Airs and Graces (27 page)

So now all I had to do was persuade every villain I could find to step in the snow and compare the footprints.

Or  . . .

I pondered.
Could
it have been a woman? A woman may fire a pistol as well as a man, as Esther can prove. The intruder had been rather tall for a woman, but the second Alice – the one I’d met briefly in that other world –
she
’
d
been tall.

I stood in the chill night, with the snow gleaming around me, and cursed. No further forward, and Fowler was hurt. Not a good night’s work. And all the worse for being predictable.

When I pushed the window open into the house, servants were milling around. Fowler, half-conscious, was propped sitting against a chair, and the only person acting with any sense was a middle-aged housekeeper in nightgown and robe, with a grey braid of hair down her back, who was directing the other servants with confident authority. A bowl of reddened water lay at Fowler’s side; the housekeeper was pressing a pad of blood-soaked cloth to his left shoulder, close to the junction with his neck.

My arm was taken in a vice-like grip; Heron pulled me aside. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

Reluctantly, I shook my head. ‘About my height, slender, young, I think.’ I told him about the footprints. He listened with that look of detached coolness settling back on his face. In front of servants, Heron would never be anything but the calm, restrained master; there would never be even a moment’s weakness displayed.

Gale arrived and took charge, examining Fowler, then insisting he be carried to his bed. Heron disposed of the milling servants with a few curt words. We were left alone in the library, and Heron poured brandy into two large glasses and threw back one of them in a single draught.

I bent to pick up Fowler’s pistol which had fallen behind a chair. I’d heard three shots, one alone, then two close together. From my position behind the sofa, I’d been able to gauge the different directions of the shots; I turned, trying to remember exactly what I’d heard. The first shot had been close to me; that was the intruder. Then the other two shots close together; that was Fowler and Heron. Fowler first from the left, then Heron. By that time, the intruder had already been running back towards the window.

I held up a candle to the wainscoting behind the curtain to the left of the window. It took some time to find where the shot had hit; I dug around in the hole with the letter opener and prised out a flattened pistol ball. The intruder had missed Fowler. Then I stood where Fowler had and looked across the room, aiming an imaginary pistol. And dear God, there was Fowler’s shot – embedded in the back of the sofa behind which I’d been hiding! Blood smeared across the satin upholstery. Fowler’s boast was good; he’d not missed, even though he had not incapacitated the intruder.

All of which meant that the third shot, the one that hit Fowler  . . .

Heron had been watching me, bleakly. He poured himself more brandy. ‘The fellow was heading back towards the window when I fired,’ he said. ‘I missed him.’ He spoke with a curious blank finality.

I reached for my brandy. Heron tossed back his second glass. I was desperately trying to think what to say.
These things happen? You weren’t to blame
?
Neither was true, nor untrue. Accidents do happen, but this had been a risky business from the start.

‘And for what?’ Heron said bitterly. ‘Nothing. He got away.’

Fowler’s blood was sticky underfoot. ‘For the moment,’ I said. Tomorrow I’d ride out to Shields. I’d probably be too late but in this weather there must be a chance that whatever ship Kane had found had not yet sailed.

Heron poured still more brandy. He didn’t look at me. ‘You had better go. Mrs Patterson will be worried.’

I hesitated. Leaving Heron alone at this moment seemed the most unwise thing I was ever likely to do, but I couldn’t find a good reason to stay, or anything to say that would in the slightest console him for what had happened. I nodded. ‘Send me a message to let me know how Fowler does.’

He said nothing and I let myself out of the house.

Thirty-Three

They are great ones for correspondence, which I particularly appreciate. I have any number of correspondents, some of whom write to me every day. And that is only the ladies  . . .

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]

Snow was falling in a silent still cloud, flakes drifting down around me, muffling sounds and blurring the houses on either side of Northumberland Street. The whores had taken themselves indoors and only a couple of drunks stumbled along in the snow, arms affectionately around each other. St Nicholas’s church clock struck midnight.

I walked down the central strip of road, where a thin veil of snow was beginning to settle on top of the cobbles again. The intruder must have cut out into the middle of the street so his footsteps couldn’t be seen, but there was a chance he might have taken a side turning, into one of the alleys where the snow was thicker. I looked for fresh prints as I passed each alley, hoping perhaps to see a trace of blood as well – but there was nothing.

Northumberland Street became Pilgrim Street and sloped down towards the river. It was more exposed here; the old snow had lingered longer and there were several tracks. Two sets of footprints close together – a small pair and a larger – turned into Silver Street going towards All Hallows’ church. Two other sets of larger prints went past Silver Street, and headed down Butcher Bank.

The steep slope of the Bank was treacherous. Under the newly falling snow, the old slush had frozen. Twice my feet went out from under me and I skidded, arms flailing, before regaining my balance. One of the sets of footprints stopped at a house door; there was a muddled patch on the threshold as if someone had stamped his feet to get the snow off his shoes before going indoors. Which left one more set of prints going on down the Bank, towards the Sandhill.

Where, of course, the passing of carts had obliterated all the previous snow, and no footprints at all were visible.

The flat Sandhill was easier to negotiate than Butcher Bank, even with the new snow falling. On the far side, the Guildhall was a dark hulk; beneath its columns, the open fish market was deserted. Behind the Guildhall was the slope up to the bridge and as I paused to draw in a long breath of icy air, I realized the bridge wasn’t deserted. Faint lantern light shimmered through the snow, and touched a figure staring at the Gregsons’ shop.

As I came up to him, Balfour looked round. He was huddled in his greatcoat, hands in pockets. ‘I suppose Demsey told you I’d walked out on the Directors?’ he said, straight away, with some belligerence. ‘I couldn’t face another meeting about those damn Rooms. I wish I’d never accepted the commission.’ He shifted his shoulders in his coat as if trying to make himself comfortable. ‘I can’t get out of my head what happened here last night. The spirit was so angry  . . .’

I repressed a feeling of impatience. After all that had happened – was happening – Balfour could think of nothing but himself. ‘Like your father, no doubt?’

‘He insulted my mother all the time – allowed her no peace at all. And I was constantly told in no uncertain terms what a fool I was and how I’d never amount to anything! Yet, if anyone called, he’d be the most courteous and gracious of hosts. I think that was the worst thing – that no one else understood what it was like.’

I was shivering violently in the cold. ‘Go home,’ I recommended.

‘What time is it?’

‘Gone midnight.’

He laughed in amazement. ‘I’d no idea I’d been here so long! Did you come to look at the house?’

I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Perhaps I
had
deliberately come here without realizing it. I remembered Ned saying Alice had been eager to look at Gregson’s letter book, into which he’d copied his letters to the lawyers in London. If there’d been a lover in the offing, perhaps something might have been said about him. I fished the key out of my pocket and whispered for Ned. The spirit came at once and was pathetically pleased for the company. ‘He’s still upstairs,’ he whispered. ‘Hasn’t said a word for hours.’

He was less happy about the idea of my coming in but I promised to be as quick and quiet as possible. I lifted down one of the lanterns, so I didn’t have to spend time lighting the candles in the shop, and gave it to Balfour to hold as I fumbled the key with my cold fingers.

‘Do you think there’ll be something about the accomplice’s identity in the letters?’ Balfour whispered.

‘I know his identity,’ I whispered back, ‘but some solid evidence would be helpful.’

‘You know who he is!’ He started at the sound of his own voice, and guiltily lowered it again. ‘Who?’

I pushed the door open. ‘The thief-taker from London.’

His mouth formed a soundless whistle. ‘Have the Watch got him?’

‘Unfortunately he’s run off.’

The room was like an ice-house; light from the lantern flickered over the shutters, the pale walls and the battered once-elegant furniture, reflected from the fragments of glass that still littered the floor. Ned’s spirit was on the counter, just sliding over the other edge.

There were no sounds from upstairs.

I wasn’t going to linger here any longer than I had to. I hurried round the counter and saw the spirit hovering on one of the thick ledgers on the shelf below. ‘This one!’ it whispered. The book was at the bottom of a pile of three ledgers; I lifted them off, opened the letter book at random on the top of the counter. ‘Bring the lantern closer.’

Obediently, Balfour held the lantern over my head and peered at the book with me. ‘That’s dated last year – January.’

I rifled through more pages: April, June, September. When was any correspondence likely to have taken place? I turned to the last entries in the book and started to work my way backwards. Most of the letters were to customers, dealing with the cost of wallpaper and fabrics, of shipping furniture from London. References to orders and payments. Ned’s spirit hung on the edge of one of the ledgers and I wondered whether to say anything about Fowler. The lad was bound to hear of it sooner or later from the spirits’ network; if I told him now I could at least reassure him that Fowler wasn’t badly hurt.

If only I knew that for certain. Even flesh wounds can turn bad.

I found a letter to the lawyers at last but it was uninformative.

Further to my letter of 21st inst. November, I agree to your terms. Under protest. Send the wench home.

Balfour muttered in protest. ‘How can any man write that of his own daughter?’

The letter of 21st November was not much better.

I have received your letter of the 10th inst. and your enclosures. I’am not surprised to hear that her aunt will not have her to stay any longer; she’s an expensive fool. I am not made of money, sir – she’ll
have board and lodging, why should she want an allowance as well? I won’t do it and you may tell her so.

I had to go back to September to find another letter about Alice, and this was even briefer and less sympathetic.

So my brother’s dead, is he? Well, I suppose his wife will have some peace now.

‘He didn’t like his brother,’ Ned explained unnecessarily.

I shut the book up and walked away. ‘This is useless!’

‘No, no.’ Balfour opened the book again. ‘There must be
something
here!’

He leafed through the pages. I paced about the room, rubbing my arms against the cold. Gregson had been uncompromising in his dismissal of his daughter’s expensive habits – surely he’d have said something equally cutting if an unsuitable lover had been in the offing. It would be a rare father who would forgive his daughter an illicit alliance, and Gregson was not that father. Moreover, he had another daughter on the verge of making a good match; he’d not want anything to reflect badly on her.

The broken shutter was hanging loose and I went across to anchor it more firmly. The door had been left ajar and I opened it. The snow blew in. ‘We’d better go.’

‘No!’ Ned whispered piteously. ‘It’s so lonely here!’

And then it happened again. One moment, it was pitch black outside, the next it was daylight – a thin strained light under heavy cloud. As I shivered, I saw a man driving three sheep across the bridge, a dog dancing at their heels to keep them moving; outside the house opposite, a carter was loosely holding the reins of his horse and chatting to an attractive young maid. I was in the other world again. And watching a woman trying to negotiate the narrow gap between cart and sheep, apparently in a hurry.

I only saw her from behind but I was certain it was the same woman. Tall, elegant, dark hair dressed fashionably. I called out, ‘Miss Gregson! Alice!’

The woman hesitated, then hurried on. The carter turned to give me a knowing look. I started after her, feeling a sense of time repeating itself. This was how it had been on Sunday, when I’d walked out of the shop. I called again, tried to dodge the sheep. Another woman was waiting at the end of the bridge: a slighter woman, with white skirts showing beneath her cloak. Blonde hair in ringlets, with ribbons and lace threaded through the curls. The other Alice –
our
Alice – and she had the audacity to raise a hand and wave cheerfully at me!

The sheepdog snapped at my feet; I was ready to kick it out of the way but its master called it off.

When I looked up, the women had gone.

Cursing, I rubbed my eyes. It was clearly afternoon in this world, but it was the early hours of the morning in my own world, and I’d been up too long. I needed sleep. Tomorrow I’d get up early and see if I could get through the snow to Shields. If I could confront Kane with what I already knew, perhaps I could get a true story out of him.

I straightened, aware of a smell of burning. Smoke seemed to drift around me. If there was a fire, chaos would break out and I certainly didn’t want to get involved in something like that. Not in
this
world. I took a step back, reaching for my own world. Night folded around me; snow drifted into my face  . . .

Someone violently knocked me aside. I slipped, grabbed at the wall of Fleming’s shop. There was chaos
here
, in
this
world, people milling around, shouting, yelling for action. Buckets of water were being tossed from man to man – one slopped its contents over my feet. Smoke billowed over me. I started choking and coughing—