had already noted.
We went out in the street again, Heron and I. I took deep breaths of the cold March air and tried to calm my temper. The faint sun that had gleamed through the windows of Heron’s house
came out from behind the clouds again and mitigated the worst effects of the chill wind. Below, we caught a grey glimpse of the Tyne, and of the bank of Gateshead on the other side.
“You saw the lock,” I said to Heron, when I trusted myself to speak.
He nodded.
“The door was forced from the inside,” I said.
“A remarkably foolish mistake to make.”
“He vandalised the workshop himself.”
A moment or two’s silence; Heron stirred and said, “I advise you to withdraw from this matter.”
“I cannot, sir,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “The money he offers will see me through the rest of the year, whatever transpires with the Italians. And if you think I
should withdraw, sir, why did you take the trouble to beat Bairstowe up to thirty guineas? – for which,” I added, mindful of my manners, “I thank you.”
“Carefulness with money is admirable,” he said. “Meanness is abominable.” I was reminded of Tom Eade – he had been a miser, according to his mother.
“And,” Heron added, “William Bairstowe is truly abominable.” He turned to look directly at me. “I know you like a challenge, Patterson, but there is something
dangerous about this matter. I say again, pull back.”
7
Man is born to worship the Divine; it is a duty upon us and nothing can excuse us from it.
[Revd A. E., Letter to Newcastle Courant, 24 October 1735]
On the Key; the breeze snapped at the rigging of seagoing ships, gulls wheeled overhead, diving for scraps of food. The keelmen with their yellow waistcoats sauntered
insolently along with dogs barking at their heels; boys ran shrieking, drunk with the prospect of their first voyage. Heron had left me to undertake some business; I had wandered off alone. I was
in need of solitude, time to think and order my thoughts.
This was plainly not the place to find it. I walked towards the Tyne Bridge, passing great heaps of coal and wood and the ruins of the city wall. On my right, narrow entrances gave on to chares
of the most unsavoury reputation; further along was the magnificence of the Guildhall. And beyond that were the arches over the river, sturdy and high, scattered with houses and shops.
I climbed the slope up to the first shops. It is never completely quiet here, but in the early evening only a few people ride home after a long day’s journey. I passed the tower that is
used as a prison, passed Fleming’s stationer’s shop. The last of the sun gleamed through clouds, showing cracks in the stones, rot in the wooden timbering of the houses.
A spirit gleamed on a shop window and called to me in a smug, self-satisfied way; I ignored her and walked on, towards the blue stones that mark the centre of the bridge – the boundary
between the boroughs of Newcastle and Gateshead. The road on the Gateshead side is markedly better kept. I leant on the parapet and stared down at the grey water.
It did not pay to dismiss Claudius Heron’s advice lightly. He was a cautious man and always inclined to believe the worst of everyone. But he was right to think that Bairstowe was playing
with me – the man had clearly wrecked the workshop himself. If the threatening notes had indeed existed, I’d wager Bairstowe had written them. Yet those twenty – no, thirty
– guineas: how could I turn them down? And more importantly than that, a man had died. If his death was not an accident, Tom Eade deserved justice.
I was roused from my reverie by the sharp clip-clop of horse’s hooves, loud on the cobbles. I glanced round – and caught my breath.
The lady that sat astride the chestnut horse walking wearily towards me was flagrantly wearing breeches, albeit under a long concealing coat with ample skirts. Dear God, I had forgotten how
beautiful she was: pale hair
We went out in the street again, Heron and I. I took deep breaths of the cold March air and tried to calm my temper. The faint sun that had gleamed through the windows of Heron’s house
came out from behind the clouds again and mitigated the worst effects of the chill wind. Below, we caught a grey glimpse of the Tyne, and of the bank of Gateshead on the other side.
“You saw the lock,” I said to Heron, when I trusted myself to speak.
He nodded.
“The door was forced from the inside,” I said.
“A remarkably foolish mistake to make.”
“He vandalised the workshop himself.”
A moment or two’s silence; Heron stirred and said, “I advise you to withdraw from this matter.”
“I cannot, sir,” I said, as neutrally as I could. “The money he offers will see me through the rest of the year, whatever transpires with the Italians. And if you think I
should withdraw, sir, why did you take the trouble to beat Bairstowe up to thirty guineas? – for which,” I added, mindful of my manners, “I thank you.”
“Carefulness with money is admirable,” he said. “Meanness is abominable.” I was reminded of Tom Eade – he had been a miser, according to his mother.
“And,” Heron added, “William Bairstowe is truly abominable.” He turned to look directly at me. “I know you like a challenge, Patterson, but there is something
dangerous about this matter. I say again, pull back.”
7
Man is born to worship the Divine; it is a duty upon us and nothing can excuse us from it.
[Revd A. E., Letter to Newcastle Courant, 24 October 1735]
On the Key; the breeze snapped at the rigging of seagoing ships, gulls wheeled overhead, diving for scraps of food. The keelmen with their yellow waistcoats sauntered
insolently along with dogs barking at their heels; boys ran shrieking, drunk with the prospect of their first voyage. Heron had left me to undertake some business; I had wandered off alone. I was
in need of solitude, time to think and order my thoughts.
This was plainly not the place to find it. I walked towards the Tyne Bridge, passing great heaps of coal and wood and the ruins of the city wall. On my right, narrow entrances gave on to chares
of the most unsavoury reputation; further along was the magnificence of the Guildhall. And beyond that were the arches over the river, sturdy and high, scattered with houses and shops.
I climbed the slope up to the first shops. It is never completely quiet here, but in the early evening only a few people ride home after a long day’s journey. I passed the tower that is
used as a prison, passed Fleming’s stationer’s shop. The last of the sun gleamed through clouds, showing cracks in the stones, rot in the wooden timbering of the houses.
A spirit gleamed on a shop window and called to me in a smug, self-satisfied way; I ignored her and walked on, towards the blue stones that mark the centre of the bridge – the boundary
between the boroughs of Newcastle and Gateshead. The road on the Gateshead side is markedly better kept. I leant on the parapet and stared down at the grey water.
It did not pay to dismiss Claudius Heron’s advice lightly. He was a cautious man and always inclined to believe the worst of everyone. But he was right to think that Bairstowe was playing
with me – the man had clearly wrecked the workshop himself. If the threatening notes had indeed existed, I’d wager Bairstowe had written them. Yet those twenty – no, thirty
– guineas: how could I turn them down? And more importantly than that, a man had died. If his death was not an accident, Tom Eade deserved justice.
I was roused from my reverie by the sharp clip-clop of horse’s hooves, loud on the cobbles. I glanced round – and caught my breath.
The lady that sat astride the chestnut horse walking wearily towards me was flagrantly wearing breeches, albeit under a long concealing coat with ample skirts. Dear God, I had forgotten how
beautiful she was: pale hair
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