The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  “Can you add anything to Mrs. Blanchard’s account?”

  “No sir.”

  “Most likely she will have stolen something of value to take with her. Have you made checks, Lydia?”

  “I regret not yet, sir. I am only just risen.”

  “Then please do so forthwith.”

  “As you wish.” She hesitated. “I wondered if perhaps you might know why she went, sir?” she added.

  Nicholas Blanchard raised his bushy brow and subjected his daughter-in-law to an indignant glare. “What on earth can you mean, madam? Do you imply I have some insight into the mental workings of a kitchen maid that you, as mistress of this household, lack?”

  Lydia swallowed. It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that, yes, she did believe Nicholas might have an insight into the reasons for Rose Francis’s departure. And for that matter, an intimate knowledge of Nancy, the housemaid. But then she saw that there was no reason to further rouse her father-in-law’s temper when others might make discreet inquiries for her. So she replied demurely, “No sir, but I understand the girl was seen going on unauthorized excursions—I have reason to believe she ventured into the drawing room; and only yesterday Mr. Matthews caught her upstairs.”

  “Upstairs? What for? I have no knowledge of it. Matthews said nothing to me. You must get to the bottom of this.”

  “I intend to,” said Lydia.

  Suddenly, Theodore burst into the room. He wore no wig, his hair was uncombed, and his coat flapped open. His complexion was mottled and his eyes puffy. “Good morning, Father—and Lydia,” he whispered in a strangely hushed yet agitated tone. He lowered himself into the chair John pulled out for him and, ignoring the astonished scrutiny of his wife, regarded Nicholas glumly. “Father,” he declared, “I fear I have some news of the utmost gravity.”

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS AGNES’S HABIT, once breakfast had gone upstairs, to drink tea and peruse her book of recipes. This was how inspiration came before she arranged the next day’s menu with Mrs. Tooley. She had just begun to contemplate ham and capon pie, pigeons the Italian way, and plates of beef ragout when Mr. Matthews entered her kitchen. He seemed not at all his usual commanding self. His mouth was unusually puckered, his forehead strangely taut; something had unstrung him. Perhaps, she thought, Rose Francis’s departure has vexed him as much as me.

  Agnes poured him a cup of tea and stirred in two large spoons of sugar. “Here you are, sir,” she said, handing him an oatmeal biscuit to go with it. “It might not be as hot as you like, but I trust it’s brewed to your liking.”

  Mr. Matthews thanked her and felt in his breast pocket for the silver flask he always kept there. He unstoppered the lid, and with trembling fingers added a hefty tot of brandy to his mug.

  Shocked to see him needing a nip so early in the day, Agnes ventured, “Awkward, Rose leaving like that, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Matthews shrugged. “For you it must be.”

  Agnes tilted her head slightly in a confiding manner. “I believe your second footman, Philip, was sweet on her.”

  “That may have been so, but since Philip is here and Rose is not, we may assume he hasn’t played a part in her leaving.”

  “I suppose not. Apparently there was an altercation between Nancy and Rose yesterday. Perhaps that had something to do with it.”

  “I have no knowledge of an argument, and what’s more, I fail to see why, when you are one wayward maid short and there are so many graver matters to consider, you are wasting my time and yours on idle gossip.”

  The butler might bully his footmen where necessary, but he had no need to be abrupt with her. “The girl worked for me, Mr. Matthews. I am not gossiping, simply wondering what’s become of her.” Her unusual vehemence took them both by surprise. It was only a pinch short of rudeness, and Agnes was never rude.

  The butler’s narrow lips squeezed tighter still. “Your duties, Mrs. Meadowes, are not to wonder. They are what Mrs. Tooley and I tell you. Your maid may be missing, but that does not give you the right to abandon all decorum. Unless, that is, you wish to follow her pernicious model.”

  Agnes sat up straight and closed her book of recipes. “I don’t comprehend your meaning, sir,” she said softly, her eyes holding his.

  “Come, come, Mrs. Meadowes, you know as well as I that your maid was hardly a model of propriety. You have already mentioned Philip.”

  She swallowed. “Were there others?”

  “I believe she numbered the journeyman Benjamin Riley among her intimate acquaintances, and I hazard there was another gentleman, with whom Mrs. Tooley observed her in conversation last week. Only yesterday I caught her outside the master’s room; furthermore, she made other unnecessary journeys upstairs. We may only surmise what took her there. On several occasions I scolded her, so too did Mrs. Tooley. But in my opinion she would have benefited from a more watchful eye than you gave her. Having allowed her too much freedom, you should not be surprised to find yourself inconvenienced now she has gone.”

  Agnes looked down at her book. Rose’s intimacies with Philip were bad enough, and Agnes agreed that in her general manner Rose often lacked in modesty. But this was something else entirely. It bordered on depravity. “Thank you, Mr. Matthews,” she said, as she got up. “I had no idea of these transgressions. Had I known, I should of course have spoken to her—taken a firmer hand. Nevertheless, I understand the reason for your disgruntlement. We should all be glad she has gone.”

  Mollified, Mr. Matthews grew contrite. “The reason for my agitation is not simply that wayward girl. Something far more dreadful than her running off happened last night; something that might threaten all our livelihoods. I intend to tell the rest of the staff at dinner. Until then you must keep it in confidence…”

  Chapter Eleven

  NANCY BLAMED HER lateness squarely on Rose Francis running off. If the bitch had got up when she ought, Nancy would not have overslept and be rushing now. It was her fault—it was always Rose’s fault—and Nancy always bore the brunt of her failings.

  In the drawing room, dropping her housemaid’s box on a cloth by the hearth, Nancy kneeled down, feeling her belly press against her stays. She tried to ignore the discomfort, hurriedly raking out the ashes and sieving them so that the cinders could be used in the kitchen. She sneezed as the dust invaded her nostrils, and began oiling the metal bars of the grate and rubbing them with emery paper to make them shine. Then she laid the fire for later in the day. When she had finished, she stood up too quickly and felt faint, but there was no time for dizzy spells when the rest of the room waited. She rubbed her back briskly, then swept the floor and dusted the furniture, using an old silk handkerchief of Nicholas Blanchard’s.

  She repeated the procedure in the breakfast room, front hall, library, and dining room. When Doris came up with the message that Mrs. Meadowes wanted her help in the kitchen, Nancy’s feet felt as if they might burst, like sausages fried too fast. There were still the three rooms upstairs to do. “Can’t till I’ve done the bedrooms,” she said curtly.

  Doris put her plump hands on her bulging hips. “Ain’t you finished yet?”

  “Do it look like it?” retorted Nancy, irked by Doris’s painful drawl. She noticed that Doris’s apron was already stained. The girl was not only a numbskull but clumsy.

  Doris looked at her in confusion—like a pig, thought Nancy unkindly, a dull-witted, fat sow. “Late, ain’t you?”

  “ ‘Late, ain’t you?’ ” Nancy mimicked Doris’s stumbling tone with uncanny accuracy. “You’re a fine one to talk. Wasn’t my doing. Rose was meant to wake me.”

  “I already said to Mrs. Meadowes why…I’ll tell that to her now, shall I?”

  Nancy tossed her head and flicked her hand disparagingly. “You poke off an’ tell her what you want. What do I care?”

  Doris’s chin wobbled, but she could think of no answer, so she shuffled off down to the basement. A little revived by this exchange, Nancy climbed the stairs. Her routine
was always the same. Theodore’s bedchamber first, because he rose early for the workshop; Nicholas’s next; Lydia’s last, on account of Patsy, who liked to fiddle about, arranging Lydia’s clothes—and trying them on if she got half a chance—after Lydia had gone down to breakfast.

  In each room, Nancy took care to notice how everything was arranged, so she could replace things exactly as they were. “If a door is open when you enter a room, leave it so when you leave, unless you are told otherwise,” Mrs. Tooley always said. “Likewise, if a dish is put beside a plate, do not put it back next to the candlestick.”

  Nancy reckoned she knew every inch of every room of the Blanchard house better than her own face. So when she entered Nicholas Blanchard’s bedchamber for the second time that morning, she noticed something that seemed both curious and troubling. A mahogany box, lined with crimson silk and cushioned like a jewel box, always stood in the center of Nicholas’s dressing chest. The lid was inset with a silver plaque, on which Nicholas’s initials were engraved in script so curlicued they were nearly illegible. Inside, Nicholas stored his extensive collection of tie pins. There was one with a gold head shaped like a dog, one with a deep purple amethyst, another fashioned as a miniature sword.

  The box also contained a pair of flintlock pocket pistols wrapped in a pair of silk handkerchiefs. Their butts were adorned with bone inlay and silver mounts, and there was also a flask of powder. Nicholas said the pistols were there in case any villain should dare burst into his bedchamber in the dead of night. They were always kept loaded, and every week Mr. Matthews brought them down to the pantry to clean and reload. Once, when Nicholas was out, Mr. Matthews had shown off to the rest of the servants by demonstrating how they worked. He had taken aim at a pigeon in the yard outside. Feathers and blood had sprayed all over the flagstones, and everyone had cheered. The bird flapped about refusing to die until John caught it and wrung its neck, and Mrs. Meadowes turned it into a tasty pie.

  Nancy had no business opening the box, let alone touching pistols; she knew very well that they were dangerous. Dust and dirt were her business, not guns or jewels. Nevertheless, the temptation was too much to resist, and once or twice she had dared to unwrap the pistols and hold them in her hand. She liked to imagine herself pointing one at someone and squeezing the trigger and seeing him flap about like that wounded bird. Sometimes she imagined herself picking up the gun when Nicholas called her over. She pictured his great brow shooting up in fear as she got him in her sights.

  Today, when she lifted the lid, she saw that one of the pistols was missing. She opened the top drawers of the dressing chest and poked about among an assortment of silken handkerchiefs. There was no sign of it. Mr. Matthews might have taken it away to clean, but usually he did this on a Saturday, and today was Tuesday. And why would he take one pistol and not the other? Nancy had no reason to suppose that Rose had taken the pistol; nevertheless, the possibility entered her mind unprompted.

  Chapter Twelve

  MRS. TOOLEY was so called out of respect rather than for her marital status. A slender, small-bosomed woman, erect of gait, with a floury complexion and wispy hair the color of dusty pewter, she had come to the Blanchards’ as a scullery maid at the age of sixteen, and as far as anyone knew, she had never married or had any kind of romantic alliance. She occupied a cluttered suite of rather gloomy rooms, situated halfway along the back corridor in the basement. Her small bedroom was decorated with cheerfully embroidered samplers, which she had stitched herself, and a shelf containing an intricate shellwork tableau. In her parlor, the chimneypiece was crammed with pottery owls, sheep, and dogs, and dishes painted with blue and white Chinoiserie fruits and flowers. Along the picture rail of one wall was an array of brightly colored plates. Dotted about the other walls were half a dozen seascape engravings showing varying climactic conditions, from violent tempest to glassy calm. To the rear was an enormous closet that she used as a storeroom, packed with bottled delicacies such as greengage plums in syrup, quince marmalade, nasturtium pickles, and mushroom catsup, which infused all three rooms with the sharp but tantalizing aromas of vinegar, fruit, and spices.

  Mrs. Tooley’s temperament was as fragile as the objects on her chimneypiece. She was likely to grow flustered at the slightest disruption, if she observed a single mote of dust beneath a dressing chest, or if the ruffles on a pillowcase were not properly pressed. Her teacup would wobble, and she would be forced to rummage for her salts or a little of something stronger.

  Agnes sometimes wondered whether Mrs. Tooley was quite as frail as she appeared, or if she exaggerated her weakness to elicit compliance, avoid argument, or relieve herself of tasks she had no wish to carry out. But there was no telling what the day’s two calamities would do to Mrs. Tooley’s nerves, or how long she might be indisposed. For this reason Agnes resolved she must broach the subject of her day’s leave sooner rather than later. Her one free Sunday a month did not fall due until the week after next. But Mrs. Tooley was not in her bed. Agnes found her standing at a side table beneath a faded print of a brig in a stormy sea. She was counting plates and pickle dishes and jotting the results in a fat, leather-bound notebook. As usual, her clothes were immaculately clean, a skirt and bodice of charcoal gray, a collar of starched white linen, a pair of metal-rimmed spectacles attached to a black ribbon about her neck.

  Agnes was not deceived. Counting china at this hour was an ominous sign.

  Mrs. Tooley wagged her finger at the slate on the table, where they would write the following day’s menu. “Make a start, Mrs. Meadowes. I’ll be with you in a jot.”

  Agnes nodded dismally and sat down. Her thoughts drifted away from whether pea soup might be preferable to ox cheek, and speculation about the disappearance of Rose and the terrible events Mr. Matthews had related. How was she to collect Peter? Where would he stay? Her worries about her son pressed all other concerns from her mind.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Tooley, settling herself shakily in a chair, “I trust whatever it is you have planned can be made without your kitchen maid.”

  Agnes said as calmly as she was able, “I can’t manage with only Doris. She is willing but slow. Nancy is much quicker. Could you spare her to help for an hour or two each day until we find a replacement?”

  Mrs. Tooley’s pale cheeks were suddenly suffused with pink and her eyes took on an injured expression. “Please, Mrs. Meadowes, spare me further upset. I am not myself. What of Nancy’s other duties? Do you suppose we can leave the beds unmade, the fires unlit, the floors unswept?”

  “Of course not, ma’am. But perhaps Philip could help with the fires, so Nancy wouldn’t have so much to do upstairs.”

  Mrs. Tooley’s upper lip quivered. “And rearrange the entire household while we’re about it?”

  Agnes regarded her slate. She willed herself not to succumb, but felt herself yielding to Mrs. Tooley’s will, unable to raise the subject of her son. “I am only anxious not to let things slide.”

  “I’ll speak to Mrs. Blanchard and place an advertisement directly,” said Mrs. Tooley in a more measured tone.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” responded Agnes. “But what if she returns?”

  “She will be shown the door,” Mrs. Tooley whispered.

  This was just what Agnes had expected to hear. She suppressed a flicker of sympathy for Rose, reminding herself that the girl’s sins were greater than she had suspected, and that she had caused a great deal of inconvenience. One way or another, Rose was gone from her life. Yet the knowledge did not bring her relief. A niggling uncertainty remained, like a piece of gravel in her shoe.

  “Mr. Matthews said you observed her last week in the company of a gentleman,” said Agnes.

  “That I did,” affirmed Mrs. Tooley. “And he was not from this vicinity, either.”

  “Did you upbraid her?”

  “Naturally. And naturally, being the brazen girl she was, she denied it. Told me that it was no more than a gentleman asking directions. I gave her the benefit of the dou
bt then. I see I should not have done so. I should have been firmer. But she could be so very forceful. And you know how arguments distress me.”

  “Indeed she could be forceful,” replied Agnes, her sympathies with the housekeeper. “Perhaps ’tis a good thing she’s gone.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  DESPITE THE TERRIBLE EVENTS of the night, in the Blanchard workshop, the journeyman Benjamin Riley was preparing to take newly made items of silver for assay at Goldsmiths’ Hall. He had placed a tea-caddy spoon with a pierced handle upside down on an anvil, fixing it with a vise so that the neck lay across the metal block, and took out the stamp (a small iron punch with the letters NB raised upon it) and a craftsman’s hammer. Then, positioning the stamp above the neck of the spoon, he raised the hammer and brought it down with a whack. Sparks flew and the letters appeared in a small dent of dark metal. Thomas Williams, the second journeyman, looked up balefully. “Those spoons are delicate at the neck, mind you don’t shatter them,” he said quietly.

  Riley bristled. “Oh, pardon me, sir,” he muttered, bowing with mock humility. “I clean forgot my master was there.”

  “I don’t have to be your master to see when you’re taking care and when you’re not.” Williams was very distressed by the murder. He had been fond of Noah Prout and had taught the boy the rudiments of his profession. He was also the apprentice who had spent most time fabricating the wine cooler.

  Benjamin Riley scowled, unclamped the spoon, and picked a caddy off the shelf. “What gives you the right to tell me what I ought and oughtn’t to do? You ain’t any better than me—despite your airs.”

  “God help me. Did I say I was any different? Don’t you see we both want the same—work, business? And the way you’re carrying on, you’ll ruin it for both of us.”