Airs and Graces (28 page)

The Gregsons’ shop was on fire.

A furnace of heat blew out of the open door; flame belched from the windows. A woman yelled a warning; we all scattered. Someone grabbed my arm. Hugh. I yelled above the roar of the fire and the shouts of the firefighters. ‘Balfour was in there!’

Hugh shook his head. ‘Behind you!’

I glanced round. Balfour was hanging over the edge of the bridge, coughing and spluttering, gasping for breath. ‘Spirits told me where he was!’ Hugh shouted. ‘He was already out of the shop when I got here.’

Balfour saw me, started gesticulating wildly, still coughing. Tears streamed down his cheeks; soot streaked his face. ‘Greg— Greg—’

‘Gregson did this?’

He nodded and hung over the edge of the bridge, retching.

All the neighbours had turned out and were ferrying buckets of water in chains along the bridge. Fleming, in his nightshirt, was directing operations, no doubt afraid the fire was going to spread to his shop. Women shepherded excited children out of danger.

I grabbed a bucket of water from a boy and threw it over the fire, reached for another. Then there was a great shrieking, rising above the shouting of the crowd. A woman’s scream. A roar so loud it seemed to come from hell itself. Everyone froze in panic; Fleming shouted, ‘The spirits. On the roof!’ We all stared up.

Two spirits clung to the roof slates. Flames leapt up around them; they looked like stars fading in the face of a full moon. The screaming went on and on, the roar seemed to merge with a great rumble—

Hugh hauled me back. An empty bucket clattered in his hand. ‘The house is going to go!’

He was right. The walls were leaning at an alarming angle, tilting back, away from the road, over the drop to the river. Roof slates started to slip. Great cracks shot down the façade of the building; a chunk of masonry fell in a flare of flame. The crowd scattered.

Two spirits on the roof – where were the other two? I scanned the facade of the house, yelled for Ned. Then I saw him, a faint gleam, low down, on a brick to the side of the door. The door was ablaze and the frame around it; old mortar crumbled, bricks flaked and blackened in the heat. The flames leapt up and for the moment I couldn’t see the spirit.

Slates cascaded down, bricks exploded and burst out at us. Then the walls toppled backwards and we heard a roar as the back of the house tumbled over the edge of the bridge. Water slapped up, drenching the crowd. Steam fountained. Then the rest of the house went, smashing down as the crowd scattered for safety. I heard the spirits scream.

And at the last moment, I leapt forward, wrapping my hand in the skirts of my greatcoat, and grabbed up a fragmenting brick and the pale gleam on it.

Thirty-Four

The night is almost as busy as the day!

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]

Even through the thickness of my greatcoat, I felt the scald of the brick and almost dropped it. Fleming seized a bucket of water from a neighbour; I dropped the brick in. The water fizzed and sizzled; steam blossomed.

The top corner of the brick poked out of the water. The spirit slid to the dry point. ‘He did it!’ he yelled. ‘He did it.’

‘The others are gone,’ Fleming said, staring at the ruins of the house.

The fire began to die down, smoke billowing and intermingling with the falling snow. The crowd formed chains again to throw water on what remained. Fleming was right – I could see nothing of the other spirits. At best they were amongst the wreckage at the bottom of the river, but I suspected that they’d evaporated in the flames. Fire is one of the few ways to be rid of a spirit before its natural dissolution takes it eighty or a hundred years after death; in a way, Gregson had just committed suicide, and taken his wife and daughter with him.

At least Ned had survived. Fleming was giving his apprentice instructions to keep the brick and bucket safe, but as soon as the lad tried to walk into Fleming’s shop with it, he staggered and almost dropped it. ‘It’s got heavier! I can’t carry it!’

Fleming took it from him and could barely lift it. I seized the handle too and between us, we dragged it back towards the burning house. It grew lighter with every step. We put it down on the street, in contact with one of the fallen piles of bricks from the shop.

‘A spirit can’t leave the place the living man died,’ Fleming said, in a low voice so Ned couldn’t hear. ‘But I thought the brick would suffice to represent the whole, so to speak. What are we to do?’

‘Build the brick into the wall of the new building, I suppose. Do you know what happened?’

Fleming shook his head. ‘My apprentice woke me. He’d heard Ned shouting for help. Between them, they probably saved the entire bridge.’

I pushed through the crowds to Balfour. He was still hanging over the edge of the bridge, hacking and retching, bent double with his hands at his throat, white as the ice on the river, with smudges of soot across his cheeks. One hand was scorched and reddened. He whispered, ‘The door handle was hot  . . .’

I gave Hugh a look and, between us, we got Balfour off the bridge and out of the crowd. Even the movement of walking made him cough and by the time we reached the end of the bridge, it was obvious he couldn’t get to his lodgings. We sat him down on the step of a house and waited until the coughing eased.

‘What happened?’ I asked when I thought he could answer.

‘The moment you were out the door.’ Balfour retched, dragged his handkerchief to his lips. ‘Came shrieking in.’

‘Gregson?’

He nodded. ‘Told the boy off for bringing in strangers – shouted – the boy was scared. I said I’d go  . . .’

‘But he didn’t let you?’

‘Ranted and  . . . raved.’ He was recovering. ‘Knocked the lantern over. It broke. The oil flooded on to the books. Went up—’

‘The place was full of paper,’ I said. ‘Ledgers, letters, wallpaper samples. Cloth too.’ And one of the shutters had been broken and letting in a strong draught to fan the flames.

‘I saw the spirits,’ Balfour said, ‘in the flames, burning  . . .’ He buried his head in his hands. Hugh gave me an exasperated look which I thought was unfair. ‘All of them lost  . . .’

At least I could reassure him on that point. ‘We managed to save the apprentice’s spirit.’

He stared at me, obviously confused. ‘The boy was saved?’ He seemed to slump. ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

Exhaustion abruptly overwhelmed me. Men milled around us, shouting for more water. One of the church clocks struck a single resounding note. ‘We all need some sleep.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Balfour protested.

‘I could,’ Hugh muttered.

‘I
couldn’t
sleep,’ Balfour repeated. ‘I can’t stop thinking  . . .’

He couldn’t let anything go, worried at every detail like a terrier at a rat. But I saw salvation approaching: Gale, obviously dressed in a hurry and bearing his bag. He spotted us at once, frowned at Balfour’s coughing, and headed our way in a businesslike manner. ‘Smoke,’ he said briskly. ‘It gets inside you and clogs you up. Now—’ And he opened his bag and started sorting through the powders and potions.

Hugh and I took our chance to escape, Hugh sniffing at his greatcoat. ‘Damn it, my clothes will stink of smoke for weeks.’

‘I’m going home,’ I said wearily. ‘Walk with me up Westgate.’

We trudged together through the silent snow, hearing it crunch beneath our feet. We passed St John’s church; Hugh said, ‘It’s been a trying day.’

‘Balfour?’

‘He’s refusing to do anything with the plans. Says they’ll have to be accepted as they are, or not at all. Walked out of a meeting with the Directors this evening. I had to spend hours calming them, then more time tracking him down.’

We were the only people in the street; behind the dancing snowflakes, the house windows were dark.

‘Fowler was shot,’ I said. ‘Heron shot him. And the intruder got away.’

Hugh stopped to stare at me. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m too tired for this. Tell me tomorrow. Is Fowler dead?’

‘Shoulder wound.’

I left Hugh at his rooms and went on home alone. The house was silent as I let myself in but George slid down the banister, whispering, ‘Is the fire out, Master?’

Of course he knew already; given the efficiency of the spirits’ message system, every spirit in town would know by now.

‘Nearly.’

‘And the spirits are dead?’

‘All but one.’

‘Yes, the apprentice. I’m glad about that, Master. People say all sorts of things about apprentices and it’s unkind.’

Having been an apprentice himself when he died, George knew what he was talking about.

I heard a footstep and looked up. Esther, in her nightgown and robe, hair loose about her shoulders, stood at the top of the stairs. She looked both anxious and relieved at the same time. George made a strangled, embarrassed noise and slid away into the inner recesses of the servants’ quarters. I went up the stairs; Esther cupped her hand against my cheek and kissed me softly. The weariness slipped out of me; I sighed with relief.

In the bedroom, I stripped off my filthy coat and related everything that had happened, from the disaster at Heron’s house to the fire on the bridge. In the light of a single candle, Esther propped herself up against the pillows in bed and listened carefully, occasionally posing a question or two when I was too terse.

‘You never saw the face of the intruder?’ she said at last.

I shook my head.

‘A pity. So still all you have is Alice’s word that this accomplice is Kane.’

‘Not even that,’ I admitted. ‘That’s merely my supposition, although in view of the fact he’s left town, I think it’s a good one.’

She trimmed the guttering candle. ‘Oh, for an independent witness!’

I was about to pull off my shirt – I paused, stared at her. ‘An independent witness?’ In the way that often happens when you’re tired, my mind skittered off in quite a different direction. Those antiquities. Hugh’s ring had been stolen and the widow living below had seen the fellow, even though she didn’t know what he’d done. I myself had seen the intruder at Heron’s house; I had my own evidence that I’d been attacked in the street.

But what evidence was there of the theft in Balfour’s room
?

Esther said, ‘Charles? What is it?’

I cursed. ‘I should have known there was something wrong – how could a casual thief find his way through that warren of rooms and passageways in the George! And nothing belonging to the George was damaged – the fellow didn’t even turn the mattress over. What kind of thief leaves the mattress untouched? More than that, we only have Balfour’s word there
was
a coin to steal!’

‘Balfour?’ Esther echoed, startled. ‘You think
he’s
the thief ?’

‘The intruder at Heron’s house was about the right size.’

‘But then—’ Esther shook her head. ‘He cannot have killed the Gregsons, Charles! Think of his own family background – his father’s death!’

‘But we only have his word for that too. Although, admittedly, I’m inclined to believe it.’ Something else occurred to me. ‘Mrs Fletcher showed me a letter Alice’s lover wrote – it was a dreadful scrawl. And he’s refusing to redo the plans!’

‘Charles,’ Esther said severely. ‘You are rambling!’

‘I found some cuttings in Alice’s trunk. Where the devil did I put them  . . .’

I scrabbled through the bits and pieces on the dressing table. Somewhere I’d put those cuttings – heavens, almost a week ago! Here they were; I disentangled dog-eared corners and crumpled folds, angled the paper to catch the feeble candlelight. Esther stretched to read over my shoulder. ‘This refers to something Balfour built in Deal in Kent –
small assembly rooms
–
delightful design, the chandeliers sparkling wonderfully
 . . .’

I turned the cutting over. A scribbled note on the back said simply
Gazette, 20 July 1717
. ‘Twenty years ago. How old would you say Balfour is? Thirty? Would he be designing buildings at the age of ten? He’s an impostor!’

I paced about the room. ‘According to Heron, Balfour initially refused to come north. That was the
real
Balfour. Then he purportedly changed his mind. An elderly man – or middle-aged at least, if he was working on his own twenty years ago. What if this fellow – Hitchings or ‘Richard’ or whatever his name is – found out that the real Balfour wasn’t coming and seized the opportunity to impersonate him?’

‘So he could follow Alice, presumably.’

‘As for the fire tonight,’ I said. ‘We’ve only Balfour’s word that Gregson started it. Balfour did it himself !’

‘Why?’

‘The letter book,’ I said. ‘Balfour was looking through it when I stepped through to the other world. Maybe he found something in there about his alliance with Alice.’

Esther was shaking her head. ‘You do have an independent witness to the fire, Charles. The apprentice’s spirit.
He
said Gregson did it.’

I stared at her in the flickering candlelight. Thinking of the moment Ned’s spirit had slid to the top of the brick and shouted:
He did it, he did it.
‘He was referring to Balfour,’ I said, and then the horror of it properly struck me. ‘If Balfour
did
set that fire, then Ned’s the sole witness to what happened! And I’ve left him alone on that bridge!’

I grabbed my coat and ran.

Thirty-Five

A villain will never allow himself to be apprehended, if he has any other choice.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]

I got a stitch running down Westgate and had to slow to a limping walk. I was right, I
knew
I was. I remembered how cheerful Balfour had been after the inquest, how he’d gone out and got drunk, and whored all night – he must have been relieved Alice was officially blamed for the murders, and no one suspected there was an accomplice!

The snow was drifting down in a half-hearted fashion. I turned into the Side, tried to run down the slope, slipped and had to grab hold of a window sill to keep myself upright. I might be too late already. Perhaps I should find a spirit and send a warning to Ned. But he was stuck on one small brick in a bucket and there was nowhere for him to go – how could he defend himself ?