Free Airs and Graces by Roz Southey Page B

in taking the key to my house. He couldn’t use it till dark, and by then we could have all the servants on watch and the locks changed.’
    ‘Thieves don’t always think sensibly.’
    I stirred wearily. ‘I’ll have to go and look at Gregson’s shop.’
    Hugh pushed me back. ‘Nonsense! Have more brandy.’
    ‘Philips entrusted me with that key! The least I can do is check no one’s broken in.’
    Hugh sighed and gave in. ‘I suppose I’d better come with you.’
    ‘Haven’t you got lessons?’
    ‘Finished for the day. I’ll get my greatcoat.’
    It took more effort than I’d anticipated to get down the stairs to the street, but once I was out in the cold fresh air, I felt better. Hugh strolled with me down Westgate in the gloom of the early winter evening, stopping where I’d been attacked and looking round. The snow had been scuffed and the place I’d fallen was very obvious.
    ‘He was audacious,’ Hugh said. ‘Or mad. Attacking you in broad daylight, in the street, where anyone might have intervened!’
    ‘Hugh,’ I said. I rubbed my aching temple. ‘Why should he want the key to the shop?’
    ‘He knows the place is empty and wants to rob it.’
    ‘What if it’s more than that? What if this wasn’t a casual robbery? What if he’s connected with the murders?’
    ‘Nonsense!’
    ‘Mrs Fletcher thinks her sister didn’t kill them.’
    Hugh made a derisory noise.
    ‘She thinks Alice fled from a violent burglar. Presumably she now daren’t come forward and say so, because she’ll be apprehended and charged.’
    ‘You’re tired, Charles,’ Hugh said soothingly. ‘Get home to bed. You’ll be better in the morning. It was a common thief who just happened to see you in the street.’
    My head was throbbing and I could hardly think straight, but I was absolutely certain I was right. ‘He’s connected with Alice, I know he is,’ I said obstinately.
    ‘If he’s the killer,’ Hugh said patiently, ‘why should he want to go back to the shop? If it was me, I’d get as far away as possible.’
    ‘Maybe he left something there.’
    ‘It would have been found by now.’
    ‘Perhaps it was, but we didn’t recognize its significance.’
    Hugh sighed.
    The snow was coming down in a more determined fashion by the time we got to the bottom of Westgate; negotiating the steep Side was difficult and we both slipped several times. On the Sandhill only a few people were about, mostly hurrying for shelter. The Key was busier, with sailors still loading ships, but there was none of the idling that is usually to be seen – everyone was doing what they had to, then getting inside again. Hugh shivered melodramatically. ‘I hate winter.’
    We climbed the slope to the bridge; a horseman came the other way, a burly man on an ugly chestnut horse. The man’s coat and hat were dusted with snow; he looked weary as he reined in the horse.
    ‘Gentlemen.’
    He was a rough but handsome man of forty or so with a weather-beaten face like a sailor’s. I was struck by an odd feeling of familiarity, as if I ought to know him.
    ‘Can you direct me to a good inn?’ he asked. ‘Clean but not too expensive?’
    I gave him directions to the Golden Fleece. Hugh said, ‘Have you come over Gateshead Fell?’
    ‘Don’t know what it’s called,’ the man said. ‘It was damned unpleasant. Nearly didn’t get through.’
    We watched him ride off in the direction of the Fleece. ‘Londoner,’ Hugh said, dismissively. ‘Soft.’
    ‘I’m sure I know him,’ I said. ‘But I can’t place him. I haven’t seen him recently, I know that.’ Maybe it had been in London; I was there four or five years ago, studying and gaining experience, playing in the opera orchestra and such like.
    We turned for Gregson’s shop; I took hold of Hugh’s arm. ‘The door’s open.’ We looked for a moment at the thin line of darkness between door and jamb – it looked as if someone had meant to shut it, but not quite caught the