A Thief Before Christmas

by Jennifer McGowan

  I had a bad feeling about that.

  No sooner had I resolved to go over to find out why young Henry Dobbs, productive member of the house of Dobbs, was hanging on to a minister’s conversation when a far different problem affronted me.

  A cry of outrage rang out over the lot of us, accompanied by the thudding of panicked feet. Then the clutch of older churchgoers at the head of our gathered assembly parted suddenly with a fuss and a flurry just as the shifty jewel dealer Theodore Minsk ran smack into the center of our group, shouted out in a voice overloud for the small space that he had been cheated, he had been duped, he had been lied to, and above all else, he was not to blame!

  Behind him, hard on his heels, were two magistrates I didn’t recognize, and one blustering nobleman I did. My fingers twisted in my skirts.

  I remembered the fat lord specifically because I’d been the one to snip a jeweled cuff from his glove just yesterday morning, a cuff that had sported a large, nearly perfect amethyst cut into a rectangle, one of the prettiest stones I’d ever seen.

  And, more important, it was also one of the stones we’d sold to Theodore Minsk, not eight hours after I’d stolen it.

  My grudging worry of the past few days immediately burst into full flower: Theodore had been caught out!

  Which meant, unless I acted very quickly, the Golden Rose would be as well.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “William Mathison!” I called out in a voice loud and aristocratic enough to cause even Lucretia to jump back and every man, woman, and priest in the churchyard to look round to me. I swung forward with the haughtiest step to my stride I could master, not missing the gape-mouthed stares of Annabelle and her cohort. They had thought me a simple country miss, some daughter of a traveling merchant, and now I was painting quite a different picture indeed. But there was nothing for it.

  “William, I will not have this disruption. I will not have it!” I blustered all the way up to Theodore and the man who had him by the ear, twisting it mercilessly. “Good sir, enough with that, enough!” I batted down the nobleman’s hands, and the ingrate looked as if he just might twist my ear too, though I was clearly trying to help. Brute.

  Turning back to Theodore, I pushed down his hands as well, even as he sought to massage his own battered head. He looked as if he’d been on the losing end of a fight with a mule. “What have you gotten yourself into now, William?” I wailed at him, my voice as raucous as a fishwife’s. I turned back to the puffing brute of a man and poked a sharp finger into his round belly. “And you! Beating a poor bedlamite. For shame sir, for shame!”

  As expected, the word bedlamite caught the entire churchyard up short. For all that Leeds was a good two hundred miles from London, everyone knew Bethlem Royal Hospital and what sort of people it housed behind its imposing stone walls. I could tell that I had the crowd in my hand, and I pressed my advantage immediately. “That’s right, all of you,” I said, wishing there was a stage on which to speak.

  And suddenly there was. With a swirl of a rich purple cape, Master James was suddenly in front of me as if from out of nowhere. He dropped a thick oilskin-wrapped bag of raw wool to the ground, ostensibly to take his ease as he listened to the caretaker of the crazy man hold forth.

  Where Master James had gotten a bag of wool on a Sunday is not something I could guess, but I stepped lightly up onto the bundle and gained myself a good foot of clearance.

  “’Tis a desperate tale. A tragedy indeed!” I cried, pitching my voice loud and high. “Small wonder that William has such a hard time of it, having spent five long years of his life in that pit of poor, possessed lunatics. But he did not start such a sad wreck of man.” I gestured imperiously to Theodore, who now stood, clearly at a loss at what I was saying. He looked stunned and credibly insane. That worked to my benefit.

  “It’s true!” I proclaimed. “He was a good lad, my eldest auntie’s youngest son, always getting in trouble as boys are wont to do, but never with any guile or malice. He just had an eye for pretty things, oddities too, baubles and trinkets and the like. He would pick them up everywhere, he would, and then like as not put them down again with neither rhyme nor reason, in the most inconvenient places. Birds’ nests in the church pew, eggs in his father’s chair, feathers in the stew.” This got a few of the women chuckling, clearly mothers as well, and I nodded. Laughter was good. Laughter built sympathy. Sympathy could save a skin not worth a lick of salt.

  So I plunged on. “One day my dear cousin William picked up the wrong pretty and deposited it in quite the most unfortunate place. A brightly colored cup filled with lye he dumped into a flagon of wine, and our sharpest needles he dropped into the roasting suckling pig.” A few gasps of shock, and now even the men looked intrigued. This was a fine pickle for anyone to be in, for sure. The fat, blustering lord began consciously drawing away from Theodore as if I’d just introduced a murderer into his midst. “The fact that he did these both at the same meal was bad enough, as you might imagine,” I allowed. “The fact that we were serving the local magistrate and his family was just poor timing.”

  “Ohhh,” someone groaned, and finally Theodore got it. You could see the clarity rush into him and then rush right out again, the better for him to play his role. He put his head in his hands and moaned pitifully. For being a lily-livered criminal, he acted the part of a shamed lunatic rather well. Nothing like a beating to knock a sense of urgency into you.

  “It was terrible inside—terrible!” he moaned, swaying now as he held his head. “They didn’t understand. Nobody understands. And the screams of the other patients . . . night after night, month after month, never knowing when I’d be set free, when I’d be saved!”

  “You told me you were cured, William,” I said severely, my voice as fell as the march of doom. “You told me you were cured and Father spoke with the doctor. He paid all your fines. And now—what? You have shamed us again? Bothered this poor honest man who did nothing at all wrong but flash something lovely in front of your eyes?”

  I turned with supplicating hands held wide and accosted the brutish lord, who was looking more and more uncomfortable. “Sir, I cannot apologize enough. If you could just describe the item my cousin stole, I’ll return it to you and then back to Bedlam he must go.”

  “Back to—” came the first gasp.

  “Oh, surely not—”

  “It’s Christmastime!”

  The mutterings of the crowd swelled and surged around me, but I held firm. “We are a God-fearing and law-abiding family, and while we love cousin William dearly, we cannot allow him to cause harm to another soul, even for such a short time, and even if his crime was committed without dark intent.” I snapped my fingers, startling the fat lord, who looked up at me with growing concern. “You cannot be held accountable for my cousin’s feeble mind, sir. What did he steal from you? How has he damaged your health and holdings? I’ll need the full details to explain to the doctors, before we lock him up with the insane once more.”

  Theodore moaned desperately. I think he was half beginning to believe me too.

  “Well, now,” garbled the lord, holding his hands out. “All I want is my property back, that which is mine. The stone was a unique one, and when I saw it in his ’ands, I knew right away ’twas mine.”

  I grimaced. “You have suffered much, my lord.” And so had I. God save me from ever again nicking the one precious stone in a hundred that could be recognized on sight.

  The fat brute saw my face and mistook its meaning. “No, no!” he insisted. “Justice will be served with the jewel’s return, I swear it!”

  “Well, that is the least. . . .” I held out my hand imperiously. “William,” I demanded. “The jewel!”

  For a second nothing happened, and I scowled as I turned to Theodore, caught up short as I saw real panic in the dealer’s eyes. What the . . . ?

  And then I got it. Theodore had likely be
en handling more than one jewel as the burly lord had approached him. Which meant he didn’t know! He didn’t know which jewel belonged to the lord—and he couldn’t very well hand him the wrong stone, or we’d have a real mess on our hands.

  As it was, Theodore’s fingers were now trembling uncontrollably. He patted his doublet and slashed breeches, his face ashen with fear. With a warm and gracious smile, I leaped to his aid, hoping his mind was tracking me as quickly as needed. “Now, William, square yourself and hold your nerves together. You’re purple with panic right now, and that’s not going to do any of us any good!”

  Instantly Theodore’s eyes cleared, and he lifted his hand to his collar and pulled out a large stone the size of a goose egg. I felt a twinge of despair as I watched Theodore’s credibly shaking hand stretch toward the burly lord. The man closed the gap between him and the cringing Theodore, who was looking more and more the lunatic as the play progressed. The lord almost gently recovered his own bauble, then—wonder of wonders—actually patted poor Theodore on the shoulders.

  “All is well, laddie,” he said, gruffly. “You go on now with your cousin. She’ll take care of you.” And as the townspeople paused as one, their hearts in their eyes, he turned to fix me with a steady gaze. “Return him to his mother, miss. He shouldn’t go to Bedlam for an honest mistake.”

  The crowd burst into applause. The man straightened, flushing first with alarm and then with a slow, embarrassed pleasure, and it was all I could do not to hug him myself.

  Then I was herding Theodore out of the crowd, cooing in his ear words that fell far short of endearments. “What were you thinking?” I said through clenched teeth. Theodore tensed in my grip.

  “’Twas just for a moment! I just wanted to see. . . . It was the grandest stone in the lot!” Theodore whined back. “How was I to know the former owner was so close?”

  “Because you were in the same village as where it was stolen, you imbecile!”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned around smartly, my face wreathed in smiles. I betrayed not a whit of concern, in fact, at the man who presented himself to me. But instantly my heart turned to ash.

  It was yet another magistrate who stood before us now, but this one’s oily face was all too familiar. This was the man Theodore had bought off yesterday, the magistrate paid to look the other way and keep Theodore safe.

  There was safe, however, and then there was safe. And the good magistrate wasn’t about to lose his head for a few shillings and be found out he’d protected a thief, no matter how close to Christmas it was.

  The magistrate’s next words proved me right. “’Tis a good thing you did there, miss, saving your . . . cousin like that,” he said staunchly. “Bedlam is a terrible place, from everything I’ve heard. And the fate of a thief in prison is just as bad, assuming he survived long enough to be locked up.”

  “Thank you . . . ,” I began, but the magistrate glanced away, as if he wasn’t actually talking to me anymore, though his words hit me just as squarely.

  “Still and all, if your cousin does have his wits about him, and he did mean to lift that bauble, it might serve him well to get out of town sooner rather than later, if you take my meaning.” His gaze flicked back to me. “Him an’ all his family. Say, by tomorrow at noon?”

  My smile was radiant, my eyes warm with appreciation. Only Theodore knew of the jolt that passed through me, as I still gripped his arm tight enough to wrench it off. “By all means, good sir,” I said, dipping my head graciously. “If I find that my cousin came so close to bringing our family shame on purpose, we’ll be sure to continue on our journey forthwith.”

  “See that you do.” He touched his forehead and smiled. “G’day, miss. And Merry Christmas to you.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, only daring to breathe again after the magistrate had rounded the corner.

  Theodore exhaled in relief as well. “I’ll leave before nightfall,” he muttered.

  I nodded, keeping my words equally quiet. “We’ll be off shortly after, I daresay.”

  First, however, I needed to make some magic happen. At the Guild Hall of Leeds, no less, where the good men of the Dobbs family were doubtlessly gathered instead of appearing at church. I suspected Henry would be joining them. I suspected I would as well.

  And for that, I needed a change of costume.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I arrived at the Guild Hall with my hair tucked under a white cap, a worn mud-colored kirtle over my gown and shift, and an apron over that, my coat plain but sturdy: just another maid, reporting to duty, though it was a Sunday and all the young women that served in the hall of merchants should be home with their families. There was no commerce on a Sunday, no wool to sell, no transactions with weavers to make, no meetings.

  But men of commerce were men first and foremost, and I knew I would not find the hall empty.

  The door to the hall was unlocked. With no transactions today, what was there to steal? So I strode in easily enough and found myself in an entryway that branched around a large central chamber. I turned to my right to explore a bit, but I heard the conversation well before I came upon the room.

  Loud, earnest voices ricocheted around the space, young men’s for the most part. I hesitated as I approached the doorway, holding back for a moment before I made myself known.

  “I’ve made up my mind, Father,” came the first voice, young and high and full of life. “I’m nothing but an added body, when I could do so much more for people who truly need it.”

  “But you’re needed here, Henry!” asserted another voice, older but still robust. There was a rumble of agreement in the room: two other voices. In the darkness, I allowed my eyes to widen. So Henry was with his father. But rather than announcing his intentions to wed Annabelle as I’d feared, he was . . . saying he was going somewhere else entirely? How did that make any sense at all?

  “I’m not needed and well you know it,” the young man I suspected was Henry replied, his tone resolute—though there was kindness there too. I found I rather liked his voice. “You’ve more than enough men here to help you, and my brothers besides. And no—don’t you start up with me, too. I’ve decided to join the Church. It’s really the best course.”

  If I hadn’t been schooling myself to stay quiet, I would have squeaked in surprise. The Church? Was he a madman?

  I mean yes, certainly: the Church was a viable destination for many a third son. Despite the Reformation of King Henry’s time, which had dealt a heavy blow to the Catholic faith even as it spurred the Church of England into life, there was still a living to be made if you were a man and part of the church. You could have your own vicarage, caring for a village flock of faithful. You lived in part on the indulgence of the people you served, and if your family had money, you could live even better as long as you kept your needs simple. You could marry, also. So I supposed he could still marry Lucretia, but . . .

  “But why go all the way to Wales? We’ve need of you here, even if you wear a priest’s robes!” The father was sounding a little desperate now, and I had to say I couldn’t blame him. The Church was bad enough, but Wales? There was no way Lucretia could leave her family and travel so far.

  “I have to go, Father,” Henry said, and I narrowed my gaze in the darkness. His voice had taken on the unmistakable sheen of desperation. He was pleading for his father’s sanction. But why? “I cannot stay here—I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “The women will be so disappointed,” drawled another young voice. “Word has it that Lady Farthington has set her cap for you to wed her fair daughter.”

  “And that cannot happen,” Henry said sharply. Anguish had now replaced desperation. Verily, the man changed tacks faster than a sailboat in a winter’s squall. “Father, I should never do you the disrespect to disobey your direct request. I know that were I to remain, you would be pressed to accept this suit. It is fo
r the best of the family, I know it. And yet I cannot marry the girl.”

  Surprisingly, Henry’s father did not jump in to support him. “She is a fair enough chit. And her family is rich. . . .”

  “This is exactly why I must leave!” Henry cried. His voice rang with passion, and I remembered the enraptured letter he’d written to Lucretia—a letter that he must have realized was fruitless, what with the plum of Annabelle Farthington about to be dangled in front of his father. “I want nothing to do with the life of merchants and commerce, but to devote myself to the common good of all. I do not even know that I will marry!”

  This caused another mini-uproar, one decidedly more ribald, and I rolled my eyes in the semi-darkness. Henry was an idiot, but young men often were when it came to matters of the heart. I knew the truth of the matter, though. He loved Lucretia and believed he could not have her, that his father would instead force him to wed Annabelle. So he must leave.

  My own plan was now neatly lined up before me, given the quick research I’d done on the families of Leeds, but time was ever of the essence. I took several steps back so I could build up some speed, then I bustled forward, rounding the corner with quick paces even as I tugged at my coat and half-removed it, the picture of the daydreaming maid returning late to her workplace.

  “Oh!” I gasped, rounding my eyes and halting in the doorway. “Your pardon, sirs. I did not know anyone else was here!”

  “And what brings you here yourself?” boomed the man at the front of the room. I turned my attention to the patriarch of the Dobbs family. He was tall and straight and thick-muscled, the body of a man used to physical labor with the weathered face to match. He’d earned his money by sweat as much as savvy, I guessed. “It is Sunday. Mistress Caraway isn’t here.”