box except a receipt for some money Gregson had been paid. He’d searched everywhere, he said, but found no more money.
Fleming then heaved himself up from the jury chairs. His description of how he’d woken to screams on the night told me nothing new, but I was interested in his information on Alice Gregson. Her father had evidently sent his apprentice, Ned, down to meet her at the Fleece on the Tuesday evening before the murders; Fleming had seen them walk up the bridge together. ‘She was a little thing,’ he said, ‘dolled up in the London fashions – all thin petticoats, and feathers in her hair. And her nose in the air, as if she smelt something she didn’t like. Looked like she couldn’t make the effort to put one foot in front of another. One of your city girls who’s never done a stroke of work in her life.’
Heron shifted impatiently; he glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.
Alice Gregson had been in Newcastle only four days but Fleming had seen a great deal of her, in more senses than one. The assembled crowd muttered in shock when he described her flimsy London dresses, how low they were cut, how many ribbons and how much expensive lace she had on them. She’d usually stood staring out of the window, as if looking for someone, or hoping for some diversion. She’d yawned a lot, and said she wanted to go back to London. She’d even said she thought Newcastle barbaric. This produced outraged gasps of horror.
Armstrong cut through the noise and asked if Gregson had kept much money in the house.
‘His recent takings only, I believe,’ Fleming said.
‘But there might have been enough to take the girl back to London?’
Fleming nodded. ‘There might have been.’ He added scrupulously, ‘I don’t know for certain.’
‘But in view of the burglaries last year, Gregson might have said he had no money even if he had?’
‘I suppose so, yes,’ Fleming said, doubtfully.
There was never any doubt of the jury’s decision. The four deceased were pronounced to have been murdered by Alice Gregson, aged twenty-three. Heron was at my elbow seconds after the pronouncement. ‘Nellie’s coffee house,’ he said peremptorily.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Heron threw himself back in his chair. An acquaintance nodded to him in passing; half the town seemed to have repaired to the coffee-house once the inquest was over – the male half at least. ‘I don’t doubt the girl killed them, but the evidence is totally unsatisfactory. Armstrong should have asked more questions. For one thing, the neighbours say she was a slip of a girl, who did not have the strength to walk a hundred yards. But she apparently had the strength to stab four adults and then climb down a makeshift rope dangling above a deep river.’ He signalled to one of the serving girls. ‘It is not easy to stab a man.’
Heron’s a swordsman and not merely in the practice rooms. I’ve seen him fight in anger; I’d wager he knows from experience exactly how hard it is to kill someone.
He paused to order coffee from the girl. ‘Secondly,’ he continued, ‘there is the question of the knife.’
‘Found near the apprentice,’ I agreed. ‘Which logically means he must have been the last victim. Alice was in her room, probably pretending to sleep. She must have killed her sister first because she would have woken as Alice crept over her. Then she killed her parents, went downstairs, killed the apprentice. So far, so good. But then she made her way back upstairs in order to flee down the rope. That’s not logical. Why did she not simply walk out of the front door?’ I stopped to allow the girl to put the two dishes of coffee on the table. ‘And why leave the child unharmed?’
Two elderly gentlemen accosted Heron, enthusing about the price of coal. I hunted in my pocket for some money to pay the girl and nearly gave her the foreign coin I’d picked up from the snow. I waited until Heron extricated himself from the two gentlemen.
Fleming then heaved himself up from the jury chairs. His description of how he’d woken to screams on the night told me nothing new, but I was interested in his information on Alice Gregson. Her father had evidently sent his apprentice, Ned, down to meet her at the Fleece on the Tuesday evening before the murders; Fleming had seen them walk up the bridge together. ‘She was a little thing,’ he said, ‘dolled up in the London fashions – all thin petticoats, and feathers in her hair. And her nose in the air, as if she smelt something she didn’t like. Looked like she couldn’t make the effort to put one foot in front of another. One of your city girls who’s never done a stroke of work in her life.’
Heron shifted impatiently; he glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.
Alice Gregson had been in Newcastle only four days but Fleming had seen a great deal of her, in more senses than one. The assembled crowd muttered in shock when he described her flimsy London dresses, how low they were cut, how many ribbons and how much expensive lace she had on them. She’d usually stood staring out of the window, as if looking for someone, or hoping for some diversion. She’d yawned a lot, and said she wanted to go back to London. She’d even said she thought Newcastle barbaric. This produced outraged gasps of horror.
Armstrong cut through the noise and asked if Gregson had kept much money in the house.
‘His recent takings only, I believe,’ Fleming said.
‘But there might have been enough to take the girl back to London?’
Fleming nodded. ‘There might have been.’ He added scrupulously, ‘I don’t know for certain.’
‘But in view of the burglaries last year, Gregson might have said he had no money even if he had?’
‘I suppose so, yes,’ Fleming said, doubtfully.
There was never any doubt of the jury’s decision. The four deceased were pronounced to have been murdered by Alice Gregson, aged twenty-three. Heron was at my elbow seconds after the pronouncement. ‘Nellie’s coffee house,’ he said peremptorily.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Heron threw himself back in his chair. An acquaintance nodded to him in passing; half the town seemed to have repaired to the coffee-house once the inquest was over – the male half at least. ‘I don’t doubt the girl killed them, but the evidence is totally unsatisfactory. Armstrong should have asked more questions. For one thing, the neighbours say she was a slip of a girl, who did not have the strength to walk a hundred yards. But she apparently had the strength to stab four adults and then climb down a makeshift rope dangling above a deep river.’ He signalled to one of the serving girls. ‘It is not easy to stab a man.’
Heron’s a swordsman and not merely in the practice rooms. I’ve seen him fight in anger; I’d wager he knows from experience exactly how hard it is to kill someone.
He paused to order coffee from the girl. ‘Secondly,’ he continued, ‘there is the question of the knife.’
‘Found near the apprentice,’ I agreed. ‘Which logically means he must have been the last victim. Alice was in her room, probably pretending to sleep. She must have killed her sister first because she would have woken as Alice crept over her. Then she killed her parents, went downstairs, killed the apprentice. So far, so good. But then she made her way back upstairs in order to flee down the rope. That’s not logical. Why did she not simply walk out of the front door?’ I stopped to allow the girl to put the two dishes of coffee on the table. ‘And why leave the child unharmed?’
Two elderly gentlemen accosted Heron, enthusing about the price of coal. I hunted in my pocket for some money to pay the girl and nearly gave her the foreign coin I’d picked up from the snow. I waited until Heron extricated himself from the two gentlemen.
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