Rose was, as a rule, immune from fears and fancy. She was headed to a rendezvous in Southwark, and, being conscious of the perils of London streets at night, she had armed herself before setting out. In her right pocket, tucked next to her purse, was a small pocket pistol with a silver-mounted handle.
When she stowed the weapon in her pocket, she was emboldened by her nerve, but now, she had a presentiment of danger that the pistol did nothing to dispel. Who was it? Please God let it not be one of the other servants from the house come chasing after her to bring her back. Surely that was not possible. When she had risen, the two other maids who shared her attic room had been sleeping peacefully. She had crept down the passage and back stairs, avoiding the basement corridor where the other servants slept. No one was up. No one could have observed her. No one knew her plan. Several hours would pass before any of them rose and began to question where she was.
What would happen then? Mrs. Tooley might be summoned from her bed, work herself into a state, and have to retire again. At the thought of the housekeeper sniffing her salts and flapping about, Rose couldn’t help smiling. Then a vision of Agnes flitted into her mind. She imagined the cook stirring her sauce or mixing her fricassee, growing flushed with the heat from the fire. Agnes had always maintained her distance, requiring only that Rose perform her duties satisfactorily. But when Rose had been negligent, Agnes had hardly ever chastised her, and once or twice she had asked herself why this was, and grew remorseful. More often, she misbehaved expressly to provoke Agnes. When she never properly succeeded, it had spurred her to worse behavior. She had recounted her misdeeds afterward; Philip and John disapproved, while delighting in the accounts; Doris droned that one of these days she would lose her post. All of them were too dull-witted to see why she took such risks and was so careless of Agnes’s and Mrs. Tooley’s good opinion—she was leaving.
The footsteps distracted her. Was it her imagination, or were the steps getting closer? Rose increased her pace, gripping the handle of her bag and her lantern, so that the leather bit into her palm and the light wavered about. A few yards on, her anxiety mounting, an idea came to her. She could make a detour and head for the river. At any hour there were certain to be people about, and whatever her stalker’s intentions, he could pose no further threat.
Invigorated with new purpose, she turned down Distaff Lane, a thoroughfare of overhanging clapboard houses, all the while gathering speed, and soon she was practically running. After several minutes, lungs aching, she stopped and listened. There was no sound. She believed, in that instant, that her scheme had worked, but then she heard the footsteps again, closer than ever.
Rose Francis transferred her bag to the same hand as the lantern and, with her free hand, took out the pistol. She flicked off the catch, then, turning abruptly right, slowed her pace. She felt cold perspiration gather on her face. She would confuse her pursuer into passing her. When he did so, she would reveal her weapon, and if necessary, she would use it.
But her pursuer failed to oblige. As if sensing a trap, he hung obstinately back in the overhang of a doorway. Rose edged forward, gripping the pistol in her quaking hand. She caught a glimpse of him lingering on the corner. Without pausing, she dashed in the opposite direction, into the first alley she saw. She zigzagged wildly through the labyrinthine passages and streets leading to the river. But whichever way she chose, her pursuer seemed to anticipate her every turn.
The cobbles gave way to mud. The wind was still fierce and the folds of her skirt and cloak tangled between her legs. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a cloak and dark hat. Should she simply turn, aim, and fire her pistol? Reason told her she should, but the instinct for flight had overwhelmed her.
When she emerged breathlessly at Three Cranes Wharf, the clocks of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Austin’s began to sound the hour with competing resonance. An oyster moon illuminated the river and the wharfs and warehouses lining its banks. It was low tide and she could see barges aground on the muddy foreshore, lying strangely angled, but gray and flat as if drawn on an engraving.
Rose searched for someone to assist her. There were fewer people than she expected, but at least she was no longer entirely alone. A bald-headed man was slumped comatose in a doorway clutching a gin bottle to his breast. Another man, wearing a greatcoat, was stooped outside a warehouse, tying a barrel to a winch. Beyond, two figures sat hunched over a brazier. None of them appeared to notice her as she emerged from the alley at breakneck speed.
In the hope that the figures by the brazier might be watchmen, Rose cried out to them, but they seemed not to hear. She glanced back at the man with the barrel, only to see him disappear into the warehouse. Directly in front of her were steps leading down to the foreshore. She sidestepped to the right, heading for the figures by the brazier.
Just then the winch with the barrel on it creaked and its chains rattled loudly. Rose jumped at the sound and let go of her lantern and bag, which dropped over the edge of the wharf. She heard them land with a heavy thud. Half crying, she hurried down the steps to recover them. As her boots sank into the mud, she lost her footing and felt herself tumble forward.
For a few seconds she lay sprawled there. Then, slowly, she stumbled to her feet. She stood in her sodden, ruined skirt, peering into the gloom in every direction. It seemed that the person following her had vanished.
Suppose he was still waiting in an alley? She thought for a moment. Her rendezvous was on the south side of the river, which meant crossing the bridge, a distance of half a mile. With the tide out, she could reach the bridge by keeping to the mudflats. This would be safer than returning to the streets, where her pursuer might be waiting for her.
Rose felt her courage return. She retrieved her belongings and picked her way toward the bridge. A dark-cloaked figure slipped out of an alley and, clinging to the shadows, followed.
Chapter Six
AT FOUR O’CLOCK , one of the Blanchards’ three apprentices went to relieve the unfortunate Noah Prout of his watch. On discovering the corpse and the great pool of blood, and noting that Sir Bartholomew Grey’s precious wine cooler was gone, he hurried to raise the alarm. He roused his fellow apprentice, then charged next door and banged repeatedly on the kitchen door until his fist was raw and bleeding.
It was a good ten minutes before Mr. Matthews arrived in his nightgown and nightcap. The butler’s senses had been addled by sleep and several inches of port drained from the decanter, but the sudden blast of wind and debris that gusted in his face when he opened the door sobered him as effectively as a bucket of water to the head. It took him a minute or two to decipher the jumbled account of the nearly decapitated Noah and the missing wine cooler.
Leaving the apprentices ashen and shivering in his parlor, Mr. Matthews immediately went to Theodore’s room. He knocked discreetly on the door and, hearing only raucous snoring, entered quietly so as not to disturb Lydia, who slept in the adjacent room.
Theodore was lying with his blankets tucked up round his chin and his nightcap over one nostril. The pointed tip of the hat puffed up and down with each great snore. Mr. Matthews had to give him several firm shakes before, with much incoherent groaning, he woke.
Pale and somber, he listened to the news, then sat in silence for some minutes. “A dreadful calamity, sir,” said Mr. Matthews. Theodore twisted his nightcap in his hands, then scratched his stubbly head, but said nothing. “Should I send for the constable now, sir?” pressed Mr. Matthews, half wondering if his master had properly understood him. “The villain may still be in the vicinity.”
At last Theodore spoke. “We are ruined. That wine cooler was the most valuable object ever made by this company. There can be no avoiding the fact—we are ruined.” If he was taken aback by this admission, Mr. Matthews did not reveal it by so much as a twitch. “Surely not, sir,” he said, in the tone of formal deference he found best in a crisis. “What would you have me do about the corpse?”
“Leave me in peace a minute,
won’t you? Don’t expect me to think about that when such a catastrophe has taken place. Whatever am I to tell my father, and Sir Bartholomew? The wine cooler stolen the very night before it was due to be delivered.”
When Theodore had recovered himself sufficiently to collect his thoughts, he instructed Matthews to call for the constable and magistrate and to send watchmen in search of the missing wine cooler. Theodore would break the news to his father himself in the morning, at breakfast. He expressly forbade Matthews to discuss the tragedy below stairs until that time. “And since you and I are the only ones who know, I rely upon your discretion, Matthews.”
“You may rest assured upon it, sir,” said Mr. Matthews with a small bow.
Then, with Mr. Matthews’s help, Theodore dressed swiftly and went next door to view the scene of the crime with his own disbelieving eyes.
Chapter Seven
AS A RULE , Agnes Meadowes slept dreamlessly, or at least forgot her dreams by the time she awoke. But the storm had disturbed her, and next morning she was burdened by an unfamiliar sense of foreboding. Her bolster felt damp and her eyes were swollen. The dream that had disturbed her was indistinct, but she knew that it had caused her to weep.
Sitting up in bed, she suddenly understood. The previous evening she had finally retrieved her letter from the ailing Mrs. Tooley. Reading it before retiring had preyed on her mind and caused her nightmares. She plucked it from her night table and considered it again.
Twickenham, January 1750
Dear Mrs. Meadowes,
I should have written to you sooner, but since your last visit a terrible nervous fever brought on after I was caught out in a shower has afflicted me, and I have not left my bed. My sister Barbara has assisted me in caring for your boy, Peter, who has escaped the contagion and enjoys the best of health and spirits.
Now I am out of danger, but my head is still bad and I must convalesce until I am properly well again. Peter needs more than I can give him at the present moment. I cannot wait till your next visit two weeks hence. For the time being Barbara tends him, but she must return to her own family next Saturday. After that you must find somewhere else.
Yours most sincerely and truly,
Maud Catchpole
Rereading the letter relieved and disturbed Agnes anew. She thanked God Peter was well, and yet where would she find another person to tend Peter at such short notice? She was permitted only one free Sunday a month and the next was not due for another fortnight. She would have to persuade Mrs. Tooley to allow her an extra day off, but the housekeeper was feeling frail and it would not be an easy task.
Agnes reminded herself that there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on her personal disturbances. Her duties awaited and should not be ignored. She would tackle Mrs. Tooley as soon as an opportune moment arose. After all, there were five days until Saturday.
It was now nearly seven. She splashed and scoured herself with a flannel soused in icy water, and donned her everyday garb: a pair of brown woolen stockings, a chemise, a petticoat, a worn gray skirt and bodice, a freshly laundered apron. With the exception of the apron, most of these items had belonged to Lydia Blanchard, who passed them on to her maid, Patsy. But Patsy, being rather larger than Lydia, was obliged to alter the clothes, and those she could not let out or down were passed to Agnes or one of the other servants.
Agnes was almost the same size as Lydia. The costume nicely outlined her narrow waist, but it had been several years since Agnes had taken more than the most cursory interest in her appearance. Today was no exception. She arranged her thick dark hair in a bun and topped it with a cap. A glance at her reflection revealed the effect of her worries over Peter. Her amber eyes were shadowed with purple, her cheeks were drawn. She looked away, and without further delay made her way along the narrow passage to the kitchen.
THE SIGHT that greeted her thrust all other worries from her thoughts. The range should have been burning steadily, yet smoke and yellow flames belched from the grate, a sure sign it had not been lit long. The black kettle that should have been boiling for early-morning tea was barely tepid. There was no sign of the trays of patted butter or the preserves and jellies that should have been set out in preparation for upstairs breakfast. And upon the hub of Agnes’s realm—the kitchen table—stood a final outrage: a pair of muddy boots.
If the owner of the boots was unknown (though Agnes had her suspicions), there was no doubt who was responsible for the undone chores. Rose Francis should have been up over an hour ago, but was conspicuously absent. It was as if the girl were challenging her. Agnes determined that today, Rose would not shirk her responsibilities. Agnes would banish all thoughts of the larder and stand over Rose all day if necessary.
Agnes searched for her in the yard, the scullery, and, steeling herself, in the larder. Finding no sign of her, she headed toward the butler’s pantry and was startled to see Philip emerge. He was the same height as John, but broader about the shoulder and stronger in the thigh. He had fine, chiseled features, a wide, full-lipped mouth, and a flash in his olive green eyes that showed he knew how handsome he was. But today those eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and his complexion was unusually pale. He was brandishing the hog’s bristle brush he used for cleaning boots, and reeked of sweat and stale beer.
“Morning, Mrs. Meadowes,” he mumbled with a barely disguised yawn. “Looking for something?”
“Have I you to thank for these?” Agnes inquired, waving over at the muddy boots in the middle of her table.
“Someone else must’ve left ’em. It weren’t me,” said Philip, without a glimmer of contrition. He yawned again, more loudly and unapologetically, and whisked the boots back to the pantry.
Agnes’s brow puckered at the sight of several large flakes of mud left behind. She swept them into her hand, followed Philip back to the pantry, and brushed her palms together, depositing the mud on the bench beside him. “Who, then, pray?”
Philip was just moving aside a cloak and muffler that were lying on the butler’s table. He winced and drew back. “Not so loud. I ain’t deaf. How should I know? Ain’t you got more to worry you’n that?”
“Such as?” she said no more quietly than before. “You mean Rose, I presume? Where’s she got to?”
“Shh,” said Philip, sliding a smooth wooden tree into each boot before beginning to scrub them. “Her whereabouts are naught to do with me.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you give me a rest and ask Patsy? There she is.”
“Ask me what?” said Patsy, Lydia’s maid, looking from one to the other as she burst in with a tea tray. She was dressed in a pale blue woolen robe of Lydia’s and looked quite the lady. She put down the tray and smoothed a lace ruffle on her sleeve. “I suppose it’s Rose. Everything’s got behind on account of her. I’m not one to complain, but how am I supposed to do my work as well as hers? I oughtn’t prepare Mrs. Blanchard’s tray, only take it up.”
“I’m sorry,” said Agnes, feeling responsible for Rose’s failings. She had been as remiss as Rose, in her way. “I can’t think what’s come over her.”
Patsy shrugged petulantly. “Whatever her excuse, she’s the cause of more trouble than anyone. I’d say she deserves a proper scolding. Anyway, I can’t stop. I shall have to explain to Mrs. Blanchard why her tea is delayed.” She shot a meaningful look at Agnes before scurrying off up the back staircase.
Agnes returned slowly to the butler’s pantry, where Philip was still pretending to clean the boots. “So where is she?” Agnes pressed with uncharacteristic insistence.
Philip looked stubborn. “I told you before, I don’t know.”
“Are you certain you do not?” Her cheeks began to burn. A vision of Philip with his breeches round his ankles and his muscular buttocks flexed barged into her skull. She forced it away, looking over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. “Forgive me for asking,” she said in a lower tone, “but was she with you last night?”
“No,” said Philip, also speaki
ng more softly. “Between you and me, I passed the evening at the Blue Cockerel in Lombard Street. But don’t say nothing to Mr. Matthews about it or he’ll cuff me. And hand on heart, after the night I passed there I wouldn’t ’ave heard her if she’d been in bed beside me.”
Agnes was tempted to say he knew as well as she did that nocturnal sorties were strictly forbidden during the week and she saw no reason to keep his outing from Mr. Matthews. But she said nothing. Embarrassment, coupled with respect for the hierarchy of the household, held her back. As cook, she was one of the upper servants, but as a male servant, Philip was beyond her jurisdiction. In any case, she was not surprised at his reluctance to speculate on Rose’s whereabouts, nor did she believe his denial. Just because he had gone to the Blue Cockerel did not mean Rose had not accompanied him. Doubtless the pair of them had overindulged and he wanted to protect her from trouble.
Agnes stalked back to the kitchen, took a stick of cinnamon from a tin, and bit down on it. Her fingers were smutted black—polish from the boots, perhaps—which did nothing to improve her humor. She heard a clanking behind her. Doris, the flame haired scullery maid, shuffled slowly in with a bucket in one hand, a mop trailing in the other.
“About time, Doris,” Agnes greeted her sharply. “You are an hour late with that. What has happened to Rose? Is she indisposed? If so, you ought to have told me; if not, you must fetch her at once.”
Doris’s simple face flushed. “Sorry, Mrs. Meadowes. I never heard a squeak from her all night, but then I always sleep sound. And it being dark and all, I never noticed nothing when I got up. But Nancy says Rose were never in her bed this morning. And since she ain’t here, it can only mean she’s gone.”
Agnes regarded her aghast. “Gone?”
The Thief Taker Page 3
