The Gentleman and the Thief

by Sarah M. Eden

  Mr. Combs rubbed at his unshaven chin as he paced away. “Odd, bein’ where we are. Odd, indeed.”

  “You know what it was?” Wellington asked. What a boon it would be if he could, indeed, explain it.

  “I’ve a notion.” Mr. Combs motioned him out of the house. “I’ll give it some thought, sir. If m’ Tillie saw what I think she saw, you’ve a bigger mystery on your hands than you realize.”

  He was offered no further explanation than that. In a moment’s time, Wellington was outside the cottage, alone, confused, and already longing for the return of Tillie’s smiles and spirit-lifting company.

  Two days after the blue-flame encounter, Mrs. Smith rushed into Wellington’s library, a mixture of excitement and panic on her face. “You’ve visitors, sir!”

  “Visitors?” He very seldom had anyone call on him at Summerworth. It was an isolated estate, and his period of mourning for his parents had necessitated the estate be quiet and lifeless. Even with that period passed, nothing much had changed.

  “Two carriages, sir,” she said. “And the young people spilling out look fine indeed.”

  He rose from his desk and crossed to the window. Two carriages sat in the drive, but both appeared to be empty.

  “The visitors are in the drawing room, Mr. Quincey,” Mrs. Smith said.

  The house was so out of practice with visitors, Mrs. Smith had managed the thing in quite the wrong order. “I will be there directly,” he said.

  She nodded and rushed from the room.

  Visitors. He didn’t know whether to feel pleased or concerned. What if his as-yet-unidentified thief had made off with the tea set or the chairs in the drawing room? What if these new arrivals were hoping for a place to stop their journey for the night and they, too, found themselves victims of this thief?

  Wellington made himself presentable and joined his guests in the drawing room. One mystery solved itself immediately. Two of the gentlemen—Alsop and Henson—were known to him, they having been acquaintances at school. Perhaps not truly close friends, but near enough to make a call, even an unexpected one, completely acceptable.

  Bows and curtsies preceded formal introductions. His one-time chums had brought with them a Mr. Fairbanks, his sister, Miss Fairbanks, and Miss Porter, an acquaintance of the Fairbanks family. Their manner of speaking and dress marked them all as residing firmly in the upper class. There would be no footraces among this lot.

  “You’ve not been to London in ages, Quincey,” Alsop said.

  “I have been in mourning,” he reminded them.

  “Not for the last six months.”

  The truth of that could not be argued. “The estate has occupied much of my time of late. Leaving it unattended has not been an option.”

  Henson was walking the length of the drawing room. “The place seems nearly abandoned. Has some tragedy befallen the area?”

  “Many of the servants left after my parents’ passing.” That was all the more detail he meant to furnish them with on that score. “As for tragedies, would a string of thefts suffice?”

  The ladies pressed shocked hands to their hearts—not the theatrical jest Tillie had employed, but a gesture made in earnest. The gentlemen looked to him with alarm.

  “Thefts?” Mr. Fairbanks clicked his tongue and shook his head. “What is this world coming to?”

  “I believe I will catch out the culprit soon enough,” Wellington said. “But at the moment I am baffled.”

  Mrs. Smith appeared quite suddenly in the doorway, a frantic expression on her aging face. “Another visitor, sir. Miss Combs.”

  Tillie slipped inside with her usual adventurous spirit firmly in place. “I’ve a notion to search again if you’re—” Her gaze fell on the others. “Oh. You’ve callers.”

  Wellington waved her closer. “Miss Combs, this is Miss Fairbanks and Miss Porter. Mr. Alsop, Mr. Henson, and Mr. Fairbanks.”

  They offered half-hearted bows and curtsies. Tillie’s effort was a touch less refined than was generally seen in more exalted circles, but there was no malice in it, no disrespect. She was a good soul.

  “How do you two know one another?” Miss Fairbanks asked.

  “Miss Combs”—it felt odd referring to Tillie so formally; they’d been friends so long, he struggled to think of her as anything but his one-time playmate—“grew up on the estate. Her father is the Summerworth steward.”

  “Ah.” More than one of the visitors made the exact same noise of dawning understanding.

  “Do you still live on the estate?” Miss Fairbanks asked Tillie. “Few people do, as I understand it.”

  “The butler and housekeeper and m’father and I are the only ones left,” Tillie said. “We see to it the grand ol’ place keeps standing.”

  “Mr. Quincey is fortunate to have all of you,” Miss Porter’s words were kind, but something in her tone was not.

  Tillie seemed to notice it as well. Her brow drew down, and she watched the gathering with more wariness than before.

  Alsop returned his attention to Wellington. “We’re bound for a house party at George Berkley’s estate. You remember him from Cambridge. He said he’d be most pleased to have you there.”

  An invitation to a house party. This was the first he’d had since leaving behind his mourning period. When first he’d finished school and entered Society, he would have jumped at the opportunity, but now he found himself hesitant.

  “Do come, Mr. Quincy,” Miss Fairbanks said. “It promises to be a very enjoyable week in the country.”

  “While I am grateful for the invitation, I do need to sort out the matter of these thefts. Else, I might return home to find the house entirely empty.”

  Tillie still hadn’t moved from her spot. Her eyes darted from one person to the next, her concern and confusion clearly growing. What had her so frozen? Tillie was not usually one to be rendered so withdrawn.

  Mrs. Smith arrived with a heavily laden tray. She set it on a nearby table, then tossed him a look of apology. “I’ll be back with the actual tea, sir. I’m a bit at loose ends, being out of practice and such.”

  Before he could reassure her, Tillie spoke. “I’ll help you.”

  “Oh, bless you, Tillie.”

  The two women slipped out, but Tillie looked back, meeting his eye before dropping her gaze and hurrying from the room. Where had her unflagging spirit gone?

  “Does Miss Combs often make herself so at home here?” Henson asked. “Seems a bit forward for a servant.”

  “She’s not a servant,” Wellington insisted. “She’s the daughter of the estate steward.”

  “A minor difference,” Miss Fairbanks said. “She is most decidedly bold.”

  “She is helping me search for the thief.”

  “Helping you find the thief?” Alsop shook his head. “Has it occurred to you, my friend, that she might be the thief?”

  “Tillie?” He guffawed. “She would not steal so much as a dandelion from a meadow much less items belonging to another person.”

  Alsop shrugged. Henson gave Wellington a look of pity.

  “I do hope we are wrong, Mr. Quincey,” Miss Fairbanks said, “but you would be well-advised to keep a close eye on her.”

  “I will take your advice into consideration,” he said through tight teeth.

  “I see we have offended you.” Miss Fairbanks fluttered over to him, all solicitousness. “That was not our intention. Do come to the house party with us. Allow us to show you we hold no ill will.”

  “Again, I thank you.” He addressed them all. “But I will have to decline. Estate matters require my attention.”

  Conversation grew more general, ranging from topics of Society to the weather. The visitors were not unpleasant, neither had they been outright rude, yet Wellington felt dissatisfied with their company. He missed Tillie. He had missed her the p
ast two days. Heavens, he had missed her the past two years. If only she hadn’t run off to the kitchens. If only this group hadn’t sent her fleeing there. If only, if only, if only!

  Tea was brought up, but by Mrs. Smith alone. Tillie, it seemed, did not mean to make another appearance.

  The callers prepared to depart, insisting they needed to be on their way if they were to reach their stop for the night, the last before arriving at their final destination. Farewells were exchanged as were hopes that they would meet again, perhaps in Town.

  “Do think on what we said,” Alsop offered, one step from the front portico. “You may be chasing a thief who knows where you are looking. When one hands an arsonist matches, one is playing with fire.”

  Wellington motioned him on. “I will bear that in mind.”

  A moment later, they were gone, yet Wellington did not rest easy. He hadn’t even a moment in which to do so before Tillie spoke from behind him.

  “They think I am your thief, don’t they?”

  He spun about. There she stood, looking somehow both hurt and defiant. “They don’t know you.”

  “But you do, and you gave some thought to their warning.”

  “Tillie—”

  She pushed past him. “You didn’t believe me ’bout that flame, and you don’t full believe me that I’m not thieving from you.” She pointed a finger at him. “We’re friends, Wellington Quincy. Perhaps it’s time you treated me like we were.”

  I’ve a bee to tuck up your bonnet.” Ambrose was only this informal when interacting with Hollis on Dreadfuls business. He and his wife, Libby, were the apex of Hollis’s servants’ network pyramid. They knew absolutely everything.

  Hollis carefully set aside the manuscript page he was working on and gave the man his full attention.

  “It’s Very Merry,” he said.

  “Is she giving you difficulty?”

  Ambrose shook his head. “She’s a little devil, but we’re keepin’ pace with her.”

  “Then what’s the trouble?”

  “She’s said things that have my ears perked.” Ambrose leaned his shoulder against the nearby wall. “Told us you and your chums found her belowstairs in some fine house in Pimlico.”

  Hollis nodded. “A nearly empty house where she’d not have found much of value to filch. While we were tracking her through London, we had report of her stealing little figurines and worthless bits of costume jewelry and such.”

  “She seems more knowin’ than that,” Ambrose said.

  Hollis shrugged. “She is little yet. Maybe she hasn’t sorted it all.”

  Ambrose folded his arms across his chest. “She told my Libby that she weren’t in that Pimlico house to steal anything. She was hiding, but she won’t tell either of us what or who she was hiding from. The closest we’ve come to an answer was ‘He weren’t supposed to be there.’” Ambrose pushed out a breath. “And it weren’t a casual thing. Someone was where he oughtn’t be, and that someone has her terrified.”

  “That someone is likely Four-Finger Mike,” Hollis said.

  Ambrose stood straight, his face pale. “What connection does she have to that whisht cove?”

  “She was one of his underlings, stealing because he required it of her.”

  Ambrose whistled low. “I understand being terrified of that bloke. But he’d not be in that part of Pimlico. He’d be as out of place there as a badger in a horse race. No slippery fellow of his ilk would toss himself where he’d be so quickly sniffed out.”

  Ambrose was dead on the money there.

  “He must have a reason for taking such a risk,” Hollis said.

  “A matter that crushing cain’t be small, and our Very Merry likely knows more than she ought.”

  Which meant she was still in danger.

  Hollis stood. “I’m going to grab one of the lads and take a stroll down St. George’s—see if we can’t sort out what might send a rat to a tea party.”

  “I’ll drop it in your ear if I hear anything through the network,” Ambrose said. “Or if that demon child you stuck on us says anything more.”

  “You can’t fool me, man. You’re fond of that ‘demon child.’”

  Ambrose laughed. “We are that.”

  Hollis snatched his tall hat off the table beside the door. He looked back at Ambrose. “Keep an eye on the place.”

  “Keep an eye on yourself.” He nodded toward the desk. “And don’t neglect your writing. I need to know what happens with that Pudding fella.”

  Hollis popped his hat on his head, dipped his chin, and slipped from the room.

  Dreadfuls’ headquarters was bustling when Hollis arrived. No meeting had been called; it was simply a popular spot that day. Luck seemed to be on his side as the one he most needed to find was already there, reading in the library.

  “Ah, Brogan. Just who I was looking for.”

  Brogan flipped a page of his book. “Why is it I can’t get any of the lasses to say that?”

  “Your ugly mug, probably.”

  His mouth tipped at the corner. “I’ve not had many complaints.”

  “Or, apparently, many requests.”

  Brogan’s smile formed fully. “What brings you ’round?”

  “What do you know of the poorer areas of Pimlico? St. George’s Road, in particular.”

  Brogan chuckled. “That ain’t a poorer area by anyone’s estimation.”

  That had been Hollis’s assessment as well. “Do you remember the house on St. George’s Road? The one where we found our tiny thief?”

  “I do.”

  “She wasn’t there trying to rob the place. She was hiding. From Four-Finger Mike.”

  The Irishman’s ginger brows shot upward. “Boil m’bones,” he whispered.

  Hollis rubbed at his mouth. “I can’t sort out why he would’ve been there. I suppose he could have been thieving, but there’s a reason these slippery fellows piece together teams of crooks: saves them the trouble and the risk.”

  “’Tis an oddity, for sure.” Brogan crossed his arms over his chest. “He’d be sorted out quickly amongst the Quality.”

  “And, yet, he was there. The man who escaped the police, who’s masterminded kidnappings and robberies and arsons, was in a place he shouldn’t have been. That worries me.”

  “Worries me, as well.” Brogan rose slowly. “Fancy a stroll around Pimlico?”

  “Only a stroll?”

  Brogan made a small gesture of casual dismissal. “Perhaps a touch of spying, if we’ve a spare minute or two.”

  Hollis eyed Brogan’s working-class togs. He’d likely come directly from one of his missions of mercy. “We need to be dressed at the same level, though. Otherwise we’ll draw notice.”

  “For St. George’s in Pimlico?” Brogan chuckled. “I’ll dress up.”

  Another testament to how strange the idea of Four-Finger Mike being in that spot truly was.

  A quick trip to the Wardrobe Room saw Brogan strutting about in the weeds of the upper classes. They passed Irving and Kumar, who both ribbed him thoroughly for his fanciness. As they approached the front door, they passed Stone.

  The man looked them over quickly but thoroughly. “Cutting a dash.”

  “I make a fine aristocratic type, if I do say so.” Brogan’s attempt at an upper-class accent emerged far more like drunk Cockney.

  “Maybe you’d best let me do the talking.” Hollis slapped a hand on Brogan’s shoulder. “Or at least agree to pretend to be Irish.”

  “I am Irish.”

  Hollis nodded, lips twisted outward in exaggerated doubt. “Sure you are. Stick with that.”

  “You know, you’re a powerful lot funnier when you’re not with Fletcher.”

  Hollis bowed with a flourish.

  “Where’re you off to?” Stone asked.

&nb
sp; “Pimlico,” Brogan said. “Four-Finger Mike was spotted there a bit back. We’re goin’ to sniff out a clue.”

  “Keep the rest of us in the know.”

  “We will.”

  In a bit of déjà vu, they took a hack to a spot a bit removed from St. George’s and walked the rest of the way. Instead of assuming the purposeful saunter of tradesmen, they walked with the easy assurance of the gentry.

  Everything seemed exactly as expected. The homes were well-kept. The street was quiet. Of the two people they passed, neither had shifty eyes or held up a sign saying “I have nefarious intentions.”

  They were nearly to the house where they’d found Very Merry. She must’ve ducked into that particular spot for a reason. Hollis eyed the homes on either side of it, the park across the street and down a pace, the homes facing it. Nothing was odd or unusual. And nothing offered a place for someone as out of place as Four-Finger Mike to hide.

  “I wish I knew what’d been happening before we arrived that day,” Hollis said. “I’m beginning to suspect there was some sort of distraction that let him go unnoticed.”

  “I’d wager the same, but it’d need to’ve been something known ahead of time for him to’ve come here.”

  Yes, but what?

  Hollis’s attention settled on the house directly across from the one Very Merry had been in. A servant stepped out the front door and began screwing in the door knocker.

  “Someone’s newly arrived,” Hollis noted.

  Brogan made a sound of realization. “The comings and goings of moving in could distract from someone sneaking about.”

  “Do you suppose he stole anything from the new arrivals?” Hollis knew the answer.

  “And took the lay of the land so he could send his minions back for more.” Brogan rolled onto the balls of his feet a couple of times, watching the street. “We’d best discover who lives there and see if a warning ought to be whispered in their ears.”

  “My servants’ network can find that out,” Hollis said.

  “Brilliant.”