Airs and Graces by Roz Southey Page B

knew for certain that Samuel Gregson’s hand had never come anywhere near it; Heron had had London men up to do the work. Gregson had been good but not up to gentry standards.
    After a tolerable night’s sleep, my head still ached, but I felt a great deal better. Esther had been exasperated when I arrived home, muddy and thick-headed; she’d gone straight to a cupboard for one of her cordials. I drank it under her eagle eye and felt compelled to apologize.
    Esther laughed. ‘I knew when I married you that you would never live a quiet life.’
    ‘I do try not to get involved into anything untoward,’ I said meekly.
    She sighed. ‘Yes, I know. Charles—’
    ‘Yes?’
    But she shook her head and said merely, ‘Do be careful.’ I wondered what she’d been about to say – and why she’d changed her mind.
    I sent messages to both Armstrong and Philips about the robbery and gathered from the extreme politeness of the replies that neither was very pleased. Heron, in his library, had listened in near silence, interrupting only to clarify some small points, but went at last to the core of the matter.
    ‘An accomplice?’ I sat back in my chair. ‘There’s no definitive evidence, I agree, but there are some suggestive points. Several people have said Alice was watching for someone, for instance. You yourself said that she’s an unlikely murderer from the physical point of view. And Mrs Fletcher, who seems to know her better than anyone else, thinks she wouldn’t be capable of it.’
    Heron considered this for a moment in silence, tapping a finger against his glass. ‘Nothing was taken from the shop?’
    ‘Not that I could see, but I can’t be certain. I don’t know the house well enough.’ I’d probably end up applying to Armstrong for permission to take Mrs Fletcher round the premises. ‘He must surely have been searching for anything that might incriminate him – papers and the like.’
    Heron stared absently at the roaring fire. ‘Are you sure your attacker was not the girl?’
    I was startled. ‘Alice Gregson?’
    He raised an elegant eyebrow at my incredulity. ‘I merely wondered.’
    ‘I was attacked by a man. In greatcoat and breeches.’
    ‘Your wife dresses in breeches,’ Heron pointed out.
    ‘He was too tall. And I heard him grunt – it was certainly a man.’
    Heron nodded, conceding the point. The gilded clock on the mantelshelf chimed; he put down his glass. ‘Time to go.’
    We’d agreed to meet with Balfour to talk over the plans for the Assembly Rooms. It was only a few streets to the George but Heron had ordered his carriage; he was not a man to relish walking in snow. We went out into the hall.
    ‘The girl is not yet caught?’ Heron asked.
    ‘I suspect she will never be.’
    Heron smiled slightly. ‘I suspect she will. I know your obstinacy.’
    I considered telling him where I thought she was; Heron knows about the other world; he has accompanied me there on occasion. But I was still unsure of my conclusions and by the time I’d dithered over the matter, the servants were around us. Footmen loomed; Heron’s manservant Fowler hovered by the servants’ door. Heron took his coat from the butler.
    Outside, the snow was coming down in a light but steady shower. It was very pleasant to sit in the comfort of Heron’s carriage with a warm brick under my feet, looking out on the less fortunate who had to walk. Like the horseman from the previous night, who caught my attention as we drove down through the Bigg Market. I remembered his name now: Joseph Kane. He was a sailor who had worked on the boat I came home on from London some years ago. We’d not been on good terms – Kane wanted vails and I had no money to give.
    From the George’s yard, we went straight to the warmth of a parlour. A fire was burning in the grate and a bowl of mulled wine steaming on the table, but neither Hugh nor Balfour were there. Heron, not a man used to being kept waiting, was not pleased and sent a