Airs and Graces (26 page)

I drew the curtains against the chill evening; the room became warm and cosy in the candlelight. ‘Charles,’ Esther murmured, ‘Why don’t we just have a quiet evening at home and talk? It seem such an age since we simply sat together.’

She was regarding me with her mischievous smile and I wanted to sink down on the sofa, banish the servants, and pretend the Gregsons had not been killed.

‘I have to go out again,’ I said wearily. ‘Heron wants to see me. Something I said this morning has given him pause, evidently.’

Esther sighed. ‘I suppose there won’t be much time until this matter is settled. Afterwards then?’

‘I promise.’

‘I won’t let you forget,’ she said, still smiling. ‘I presume you won’t have time to see Mrs Fletcher? She was here this morning, trying to get information out of me. She said to tell you particularly that she wants to know
everything
that is happening.’

‘She’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’

As I bent to kiss her farewell, Esther raised her hand to caress my cheek; I angled my head to rub against her fingers. She laughed softly. ‘Send Heron a message saying you cannot come tonight.’

I was tempted, very tempted, but shook my head. ‘He’ll only blame Fowler for not making the urgency of his request clear.’ I kissed her palm. ‘Besides, he may indeed be able to help me clear this matter up – and the sooner I can do that the better.’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Take care.’

For the second time that day, I tramped up Northumberland Street. In the dark this time, although it wasn’t particularly late. It was bitterly cold and I shivered all the way despite my greatcoat. The last snowfall hadn’t come to much, and what remained lingered only at the sides of the street; carts had worn the snow in the middle to dirty slush and, in some places, to nothing at all. On Heron’s lawns, however, the snow still lay in a thick layer, pristine white except for a line of prints made by a cat.

The butler showed me into Heron’s study again at the back of the house. In the candlelight, the heavy wainscoting and tall bookcases lurked in shadows. Heron was standing in front of the fire with a glass of wine in his hand; a salver on the table held another unused glass. When I was announced, he nodded dismissal at the butler and turned to pour me wine. He said, ‘It is time to put an end to this matter.’

My heart sank at once; that brisk tone never portended anything good.

‘This man is plainly collecting all the antiquities found in the mercer’s shop,’ Heron said. ‘He has already made one attempt to get into this house. I suggest we encourage him to make another.’

I’d been right to be concerned. ‘You mean we should set a trap for him?’

‘Exactly.’ Heron gestured at the tall windows that, if I remembered correctly, led out on to a terrace overlooking the garden at the back of the house. ‘We will leave a window unlocked into this room. Then we will keep watch and when he walks in we will apprehend him.’

How easy it sounded. But I’d done something similar myself about a year back and knew that things didn’t always go to plan. ‘We?’

‘Myself, you and Fowler.’

Well, I had no faith in my own ability in a fight, but I’d seen Heron at swordplay and wouldn’t like to have to face him. The real difficulty would be keeping Fowler from shooting the thief, if he thought he’d anything to do with Ned’s death. He boasts he never misses.

Heron was raising an eyebrow at my hesitation; I said, ‘There are so many things that can go wrong.’ Knowing already I’d never talk him out of it.

‘Nonsense.’ He stepped briskly across to ring for the butler again. ‘There is no need for complicated arrangements. We will simply hide ourselves here and wait for the man’s arrival.’ The butler came and he gave orders that Fowler should be sent for. He glanced about the candlelit room. ‘Fowler and I will hide behind the curtains on either side of the window. You can crouch down behind the sofa.’

I looked at the furniture in question. Heron’s taste in sofas, unluckily, does not run to the substantial; it would offer very little protection.

‘Of course,’ Heron said, ‘you had better send word to your wife that you may be home very late tonight.’

I was shocked. ‘You want to do this
tonight
!’

Fowler came silently into the room, wearing Heron’s livery of blue; his gaze flickered to me but he didn’t otherwise acknowledge my presence. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘You and your pistol both,’ Heron said, looking around the room again. ‘We are going to set a trap for this murderer.’

Fowler looked at me again. I shook my head, but he merely said, ‘Certainly, sir.’ There was, of course, nothing else he could say. Not if he wished to keep his place. ‘At what time do you require me?’

‘The house usually retires at eleven,’ Heron said, more to me than to Fowler. ‘We will behave as usual, but as soon as everyone is in bed, we will keep watch here.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘It will be three hours yet.’ He looked Fowler up and down. ‘Wear something darker.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fowler bowed and retreated.

‘And now,’ Heron said to me, ‘you may give me another violin lesson to pass the time.’

Single-minded as ever, Heron tackled his pieces with his usual cool efficiency and not a hint that he was distracted by what was to come. I was the one distracted. I’d sent a message to Esther, saying merely I was following up something Heron had told me, and would be late home; knowing she wouldn’t worry was all the consolation I had. How could Heron think this plan would work? We’d no proof the thief would try to get into the house again; how could he possibly know that tonight would be a good time to try? Would he not be suspicious when he found both the garden gate and a window unlocked? Why should he try this room in preference to any other that gave on to the terrace? Though admittedly it was the first one he’d come to.

And was the thief the murderer? Heron assumed he was. But what if it was someone else entirely, someone unconnected with the Gregsons’ deaths? That would be a coincidence, but couldn’t be discounted entirely. Even if thief and accomplice
were
the same, and a man (rather than the Alice from the other world), that man was Kane, and Kane was in Shields, no doubt on a boat destined for the Colonies. We’d probably sit here all night without anything happening. I hoped we would.

Events gathered a momentum of their own. Heron dismissed the servants to bed and went off on his usual rounds, making sure the doors and windows – with one exception – were locked. Fowler came down while Heron was absent. He was dressed completely in black, and looked pointedly at my light brown and green coat. ‘Not the best clothes for a midnight expedition,’ he said with a trace of malice.

‘I didn’t know I was going to be indulging in a fool’s errand when I came out,’ I retorted. ‘And if anyone does come through that window,’ I added, ‘don’t kill him!’

Fowler smiled.

‘He might be able to tell us what happened in that shop,’ I pointed out. ‘And exactly what part Alice Gregson had in it.’

‘I know what part she had in it,’ Fowler said. ‘She killed Ned.’

‘This fellow might be the only witness to that.’

He said nothing, but I saw he’d taken in what I said.

Heron came back; he too was now dressed in dark clothes. I vowed to stay well hidden. Let Heron and Fowler deal with any rough stuff; I wanted to get a good look at the face of any intruder. Even if he got away, I wanted to be able to identify him. I still thought, hoped, that nothing would happen.

Heron unlocked a cupboard and lifted out a wooden box; he unlocked this too, and took out a soft bag that chinked. He emptied coins on to the table, and took down a volume from the bookcase behind the table, opening it at some illustrations. A number of coins were sketched on the page; Heron arranged the coins and the book as if he’d been comparing the two.

He stood back and studied the effect. It looked suspiciously obvious to me; surely any collector would make sure his precious antiquities were locked away when he went to bed. But there was plainly no reasoning with him. He arranged us too. Fowler hid behind the curtains to the left of the window, one of his pistols in his hand and the other pushed into the waist of his breeches; I crouched down behind the sofa in just about as uncomfortable a position as I’ve ever been in. Heron blew out the candles and stood on the other side of the window behind the harpsichord.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. A red glow from the banked-down fire glinted on the coins. Heron had arranged the curtains to leave a tiny gap through which an intruder could peer; through that gap came a gleam of cold white light, reflected from the snow outside. The other pieces of furniture were indistinct hulks. I wondered if even Fowler could hit his target in the dark.

And there we stayed, for what seemed like forever. I wondered idly why Heron had not moved the harpsichord to the side of the room, out of his way. Perhaps he thought the fellow would blunder into it. Presumably he was confident he himself would not fall over the music stand when he came out of hiding. And that Fowler would not get tangled in the curtains. Come to think of it, the one thing I could be certain of was that Fowler wouldn’t get tangled in the curtains; he’d far too much experience in these matters to make such a childish mistake.

Perhaps Heron thought my calf muscles wouldn’t start trembling and shaking.

I put out a hand to shift my balance, went down on one knee. The rug was deep and soft but after a few minutes was just as uncomfortable – the floorboards beneath seemed to bore into my flesh. This was a ridiculous idea! I shifted again – and heard the window-latch click.

A draught of freezing air washed over me as the window opened, then eased as it was pulled to again. Soft footsteps, a thud and an oath as the intruder bumped into the harpsichord. A man, definitely a man, although I couldn’t identify his voice from the little I heard. Then he tripped over the harpsichord stool, and Heron said sharply, ‘Stand still or I’ll shoot.’

There was a silence, then the stool went over with a crash. Fowler shouted. A shot. Then two more, close together. Someone grunted in pain and went down. A shadow passed in front of the window. The cold air blew in again.

I scrambled to my feet. The window was wide open, and in the light reflected from the snow outside, I saw two figures. One lay prone on the floor in darkening blood, the other leaned over him.

‘Damn it,’ Heron said, in a rage so thick I hardly recognized his voice. ‘Get the servants. Get the barber-surgeon. Damn it, do something!’

Fowler had been shot.

Thirty-Two

Never
offend a gentleman – he will not forget.

[Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe

Froidevaux, 23 January 1737]

The servants were barging in at the door; I leapt for the open window and the terrace behind the house. Instantly, I skidded on soft snow. Arms flailing, I caught at the swinging window.

There was sufficient light, reflecting from the snow, to show me the eerie expanse of garden, the clumps of bushes and trees. I knew that a high wall surrounded the garden and the only gate was to the left. A line of shadowed footprints led in that direction.

I ploughed into the snow, taking care not to tread on top of the footprints. The drifts lay undisturbed here; I found myself at once ankle deep. Bushes loomed ahead, evergreens that had kept their leaves and were thick and concealing. I slowed. If I were the intruder I’d rush on regardless to the gate, but he hadn’t been far ahead of me  . . .

A shot crashed out. I ducked, put my hand down in the freezing snow to prevent myself falling. I was an easy target. But the intruder had shot at least once in the house and now another shot out here  . . . Even if he had a pair of pistols, he’d now have to reload, which gave me the advantage. I ran for the bushes. The glimpse I’d had of the intruder in the house had been of someone slight and about my own height. Someone I could tackle with a reasonable hope of overpowering. I plunged into the undergrowth  . . .

At the last moment, I sensed movement behind me, swung in time to deflect the downward blow of the pistol. The blow glanced off my left shoulder. My arm went numb. I stumbled back and the fellow struck out again.

Heron crashed through the bushes, bellowing in rage.

The intruder took off. I caught a glimpse of him as he plunged into another thicket of trees and bushes. Heron stopped, took calm aim and fired.

The fellow ran on. Heron cursed. I plunged after the intruder, labouring through the deep snow. Behind, Heron shouted to the servants. Twigs clawed at my face; bushes whipped back into my eyes. The wall loomed up.

The gate was swinging open.

I ducked out into a narrow alley at the side of the house, glanced both ways. To my right was a dead end; to the left, the alley led back on to Northumberland Street. New footprints in the snow. And a dark spot or two that might have been blood  . . .

Gasping for breath, I ploughed down the alley, following the prints. The intruder was already too far ahead of me; on Northumberland Street there’d be people, and a good chance of losing himself amongst them. I skidded to a halt at the point where alley met street. The footprints, so clear in the alley, headed out into the middle of the street where the snow was trampled into nothing, and were lost.

I looked around. Several huddles of drunken miners blundered up the street, singing loudly; a carter led a horse pulling an empty cart; a couple of whores talked to a customer. A travelling preacher crossed the street to talk to accost the drunken miners. Any one of the men might be the intruder – or none of them at all. He’d probably just dashed straight across the street into one of the alleys on the other side.

Heron came to my shoulder, breathing heavily. When I glanced round, his face was set in an ugly mask of anger.

‘He’s gone,’ I said. ‘He could be anywhere.’

Without a word, Heron turned and strode back down the alley. I took one last look across the street and followed him.

I checked the gate as I went back into the garden. Raw gashes in the wood showed palely in the snow’s glow; the intruder hadn’t bothered to check whether the gate was locked or not – he’d forced it open. Inside the garden, a line of footprints cut off from the gate along the line of the wall under some shrubbery; I ducked under the low branches and followed the prints. They kept to the line of the wall until level with the house, then turned towards to the terrace. This must have been the way the intruder came; two very clear footprints told me he’d had worn boots – hardly surprising – and had large feet. And he’d stepped more heavily on the heel, particularly of the right foot; the impressions were deeper there than at the toe.