Airs and Graces (33 page)

I told them my plan. None of them liked it.

Forty-One

Alas, all is at an end. I must return.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 24 January 1737]

The snow came down steadily, unceasingly, leaving a thick layer of new powder on top of the slush and ice of the previous days’ fall. In the porch of the little chapel at the end of the bridge, a cold breeze teased our ankles and stirred the skirts of our greatcoats. The clock of All Hallows’ struck eleven. Only a week ago, we had been laughing over a glass of wine at home, proposing an outing in the snow. Only a week ago, Samuel Gregson and his family had been alive, and Fowler’s Ned  . . .

Kane was not happy. I gathered he’d spent an hour last night arguing with McLintoch over the custody of Balfour and then another hour drinking away his sorrows in the Fleece. He’d not slept well and woken with a hangover which still lingered. From the moment he’d stepped into the porch of the chapel, he’d talked of nothing but his maltreatment.

‘Damn it, Patterson! I was the one who told you about this fellow! If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have your hands on him now!’

I resisted pointing out that his description of Balfour had been very wide of the mark and had misled me – I didn’t have the energy for an argument. I wasn’t feeling particularly happy myself. Esther had said nothing when I told her about tonight’s expedition but she’d plainly indicated she didn’t wish me to get involved in dangerous matters. It was undeniable that both Alices were potentially very dangerous. The thought of never holding my child, of never even seeing it, was enough to make me want to walk away from here directly, straight home to the warmth of the house in Caroline Square.

But I wouldn’t leave those two women to enjoy themselves travelling from world to world, secure from justice and punishment. If they succeeded in getting away with these crimes, who knows what havoc they might try to wreak? No, I had to have one more try to catch them. They’d want those letters, to make sure nothing hampered their freedom of movement. They’d want Balfour too, because he was the only one who could definitely tie them in to the murders. And perhaps they’d want me too  . . .

Through the thickening snow came the hoot of an owl. Assuming it wasn’t a real owl, it was the signal McLintoch had promised me, from his watchmen stationed along the Key. ‘Balfour’s on his way,’ I said.

‘Letting him out of prison!’ Kane grumbled. ‘The fellow will just run away.’

‘He knows this is his only chance of cheating the noose.’

‘He
should
hang!’ Kane said vehemently. ‘He killed in Kent and he killed here! He shouldn’t have been promised anything else.’

I sighed. ‘Transportation isn’t exactly an attractive alternative. He won’t have an easy life in the Colonies.’

‘He should hang,’ Kane said obstinately.

I contemplated the driving snow, the silent street, the dark buildings. I was putting Balfour at risk and deliberately using him as bait, knowing he might get injured or killed. And the fact that he had no alternative if he wanted even the possibility of escaping the hangman’s noose, hardly made it better.

I brooded, letting Kane grumble on, not looking for answers, merely indulging his sense of grievance. I set my head back against the chapel walls, admitting to myself that I had a certain amount of admiration for Mrs Fletcher. She’d a great deal of courage to stay right under our noses, spying on us, gathering information. And to fearlessly take on two men, one of whom was armed  . . .

Of course, by her own admission, she was a murderer. If I believed her. Which I didn’t. That complicated tale she’d spun of Alice stepping backwards and forwards between worlds, letting Balfour in, going upstairs, taking Mrs Fletcher back to the other world, coming back again to slide down the rope  . . . It couldn’t be done. Given the differences in time between the worlds, stepping from one to the other so precisely simply could not be guaranteed. And there was too much to fit in, in too short a time.

If Mrs Fletcher was not the murderer, then Alice Gregson must be.
Our
Alice. All fashionable clothes and demure manners, her disarming looks and impish glances, sweet pleas and delightful vivacity. So innocent. On the surface. She’d killed probably for no better reason than spite, because she hadn’t been allowed to stay in London. Yet Mrs Fletcher had said she loved her dearly, and she’d plainly entranced Balfour, if only for a short time.

A figure coalesced out of the blizzard: Heron, shaking the snow from his hat and brushing it from his shoulders. He took not the slightest notice of Kane, and said without preamble, ‘Fowler is still missing. But at least we have some idea as to the reason. One of the spirits in the house passed a message on to him from the apprentice’s spirit, about the fire and Balfour’s attempt to dispose of him.’

‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘Fowler is looking for
Balfour
now?’ At any moment Balfour, apparently free and happy, was going to be walking through the streets; if Fowler saw him and didn’t realize we were setting a plot, if he took a fancy to shoot him, the plan would crash to the ground and the real murderer go free. I’d cursed Fowler for persisting in his suspicions of Alice, and now, at just the wrong moment, he changed his target!

‘I am still trying to find him,’ Heron said grimly. ‘But he is not in any of the obvious places.’

I thought of the apprentice’s spirit. ‘Ned can get a message to him, tell him what is going on, and ask him to stay his hand. He’d listen to the boy.’

‘Any message might come to the ears of the spirit in the derelict court,’ Heron pointed out, ‘And she will warn Alice we are trying to trap her.’

I swore. Heron nodded. ‘The only choice is to walk the streets looking for him.’

‘Hugh’s in one of the chares off the Key,’ I said. ‘He’s supposed to follow Balfour after he leaves the prison but there are plenty of watchmen doing that. If two of you are looking for Fowler, you’ll have a better chance of finding him.’

Heron’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘I would not place a wager on that.’

Kane stared sulkily after Heron, as he walked away into the snow. ‘You gents think a lot of yourselves, don’t you? Think you can just ignore the likes of us lower folk.’

Considering Heron was desperately trying to find a sick servant who was intent on running his head into a noose, Kane was decidedly wide of the mark. He lapsed back into silence and so did I. Thinking again of Esther and the child. Of Alice and her father. Of Balfour and his. Of mine. Dear God, I wasn’t ready for this.

Another owl hoot. This one sounded closer – halfway along the Key perhaps. Balfour was clearly heading this way. So far, so good.

It was surprising that Balfour still would not reveal the location of the coins, even after agreeing to our plan; he must think there was still a chance he could get away with them. The hiding place must surely be relatively near the bridge. Balfour hadn’t had long to hide the coins after the murders – he must have been panicking and would have wanted to get them off his hands as soon as possible. A pity he wouldn’t talk; if we had known exactly where the hiding place was, we could have stationed watchmen there and increased our chances of catching Alice.

I wondered what I’d say to Kane if
both
Alices turned up.

Snow drifted into our faces; Kane swore and wiped his cheeks with the sleeve of his greatcoat. The chapel was tiny and the porch hardly worth the name; by putting out the lanterns at this end of the bridge, however, we’d created deep shadows and were tolerably certain Balfour wouldn’t see us. More to the point,
Alice
wouldn’t see us.

A dog bounded along the Key, paused to sniff at the foot of a post and to raise its leg. It trotted off. A moment later, a figure loomed out of the snow. Balfour.

He was huddled in a greatcoat, hugging himself as if he was cold, shuffling along in the snow like an old man; I wondered if the manacles he’d been wearing over the past few hours had chafed. I had little sympathy, but I did want him to last until this trap was sprung. As he passed, I caught a glimpse of his face under his hat; his expression was bleak.

Kane started to move out into the snow to follow. I pulled him back. ‘Wait!’

Moments passed. The snow fell silently. Then another figure. A woman. Tall and cloaked, walking upright and proud, as if she had every right to be there. She glanced in our direction as she passed the chapel; Kane caught his breath and froze. I did not move. I saw Mrs Fletcher’s expression, and it was a hard mask of pain.

She
knew
. She knew we were there; she knew this was a trap.
What was she doing?

We let them get a few steps ahead and then followed. Kane was quiet; I had to admit he knew how to follow someone without being seen, even though we were forced to keep closer than I’d have liked because of the limited visibility. The footprints in the snow gave me the oddest sense of repeating what I’d done last Saturday night: the fresh prints of the dog, the man’s prints and the woman’s  . . .

Balfour paused, looking about him as if checking there was no one watching. Kane and I instinctively slid into the shelter of a doorway.

A spirit whispered in my ear and made me start. ‘Message from Mr Heron, sir. He says the gent he’s been looking for has been seen heading this way.’

‘Damn!’

Balfour seemed to straighten and walked on with more confidence, heading for the ruins of the town wall which jutted out into the street. Last week, Alice – our Alice – had run straight past these ruins, on along the Key and into the derelict streets beyond; tonight, Balfour was keeping to the inner side of the wall. Houses were built on to the side of the wall and a narrow alley ran in front of them; I thought Balfour must be heading for the alley, but he went straight to the place where the first house jutted from the town wall. The wall was tumbledown here; stones had fallen away or been robbed out. There was even a suggestion of what might once have been a small fireplace.

Balfour had his back to me; I shifted until I could see him in profile. He was removing stones from the wall at the bottom of the fireplace niche; bricks crumbled in his hands. And from behind the stones, he lifted out a large bag.

It was obviously heavy; he seemed to weigh it in his hands. He brought it to his chest as if he was cradling it, like something precious.

Kane said, ‘What the devil  . . .?’

Mrs Fletcher was strolling towards Balfour, although he had his back to her and hadn’t yet noticed her. But Kane was looking at the space beside Mrs Fletcher, at the shimmer forming in the air.

I’ve always tried to
step through
where there are no people around, precisely to avoid causing the kind of stupefaction Kane was obviously experiencing. Alice plainly didn’t care. We saw the girl solidify. She was wearing a cloak but it swung open, and underneath she had only a white dress in some flimsy floaty material. Her golden hair and bright ribbons drifted in the breeze.

Mrs Fletcher was plainly not expecting her. She stopped, said, ‘Alice! No!’

Balfour turned. I couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to clutch the coins even tighter. I had a sudden panic: we should have retrieved the bag earlier, put some papers in it to look like letters – if one of the women looked now they’d know this was a trick.

But I remembered Mrs Fletcher’s expression as she passed the chapel.
She already knew
 . . .

Alice danced forward. ‘Dear John, thank you so much. It’s so kind of you to give us those letters back.’

‘Alice!’ Mrs Fletcher said sharply. ‘Go back! Now.’

Alice paused, laid a hand on her arm, smiled up at her mischievously. ‘Dear Alice, you always treat me like a child. I’ve told you – I can look after myself.’

‘No,’ Mrs Fletcher said. ‘You cannot. Go back!’

Alice ignored her, darted at Balfour. He let the bag go without protest. I heard the breath sigh out of him.

‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘This is a trap.’

Kane cursed. We both leapt forward at the same time, and both, like idiots, went for Alice. We collided; thrown off balance, I slipped in the snow and went down. Alice shrieked, Mrs Fletcher shouted and Balfour went off like a hare.

There was chaos. Someone yelled. Watchmen ran from every direction and piled into Balfour; he crashed to the ground under their weight, struggling wildly. Kane headed for Mrs Fletcher, seized her—

Alice stepped backwards, staring wildly. I tried to scramble up, but my feet went out from under me again. Alice retreated, clutching the bag of coins. The panic was gone from her face, and she was looking around in a calculating way. Frightened but in control. And the shimmering started again.

She was going, abandoning Mrs Fletcher. And Mrs Fletcher was calling to her to do it. Kane saw it too; he tried to disentangle himself from Mrs Fletcher but she clung on to him. She was sacrificing herself, letting Alice get away, and the girl wasn’t arguing in the least. She was even smiling as she went.

I struggled to my feet. Mrs Fletcher shouted, pushed at Kane. He fell. Mrs Fletcher barged straight into me, just as I reached Alice. I stumbled, hit the ground again with a crash that knocked the breath out of me.

The shimmer took both women  . . .

Someone was at my side. I looked up into Fowler’s white, strained face. He said nothing. He was aiming at the shimmer, at the thinning figures of the women. He fired a single shot. I saw one of the women sag and fall.

The shimmer faded. There was nothing but an empty street.

The watchmen hauled Balfour out of the snow, looking exceedingly pleased with themselves. They started to look round for the women, demanding to know what had happened. McLintoch limped up, out of breath and cursing. Kane was staring, shaking his head, already beginning to disbelieve what he’d seen.

I dragged myself to my feet and took hold of Fowler’s arm.

‘I killed her,’ he said, swaying. ‘She killed Ned and I killed her. Only fair. She killed Ned. For no reason.’

I took the pistol from his loose grasp. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You killed her.’