Airs and Graces (22 page)

I sat rigidly still, felt the draught as it skimmed past my cheek, heard it thud into the door behind me. And saw Kane’s face twist in fury, because I didn’t react as he wanted me to.

‘Well,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast.’ I turned my back on him. The knife was still quivering in the door jamb; I took hold of it. It resisted for a moment, then jerked out. I leant across the table and held the handle out to Kane. ‘Your knife.’

Then I made a quick exit while he was still gawping.

That went well.

In the freezing cold, I walked up the Side to St Nicholas’s church, cut across the High Bridge and came out on to Pilgrim Street, brooding on Kane. He’d seemed genuinely outraged, but if he’d had the audacity to commit such murders and stay in town, he’d certainly be capable of lying convincingly. On the whole, I was inclined to believe in his innocence.

At the top of Pilgrim Street, I came on to Northumberland Street where the houses of the wealthy lie in extensive gardens. Fresh snow lay at the edges of the street, against the walls, but in the centre of the road, the snow had been worn to slush by the passing of carts and pedestrians and was uncomfortably slippery.

Heron’s house is in the upper part of the street behind a high wall, one of the oldest houses in town, its old-style architecture forbidding. The carriage drive to the door had been cleared, as had a path round to the stables at the back, but the wide lawns on either side were snow-covered. Heron’s butler bowed me in and asked me to wait, disappearing towards the back of the house. I waited, looking round the hall, faintly intimidated, as always, by its expensive floor-to-ceiling mirrors, fashionable wallpaper and elegant Chinese statuettes. A niche was filled with three ancient figures: athletes poised forever in the act of throwing javelins, their skin polished to a fine smoothness, marred only by a chip or two that time had taken out of them.

The butler came back and bowed me into Heron’s study, a room heavy with old wainscoting and tall bookcases. To my astonishment, the curtains were still drawn and the room lit by dozens of candles. Heron himself was standing behind a large table, draining a wineglass. He looked tired; his coat was wrinkled as if he’d been wearing it too long. I was astonished – I’ve never seen Heron less than immaculate.

He told the butler to bring coffee and startled me further by asking, ‘Is it morning?’ Maps and plans were spread on the table, a few ancient coins placed carefully on a bed of cloth in a small box. Heron pushed them towards me.

‘These are the best preserved coins from the hoard. I have tentatively dated them to the first arrival of the Romans in this part of the country, but they could be a little later – it is difficult to be certain. I have been correlating what is already known  . . .’

I watched as he shifted papers.
Horrified
was perhaps too strong a word for my feelings on seeing him, but only by a trifle. Heron is always rational and cool; this seemed to be bordering on obsession. He’d not greeted me, or asked me if I’d come for any particular reason, or asked after Esther, which he was usually punctilious in doing.

The butler came back bearing a salver with coffee and two dishes; he gave me a long steady look, as if trying to convey some meaning without disturbing the impassive demeanour expected of a man in his position. Heron pushed a map across the table. ‘As you can see, the present Tyne Bridge is built almost exactly over the original Roman construction. Here is the line of the main road cutting through the town. The Romans tended to build in straight lines, so it is easy enough to trace.’ He pointed out numbers he’d marked on the map. ‘These indicate the finds discovered in the vicinity of the mercer’s shop: a skeleton found last century, the coins, and Demsey’s ring.’ He glanced up at me. ‘I take it the ring has still not been recovered.’

I poured two dishes of coffee. The butler had also brought a few wedges of bread and cheese but Heron shook his head when I offered them to him.

‘There’s no sign of the ring.’ There was plainly no point in talking to Heron about anything but the antiquities; I said, ‘Were you approached last year – about June or July – with the offer of coins like these?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘No. Do you mean to say there are more?’

‘I believe similar coins were in one of the boxes in Gregson’s cellar.’ I explained my reasoning. ‘It’s not clear whether Gregson acquired the coins legitimately, or stole them, but his intention was probably to sell the coins on to a collector like yourself.’

Heron shifted the papers, sipped at his coffee, put the dish down, shifted the papers again. ‘Do you know where these coins are now?’

I decided against mentioning Fowler directly. ‘I’ve asked someone to check whether they’ve been offered for melting down.’

‘Melting down!’ Heron gripped my arm. ‘You must find them! If they have fallen into criminal hands, I will buy them back. No questions asked, no charges brought. We must move quickly. They must not be destroyed!’

This was beginning to seem like madness. ‘I’ll find them,’ I said rashly, merely intent on calming him. ‘I’ve no reason to believe they’ve yet been offered to anyone. I suspect the murderer is waiting for the fuss to die down before trying to dispose of them.’

Heron paused, let go of my arm, reached for the coffee again. ‘Of course. I was worrying unnecessarily. Of course.’

‘The reason I came,’ I said, ‘was that I was worried an attempt might be made to steal
your
artefacts.’ I indicated the coins in their box.

He frowned. Heavens, but he was thinking slowly today!

‘When I was attacked in the street,’ I explained, ‘I thought the villain was after the keys to Gregson’s shop. That may be true, but he also took the coin I’d picked up in the street. Demsey’s ring was stolen. Balfour’s rooms were also ransacked and a Roman coin was taken. It’s beginning to look like this villain is specifically after the antiquities.’

‘You think he is a collector too?’

‘Or he knows one who’ll pay handsomely for them.’ I nodded at the coins. ‘If our villain knows about Hugh’s ring, he’ll certainly know about your coins – he only needs to buy beer for one of your workmen and he’ll have the whole story. He may decide to burgle this house to try and obtain them.’

Heron laughed without humour. ‘There is not the slightest chance anyone could break into this house.’ He looked uncomfortable, however, and bent to ring the bell for the butler.

I persisted. ‘The villain may be a man from Kent – he’s broken into a number of houses there. His usual method is to woo one of the maids and get the keys from her.’

‘My maids know better than to listen to any plausible rogues.’ Heron sounded totally confident of that fact; perhaps there was a little threat in his voice too. The butler returned. Heron said, ‘You were telling me about some untoward occurrence last night. Repeat what you said for Mr Patterson.’

The butler glanced at me. ‘It was a small incident, sir. Someone tried to force the garden gate.’

‘I take it he was unsuccessful.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Heron poured himself more coffee. ‘I want a watch kept. Someone sitting at the scullery door all night. And let the dogs loose in the garden.’ He dismissed the butler. ‘Who is this man from Kent?’

Was Kane’s story true? Best to work on that assumption for the moment. ‘A man called Hitchings. But that’s probably not the name he’s going under at the moment.’

‘And you think he seduced the Gregson girl to get into the house?’

‘It’s possible.’

Heron nodded. He fingered the coins. Not quite circular, tarnished, and a little worn, that strange, almost barbaric monarch’s head slightly raised from the surface. ‘So old and so enduring. I never cease to be amazed at the beauty of such things.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean, no. Of course.’

He drained the coffee. ‘I must sleep. Don’t worry, Patterson, no one is going to get into this house. You will keep me apprised if you find the coins stolen from Gregson?’

‘Of course.’

He nodded.

I left the house more worried than when I’d come. I’d never seen Heron in this state before. To dismiss the attempt to gain access to the house so easily when the villain had already got into the Gregsons’ shop and murdered the entire family!

I didn’t want to see another death added to the list.

Twenty-Seven

It has to be said that no one particularly gives themselves up to philosophizing. They would all much rather drink.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 22 January 1737]

I was hardly out of the house when Fowler stepped out from behind a clump of bushes. He jerked his head for me to follow and led the way along the cleared path that led to the stables. Just under an arch, he drew me back into a corner by an old pump. He glanced round but the stable yard was silent except for the snuffling of a horse and a brief clatter of hooves. He had taken the surgeon’s bandages off his right hand, I saw, presumably so he could use the hand more easily, and the skin was red with cross-crossing scratches. One or two had bled again recently.

‘Seen his Lordship?’ he said sourly.

‘He looked appalling! I take it he hasn’t been to bed?’

‘Can’t get his mind off those bits and pieces of rubbish.’ Fowler bared his teeth. ‘Told me not to worry him. So I went off and had another word with Ned.’

‘There’s supposed to be a watchman on the shop at all times,’ I said dryly.

‘Watchmen drink, don’t they?’ Fowler sneered. ‘A word or two and a coin, and they fancy a few minutes in the warm tavern.’

‘What did Ned say?’

Fowler’s face was white; I’d never seen him so angry. ‘Gregson’s spirit is terrorizing the household. Told the women he’ll make every minute of the day and night a misery if they don’t do as he says. And doing as he says means keeping quiet. He’s got them in the girls’ room and won’t let them out. Has the other room to himself. But he doesn’t much care about Ned.’ His voice was bitter. ‘Never cared much about him when he was alive, not going to change now.’

A vicious breeze drifted around the stable yard. ‘Does Ned remember what happened on Saturday night?’

‘Not a thing, thank God. Everything as usual. Except everyone was in a bad mood because Alice was gone when she was wanted. Gregson was in a devil of a state, evidently. When Ned got back after seeing me, he was telling his wife they should pack Alice off to London. But the moment the girl said she’d go gladly, he refused her! Couldn’t bear not to have his own way.’ He added grudgingly, ‘Ned says he knows about the coins in the cellar. I told him he should talk to you about them.’

I recognized this for a peace offering. ‘I’d very much like to talk to him.’

Fowler gave me a long hard stare. ‘He’s worried about what might happen if Gregson gets wind of it.’

The lad was dead; there wasn’t much more that could happen. But I suspected he wasn’t thinking about himself.

‘Didn’t want me to go back,’ Fowler said, his mind apparently running on the same track. ‘Said people would start asking questions about why I’m there.’

‘Say you’re helping me look into the murders.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Maybe that would ease his mind. But once you’ve got the girl, there’s no excuse left, is there?’

I didn’t think he’d find it a consolation if I said I didn’t anticipate catching Alice soon. ‘We’ll deal with that situation when we get to it. When can we speak to him?’

He contemplated me long and hard, said finally, ‘This afternoon.’

‘In daylight?’

‘If people can see you,’ he said, ‘they always reckon you can’t be doing anything wrong. Besides, if we’re seen, it’ll convince people we’re working together, won’t it?’

I thought of what his life must be like, always hiding his true self, always thinking of what people might see, or do. ‘I’ll mention it to one or two people, to add credence to the tale.’

He nodded. ‘Sometimes I wonder why we’re any of us here at all.’ He gave me a sour look. ‘We’re all just getting through our days somehow, making the time pass. His Lordship has his coins, and you’ve got your music, and I press clothes and fold ’em and store ’em, and kill a bit of time with a handsome lad with a keen sense of fun and a way of making you forget yourself. But it’s all pretty nothings to distract us from the truth. It comes down to one thing – we’re all looking for some way to get ourselves from the cradle to the grave in the least painful way we can think of.’ He leered at me. ‘And you know, I can’t see the point.’

I hesitated to speak, alarmed. I didn’t want to patronize Fowler, but I certainly wanted to discourage this kind of thinking. ‘I don’t know what the point is,’ I said at last. ‘But whatever
you
think, Sarah Gregson no doubt thought differently,
and
your lad – they wanted to go on living and weren’t allowed to. You don’t have to believe in some higher purpose to life to know that killing them’s wrong.’

He laughed harshly. ‘That’s what I like about you, Patterson. You see things so clearly.’ And he walked off, back to the house.

I had to rush to my first lesson of the day and found my pupil impatiently pacing up and down the drawing room floor as if
she’
d never been late. She tossed the music on to the music stand with a great display of hauteur and started playing a jig at top speed with a good many wrong notes. I sat down and reconciled myself to being ignored for half an hour while the young lady played the pieces exactly as she chose. My next two pupils were more cooperative but neither had much interest in music for its own sake; one preferred to tell me, at length, about the young man she had in mind for a husband. I didn’t think her parents would be happy to know she’d set her eye on a mere clerk from the Printing Office.

And all the while, this business was running in my head. Alice Gregson, surely now in that other world. An unknown lover or accomplice, perhaps the man from Kent, perhaps Kane himself. Fowler – devil take it, did all that talk mean anything? He’d certainly do nothing until Alice was caught, then the problem would be to stop him killing her. Heron, obsessed with those coins; I’d never seen him so heedless of everyday niceties. And there was something else – some
one
else I’d forgotten. Who?