Airs and Graces (3 page)

She was not, of course.

Three

Mind you, all the grand ladies and gentlemen can be as prosy as anything when it comes to their pet subjects: religion, and the rule of law.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 17 January 1737]

‘The child saw nothing,’ Esther said as we strolled along the Key towards All Hallows’ church the following morning. The snow was thick and crisp and we had to concentrate on keeping our footing. I’d suggesting hiring a chair, but Esther was feeling unwell again and wanted fresh air. We were early of course, as I was playing the organ for the morning service. At least it had stopped snowing, although the sky was still grey.

‘She was sleeping in the attic,’ Esther continued, ‘and woke thinking she heard someone calling her name. She thought it was her grandfather – he often cannot sleep, apparently.’ Her face darkened. ‘She’s young, Charles, but she knew straight away they were dead.’ She nodded at an acquaintance in a carriage.

‘Did she tell you anything else of interest?’

‘She heard the front door open but cannot remember when. It could have been much earlier, when she first went to bed. And she didn’t like her aunt – Alice evidently sneered at her for being silly.’

All Hallows’ church stands on a hill raised above the Key, approached either by a steep hill or a flight of steps, both very slippery on this day. Esther stopped to take a breather, and a young couple with a baby passed us.

‘I do not understand,’ she said. ‘What in heaven’s name could make a girl stab her parents, her sister, and an innocent boy!’

Alice was twenty-three years old, I reflected, hardly a girl. ‘For the money, I presume. To get back to London. What puzzles me more is how she found the strength to do it. And why in the middle of the night? Why didn’t she wait until this morning when everyone went off to church? She could plead illness, stay at home, take the money and be away an hour or more before anyone got back.’

‘She is plainly a silly spoilt young woman.’

‘No one can be
that
silly,’ I protested. ‘Why kill at all? They were all
asleep
– no threat whatsoever!’

The congregation in church was plentiful, although the weather had plainly kept the invalids and elderly indoors. Hugh sat at the back of the church and winked as we walked past. A tall thin man of about thirty years old sat beside him; Esther whispered, ‘Is that the architect?’

‘For the new Assembly Rooms? I think so. Hugh’s looking after him while he’s in town.’

Fleming was in a pew halfway down the church, with the little girl, Judith, between him and his wife. The child looked bewildered and confused; Mrs Fleming kept patting her consolingly on the shoulder. And that was another mystery – why kill everyone else without pity but leave the child? She’d nearly foiled the killer’s escape. I left Esther in our pew and climbed the stairs to the organ loft, to play the voluntary while the rest of the congregation came in. And to brood.

At the end of the service, Esther waited for me inside the church porch as usual; by the time I’d collected my music together and negotiated the worn steps down from the organ loft, she was conversing with Hugh and the London architect, whose name, I gathered, was John Balfour. He was a stiff man, with a stiff bow; he wore his own mousy hair loose and his clothes were neat rather than in the latest fashion.

‘Is this the first time you have been in Newcastle?’ Esther asked.

Balfour bowed. He looked strained, as if he hadn’t slept properly.

‘Staying at the George,’ Hugh said, ‘courtesy of the Directors of the Assembly Rooms. Had a dreadful journey north. Came by boat to Shields.’

Hugh sounded rather too cheerful about this; I said diplomatically. ‘I’m sympathetic; four or five years ago, I had a rough sea journey coming back from London.’

Balfour cleared his throat. ‘The weather was inclement.’ His voice was light and a little hoarse.

‘I hope you were not
too
indisposed,’ Esther said.

‘In bed two days,’ Hugh said with indecent relish.

‘But you are better now, I hope?’

Balfour bowed.

‘Everybody’s very much looking forward to the new Rooms,’ I said, wondering if it would simply be better to let Balfour retreat to his bed. First Philips, now Balfour – and Esther was sickening too. Winter is always an unhealthy time of year. I glanced at Esther’s pale face. She had not been eating very much recently, and had complained of feeling queasy. Perhaps I ought to insist she consult an apothecary?

‘Except for Charles.’ Hugh said to Balfour, ‘Charles is the musical director of the concert series.’

Balfour looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure the rooms will be suitable for concerts.’

‘My point exactly,’ I said, dryly.

‘The design’s based on the Rooms in York, apparently,’ Hugh said.

‘Oh,
they
are very elegant,’ Esther said, in admiration. ‘Do you know them well, Mr Balfour?’

‘I had the honour of being the assistant architect, madam.’

‘We’re lucky to have him,’ Hugh said. ‘Nearly said no!’

‘I was unwell,’ Balfour said, reddening. ‘But I changed my mind. I thought it was better to have something to occupy me.’

Only, of course, to be struck down again by the journey north.

Esther was starting to shiver; I made our apologies and led her out of the church. Thankfully, it was still not snowing. A swift farewell to the curate, and we started down the churchyard path, only to be accosted by a boy with a note for me. I gave him a penny for it and he dashed off, happy.

The note was from Philips the constable and said:

Honour’d Sir,

I would be grateful for the Pleasure of your Company as soon as you judge it practical, to discuss the unfortunate Deaths of Mr Samuel Gregson, Upholsterer, and his Wife and Daughter; also the Death of Edward Hills, Apprentice. If you could see your Way to paying me a Visit this Day, despite it being the Day of Rest, I would remain, Dear Sir,

Your Obed
^t
Serv
^t

E. Philips

‘They obviously still have not found the girl,’ Esther said, reading the note over my shoulder. ‘He is anxious and wants help. I think you have another investigation on your hands, Charles.’ And she looked at me with a mixture of good humour and exasperation.

Balfour had been accosted by the curate; I put Esther into Hugh’s care and started down the snow-covered steps.

Philips lives on the Side, the steep and winding street that leads from the Sandhill to the upper reaches of town where more genteel people reside. To reach it from All Hallows’ church meant slipping and sliding down Butcher Bank, and in two or three inches of snow that wasn’t an attractive prospect. But I negotiated the bank safely, and a maid of no more than fourteen opened Philips’s door and showed me into his study.

The constable sat in front of a fierce fire, wrapped up in three blankets and a rug, and was still shivering. Yet sweat was pouring off him. I began to think I’d not been sensible in coming here. I kept as far back from Philips as was polite.

His teeth battered together audibly. He managed to get out, ‘You see how I am.’

‘Won’t go to his bed,’ said a woman coming in behind me. She looked of an age to be Philips’s daughter; I knew him to be a widower. ‘Insisted on talking to you.’

‘Got to catch her,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘A woman like that – kill her own parents and sister. Abomination of nature! God knows what she might do next.’

He jerked his head at his daughter and she gave me a speaking look before going out. Philips reached with shaking hands for a key that lay on the table beside him, amongst all the paraphernalia of illness: papers of powders, jugs of weak ale, dry bread. He held the key out. ‘I know what I’m asking, Mr Patterson, sir – it’s not the sort of thing a man of your station in life ought to have to do, but I don’t have much choice. Can hardly keep my feet.’

I frowned. ‘You want me to supervise the watchmen?’

Philips shook his head and I had to wait until he coughed himself hoarse. ‘No need for that. McLintoch’s the man in charge. Has all his men out looking – they’re willing but they’ve not got much sense. I want the girl found, Mr Patterson, and I need someone capable to do it! I leave you to decide how to go about it. I know you have experience in these matters.’

‘I don’t see what I can do. It’s surely just a question of searching the town. The watchmen will know the sort of places she might hide.’

He ignored me. ‘The jury’s sorted, Fleming’s done that, and the inquest is tomorrow. Noon. In the Golden Fleece. Lawyer Armstrong is the sitting coroner.’ He seized my arm as I offered him back the key. ‘I need a man of sense to keep an eye on things for me, Mr Patterson!’

It was pointless to deny him; he was frustrated at not being able to do things himself, and would rest easier if I agreed. ‘Certainly I will, if you think it will help.’

He subsided into his blankets with a sigh of relief. ‘Nothing much to be done anyway. Not for three days.’

I knew what he meant. The spirits of the dead do not separate from their bodies until around three days after death. Sometimes it can take even longer, and on rare occasions it has never happened at all. Presumably, Philips hoped that the Gregsons would be able to throw light on their murderer’s identity; I doubted it, given they’d been killed in their sleep.

The daughter came back in again and hinted she wanted me off. I went back on to the Side; desultory flakes fluttered down from the heavily-clouded sky. Above the houses, I glimpsed the tops of buildings on the bridge. I thought of Alice Gregson, bending over her sleeping father and bringing the knife down again and again, then calmly climbing out of the window to make her escape  . . .

It’s been a good ten years since my own father died, and at times I can hardly remember his face. We had the coldest of relationships; he was never abusive, or violent, or offensive in his language, but at the same time, he made it plain he didn’t think much of me. I can’t remember why. We were on the worst of terms, yet never at any time did I consider doing him injury. But a mere girl – a ‘little fair thing’ according to Fleming – had struck her own father not once but five times and then proceeded to murder three others.

I wanted to know why she’d done it. What had turned her relations with her family to such dramatic violence?

The key to the shop was cold in my hand. I turned for the bridge.

Four

Everyone has a story of terror to tell, about the time they were robbed on this road or that; no one feels they have lived until they have been held up by at least one highwayman.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 17 January 1737]

A watchman stood at the door of the shop, enjoying a chat with a maid from one of the other houses on the bridge. The bodies were still inside of course, awaiting the viewing by the inquest jury before they were moved; at least the freezing weather would preserve them in a reasonable state. A second watchman was the centre of an eager knot of sightseers who were trying to bribe him into letting them into the house. The sightseers had plainly, by their clothes, just come out of church; the watchman was enjoying the attention but, as far as I could judge, resisting all blandishments.

Standing a little back, on his own, was John Balfour.

He was staring at the shuttered windows of the shop, ignoring a spirit trying to attract his attention. He started in surprise when I spoke to him and flushed, the colour two bright spots on his white cheeks. Despite his thick greatcoat, he was shivering violently. ‘You must think me a vulgar sightseer like all the rest,’ he said.

I said diplomatically, ‘It’s natural to be shaken by such an occurrence.’

‘Yes,’ he said, then, with an effort and a sudden rush: ‘My father was stabbed to death.’

I was taken aback. Balfour didn’t wait for me to respond. ‘He was a clergyman. A wealthy man, with everything one could hope for – a good living, a respectful family, a position of some consequence in the neighbourhood. But he could never leave well alone!’ He was staring at the house, but I fancied he didn’t see it. ‘It was a silly quarrel over a scrubbing brush. A neighbour had borrowed it, he thought it had been stolen  . . .’

I said, more sympathetically, ‘Did you witness the quarrel?’

He nodded, lifted his right arm; I saw a white scar on the back of his hand. ‘I tried to stop them.’ He thrust his hand back into his pocket. ‘The neighbour was a butcher and had a knife in his apron. When my father said unforgivable things about the man’s wife, he flew into a fury – and my father reaped the whirlwind.’

The snow drifted down; the sightseers admitted defeat and moved off. Balfour gestured helplessly. ‘How do these things happen? In one moment the world is turned upside down, everything destroyed.’ He said passionately, ‘How can anyone do such things!’

I could give him no answer. We stared at the shop in silence.

‘She did do it, I suppose,’ he said at last.

‘We saw her.’

‘You saw her do it?’ he echoed incredulously.

‘We saw her running away.’

‘They say she climbed down into the river. Is that possible?’

I nodded. ‘It was low tide. She clambered across the mud flats and up some landing steps. Risky – but she accomplished it successfully.’

‘And she killed them for money?’

‘There’s some missing, certainly.’

Another couple strolled up to the watchmen, coins for the bribe openly in their hands. They were middle-aged, respectable-looking tradespeople, not the sort you’d think would regard dead bodies as a pleasant diversion on a Sunday morning after church. Maybe they were thinking of the moral lessons to be drawn: the transience of life, the bitterness of ingratitude, the ungratefulness of children  . . . I doubted it.

‘And she didn’t have help? A girl killed four people on her own?’

‘They were asleep,’ I said, ‘and therefore didn’t struggle. There’s no evidence to suggest anyone else was involved.’ I was starting to shiver too; I said, ‘Forgive me. I need to look in the house and my wife’s expecting me home before too long.’