The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  “Rose lacked modesty. She was forever sticking her nose in matters that didn’t concern her. You let her get away with it, but that didn’t mean it was right.”

  Agnes knew she ought to have been more forthright, but Patsy’s criticism galled her. Her feelings toward Rose were ambivalent—the girl had lacked modesty, but had she really been as black as everyone painted her? “She wasn’t all bad, Patsy. She was quick enough around the kitchen, and no worse than you would find in any household.”

  Still riled, Agnes picked up the calf’s head and plunged it into a pot with white wine, lemon pickle, walnut-and-mushroom catsup, an anchovy, a blade of mace, and a bundle of sweet herbs, then set the pot on the stove.

  Patsy, meanwhile, seated herself at the table, still clutching Lydia’s belongings as if they were a badge of office. She leaned forward toward Agnes. “Speaking confidentially, it wasn’t what Rose did or said so much as what lay in her thoughts that made me take exception to her. She was forever trying to wheedle round me, wanting to know where I went with Mrs. Blanchard and who we met.”

  Agnes arched a brow. “You mean her attempts at conversation offended you? That was why you disliked her?”

  Patsy frowned. “It was what inspired the conversation, more like.”

  “What, then?”

  Patsy fiddled with the brim of Lydia’s hat. “She wanted my position. She thought her duties as kitchen maid beneath her, and wanted to better herself. That’s why she sneaked upstairs. She was scheming for my post and trying to engineer meetings with Lydia to get it. I can’t pretend I’m sorry she’s run off, and that’s the reason why.”

  AFTER PATSY HAD GONE, Agnes wiped her finger around the inside of the bowl in which her forcemeat had been made and licked the savory mixture. There hardly seemed to be a soul in the house with whom Rose had enjoyed an uncomplicated relationship. She should have reprimanded Rose more. Why had she shied away from confrontation? Was it only her embarrassment at Rose’s familiar manner with men? Agnes did not remember a time when she could speak to a man without self-consciousness and constraint. Her father had kept her apart from them; her unhappy marriage had shown her the dangers of them. And as for behaving as Rose had done in the larder—such wantonness was unimaginable. But then a worrying thought struck her: was a small part of her jealous of Rose?

  Unsettled, Agnes posed a more straightforward question. What means could she employ to trace Rose? Was there a family to whom the girl might have written of her intentions? She mulled this over before it occurred to her, with a further stab of self-recrimination, that while she and Rose had worked together almost every day for the last year, their conversation had invariably been about food and its preparation. Agnes’s reluctance to discuss her own history meant she rarely asked personal questions of those around her, and Rose had never volunteered any information. Not once had she mentioned her family, or where she had come from.

  “FORGIVE ME for disturbing you, Mrs. Tooley. Might I trouble you for a bottle of preserved plums? I need them for my sauce.”

  “I suppose so, Mrs. Meadowes.” Mrs. Tooley twirled her quill and peered over the rim of her spectacles as suspiciously as if Agnes were asking her for gold rather than a jar of fruit. Accounts from the grocer, fishmonger, butcher, and chandler were arranged in exact piles all over the table. She was checking them off against orders recorded in her household ledger; those she had verified had been impaled precisely in the center on a large iron spike.

  Mrs. Tooley put down her quill on the pewter inkstand that had been a gift from Lydia Blanchard. She patted her linen cap and smoothed the lappets, as if reassuring herself of their pristine condition. Removing her spectacles, she bustled to her store cupboard and threw open the doors wide. The shelves were filled with a spectacular array of preserves and pickles as richly colored as jewels. She brushed a finger over the middle row, where bottled fruits were stored, giving a proprietorial glance to jars labeled quince, morello cherry, damson, peach, greengage, grape, and finally plum. She selected a jar of ruby-colored fruit and proudly handed it to Agnes. “I believe you’ll find these as tasty and firm as any you’ve tried. Anything more you require, Mrs. Meadowes?”

  Agnes hesitated. Realizing how little she knew of Rose’s past had made her conscious that she was equally ignorant of Mrs. Tooley. Where did the housekeeper go on her days off? On a sudden whim she said, “I wonder, Mrs. Tooley, do you have any family to visit in your free time?”

  Mrs. Tooley looked puzzled. “Family? I have a brother, but the last time I stayed with him I found the disorder in his house most disconcerting. It made me appreciate the tranquillity here. That was two years ago. I have not found the opportunity to go there since.”

  “I see,” said Agnes, thinking that a little disorder was not necessarily a bad thing. She moved on to more pressing matters. “Has Mrs. Blanchard spoken to you on my account?”

  “She has. I understand you are to make an excursion to a thief taker and might not be back in time to make dinner. I suppose I should be grateful that it is you being sent, not I. But do take care, won’t you, Mrs. Meadowes? I cannot possibly manage without you.” As she spoke, Mrs. Tooley raised a slender hand to her papery cheek, and her head began to tremble slightly.

  Agnes felt touched and guilty that she had so quickly given up her attempt at friendly conversation. When she was less pressed she would try again. “Do not trouble yourself over my welfare,” she said. “I shall return as swiftly as I can. But there is one other matter I should raise with you. I need to see Rose Francis’s reference. Do you happen to know where it is?”

  “What possible use can that be now?”

  “Mrs. Blanchard believes there may be some connection between the murder and theft and Rose running off, and that she should be questioned on the matter—wherever she is. It occurred to me that her background might help ascertain her whereabouts.”

  “There was a written character,” said Mrs. Tooley carefully. “I always insist upon it. As I recall, she stated at her interview that she had no family to speak of. Both her parents had died. She had gone into service for that reason, and came here from a large household in Bruton Street.”

  “The family name?”

  “Lord and Lady Carew, as I recall.”

  “Carew?” echoed Agnes. The name meant nothing to her. “What reason did she give for her departure from their household?”

  “She wanted to better herself and thought a position as kitchen maid might lead to her learning to cook.”

  “Who wrote her character reference? Was it Lady Carew, or a member of her staff?”

  Mrs. Tooley colored. “I don’t recall. I believe it may have been the housekeeper or steward. It was a hand of some education, finely formed and written on paper of quality. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, if that is what you are implying.”

  “Oh, I did not mean to imply anything of the kind,” assured Agnes quickly. “Do you have the letter still?”

  Mrs. Tooley nodded. She opened a dresser drawer and took out a large card folder filled with a sheaf of some twenty or so papers. These she turned over slowly until at last she came to the one she was searching for. “Ah yes, as I thought, written by the housekeeper. Here it is.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Agnes.

  To whom it may concern,

  I hereby confirm that Miss Rose Francis has been employed as housemaid in this establishment for the past twelve months and is leaving of her own free will. Throughout this time she has shown herself to have an obliging, sober, and handy disposition. Her temper is by and large good, her character sociable. She appears sound of health.

  Mrs. Moore, housekeeper to

  Sir Henry Carew

  She handed the letter back to Mrs. Tooley. “There is another letter that interests me,” she said carefully. “I understand Mrs. Blanchard recently spoke to you about a communication she found upstairs belonging to Rose.”

  “That is an incident I should prefer to forget.
My nerves were dreadfully frayed by it.”

  “I do not mean to upset you, ma’am. I simply wondered what was in the letter and whether you kept it?”

  Mrs. Tooley shook her head. “I returned it to her after I had given her a talking-to. It was a note half a page long, unsigned, but written in her hand to someone addressed as ‘Dearest.’ The contents said little save that she was glad to learn he was well and would think over his proposal. She thanked him for his generous assistance, and hoped to see him on her next free afternoon to discuss the proposal further and give him her decision.”

  “Do you recall the address?”

  Mrs. Tooley swallowed and fidgeted with her spectacles. “There was none—as I said, the letter was unfinished.”

  “And what excuse did she make for the letter being in the drawing room when you spoke to her about it?”

  “She was aghast to learn where the letter had been found, and claimed that she had never been in there. She had left the note in her closet. She said that someone must have taken it and put it in the drawing room to cast her in a bad light.”

  “Did she say who she believed had done such a thing?”

  “Either Nancy or Patsy, both of whom she declared were jealous of her. But since she had no proof of the assertion, I dismissed it.”

  “Did you ask for whom the letter was intended?”

  Mrs. Tooley winced as if the question were painful to her. “When I asked whether she was writing to the man I had seen her with in the street, who she had claimed asked her for directions, and whether the proposal was one of marriage, she refused to disclose anything. I reminded her that maids were not permitted followers, and that if she did not behave properly, she would be denied her usual Sunday afternoon off. I had already heard rumors that she had been out without permission on several evenings with Philip.” As she said this, Mrs. Tooley began to tremble again.

  Agnes recalled her own difficulties with Rose and sympathized. “What did she say to your admonition?”

  “She grew heated and said that Philip was neither here nor there. They were nothing to each other. And just because the note was written in an affectionate manner did not mean it was intended for a lover. I was viewing the matter unjustly. Even servants were surely permitted a life outside their place of work. And then she did something most untoward.”

  “What?”

  “She stamped her foot like a petulant child, and said she had had enough of being put upon and tarnished just because the other maids were jealous of her. And she had had enough of drudgery too. I had made up her mind for her. She deserved a better life. And in front of my eyes, she tore the letter up. I said, ‘I’ll show you drudgery,’ and set her washing pickling jars for her impudence. And before ten minutes were passed she had dropped a jar of apricots on the floor. It was spitefully done—I’ve no doubt of that whatsoever. I should have dismissed her then. I would have done if finding new girls was not such a trial…”

  The effort of remembering and relating all this was manifest: Mrs. Tooley’s color was heightened and her chin quivered with emotion.

  “Of course,” said Agnes, patting the housekeeper’s hand. Such a dramatic and defiant gesture was typical of Rose. But if the letter did not refer to a marriage proposal, what proposal did it concern, and why be so secretive over it? She must have had something else to hide. An impending robbery, perhaps?

  Chapter Eighteen

  ONCE UPSTAIRS SUPPER had been served and all the other evening duties were completed, most of the servants retired to their quarters. Agnes, however, used an hour or two to tidy the kitchen, survey the pantry and larder, and determine what was needed for the next day. Often, too, she used these quiet hours to write letters to Peter. To be surrounded by the tools of her trade and the residual smells of cooking, and be warmed by the dying embers of the fire, brought Agnes comfort and a sense of belonging. The kitchen was where she felt most at peace.

  But that evening, as she rearranged the boxes of spices on her dresser and stacked the stoneware dishes in a more orderly fashion than Doris had left them, she was unsettled by thoughts of the visit she had to make the next morning. Annoyed to see that a silver salver had been carelessly left out behind the pestle and mortar instead of being locked in the silver cupboard or taken upstairs, she moved it to a more conspicuous spot where John or Philip would be sure to notice it. When there was nothing more to tidy, she sat at the table with her recipes and papers, still feeling weighed down with dread. She wrote a brief line to Mrs. Catchpole, telling her that she regretted to learn of her ill health and explaining that she could not come immediately to take Peter away, but was making every attempt to do so soon and hoped for Mrs. Catchpole’s forbearance. Next she penned an affectionate note to Peter, writing in large, clear script so that he would be able to read it himself. When this was done, to keep her thoughts from returning to Pitt, she began copying out a new recipe for orange tarts given to her by the local confectioner.

  Agnes had scarcely put down her pen when she heard a gentle tapping at the kitchen door. She picked up the candlestick. “Who is there and what is your business?” she called out, checking hurriedly that the bolts were pushed to, for after last night’s murder she had no intention of opening to just anyone.

  “It is I, Thomas Williams, the journeyman.”

  Agnes opened the door an inch, then, seeing it was he, opened it until the gap was just wide enough to fit her head through. “Yes, Mr. Williams?” she said warily.

  Williams removed his hat and gave a small bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Meadowes. I have come about the subject we spoke of this afternoon—Benjamin Riley.”

  “Oh yes, indeed. Please enter.” She stepped back, cradling the flame of her candle against the sudden burst of air, feeling foolish for her caution and grateful for the interruption. It was something to keep her mind off tomorrow.

  Thomas Williams put his hat upon the table, then prowled around, gazing at the vast range, the ranks of pots and coppers, and all the other equipment as if he had never before seen the like. “May I take a seat?” he said at length when his survey was complete. Agnes hesitated, and to her consternation felt a blush begin to spread across her cheeks. She was alone in her kitchen with a man who was not a servant in the household, a man she barely knew, and he wanted to sit down. She found herself wondering where Williams lived and if he was married, then a moment later scolded herself for being foolish enough to wonder such things. The admonition did not prevent her heart beating faster. She wondered how long would it take Mrs. Tooley or Mr. Matthews to come if she called. She reprimanded herself again. Williams had come at her invitation. There was no reason to suppose he was anything but a respectable craftsman who had helped a fellow employee.

  “Please, Mr. Williams, do sit down,” she said with an air of formality. She briskly closed her book of recipes and, to cover her awkwardness, offered him a mug of ale and a slice of cake. Thomas Williams pulled up the chair closest to her own, while Agnes prepared the refreshment. When she returned to her seat, she shifted it six inches in the opposite direction.

  “Well,” she said, sitting straight-backed, watching him drink, “what have you learned, Mr. Williams?”

  He put down his mug and examined the backs of his surprisingly clean and long-fingered hands. “Nothing very much,” he said bleakly.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “He said she was sweet on him, but that apart from a brief flirtation some months ago, there was nothing between them. But his opinion means nothing. He thinks every woman is a captive to his charms.”

  Agnes sat in silence for a moment. “Am I to take it you do not care for him much?”

  Williams nodded, meeting her gaze in a piercing manner which disturbed her slightly. “Or trust him, either.” He paused and looked away, his green eyes seeming to grow more wistful as he did so. “He and I work side by side, spend hours in each other’s company, but neither of us has much time for the other.”

  Agnes nodded sympathetic
ally. Feelings of estrangement from those with whom she worked were familiar to her too. She leaned a few inches toward him. “What gave you the impression he was not truthful?”

  “I told you before—I saw Rose come to call on him recently, not months ago as he claimed.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Yes. He said it was nothing—that she had been sent upon an errand by Theodore Blanchard.”

  Agnes frowned, instinctively rejecting this as most improbable. “What manner of errand?”

  “Something concerning the pieces to be taken to Goldsmiths’ Hall for marking.”

  “Marking?”

  “Every piece that is fabricated in our workshop, or any other in London, is taken to Goldsmiths’ Hall and tested for the purity of its metal. If the piece passes the test, it is marked with a lion.”

  Agnes furrowed her brow. Despite working for one of the most renowned silversmiths of London, she had no notion of such matters. She vaguely recollected seeing marks on pieces of silver, but had never paid them much attention or wondered what they signified. Recalling the salver carelessly left on her dresser, she went to fetch it. Four small symbols were impressed in the surface. Only one resembled a lion. She handed the salver to Thomas Williams. “But there is more than one mark on this.”

  He nodded. “And so there should be. See, here is the lion, walking to the left. A lion passant, it is termed. That is the mark that shows the piece contains at least nine hundred and twenty-five parts pure silver in a thousand and has been passed as sterling.”

  “And the other marks—what purpose do they serve?”

  Williams laughed, but not unkindly, and leaned toward her, pointing one by one to the symbols. Distracted by the fact that his head was only inches away from her, she barely heard what he said. “There is the maker’s mark—usually the initials of the silversmith. The NB you see shows the piece was made at Blanchards’. There is a date letter, which changes with each year—P shows the piece was marked this year. And the last mark shows where the piece was tested: a leopard’s head in the case of Goldsmiths’ Hall.” As he spoke, he suddenly looked puzzled. He sat back with the salver and held it toward the light.