balfour knew I’d gone; he was still muttering and grumbling as he went into the alley that led to the inn.

I detoured briefly to the Cloth Market and the proposed site of the new Rooms. Heron’s workmen were still there, although they weren’t doing much work; one picked at the earth bank on the far side of the site with the corner of a spade, but the rest were enjoying beer from the tavern next door. There was no sign of Heron himself.

As soon as I entered the house, I could hear the harpsichord being played in the music room at the back of the house. If Esther was playing, and a lively piece at that, she must be feeling a great deal better. I was right; she looked up with a smile as I paused in the doorway. There was more colour in her cheeks; she’d done her hair in a particularly fashionable style, and was wearing one of her newest gowns.