Airs and Graces by Roz Southey Read Free Book Online Page A

I have decided to tackle the accounts for the Norfolk estates. Some of the tenants are being remarkably recalcitrant in paying their rents – a bad harvest, apparently.’
    Esther’s estates in Norfolk and Northumberland supply us with the greater part of our income. Technically, after our marriage, they belong to me, but Esther has such experience of managing them that I have decided to leave the matter to her. I’ve agreed to take an intelligent interest, however, but so far all I’ve learned is that it’s a very complicated business and that tenants are usually obstreperous.
    ‘I thought it was a good harvest last year.’
    She twinkled at me. ‘It was – except, apparently, in Norfolk.’
    I stopped on the doorstep as I stepped out of the house, looking across the expanse of the street to the railed gardens in the centre of the square. Hugh had been right in his prediction; the weather had improved markedly. The sky was blue and almost cloudless; a bright sunshine glittered on the thick snow carpeting the street and lining the tree branches. It was still very cold but the sunshine lifted my mood immediately.
    I had time, before meeting Hugh and Balfour, to fit in a visit to the Watch. They have their room in a small building, little more than a hut, behind the Printing Office at the far end of the Key. Someone was coming out as I got there; he held the door for me and I was hit at once by a wave of warmth. A huge fire was burning at the other end of the room; the room was saturated with the smell of smoke, beer and hot meat pies.
    There were only two men in the room and I knew the chief of the watchmen at once – I’d seen him once or twice in passing. A thickset Scotchman, with bowlegs from his years on board ships plying between Newcastle and London, carrying coal to the capital.
    He bowed. ‘Abraham McLintoch at your service, sir. You must be Mr Patterson, sir.’ He had the thickest of Scotch accents. ‘Mr Philips sent me a note, sir. Saying he’s given you the keys to the shop. Said you would be in charge, sir. Until he was better. Nothing to worry about, sir. Everything in hand, sir.’
    The excessive politeness was a means of defence, I guessed, until he felt he’d got the measure of me; there was a keen considering look in his watery eyes.
    ‘I came to ask if there’d been any sign of the girl.’
    He looked gloomy. ‘Nothing, sir. I’ve got all the men out, and the spirits are looking too.’ He explained, ‘We’ve a gang of spirits, you know, keeping us in touch with what’s going on. No one better for knowing things than spirits. Sir.’
    ‘And they’ve heard nothing?’
    His gloom deepened. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir. We’ll get her, sir. Bound to. No one can hide from us for long, sir.’
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’
    On the Key again, the snow crunched beneath my feet, the seagulls screamed, the sailors loaded the boats with much shouting and swearing. Something was wrong. Alice Gregson was a young girl who’d been in the town no more than four days; she couldn’t know it well enough to hide from watchmen who’d been born and brought up here. Under other circumstances, I’d have been anxious for a pretty young woman who’d gone missing – there were all too many people ready to take advantage of the defenceless. It would be ironic if something had happened to her.
    Although of course, a woman who’d just killed four people could hardly be described as defenceless. Anyone who tried to take advantage of her would probably regret it very quickly.
    But I was beginning to wonder if there was another reason she couldn’t be found. What if she was not in Newcastle any longer? Not this Newcastle at any rate.

Seven
    I had nearly forgot! At all costs bring a good wine with you when you come; here there is only beer, which is tolerable, and gin, which is not.
    [Letter from Louis de Glabre to his friend Philippe
    Froidevaux, 18 January 1737]
    I passed the bridge on my way up