The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  “I reckon the loss of the wine cooler will have more to do with that than a bloody spoon,” said Riley with vigor. “Any case, I’m too busy for your nagging. Get off and mind your own affairs. Leave me be.”

  “Would that I could,” said Williams, returning to his work.

  ONE BY ONE, Benjamin Riley stamped the Blanchard initials upon four small silver boxes, three tea caddies, and half a dozen caddy spoons. Then he wrapped each object in a linen cloth to protect it from scratches, and loaded them into his basket. This done, he put on his coat and hat, smoothed his hair in its tail, and telling himself he looked handsome enough to pass for a patron rather than a purveyor of silver, he stepped out into the street. The Goldsmiths’ Hall was halfway down Foster Lane. It was an imposing structure, built in the classical style, with large windows punctuating the front façade and an inner courtyard reached through a columned portico. Near the entrance Riley caught sight of half a dozen journeymen and apprentices standing in a cluster, all on their way to take their wares to be assayed. He was so bound up with looking to see which of his rivals were there that he failed to observe the comely figure of Agnes Meadowes drawing alongside him on her way to market. Thinking he had spotted a friend, he swiveled abruptly. Agnes caught no more than a glimpse of a dark brown hat, and beneath it a pockmarked, ferrety face and strands of lank brown hair, before his full basket collided forcefully with her empty one and she was sent sprawling into the gutter. Half a dozen pieces of silver from his basket tumbled alongside her.

  “Oh my Lord!” exclaimed Benjamin Riley, as he scrabbled in the mud to retrieve a lid from here and a spoon from there. “Get away with you, thieving wretch!” he bellowed at a bedraggled girl. “Any closer and I’ll call the watch and have you branded!”

  “All right, mister, only tryin’ to help,” said the girl, shrinking away.

  “My arse you was.”

  Excited by the rumpus, a cluster of onlookers gathered, laughing and pointing. Meanwhile, various street urchins calling out, “Sir—’e’s taking it!” and “There, sir!”—making Riley spin round—added to the amusement. Squatting in the street to safely recover and stow the dropped silver, Riley finally turned toward Agnes, who now was back on her feet, brushing down her mud-spattered petticoats. He took the time to observe her slender ankles before he got up. “All right, miss?” he said as he took in every curve of her.

  “No thanks to you,” said Agnes, stepping back.

  “Miss Meadowes, the Blanchards’ cook, ain’t it?” He stepped forward, squeezing her arm with what Agnes deemed to be over-familiarity.

  “Mrs. Meadowes,” she declared, jerking away from his grasp.

  “Mrs. Meadowes. Forgive me. I see your dress is dirty—come back to the workshop with me, and I’ll help you put yourself to rights.” He winked.

  Agnes bit her lip. She was tempted to tell him to go to the devil—that would take the smile off his greasy face—but she recalled Mr. Matthews telling her that Riley was friendly with Rose. Perhaps he knew where she had gone. She flashed Riley a half smile. “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Mr. Riley. I haven’t time to spare. I’m in a rush on account of my kitchen maid going off. I think you knew her. Rose Francis was her name.”

  Riley looked puzzled. “Gone? Run off?” he said.

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Why should I?”

  She flashed another appeasing smile. “I thought you and she were friendly.”

  Riley shrugged, but said nothing to confirm or deny this.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “I can’t say for certain. Perhaps three or four weeks ago.”

  “She gave you no hint of her intentions?”

  “None.”

  “What was the reason for her visit to you?”

  “None, save that she was sweet on me,” said Riley, grinning and exposing his uneven teeth.

  Agnes shuddered. Whatever was it about Rose that made so many men believe she was fond of them? Whatever Riley said, whatever Mr. Matthews claimed, she could not conceive that this odious man had ever meant a fig to Rose. Philip was one thing—she could not deny he was well made, or that women generally found him charming. But Riley was quite the reverse: unsightly, with something palpably unpleasant in his manner. The very idea of Rose and him filled Agnes with revulsion. She thought of Rose and Philip in the larder. Surely Rose would not have stooped…would not have allowed him to take liberties…would she? But even if Riley knew more than he revealed, what did it matter? Rose had gone, and Mrs. Tooley would not take her back. Agnes had no obligation to her. Perhaps she should have taken more of an interest in Rose’s whereabouts and paramours before, but they were nothing to her now.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AGNES WALKED HOME from the market with a full basket. After she returned to the Blanchards’, as she pulverized crayfish shells for her soup and dressed pheasants for roasting, and mixed stock, butter, flour, and lemon juice for fricassee sauce, she thought only of how she might find the time to make arrangements for Peter’s care. She had yet to tackle the matter with Mrs. Tooley, knowing any request would be doomed. When Patsy asked her for a clove for a toothache, Agnes did not hear her until she bellowed the demand. But by the time the sauce had reached a smooth, thick consistency, a solution of sorts had presented itself to her.

  Lydia Blanchard was a mother herself—her two children were both away at school at present—and she knew that Agnes had a son. When Agnes had replied to the advertisement in the Morning Post for an undercook and been called for interview, she had not concealed Peter’s existence. Since then, Agnes had seldom conversed with Lydia; that was Mrs. Tooley’s duty. Occasionally, after large parties, Lydia would come down to the kitchen to thank the staff; or when she wanted something particular for dinner and did not trust Mrs. Tooley to convey it properly, she would attend the morning meeting. Such appearances were rare, however. Agnes did not pretend any close rapport with the mistress of the house; nevertheless, she reasoned that Mrs. Blanchard might understand her predicament. And if Lydia ruled that she should be granted a day off, there would be nothing Mrs. Tooley could do to stop her.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, Agnes turned her attention to her immediate tasks. She made her pastry and set it to rest. Then, after instructing Doris to pick the flesh off a boiled chicken (washing her hands first), and set the brown meat in one bowl and the white in another, she ventured upstairs.

  Agnes rarely visited the upper part of the house. The change in temperature between the steamy kitchen and the cool, oak-floored corridor struck her. She shivered, though whether this was caused by apprehension or a sudden chill she could not be certain.

  The hall was modestly proportioned, but decorated to impress. The floor and doors were dark; grandiose Italian paintings in thick gilded frames were displayed against gray-blue walls. The only furniture was a pair of mahogany commodes, two hall chairs, and a long-case clock. Suspended from the center of the ceiling was a large silver chandelier. On the left were the dining room, drawing room, and Nicholas Blanchard’s library. The breakfast room and front parlor, where it was Lydia Blanchard’s habit to pass this hour of the day, lay on the right.

  Agnes knocked gently, glancing nervously around. She had seen John out with Nicholas. At this time, Theodore should be at the workshop or busy on his morning’s excursions. Philip was downstairs in Mr. Matthews’s pantry polishing the silver; Nancy was still cleaning the upstairs rooms. What would she say if Mr. Matthews or, worse, Mrs. Tooley apprehended her? But her fears were unfounded. No one came or caught sight of her before she heard Lydia’s muffled voice call, “Enter.”

  Lydia was embroidering a crimson rosebud on a shawl of pale blue silk, upon which she had worked an intricate pattern of flowers and trailing vines with great delicacy. On a chair beside her, a volume of poetry lay open.

  No sooner had Agnes stepped over the threshold than she sensed that her arrival was unwelcome. I should not have come, she thoug
ht. Lydia has never encouraged intimacy among her servants. Patsy is her chief ally and confidante; Mrs. Tooley’s management of the household obliges Lydia to consult with her daily. But what need has she to confer with me?

  Lydia furrowed her brow. “I thought you were Patsy come to read to me. What on earth do you want, Mrs. Meadowes?” She stabbed her needle in the design in front of her. “I have already approved tomorrow’s menus with Mrs. Tooley.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. My business doesn’t concern the menus.”

  Lydia shook her head. “I cannot conceive what it can be, in that case.”

  Agnes raised her chin and thought of her son. “It is a matter—of some delicacy.”

  “Then should not you discuss it with Mrs. Tooley?”

  “If I broach the subject with her, I have no doubt she will refuse me out of hand. Being a spinster, she has no comprehension of maternal concerns.”

  “I’m not sure I follow your meaning,” said Lydia slowly.

  “It is my child, Mrs. Blanchard,” said Agnes, speaking without pause, so that Lydia had not a moment to halt her. “I have had a letter from the woman who tends him. She is in poor health and says I must find somewhere else for him to stay directly. I have no choice but to ask for an extra day’s leave to make the necessary arrangements.”

  Lydia frowned. “But if it is a day off you want, Mrs. Tooley will have to agree. I cannot upset her; you know that, Mrs. Meadowes. She is essential to the running of this house, and with the maid run off there is upset enough without courting more. Besides, even if I grant you an extra day off, where will you take your child? You cannot expect to bring him here.”

  “Of course not, ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of proposing that. But I would find somewhere to take him. All I ask is for you to put a word in for me, so that Mrs. Tooley would be amenable.”

  Lydia’s face took on an air of regret. “How would Mrs. Tooley cook for all three of us with Rose gone and only Doris to assist?”

  “I can prepare everything so it’s ready the night before. And with a little help from Nancy, Mrs. Tooley and Doris would manage.”

  Lydia appeared to consider the matter, but in the end said, “I see your dilemma; naturally, I am not unsympathetic. But under the present circumstances, it is impossible. You will have to find another means to resolve the problem.”

  Agnes wanted to plead, but she knew there was no purpose in losing her dignity and pursuing the matter. Lydia would not yield. “Very well, ma’am. Forgive me for interrupting you,” she said, curtsying and making her way to the door.

  But as she placed her hand upon the knob, Lydia summoned her back. “One moment, Mrs. Meadowes. There is another matter I would discuss with you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Regarding your maid, Rose—have you any idea where she went off to?”

  “No, ma’am, none at all.”

  Lydia frowned disappointedly. “Mrs. Tooley told me the same. And the other staff—I presume it has been the talk of the kitchen—has no one any notion?”

  “Not so far as I’ve heard, ma’am.”

  “Do you think”—here Lydia lowered her voice confidentially—“she might have been—in trouble—you know what I mean?”

  Agnes’s blush showed she understood perfectly. “If so, I was not aware of it.”

  “You noticed nothing different about her—in recent days or weeks? No sickness, no swelling…”

  “Nothing, ma’am.”

  Lydia seemed disappointed. Her mouth made a small moue. “Is there any talk about her and my father-in-law? You may speak frankly to me, Mrs. Meadowes. I am sure we are both cognizant of his tastes.”

  Agnes felt her cheeks flame. She did not discuss intimacies of this kind with anyone, let alone her mistress. “I don’t know, ma’am,” she said nervously. “I don’t think so.”

  Lydia tilted her head, her gray eyes riveted by Agnes’s discomfort. “Have you heard of the catastrophe that took place last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am, although the other servants have not yet been informed.”

  “Do you think Rose might have had a hand in last night’s robbery?”

  Agnes was jolted out of her embarrassment. She answered after only the briefest consideration. “Whatever else she was, I do not believe Rose Francis was a thief or a murderess,” she declared, startling herself as well as Lydia by her emphatic tone.

  “That remains to be seen. Has anyone made a search of her possessions?”

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am.”

  “Then be so kind as to look. Perhaps something there might tell us what has happened to her. I ask you as the person for whom she worked, who must have known her best. Her departure on the same night as the robbery next door strikes me as a strange coincidence. Should you find anything, I would make it worth your while.”

  Lydia made no specific reference to the day off that Agnes had requested, but was that what she was implying? Agnes knew too little of her mistress to be certain; she could only pray.

  AGNES WAS NOT generally prone to self-pity, yet she felt in danger of succumbing now. Lydia would not spare her time to find a new home for Peter, yet on some inexplicable whim was adding to her duties. Agnes had no inclination to involve herself in the private affairs of others. It went against her natural grain. With so much pressing upon her, how could she fail to feel sorry for herself? Nevertheless, Agnes could not forget Lydia’s inference: please me in this and I might reconsider your request.

  Why should Peter suffer because of Rose’s misdemeanors? Surely the household could manage for a few hours without a cook and a maid. She wanted only to settle her son elsewhere, so that she might continue carrying out her duties as diligently as she had for the last five years. For a fleeting second, Agnes contemplated behaving like Rose—ignoring her duties, leaving the house, and traveling directly to Twickenham to whisk Peter away.

  As she climbed the back stairs, to search Rose’s belongings, Nancy came clattering down carrying a broom and her housemaid’s box, and nearly collided with her. Her small, sharp features registered surprise at coming upon Agnes when she should have been busy making dinner. “I’ve only just finished tidying up there, Mrs. Meadowes. Sorry I couldn’t come down and help before. Was there anything in particular you’re wanting of me now?” she said, unable to keep the curiosity from her voice.

  “Yes,” Agnes replied crisply. “If you’ve a minute to spare, I should like you to point out Rose’s bed and belongings to me.”

  Nancy’s eyes grew round. “Whatever for?”

  There was no reason, thought Agnes, to mention Lydia Blanchard’s interest in Rose’s whereabouts. If she breathed a word of it to Nancy, it would soon be common knowledge. “I think it only right that I should try to discover where she’s gone,” she replied cagily.

  “You ain’t wanting to get her back—not after all the trouble she’s caused?”

  “No, but suppose the poor girl’s met with some misadventure.”

  “Didn’t seem much of a poor girl to me,” muttered Nancy.

  “What was that?” Agnes quickly asked.

  “Nothing,” replied Nancy airily.

  “I gather you and she had an argument yesterday.”

  “That were over nothing much—only my ticking her off for not tidying her bed. And I’d every right to do so. She was in a state over something—don’t know what—and suddenly went for me. Good job John were there to pull her off.” Unconsciously, the girl raised her hand to her neck, where Agnes caught sight of a livid red line.

  “Did Rose do that?”

  “Yes,” snapped Nancy.

  “Quite a temper over an unmade bed.”

  Nancy shook her head. “Like I said, she were in a state. Probably thinking of going off.” Turning on her heels, she led the way up four flights of stairs to the garret. There were two attic rooms. “That there’s where Patsy sleeps,” said Nancy sourly, pointing to a door on the right. “This is ours.” She led the way into a narrow,
drafty garret with sloping ceilings and exposed rafters. Agnes shivered, thinking of her own snug quarters in the basement, which were warmed by the kitchen range. “Her bed is there by the window, and mine here, next to the door. Doris’s is over there.” She signaled to a third bed a short distance away by the washstand. “I made Rose’s this morning—Doris and I took turns. Rose was never one for order, and if Mrs. Tooley comes up and sees the room in a state, all of us get a scolding.”

  Agnes looked down at the bed and its thin coverlet, imagining Rose half asleep first thing in the morning, her hair, the color and thickness of treacle, sprawled across the bolster. She walked to the casement window set into the eaves. The sky was fine and clear, with only the occasional strand of cloud marring the blue. She gazed out at the dome of St. Paul’s, squatting above the patchwork rooftops of Foster Lane and Cheapside; at the spires rearing above the mottled roofs; at the warren of alleys leading down to the river. The water looked glassy and still. Somewhere in this panorama of shadow and light was Rose. But where? What had lured her away? She did not believe Rose capable of murder and the robbery. She turned back to Nancy. “Where did Rose keep her things?”

  “In here, like the rest of us,” said Nancy, throwing open the creaking doors of a small deal press cupboard painted a soft shade of green, and pointing to the uppermost shelf. “Those are hers.”

  Folded neatly was a meager assortment of clothes: a back-laced corset, a calico petticoat, a cotton slip, a patched underpetticoat, two pairs of yarn stockings, and two threadbare skirts and bodices, one of a dark blue woolen cloth, the other of yellow-and-green striped cotton. Agnes recognized these as Rose’s usual workday clothes. There was nothing more.

  Agnes pointed to the skirts and bodices. “As I recall, she had a Sunday gown of blue wool, did she not?”

  Nancy nodded. “I hadn’t looked afore now. And her cloak and bonnet and her best boots are gone. She must have been wearing them when she went out.”