“And is every piece marked?”
Williams nodded. He was scrutinizing the salver with a strange intensity. “By statute it should be. And the purchaser is well advised to ensure it. The system is designed to prevent unscrupulous craftsmen using less-pure metal than they should.”
“But why would Theodore Blanchard send a kitchen maid with a message concerning marking? If he had something of that nature to communicate, why did he not tell Riley himself—he is there every day, after all—or send one of the footmen?”
“I don’t believe what he said any more than you do.”
“What time of day did you see Rose come to the workshop?”
“I can’t be certain, but from memory it was early afternoon. Around two or three.”
Agnes half closed her eyes. Two or three o’clock—the hours she was busiest, serving lunch and up to her eyes with cooking dinner. At that time Rose might melt away and return without being noticed. Suppose there was a grain of truth in what Riley had said? Suppose Rose had called at the workshop on Theodore’s business—it might give credence to Rose’s involvement in the robbery. But why would Theodore use a kitchen maid rather than a manservant to convey a message?
“It would be helpful to know exactly what the errand entailed. Would Riley say nothing more on the subject?”
Thomas Williams looked up from the salver and swallowed. “No. Which is why I don’t believe him.”
“No more do I, but whatever he says may shed light on what happened.”
“Then if you wish I will press him again.” His attention strayed back to the salver. He examined the underside intently. He breathed on it, looked again, then buffed it with his sleeve. When finally he noticed her gaze on him, he put the salver down as if embarrassed.
“The marks seem to have captured your attention, Mr. Williams. Is there something out of the ordinary about them?”
Thomas Williams scratched his head, his brow ruffled in consternation. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without saying a word.
“What is it, Mr. Williams? I pray that you tell me, for I see plainly there is something.”
Williams sighed, looking somber. “Very well. By statute, before any silver object may be sold, it is liable for duty—the sum of sixpence per ounce. The sum is usually paid immediately after the piece has been taken for assay. Unscrupulous silversmiths who wish to avoid duty have been known to cut out the marks from a small marked piece and set them into the metal of an untested piece. That way the heavier piece appears to be legally marked and duty is avoided. The practice is known as duty dodging.”
“And you believe the salver has been tampered with—that this is an example of duty dodging?”
“There have been no salvers made to this pattern in the last two years. Two years ago, the date letter was N, yet the salver has a P impressed upon it—the letter for this year. The only possible reason for this discrepancy is if the original marks have been removed, a new piece of metal inserted, with marks from a recently assayed piece.”
“Why did you breathe on the marks?”
“To verify my suspicion. You will see a slight ridge around the marks.”
Agnes squinted closely at the marks. She breathed on them as he had done, and faintly detected a dark circle around them.
“I see it. But how does that prove the marks are not original?”
“If a new piece of metal is inserted into another, it can never be made as smooth as if it had been fashioned from a single metal sheet. That ridge indicates that the metal on which the marks are impressed has been set into the salver.”
Agnes nodded slowly and looked up. “Did you know such deception took place at Blanchards’?”
Thomas Williams met her gaze. “No,” he said. “I had no notion whatsoever.”
With this he looked toward the fire with a distant, unfathomable gleam in his eye. Agnes too was lost in thought, wondering at the significance of what he had told her. Did duty dodging have any bearing on Noah’s murder, the theft of the wine cooler, or Rose’s disappearance? Was Rose somehow embroiled in the fraud?
But before she could draw any conclusions, Thomas Williams coughed loudly, and she looked up with a start. “Forgive me, Mrs. Meadowes, I was thinking of you going off to visit Pitt, and wondering what made you accept such a dangerous undertaking. Your husband cannot be happy with the situation—or perhaps you haven’t told him?”
Agnes was caught unawares. She could not see how this abrupt remark was relevant to their conversation. Confused, and hoping she was not blushing, she said, “Danger? My husband? But I have none. He is dead.”
As soon as these words were out, Agnes caught Williams darting a glance at the letters on the table. The one addressed in a large clear hand to “My darling child” and signed “Your loving mother” lay in front of him. Immediately she felt exposed, and she resented his queries. Peter’s existence was a private matter, and she had no intention of discussing him with a stranger.
“Then if you alone are responsible for your son, is that not even more reason to be prudent?” said Thomas quietly.
Agnes gave him a short hard smile. “My reasons for going are my own, Mr. Williams. But I assure you my son’s welfare is at the forefront of my mind. Now, since the hour is late, I believe it is time you left.”
Chapter Nineteen
AT ELEVEN the next morning, Agnes dressed in a warm woolen coat and a fine velvet hat (which Patsy had lent her after much prevarication) and strode purposefully down Cheapside with Philip by her side. Unconscious of the tempting window displays of the haberdashers, goldsmiths, and linen drapers, she gazed briefly at a windowful of confectionary before turning right toward Thames Street and thence on to London Bridge and Marcus Pitt’s office.
It was a fine, crisp morning. A heavy hoarfrost still glazed parts of the pavement untouched by the sunlight, and the open gutter that ran down the center of the street was semifrozen. A flock of sheep and one or two oxcarts had recently traveled the route, perhaps on their way to Smithfield, and here and there mounds of fresh dung sent up small steamy wisps like miniature bonfires. The earthy odor mingled with other familiar smells—smoke from countless chimneys, the ovens of Bread Street, malt and hops from the Barclay Perkins Brewery, burning chestnut skins, and above all the dank pervasive tang of the river, which wound its way behind the crowded wharves and warehouses.
“Did you and Rose like to promenade together?” Agnes asked casually, as Philip loitered at the window of a milliner’s shop, pulling faces at a prettily dressed assistant.
He was too absorbed to hear her. He was posing affectedly, with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Agnes, annoyed, repeated her question more loudly, nudging his side discreetly, causing his sword to clash on the glass. He gave Agnes an amiable smile. “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Meadowes? Did you say something?”
“Yes,” said Agnes. “How often did you and Rose walk out together?”
Philip shot a rueful glance back at the window. “To begin with it were once or twice a month. Whenever we was both off together on a Sunday. She liked somewhere lively: the pit at the Newgate Theatre, an excursion to Vauxhall.”
Agnes watched as a sedan chair drew to a halt on the pavement and a gentleman dressed with foppish elegance descended directly in front of them, forcing them into the doorway of an under-taker’s. Without so much as a word of excuse the gentleman darted into a coffeehouse. Philip yelled an insult and stepped after him. Agnes yanked Philip back and told him to mind his manners in her company.
“Did she ever mention family or friends?” she continued.
“Never,” said Philip, after thinking for a moment. “It wasn’t a subject either of us raised. I wouldn’t want her thinking I had intentions when I hadn’t. I enjoyed her company right enough, but I enjoy the company of others too. And I can’t marry or I’ll lose my position, won’t I? I reckon that was why she cooled toward me.”
A sudden disturbing vision sprang to Agnes’s mind of the pair
of them in the larder, Philip with his breeches open and muscular buttocks on display, Rose’s pale thighs spread wide. She could not conceive of Rose disporting herself in such a manner if she did not at least hope it would lead somewhere permanent. But the subject of physical love was one in which she was ill equipped to judge others. Nevertheless, she unwillingly recognized that she needed to know more. “Then when you went out on your excursions, was it just as companions—no more?”
Philip winked. “Depends what you mean by companions, I s’pose. I kissed her, and did more than that if she was agreeable and we could get somewhere out of the way. Mind you, it wasn’t only me—she relished a good tumbling as much as I. At the beginning, that was.”
Agnes remembered that John had said their affair was over. “Did she change, then?”
“In the past few weeks she did. She went out the afternoons she was allowed, but it was never with me. And she wouldn’t let me near her.”
Agnes recalled Lydia’s suspicions. “You don’t think she might have been carrying your child?”
Philip grinned as though the thought amused him. “No—not that. I reckon she found someone new.”
“Did you not ask who it was?”
“Of course. But she was devilish secretive on occasion—she wouldn’t say.”
“Perhaps it was Riley she was set on?”
Philip regarded Agnes from the corner of his eye. “Like I said, she never let on anything to me. But as far as Riley goes, I should doubt it. She said she’d tired of him, or he of her—I forget which—before we became friends. I saw them talking once or twice, a while since, but that was all. And from the look of things there was nothing between them.”
“And what about Nicholas Blanchard? Did she ever mention him?”
“The old goat? It wasn’t Rose that interested him, it was Nancy—though he won’t be happy with her for much longer, I’d say.”
Agnes remembered Nancy’s jealousy at being spurned when Rose arrived. “Why? Are you and she friendly again?”
“A bit, maybe, but that don’t mean she’ll pull the wool over my eyes. You asked me if Rose was with child. Ain’t you remarked how Nancy’s filled out? And you a mother too?”
Doubtless Philip did not intend this remark to be as hurtful as it was. But whatever his intention, Agnes was disconcerted. How was it that he had a better understanding of what drove both Rose and Nancy than she did? But as they continued on at a brisker pace, Agnes thought that if Nancy was with child, she must be in a state of turmoil. She remembered Nancy’s resentment toward Rose. But even if Nancy did feel bitter about Rose coming between Philip and herself, she surely could not blame the girl for forcing her into Nicholas’s bed or her present predicament.
Soon the Monument and the church of St. Magnus the Martyr came into view. They veered sharply to the right toward London Bridge. She gazed between the gaps in the decaying wooden houses that lined the bridge, out across the sparkling sweep of the river, and tried to think freely. She thought again of the money Nancy had reported seeing under Rose’s mattress, and wondered how Rose had come by the hoard. The disturbing notion occurred to her that if Rose was as fond of intimacy as Philip implied, perhaps she had come by her fortune by selling herself. Perhaps another life as a whore had taken her away.
“By Nancy’s account, Rose had a large sum of money in her possession—about twenty gold sovereigns. Did you ever see it? Did she mention how it came into her possession?”
Philip blanched. “Twenty sovereigns? God’s teeth—the bloody jade! And her grumbling on about how little she had and how she was born to better things.”
“To what better things was she born?”
Philip shrugged. “I don’t rightly recall. She’d had a maid of her own. Her father had died, and she had been forced to seek employ.” He shook his head and laughed. “I shouldn’t give it much credence if I were you. She was always one to give herself airs if she thought it would get her out of a chore.” Suddenly, his eyes glistened with tears as he spoke.
“Then could not the money have been an inheritance?”
“No,” said Philip unhesitatingly. “That was one thing I never doubted about her story. There was no inheritance. She had to work and she detested it.”
Once across London Bridge, they headed toward the Borough. In the distance were St. George’s Fields, a black latticework of leafless trees in front of the wintery slopes upon which a scattering of cows and sheep grazed. Philip’s eye, meanwhile, settled on a cluster of pretty girls outside the George Tavern, one of whom winked at him and raised her skirt high enough to expose a well-turned ankle. Agnes caught Philip blowing her a kiss. She strode briskly to the tavern courtyard to ask for directions to Melancholy Walk.
Agnes narrowly avoided collision with all manner of men and conveyances, all jostling and barging in their efforts to load or unload, water, feed, harness, or unharness their horses. She found a groom who was able to direct her, but when he tried to engage her in further conversation she cut him short. “Philip,” she cried out brusquely, waving her arm to summon him hastily to her side, “this gentleman informs me the place we are looking for is this way. Let us leave now. There is no time to waste.”
Melancholy Walk was a narrow alley nestling in the shadow of the Southwark Glass House and the Clink prison. The houses here were newly built—tall, narrow structures, four stories high, with a single window on each floor. According to the directions that Theodore had provided, Marcus Pitt’s office was the fourth house along.
IN ANSWER TO Agnes’s knock, the door edged open and a puffy, pockmarked, unshaven face peered out. Taking a deep breath, Agnes announced stoutly, “I have an appointment on behalf of Mr. Theodore Blanchard. My name is Agnes Meadowes.”
“That so?” replied the man. His smile revealed a gash of blackened teeth. “And mine’s Grant. If you’re expected, I s’pose you’d better come in.”
Grant’s physique, Agnes now saw, was as unwholesome as his face. His body was vast and round; the coat and shirt he wore were incapable of covering his girth; and slivers of hairy flesh protruded where buttons were missing and fastenings undone. Agnes averted her eyes and stepped into the hallway. Philip made to follow her, but Grant stepped forward, blocking his path. “Not you. He wants her alone. You wait here,” he said, shoving him in the chest.
Poised on Marcus Pitt’s threshold, and separated from Philip, Agnes felt her pulse quicken, and darts of apprehension prick her spine. However, she had no choice but to face the ordeal. She peered around Grant’s bulky mass. “It’s all right, Philip,” she said. “Do as he says. I’ll call if I need you.”
She found herself in a long narrow corridor, sparsely furnished with two seats set against the wall close to the front door and nothing else save at the far end, where a pair of benches were occupied by three boisterous boys playing a game of dice. They were all dirty and raggedly dressed, aged about twelve or thirteen, she guessed. Had she seen them in the street she would have assumed they were pickpockets and kept clear. Presumably, thought Agnes with an apprehensive shudder, it was by keeping lads such as these in his pay that Pitt derived his insight into London’s murky goings-on.
“If you would care to wait a moment,” said Grant, signaling to the chairs by the door, “I will inform Mr. Pitt you are here.” Then, turning toward the lads, he bellowed, “You lot, mind your manners—there’s company here.”
Agnes sat down gingerly as Grant sidled through an entrance leading off the corridor and swiftly yanked the door shut. The boys paid no attention to her presence, but continued their unruly brawling.
From behind the closed door, Agnes could hear the low sonorous sound of conversation, although the subject was impossible to discern above the racket. Then there was the crash of a door and the sound of heavy footsteps on wooden boards.
“He’s ready for you now,” said Grant, poking his head out of the doorway. “This way, if you please.”
It was not at all what she had expected. The
shutters in Marcus Pitt’s office were half drawn across the window. Nevertheless, there was enough light for her to see that the room was orderly and the furnishings were of quality. There was a mahogany desk; two or three carved chairs; a cabinet, upon which stood a row of cut-glass decanters and half a dozen wineglasses, two of which were half full; and a coat stand, upon which was suspended a long black cloak, a tricorn hat, and a silver-topped walking cane.
The air was stuffy and sweetly scented, thanks to a blazing fire and a pastille burner that gave off a strong, sweet perfume—sandalwood or musk, Agnes guessed. The walls were lined with bookshelves, upon which stood row upon row of identical dark blue volumes. Agnes noticed that the spine of each was marked with two dates and that the books were ranged chronologically. The significance of the dates was not clear, but the care with which they were ordered brought a certain sense of formality to the room that she found reassuring.
Marcus Pitt was seated at his desk writing in a volume identical to the ones on the shelves. Agnes recalled the voices she had just heard. Judging from the wineglasses, Pitt had been entertaining company before her arrival. She could see a small door set into the paneling. Presumably his previous visitor had left through it.
Pitt put down his pen, rose to his feet, bowed, and held out his hand to greet her. He was tall, long-faced, and clean-shaven, with a thin nose, well-defined mouth, deep-set dark gray eyes, his hair impeccably dressed in tidy rolls over his ears and caught back in a shiny black ribbon. “Mrs. Meadowes, good morning to you. I received word of your visit from Mr. Blanchard. Allow Mr. Grant to take your cloak and hat.” His voice was surprisingly genteel, and the hand that shook hers well manicured, its grip authoritative and cool. His dress befitted a well-to-do gentleman: a fine blue velvet coat, silk waistcoat, buckskin breeches.
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