“That is quite all right, thank you, sir,” she said. “I prefer to keep them.”
Pitt smiled indulgently. “You have traveled some distance,” he continued with a look of solicitude. “Perhaps I can offer you some refreshment. A glass of wine?”
“Thank you, no,” said Agnes, blushing at the offer. “I am pressed for time. Mr. Blanchard is most anxious I return as speedily as I am able.”
“Naturally.” Marcus Pitt bowed slightly. “How could he fail to be eager for so charming a lady’s swift return?”
Remembering the delicacy of her commission, and that Theodore had expressly ordered her to capitalize on her charms, Agnes suppressed her instinct to make a cutting remark. “You are mistaken, sir. I come on business. I speak in a professional capacity.”
A slight twitch now played at the corners of Marcus Pitt’s mouth, as though her formality amused him. “Your propriety is commendable; it must come as a great relief to your husband. I take it you are both in the same profession?”
“My husband is dead,” replied Agnes diffidently, all too aware that this was the second time that she had been obliged to mention him in twenty-four hours. She hurried on, feeling herself blush as she spoke. “I have recently joined the Blanchard workshop as an engraver. This robbery threatens their business and thus I am fearful it might also jeopardize my position. As a widow, with a child to support…you will appreciate my concern.”
“Indeed, and I admire your fortitude, Mrs. Meadowes. You are most courageous. Now tell me properly about the business that brings you.”
“I have come, sir, to enlist your assistance in retrieving a valuable silver wine cooler that has been stolen from the Blanchards’ business premises in Foster Lane.”
Pitt nodded. “Blanchard referred to the matter in his letter. He knows, I presume, there is a fee for my services? One guinea, payable in advance.”
“I have it in my purse.” She felt in her pocket, deriving a moment’s comfort from the cool disc of gold that Theodore had given her for this purpose. She placed the coin on the desk in front of her.
Marcus Pitt took a brass key from a bunch attached to his belt, unlocked a drawer, and took out a metal-bound strongbox. Selecting another key from his collection, he unlocked the strongbox, placed the coin inside, then secured the box again. “Now tell me more precisely what happened; describe the stolen property in as much detail as you recall. Not too fast, mind, I must write it all down.”
So Agnes explained the events as they had been told to her, recounting how the shop had been broken into, how the apprentice who had been guarding the shop at that hour had had his throat cruelly cut from ear to ear, and how nothing but the wine cooler had been taken. Mr. Pitt recorded the details in his book with swift fluency in a small, spidery script. At the end of his report, he looked up. “And now tell me about the appearance of the wine cooler, if you please.”
Agnes had never set eyes on the object, but Theodore had shown her a detailed drawing and Agnes described it as best she could. “It was most expertly wrought, measuring three and a half feet long and nearly two feet wide, adorned with mermaids, dolphins, tritons, horses, and a figure of Neptune bearing a shield with the patron’s armorials.”
There was a short pause while Pitt wrote rapidly in his ledger. Then, leaning back in his chair, he steepled his forefingers under his chin and regarded her with a directness she found unsettling. “You haven’t told me yet the most crucial detail of all.”
“And what, pray, is that, Mr. Pitt?”
“The weight.”
Agnes flushed awkwardly but did not avert her gaze. “Twelve hundred ounces.”
Pitt blinked, his eyes wide in mock astonishment. “Twelve hundred ounces,” he repeated slowly. “No wonder, then, that Theodore Blanchard is in a lather. What will Sir Bartholomew Grey say when he knows it has gone missing, I wonder. I take it the wine cooler was assayed and the duty properly paid?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Agnes said, remembering in a flash her conversation with Thomas Williams the previous night. Was Pitt suggesting that the duty might have been avoided? Why should he care? Then, not wishing to alert Pitt to her thoughts, she swiftly replied, “I assume so, Mr. Pitt, though I don’t see why that should be significant. The wine cooler is unique. You have certainly enough to identify it, with or without marks.”
“I expect you are right,” conceded Marcus Pitt, the suspicion of a smile still playing about his mouth. “Now, Mrs. Meadowes, if you would allow me to explain how my system works.”
“Very well, sir.”
“I will ask around among my numerous contacts and perhaps place an advertisement in a publication or two. When I’ve found something, I shall send one of my young assistants to fetch you.”
He said all this with an air of solemnity better suited to a man of law or a physician than a man who held sway over the city’s underworld and employed a retinue of rogues to assist him.
“How long is this process likely to take?” Agnes inquired deferentially.
“No more than three or four days. I wager we’ll be enjoying each other’s company again before the end of the week.”
“Mr. Blanchard will be delighted to hear it.”
“Of course he will,” responded Marcus Pitt with alacrity. “He’s twelve hundred ounces at stake. By anyone’s standards that is a considerable sum, not to be taken lightly.”
“Will the villain responsible be apprehended at the same time?” asked Agnes.
Pitt’s expression turned suddenly grave. “That question, Mrs. Meadowes, is much trickier. Sometimes it is best to be content with the property and not look further. My business, you see, depends upon the trust of rogues. Mr. Blanchard will understand.”
Agnes nodded in silence. So the murderer of Noah Prout would go free in order for Pitt’s business to prosper. And Theodore would raise no objection, provided he recovered his wine cooler.
Pitt rose and bowed to her. “I will be counting the days—unless, that is, you would consent to put me out of my anguish before.”
Agnes regarded him uncertainly. “I don’t think I follow you, Mr. Pitt.”
“Then the fault is mine for not making myself clear. What I want to do is offer you an invitation. Would you care to accompany me to the New Theatre on Friday? I will send a couple of assistants on ahead to keep our places in the pit, and we can dine first. I guarantee I’ll entertain you royally and give you a night you won’t forget.”
Agnes could not remember the last time a gentleman had invited her on an excursion. A flush of flattered astonishment spread across her cheeks. But she reminded herself sternly that for all his posturing, Pitt was not a gentleman but a villain, and she too was masquerading as something she was not. No doubt Pitt was as much drawn by her supposed profession as by her charms. “That is a most generous offer, Mr. Pitt, and please don’t think I am ignorant of the honor you pay me. Nevertheless, I regret I am not at liberty to accompany you. I have commitments that proscribe evening excursions.”
Even as she spoke, Agnes knew there was too much regret and not enough distance in her tone. She sensed that Marcus Pitt was well versed in feminine wiles and would notice this. He nodded, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed with mock chagrin. “The ripest fruits are always the first to be picked. ’Twas ever thus.” Striding round his desk, he helped her from her chair. Then, before she knew it, he had taken her bare hand in his and kissed it. “Until Saturday, then, God willing. Good day to you, Mrs. Meadowes.”
“Good day, Mr. Pitt.” The sensation of his soft lips and scratchy chin touching her hand was not unpleasant, but she drew back her hand as if she had burned it. An unmistakable thrill had rushed through her veins, as though she had gulped a mouthful of brandy. This was the allure of dissipation, she told herself sternly. Why had she not put her gloves on sooner? She had a sudden vision of herself with a blackened eye and split lip. Being beaten was no less painful if the man who struck the blows was handsome and on occasion ch
arming.
Chapter Twenty
TAKING HER LEAVE , Agnes felt new fear, and new puzzlement too. Quite apart from Pitt’s question concerning duty, she could not explain his comment: “What will Sir Bartholomew Grey say when he knows it has gone missing, I wonder?” On Theodore’s emphatic instruction, she had never mentioned that the wine cooler had been made for Grey. So Pitt’s knowledge was most obviously explained by an illicit involvement with a member of the Blanchard staff; Pitt had unwittingly confirmed Justice Cordingly’s and Theodore’s suspicions that the robbery was no casual crime. Duty dodging was neither here nor there. Pitt must have been commissioned to orchestrate the robbery of the wine cooler, which he had now been employed to recover. The question was, by whom?
In the hallway, the towering bulk of the manservant Grant stood sentinel. Agnes opened her mouth to tell him she was leaving. Just at that moment, her eyes flickered past him to the three boys who were still rough-and-tumbling at the end of the corridor. But now, she observed, they had been joined by a fourth person, a young, dark-haired girl. She had a long, thin face, straggly, unkempt hair, and catlike eyes. Her mouth was small and round, her feet bare, her clothes ragged and nondescript, but her crimson shawl wrapped about her shoulders. The splash of glowing color amid the monochrome gloom caught Agnes’s attention.
She was the girl Agnes had seen waiting outside the day before the robbery. The girl to whom she had offered three farthings, and who had stolen her purse and an orange. Her humiliation and outrage came flooding back; she half wanted to take hold of the girl and shake her. But remembering where she was, and anxious not to draw attention by staring, Agnes briskly turned away, pulled on her gloves with trembling fingers, and adjusted her hat in the looking glass. She noted how darkly her eyes gleamed against her pale complexion and how fast she was breathing. “I am ready,” she said quietly to Grant, who opened the front door for her.
Philip was slouched against the railings outside. Catching sight of Agnes, he leaped up. “All go well, Mrs. Meadowes?”
She nodded curtly. “I believe so, thank you, Philip. But I don’t wish to waste a moment more. Let us go.”
As they headed back toward the Borough, Agnes’s mind was racing. Thank God, she thought, I had the presence of mind to say nothing! Had I revealed that I knew the girl while I was still on Pitt’s premises, heaven knows what might have happened. Pitt would surely not have let me return in safety. The girl must have been set to observe the comings and goings at the Blanchards’ premises to decide the most opportune moment for the robbery. Agnes recalled the girl mentioning she was waiting for her pa, and the shadowy, long-coated figure glimpsed just before she had run off. Had he been the perpetrator of the dreadful crime? She resolved to mention the matter to Justice Cordingly at the earliest opportunity. There might not be proof, but at the very least, she thought, the girl’s father should be identified and questioned over the matter.
Within ten minutes they had arrived at London Bridge. They were a quarter of the way across when a man wheeling a barrow piled high with old rags trundled past with a couple of dogs growling at his heels. From the opposite direction, a sedan chair careered up at considerable speed, just as a large wagon, drawn by a couple of oxen, creaked to a standstill behind the man with the barrow. To avoid the obstruction, Philip and Agnes crossed to the other side of the road, skirting several shops and stalls selling quack remedies, gloves, and ribbons. The air reverberated to a melee of shouts. Make way!…Move over!…Make haste!…Watch behind you! As the barrow drew alongside her, Agnes heard a thin, high voice yelling out to her, “Wait, missus! For Gawd’s sake, stop! A word, if you please.”
Agnes peered round the swaying wagon and the oxen’s bony haunches and saw a flash of crimson cloth—it was the girl again. She had no desire for Philip to see her in discussion with the child. Doubtless he already knew that an urchin had robbed her; John and he had few secrets. Given half a chance, they might well ridicule her about a second encounter. “Continue on, Philip,” she said as the traffic passed and the way ahead cleared. “There is an order I want to place at the chandler for Mrs. Tooley. I’ll catch you in a minute.” Without further explanation, she darted into one of the shops lining the bridge.
The girl came charging up, but when she saw Agnes inside the shop she did not enter. Agnes waited until Philip was out of view before she emerged. “So, miss,” she said warily, “what is it you wish to say?”
The girl had evidently run all the way from Melancholy Walk, for she was panting and her cheeks were flushed. “You know who I am,” she said between gasps, meeting Agnes’s scrutiny boldly.
“I saw you outside the Blanchards’ shop two days ago. You were waiting for your father and stole an orange and my purse, even though I gave you three farthings.”
The girl did not bother to deny the charge. “I want to know what you’re intending to do about it. Did you tell the man you’re with?” She jerked her head in the direction Philip had taken.
“No.”
“Then who will you tell?”
Agnes pondered. The girl’s presence at Pitt’s could not be ignored. Agnes had already resolved to tell Justice Cordingly; Theodore Blanchard should also be informed. What steps were then taken to discover who had helped Pitt—perhaps this girl’s father, if he was the figure she had seen—was for them to decide.
Then it occurred to Agnes that if she played along, the girl might inadvertently confirm her father to be the murderer and tell her who at Blanchards’ had assisted him. But she was unsure how to extract information from a wretch who would no doubt rob her again, given half a chance. “Tell me first, what’s your name?” she said cautiously.
“Elsie.”
“Elsie what?”
“Elsie Drake.”
“So, Elsie Drake, whom do you advise me to tell?”
“I suppose you think you should tell your master, so’s he might try and nab my pa, but I’ve come to warn you not to. Not yet, at any rate. It won’t help your chances.”
This was the last thing Agnes expected to hear. “Why not?”
“If Mr. Pitt gets wind of it, he’ll have the wine cooler melted down and sold for bullion, and then Mr. Blanchard’ll never get it back.”
The girl’s logic surprised Agnes, not to mention her nerve, which was quite beyond expectation. “What does the wine cooler matter to you?”
“It don’t, but my pa do, and he’s all I got. If Mr. Pitt finds out the justice is after my pa, he’d most likely give him up to be hanged just to get the forty guineas reward, rather than let the justice take him and get nothing. And if that happens, he’ll melt the wine cooler down just to keep himself on the safe side, so we’ll all be the loser.”
Agnes grasped the girl’s reasoning. As a thief taker, Pitt received payment from the authorities for any criminal he apprehended. This was how he disposed of villains who rebelled against his control, or any he suspected might be apprehended and incriminate him.
“Your father—what’s he called?”
“Harry.”
“Harry Drake? Does he work for Mr. Pitt?”
Elsie nodded, looking at her feet.
“And what does he do for him?”
She shrugged sulkily. “I don’t know much. He don’t talk about it.”
Agnes had no doubt this was a lie, but then, she thought, what else could the girl say? Her father, despite most likely being a murderous thief, was all she had. “Did someone else help your father? Someone inside Mr. Blanchard’s shop?”
“How should I know? I just watched outside an’ told ’im what I saw.”
“Told who?”
“My pa.” Elsie looked at her, unblinking, hostile.
Sensing she would get no further, Agnes changed tack. “What time did you start watching?”
“He wanted me sitting there most of the night—said the night was what interested him most.”
“And the night of the robbery, were you there outside?”
“No.
”
Agnes’s disappointment must have shown.
“Why d’you ask?” said Elsie craftily. “Feeling guilty? Worried I saw you do summat you shouldn’t?”
“Did your father mention seeing a woman leave the house? She was young and handsome, dressed in a cloak and a dark blue dress,” persisted Agnes firmly, ignoring the taunt.
Elsie’s eye flickered for a second, but she held Agnes’s gaze. “No, he never said nothing,” she said. “I said before, never does.”
Agnes looked at the miserable face, the ragged costume, the bare feet blackened with grime. Elsie’s willingness to risk approaching Agnes and answering her questions showed her anxiety on her father’s behalf. Agnes had little doubt that Harry Drake was the murderous thief who stole the wine cooler. Bitter experience had shown her that his daughter was inherently untrustworthy and far from innocent. But given Elsie’s circumstances, the loyalty and affection she felt toward her father was remarkable—touching, even. Regardless of rights and wrongs, Noah Prout was dead, the wine cooler was gone, and the Blanchards were prepared to pay for its recovery. If Harry Drake swung for the murder, Elsie would be fatherless, but Pitt would still profit.
“So, missus,” pressed Elsie. “You won’t say nothing, will you?”
“No,” said Agnes wearily, “I won’t.”
AGNES SOON CAUGHT UP with Philip, and when they arrived at Foster Lane, she sent him on to the house while she went next door. Theodore had instructed her to report to him the minute she returned.
When she entered the shop, Thomas Williams was the first person she saw. Judging by the neatness of his dress—hair tied back in a queue, blue coat, black cravat, black breeches—he had been attending to customers rather than working. “Good day, Mrs. Meadowes,” he said, bowing decorously. Then in a whispered undertone he added, “I am relieved to see you safely returned.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Williams. I have come to speak to Mr. Blanchard.”
He bowed again, more stiffly this time. “I shall tell Mr. Blanchard you are here.”
The Thief Taker Page 11
