called. Myself. ‘Mr Patterson?’ Armstrong said. ‘Could you tell us what happened on Saturday night? Sunday morning, I should say.’
I told them, omitting the snowball fight, saying merely I’d been walking on the Keyside with my wife and friend. The story of the figure climbing down the makeshift rope caused great excitement, as did our discovery of the bodies and the blood – I’ve never had such a gratifying audience reaction in the concert hall. Armstrong wanted to know if I’d seen the escaping girl carrying anything and I said I had not, although she might have had something in her pocket, but nothing very heavy.
Armstrong moved from the musical profession to the medical, calling Gale the barber-surgeon. Gale, an unprepossessing figure, slight in stature and round in face, is a man who likes to think he is master of all things medicinal, and has offended both the apothecaries of the town and the physicians by his wide-ranging activities. There is no questioning his competence, however, and he made an even bigger impact than I had, with his detailed description of the wounds. ‘All but the apprentice had been stabbed many times,’ he said. ‘Mr Gregson five times.’
Someone made a play of fainting noisily in the crowd and was borne up and helped to a chair. Heron watched in grim contempt; his servant, standing behind him, caught my gaze. Fowler’s lean sardonic face was harsh and angry. Whatever had Heron said to him?
Armstrong asked for the little girl, Judith Gregson. In the sensation caused by the appearance of the child, Balfour slipped into the room. He reddened when he saw I’d noticed him and, under cover of the noise, said awkwardly, ‘I thought I’d just see how things were going.’ A pity; I thought he’d have been much better keeping away.
Mrs Fleming brought up the child and she stood in front of Armstrong’s table, clutching her rag doll to her thin chest. Armstrong has no children but he does have a kind way with them and he coaxed her delicately. ‘You sleep in the attics, I hear. Is it warm and cosy up there?’
She nodded dumbly.
‘And your doll lives up there too? Does everyone else sleep downstairs?’
Another nod.
‘Including your Aunt Alice? Did you like your Aunt Alice?’
She said nothing, which was eloquent in its own way.
‘Do you like your Aunt Sarah?’
‘She plays shops with me,’ she said shyly.
‘I’m sure she does.’ Armstrong twinkled. ‘Now, I’m very sorry, Judith, but I’m going to have to ask you about last Saturday. Do you remember going downstairs in the middle of the night?’
She started crying.
In the end, with the exercise of a great deal of patience, he got the information from her. She’d thought she heard her grandfather calling and went down to see him. But he’d been in bed and she couldn’t wake him. She couldn’t wake her grandmother either nor Aunt Sarah, and Aunt Alice wasn’t there. And the shop door was open. And she was scared, and wanted someone to come. So she screamed.
Several ladies openly wept.
Armstrong thanked her, said she’d done very well and he was very pleased to have met her, and Mrs Fleming bore her out of the room talking of lemonade.
Two watchmen gave evidence, which interested me rather more. Abraham McLintoch told of discovering the knife that had obviously done the dreadful deed, near the body of the apprentice, in the shop. A hubbub followed this revelation and McLintoch had to wait for it to subside. The knife was probably from the kitchen, he added, a very sharp knife, more than capable of inflicting severe damage.
The second watchman told how he’d searched the house. He couldn’t see that anything had been stolen, at least the house hadn’t been ransacked or turned over. Most of it looked undisturbed. There was jewellery upstairs and some nice candlesticks. But in the cellar he’d found a money box, open but not forced – the key was still in the lock. There was nothing left in the
I told them, omitting the snowball fight, saying merely I’d been walking on the Keyside with my wife and friend. The story of the figure climbing down the makeshift rope caused great excitement, as did our discovery of the bodies and the blood – I’ve never had such a gratifying audience reaction in the concert hall. Armstrong wanted to know if I’d seen the escaping girl carrying anything and I said I had not, although she might have had something in her pocket, but nothing very heavy.
Armstrong moved from the musical profession to the medical, calling Gale the barber-surgeon. Gale, an unprepossessing figure, slight in stature and round in face, is a man who likes to think he is master of all things medicinal, and has offended both the apothecaries of the town and the physicians by his wide-ranging activities. There is no questioning his competence, however, and he made an even bigger impact than I had, with his detailed description of the wounds. ‘All but the apprentice had been stabbed many times,’ he said. ‘Mr Gregson five times.’
Someone made a play of fainting noisily in the crowd and was borne up and helped to a chair. Heron watched in grim contempt; his servant, standing behind him, caught my gaze. Fowler’s lean sardonic face was harsh and angry. Whatever had Heron said to him?
Armstrong asked for the little girl, Judith Gregson. In the sensation caused by the appearance of the child, Balfour slipped into the room. He reddened when he saw I’d noticed him and, under cover of the noise, said awkwardly, ‘I thought I’d just see how things were going.’ A pity; I thought he’d have been much better keeping away.
Mrs Fleming brought up the child and she stood in front of Armstrong’s table, clutching her rag doll to her thin chest. Armstrong has no children but he does have a kind way with them and he coaxed her delicately. ‘You sleep in the attics, I hear. Is it warm and cosy up there?’
She nodded dumbly.
‘And your doll lives up there too? Does everyone else sleep downstairs?’
Another nod.
‘Including your Aunt Alice? Did you like your Aunt Alice?’
She said nothing, which was eloquent in its own way.
‘Do you like your Aunt Sarah?’
‘She plays shops with me,’ she said shyly.
‘I’m sure she does.’ Armstrong twinkled. ‘Now, I’m very sorry, Judith, but I’m going to have to ask you about last Saturday. Do you remember going downstairs in the middle of the night?’
She started crying.
In the end, with the exercise of a great deal of patience, he got the information from her. She’d thought she heard her grandfather calling and went down to see him. But he’d been in bed and she couldn’t wake him. She couldn’t wake her grandmother either nor Aunt Sarah, and Aunt Alice wasn’t there. And the shop door was open. And she was scared, and wanted someone to come. So she screamed.
Several ladies openly wept.
Armstrong thanked her, said she’d done very well and he was very pleased to have met her, and Mrs Fleming bore her out of the room talking of lemonade.
Two watchmen gave evidence, which interested me rather more. Abraham McLintoch told of discovering the knife that had obviously done the dreadful deed, near the body of the apprentice, in the shop. A hubbub followed this revelation and McLintoch had to wait for it to subside. The knife was probably from the kitchen, he added, a very sharp knife, more than capable of inflicting severe damage.
The second watchman told how he’d searched the house. He couldn’t see that anything had been stolen, at least the house hadn’t been ransacked or turned over. Most of it looked undisturbed. There was jewellery upstairs and some nice candlesticks. But in the cellar he’d found a money box, open but not forced – the key was still in the lock. There was nothing left in the
Similar Books
