The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  No sooner had Thomas Williams spoken than there was the sound of a door closing and the soft thud of footsteps on the boards outside. He moved speedily to open the door, and the earlier formality returned to his demeanor.

  “This will be Mr. Blanchard for you. With your permission, Mrs. Meadowes, I will take my leave.” His voice dropped to a half whisper. “Rest assured, I shan’t forget my undertaking.”

  Theodore Blanchard strode in, followed by another man—an elderly gentleman, tall and well built, in an old-fashioned, full-bottomed wig and a dark brown coat. Agnes had never seen her master, usually the most easygoing and placid of men, so distracted as he looked today. His face was flushed to the color of port wine, his jacket half buttoned, his cravat undone. His forehead glistened as brightly as the silver in front of him.

  Theodore strode across to the dining table and drew up a pair of chairs for himself and his companion, whom he introduced as Justice Cordingly. “You have heard, I take it, of the robbery last night, Mrs. Meadowes?” he asked without preamble.

  “Yes sir. Mr. Matthews apprised us of what happened.”

  “Bad enough to lose the apprentice—he was a good one and becoming better by the day, and boys of such diligence aren’t easily come by—but to lose the wine cooler, that is a veritable calamity.”

  “I am very sorry for the loss,” returned Agnes. Inwardly, she was appalled at Theodore’s callousness, but she reminded herself that he was in a state of agitation and not himself.

  “At any rate, I daresay you want to know why I have summoned you like this.”

  Agnes glanced nervously at him, then toward the table, where six salt cellars in the form of miniature turreted castles caught her attention. “I did wonder, sir.”

  “It was my wife who first suggested it. She thought you might be amenable—”

  “Perhaps I should explain,” said Justice Cordingly, holding up an intervening hand in a lordly manner. “It is a measure of the high esteem in which you are held, Mrs. Meadowes, that you have been summoned here this afternoon. There is little chance of the forces of justice solving a complex tragedy such as this without additional cooperation. But we must pick our deputies with care. After my preliminary examination of the facts, it appears likely that someone inside this household has assisted in this crime. We therefore require someone inside the household to aid us, someone whose integrity is beyond reproach. Mr. Blanchard has consulted his wife and concluded that you should be the one to assist.”

  From somewhere nearby, the strident sound of hammering metal could be heard. It was piercing enough to make Agnes blink at every stroke, and she was not at all sure she had heard correctly. She was a cook, her place was in her kitchen—what assistance could she conceivably offer? She felt the men scrutinize her expectantly. She felt exposed, uneasy. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I do not properly understand what you require of me.”

  Justice Cordingly scratched his long nose. “As I said before, we believe this was no casual crime. Only the wine cooler, the most valuable object in the building, was taken. That points to the fact that someone knew of the object and its value, and that the crime was carefully planned and undertaken with inside knowledge. We have elected you, Mrs. Meadowes, to be the servant of justice; to poke about, ask questions, encourage confidences, and report to one or the other of us anything—anything at all—you think significant.”

  As the metal was struck again and again, Agnes felt her temples flinch and her brain pound.

  “And, most pressingly, you are to assist in the recovery of the wine cooler,” chimed Theodore hastily.

  Agnes was overwhelmed with misgivings similar to those she had felt after her conversation with Lydia. Once again, she was being forced to act against her natural inclinations. The truth was, she was not interested in others’ private lives or dilemmas, any more than she wanted to share her own misfortunes. It was tragic that an apprentice had been murdered, she regretted the wine cooler’s loss—but ultimately, neither of these calamities was anything to do with her. Nor, with all she had to worry over, did she wish them to be.

  Dare she make this point to Theodore? Despite her usual docility, Agnes decided she would. She coughed tentatively and did her best to raise her voice above the noise. “I am honored by your offer, sirs. And I am gratified to learn that Mrs. Blanchard holds me in high esteem. But I am not at all certain I am suited to the responsibilities of the task.”

  “What?” said Justice Cordingly, his brow rumpling incredulously. “What did you say?”

  Theodore snorted. The filigree of veins on his nose and cheeks darkened. “As we see it, you are the only choice. You are not so young as to be foolish, but more alert and able than either Mrs. Tooley or Mr. Matthews. Patsy is not below stairs enough to be useful. The others are too lowly to trust.”

  Just then the hammering stopped, leaving the room silent. Agnes felt her stomach grow watery. She wished she were anywhere but here. “Even so, sir, I am not certain I have the confidence of the other servants.”

  “In my experience,” said Justice Cordingly in a coaxing tone, “those who wish to hear confidences have only to make themselves amenable. Most servants in your position would relish the opportunity you are being offered.”

  Then perhaps in that respect I differ from most, thought Agnes as she gazed at him in unhappy silence.

  Theodore mopped his brow with a crimson handkerchief. “Before you voice any further reservations, Mrs. Meadowes, I will mention one other point. As Justice Cordingly has said, the wine cooler was the most valuable object ever made by Blanchards’. Losing it could well pitch us into bankruptcy, in which case I and my family will land in the Fleet, and every member of staff in the household, you included, will lose their jobs. You have it in your power to prevent that happening.”

  There was a pause. Agnes felt as though someone was dragging her hand toward a hot oven and she was powerless to pull back. “But is it probable that something I hear below stairs will lead to the wine cooler’s recovery?” she asked desperately.

  “It isn’t only listening I require of you. There is someone outside the house who might find it,” said Theodore, wiping his brow again. “I want you to act as my intermediary and pay him a visit.”

  Agnes gasped, incredulous. “Who is this person?”

  “A man whose premises are close by here, in Southwark—a place called Melancholy Walk. He goes by the name of Marcus Pitt.”

  “Are you acquainted with the name?” said Cordingly.

  “No sir. Should I be? Is he a servant, or a tradesman, or another silversmith, perhaps?”

  “His profession is none of those. It is far more lucrative. He is what some consider a necessary evil, and others, myself included, a scourge of society—a thief taker.”

  Agnes had heard of men who used intelligence from tapsters, ostlers, and every variety of rogue to recover stolen property. Some appeared honorable and held respectable positions. But while they purported to offer a useful service to the unfortunate victims of robbery, they were rumored to be less innocent than they seemed, acting as fences, on occasion even engineering the theft of property they were later paid to recover.

  She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I am very sensible of the kind of man to whom you refer, sirs. But I have no expertise in such matters. Why should you wish me to visit such a person for you?”

  “Because, Mrs. Meadowes, as Justice Cordingly has said, there is no doubt that this murderous robbery has been most carefully orchestrated. Marcus Pitt is the most influential thief taker in this locality. Few crimes that take place hereabouts are unknown to him. It may well be that whoever inside our business or household betrayed us conspired to do so with his aid, using a thief under his control. Even if the culprit had no link to him, if anyone can find the wine cooler, it is he.”

  “If Mr. Pitt is so powerful and influential, is it wise to entrust me to speak to him? Would it not be more prudent for you to approach him directly?”

  A
shifty gleam appeared in Theodore’s eye. “We would, but Pitt forbids it. He prefers to deal with an intermediary—says it only causes trouble if those that are robbed come too close to those that perpetrated the crime.”

  Agnes sensed that there was more to why she had been chosen than Theodore had revealed. “But am I a prudent choice for such an important role? There is Mr. Williams, can he not go?”

  Theodore shook his head emphatically and flashed a knowing look at the justice. “Rest assured, Mrs. Meadowes. You are adequate for the task. Mr. Pitt is a consummate businessman. He conducts similar transactions every day. Besides, you may discover more than a man. I hear he has a taste for handsome women.”

  Agnes recoiled inwardly, trying not to dwell on this last remark, unable to see a way of averting the inevitable. Was she to be offered to this loathsome thief taker—a man who profited from others’ misfortune—as bait to entice him to help? No, she told herself, Theodore would never misuse her in such a way. His earlier arguments—the age and fragility of the remaining upper servants, Mr. Pitt’s preference for an intermediary—these were the reasons for her unwelcome appointment.

  Theodore expected nothing but compliance, and interpreted her troubled silence as acquiescence. “You should not, of course, reveal that you are my cook—I do not wish him to take insult by my sending a domestic servant,” he continued. “Rather say you are an engraver from my workshop, come on my behalf. I will notify him in advance. Do what you can to play on his sympathy—it can only help. Let him know you are recently arrived and fear you will lose your position if the business flounders, as it certainly will in the face of such a prodigious loss.”

  The hammering started up again. This time it was gentler than before, but Agnes shrank inwardly as she anticipated every stroke. “And how much do I offer to pay?” she murmured.

  “To begin with he will merely require a fee to register the loss. Assuming he finds the wine cooler, the negotiations for its return will come later. At very least he will expect the melted value of the metal. I am prepared to offer that sum plus a modest additional payment. But I don’t wish you to disclose that in the first instance. Nor do I want Sir Bartholomew Grey’s name mentioned. Heaven forbid we attract Pitt’s unsavory attention toward his household or I’ll never see another commission from him.” Theodore paused. “I should also say, if you acquit yourself well in this I shall reward you handsomely. Find the wine cooler and I will pay you twenty guineas.”

  Agnes’s stomach tightened. Twenty guineas was six months’ wages. She still felt a powerful presentiment of doom, but if she took on this role, she might not only save the Blanchard enterprise but benefit Peter. She nodded hesitantly. “Very well, sir,” she said. “When shall I call on Mr. Pitt?”

  Theodore smiled and mopped his brow again. His mood seemed less fraught. “Tomorrow at midday. I will tell my wife to inform Mrs. Tooley you are to be permitted extra freedom to assist me. Marcus Pitt will be expecting you. Philip will escort you to his premises.”

  “I could go on my own, if it is more convenient, sir,” said Agnes, who did not in the least relish the prospect of a journey disturbed by the garrulous Philip.

  Theodore shook his head. “Do not underestimate the dangers of this undertaking, Mrs. Meadowes. Pitt might pose as an arbiter of the law, but from all I hear he is as much a rogue as those with whom he deals. Heaven forbid the same fate should befall you as that poor fellow last night…”

  Chapter Seventeen

  SOME HOURS LATER , Agnes stood at the kitchen table with a newly boiled calf’s head on a platter before her. She inserted the point of a sharp knife midway between the eyes and slowly raised the skin. Faced with the practicalities of preparing supper, she attempted to push all thoughts of Marcus Pitt from her mind. The only matter superseding the steaming head and its forcemeat stuffing was her pressing need to retrieve Peter from Mrs. Catchpole. Theodore’s proposal offered money and, more immediately, a chance to escape her usual duties. She would thus be able to find somewhere for Peter to stay. She began to view the proposed mission with a measure of willingness—gratitude, even. And yet Theodore Blanchard’s final thoughtless words of warning were not forgotten. The prospect of involving herself in matters outside her world frightened her. But if she could brazen out the perils for Peter’s sake, she could return to her former existence.

  Agnes’s thoughts were then diverted along another path. Lydia had encouraged Theodore to choose her as his aid. Did Lydia’s interest in Rose lie behind her recommendation? Or was she trying to help Agnes gain the freedom she had asked for without offending Mrs. Tooley? She had, after all, shown some sympathy to her plight. If Lydia had tried to assist her, it was only right that she should continue her efforts to discover what had happened to Rose. Besides, she could not deny that she too was curious to find out where the girl had gone.

  Both Lydia and Mr. Matthews had suggested there might be an alliance between Rose and Nicholas Blanchard, and Mr. Matthews had seen Rose upstairs the day before she disappeared. But assuming Rose had stolen the pistol, thought Agnes, this was most likely when she had done so. It did not prove there was an improper alliance. Lydia had implied that Rose might have left because she was carrying Nicholas’s child. What had caused her to form this opinion? There was only one person who had Lydia’s wholehearted confidence, and she was currently standing fifteen feet away in the laundry room cleaning one of Lydia’s hats with a velvet cloth.

  Leaving the calf’s head to cool, Agnes accosted Patsy. “Has Mrs. Blanchard said anything to you about her interest in Rose Francis?” she inquired with an ingenuous smile. Patsy looked askance, but a moment later weakly returned the smile. As lady’s maid, she liked to pretend she had nothing in common with the other maidservants. She was older and more finely dressed, and to underline her importance she aped Lydia’s manners—crooking her little finger when she drank tea, picking daintily at her food as if she had no appetite. Her placid expression and cool manner were also strangely reminiscent of Lydia. Agnes often wondered if this was a further affectation on Patsy’s part or if she had unconsciously grown to resemble her mistress.

  When it came to Agnes, however, Patsy was, as a rule, more convivial. Agnes suspected that this was because Patsy longed occasionally to exchange ideas with someone to whom she was not always expected to defer. Doubtless that was why, offered an opportunity to discuss the matter of Rose freely, Patsy seized it. “Yes, but I don’t for the life of me see why. I should have thought she would be grateful the girl had gone,” she said candidly, scratching a tiny blemish on the hat brim with her fingernail.

  “Why do you say that—had Rose annoyed her?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What, then? Had it to do with Nicholas?”

  “Mrs. Blanchard wondered why the wretched girl had been upstairs,” said Patsy importantly.

  “When was this—yesterday?”

  Patsy gazed into the middle distance in the same unfocused way that Lydia had done in response to Agnes’s request for time off. “No, not then. I don’t recall exactly. A week or so back, perhaps. I think she mentioned it to Mrs. Tooley.”

  “Why did she not question Rose herself?”

  Patsy paused, as though considering her reply. “She never caught her. It was something she discovered—a letter, I believe—that showed the girl had been there.”

  “A letter?” Agnes recalled John mentioning that a letter had been the cause of the fight between Rose and Nancy. “Was it Mrs. Blanchard who found it?” she pressed.

  “No, I believe Nancy handed it to her.”

  “What did it say?”

  Patsy shook her head ruefully. “It was written by Rose, and concerned a man. Mrs. Blanchard read it to me so quickly and I was tidying her things at the time, so I didn’t hear exactly.”

  A man, Agnes thought; what else would a letter penned by Rose concern? “And what did Mrs. Blanchard say after Rose’s disappearance?”

  “She was troubled, though Lord
knows why. If you want my opinion, Mrs. Blanchard hasn’t enough to occupy her.”

  She would have liked to discover what else Patsy might reveal, but remembering the calf’s head, Agnes returned to the kitchen table. As she assembled the stuffing with ingredients Doris had prepared—a pound of bacon fat scraped to beads, the crumbs of two penny loaves, a small nutmeg grated, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and a little grated lemon peel—she thought about the letter Nancy had found. Why had she lied earlier today when Agnes had asked her what the argument was about?

  A few minutes later, Patsy emerged from the laundry room with the hat in her hand and the cord of an evening bag draped about her wrist, as if she were off to some grand assembly. She hovered by the table, as Agnes deftly mixed the stuffing.

  “Lord knows why she went off,” she proffered suddenly in a bitter tone, “or why there’s such a fuss over her going. It seemed to me she gave us both the runaround on occasion…Mrs. Blanchard wanted me to ask you whether you found anything among the wretched girl’s things to show where she has gone.”

  “You may tell her I have looked, but discerned nothing.”

  Agnes added the yolks of half a dozen eggs to her stuffing, cracking each one over a small bowl so the white ran into it, then dropping each golden orb into the crumbled mixture, where it gleamed like a small sun. Taking up a long metal spoon, she began to stir the ingredients together, cutting again and again through the mix until it had transformed to a rich yellow-tinged forcemeat. “Did Rose plague you, Patsy? If so, I never knew it.”

  “I wouldn’t allow her to bother me, Mrs. Meadowes. But that didn’t mean I was blind to what she was.”

  Agnes pressed a small quantity of forcemeat into each ear of the calf’s head and the rest into the head cavity, molding the skin over so that it once again resembled a head. The sharp tone of Patsy’s reply made her look up. “How d’you mean?”