The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  She walked toward the receding water that was whipped by the stiff wind into angry peaks and troughs. Wading barefoot through the noxious slime, she avoided the bricks and sharp stones, her head hunched forward, thin shoulders bent double, hair streaming in the wind. She carried a willow basket on her back and a stick in her hand. Being accustomed to the dangers, she advanced slowly, poking the stick in the mud ahead, testing the firmness and feeling for anything hidden beneath it.

  This time, however, Elsie’s search was not for the usual flotsam. Mrs. Meadowes’s question regarding the woman in a blue dress had triggered her recollection of an event she had witnessed and then forgotten. On Monday night, the night of the robbery, Elsie had come down to the river at low tide before dawn in search of coal. A woman had cried out, then stumbled and fallen down the steps. Elsie had seen her pick herself up, gather her possessions, and run off over the mud. It had been too dark to see the color of her dress, but not too dark to observe the figure pursuing her—a tall man. Assuming that they were lovers having a tiff, or that the woman was a whore who had tried to fleece him, Elsie had thought little of the episode at the time. But Agnes had reminded her.

  Elsie had worked herself into an almighty stew over Agnes Meadowes. The minute their discussion on London Bridge was over, she kicked herself for initiating it. Agnes’s promise meant nothing. Why would she keep quiet about seeing Elsie outside Blanchards’ and again at Marcus Pitt’s? Why had Elsie foolishly run after her and begged (so far as she was capable of begging) for her silence? Why had she confirmed her father’s involvement? It was all down to the charity Agnes had shown her. Few servants deigned to give Elsie a kindly look, let alone three farthings. But Elsie now saw that she had given Agnes the opportunity to trick and betray her!

  Nothing prevented Agnes from handing her and her father over to the justice. So one way or another, her pa would hang, and she would most likely be transported. After dwelling on this for several hours, a means of altering her fate came to her. What if the woman she had seen running over the mud was the same one Agnes was asking after? It was the same night, after all, and very few people were out at that hour. What exactly the woman meant to Agnes, Elsie was uncertain, but cunning told her that she was important. And that being so, if Elsie could find some evidence of her, she might use it to keep Agnes quiet.

  When Elsie had last seen the woman, she had been running over the mud near the grounded barges, and had dropped her bag. Elsie was not certain whether or not she had recovered it. It had been too gloomy to see. But if the bag was still there, its contents might serve her very well.

  Ignoring the freezing water and oozing mud, and the salty spume whipped in her face by the north wind, she stepped toward the dark hulks where she had lost sight of the woman. Three boats were moored side by side, ropes dangling over their hulls like garlands on a door. She saw no watchman, but for once, Elsie made no attempt to filch the ropes. Instead she began prodding the riverbed with her stick. The water in most places was still six inches deep, although here and there sandbars protruded like smooth gray islands. She walked slowly, stooping down, when the stick met resistance, to grope in the muddy slush. Then she poked again.

  Half an hour later, her basket was a quarter full with sodden wood and coal, but she had found no trace of the bag. Knowing that she did not have long before others came, Elsie walked back toward a spit of mud beyond the barges. There her stick struck something soft. Elsie took a board from her basket and used it to scoop away the mud. At first she saw nothing, but as she dug deeper she could see a patch of silt-encrusted black cloth. She began to scoop out a wider circle, revealing a larger expanse of the cloth. But then came a disturbing flash of something mottled and purplish-gray.

  Elsie squinted down, uncertain, fearful, yet hopeful, then wiped at the mud with her numb fingers. She excavated around the object, examined it closely, then nodded and knelt back on her heels. Her pulse was pounding. It was not the bag, but a body.

  She had uncovered the tip of a finger. After ten more minutes of careful excavation, Elsie had revealed most of the corpse. It was clad as Agnes had described, in a blue dress and black cloak of middling quality. Her hair was chestnut brown but tangled with mud and grit. Her lips were puffed and purplish black; her mouth, nostrils, and eyes filled with mud.

  Not far away from her claw of a left hand lay the bag. It was made from brown canvas with letters stenciled in black upon the side, but Elsie could not read them. She had seen plenty of bodies before in the dingy parts of the city she inhabited. Without pausing to consider how the woman had died, Elsie deftly unbuckled the bag and found inside several items of clothing. Then turning back to the corpse, she unlaced its boots and tugged them off, then briskly unfastened the bindings of the cloak and, grasping one edge, yanked on it. As the body rolled onto its side and then tipped back again, Elsie saw that it had been slashed across the neck. The wound was so ingrained with silt that she had not seen it at first, but moving the body had made the head loll back, revealing a long incision so deep the head seemed to be hanging on by the merest thread. There was no sign of blood—presumably it had all been washed away. Instead the flesh had a strange, inhuman, spongy appearance.

  Elsie had seen several bodies hauled out of the river before, but never one so brutally damaged. She was surprised how much the sight disturbed her. Presumably the man she had seen chasing the woman that night had done this. She considered reporting her discovery to Agnes. Perhaps the murderer would be caught and punished for his wickedness. But Agnes might force her to give up the clothes and boots. Elsie glanced down at her feet, bluer than the lips of the corpse. She would keep the boots and reckoned that if she dried the other clothes, the ragman might give her enough for them to save her from having to scavenge here for most of the winter.

  Elsie then turned her attention to the laces of the bodice. Once the skirt was off, she felt in the pockets and found them empty save for a small black heart-shaped object. A brisk rubbing revealed it to be a small silver box decorated with leaves and flowers. Elsie opened the lid, which was engraved inside with some writing—the woman’s name, she guessed. Here was all she needed to weave a tale for Agnes.

  She glanced back to the riverbank and against an angry yellowish sky could see a straggling line of five or six people standing on the mudflats, peering in her direction. From their present position they would not be able to make out the body, but once they approached and saw what it was, they would want to know what she had found on it. If they discovered her haul, they would force her to share it; or, worse, they might try and steal it from her.

  She stuffed the silver box down inside her clothes until it rested safely on the waistband of her skirt. She tipped the coal and wood chips out of her basket and packed in the clothes and boots, pressing them down as far as she could, then covering them with a layer of coal and wood. The task took no more than a minute or two. Using her board, Elsie hastily began covering the corpse and bag with mud and she smoothed it over until she was satisfied her excavations were no longer visible. For good measure, she scattered the surface with a few bricks and stones.

  She slung her basket on her back and forced herself to walk slowly and miserably back toward the bank as if she had found only coal and bones and wood chips.

  None of the other river finders said a word, save Marge, the oldest and most garrulous, who was picking over some empty crates close to the steps. A mud-stained lantern with a broken glass was tied around her waist with a piece of string. “Get anything?” she inquired as Elsie trudged past.

  “Nought special.”

  “You’re back up quickly, then.” Marge’s eye darted over Elsie’s basket. “You wouldn’t be back ’less you’d got summat.”

  “Hush, I ain’t got nothing. Hand on heart I ain’t.”

  “Yes you ’ave. Show old Marge now. Ain’t I been good to you, letting you share my fire? What is it you got?”

  Elsie shivered as a gust of wind stabbed through her thin bo
dice. She looked glumly at her feet. “Went out an hour ago, found a load of wood wedged under one of them boats,” she mumbled. “Won’t all go in the basket. Thought I’d go back once I’d got rid of this.”

  “Where?” whispered Marge, taking hold of Elsie’s elbow.

  “Don’t say nothing to the others.”

  “Not a word.”

  Elsie pointed wordlessly toward the barge farthest away from the spit where the corpse was buried. Several others nearby must have heard snippets of their conversation; two or three trudged off in the direction she had indicated. She shuffled up the steps; she suddenly did not feel the chill wind or her damp clothes or her icy feet. It would be a long time, she thought, before she would have to poke about in the mud again. She had boots to wear, clothes to sell, and the means to keep Agnes Meadowes quiet.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  IT WAS SOON AFTER eleven o’clock when Agnes set out to market next morning. Elsie Drake was lingering on the corner of Foster Lane and Cheapside. “You still after the woman with the blue dress?” she queried, popping out of a dark doorway and giving Agnes such a fright she nearly dropped her basket.

  “Yes,” said Agnes breathlessly, surreptitiously checking her purse was still in her pocket. “Have you remembered something about her? Did you see her, after all?”

  “Better’n that,” said Elsie proudly, “I’ve got summat to show you.” She turned her back on Agnes, and rummaging among the grimy folds of her skirt, extracted an object wrapped in a square of hessian. She unfolded the cloth, and with hand outstretched, she spun round for Agnes to see.

  A small blackened heart-shaped box engraved with leaves and flowers lay upon Elsie’s hand. “What’s this? Where did you find it?” asked Agnes.

  “I didn’t find it. She gave it me to show you.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  This was not the reaction Elsie had expected. “That woman in the blue dress, the one you asked after. Take it an’ ’ave a look—it’s got some writing on it. Her name, I’ll be bound.”

  Agnes took the box. She saw that it was made from silver and contained a perforated grill. It was a vinaigrette, in which a lady might keep her smelling salts. Engraved upon the inside of the lid were the words Forever Yours. Nothing that linked the box to Rose. “Where is she?” said Agnes distractedly. She did not give the girl’s tale much credence—if her father was a thief, she could easily get her hands on some valuable trinket like this and pretend it was Rose’s.

  “That I can’t say.”

  “What d’you mean, you can’t say? You must know, if she gave this to you. If it is hers.”

  Elsie regarded her feet. “She told me not to let on,” she mumbled. “Made me give my word.”

  “So you have spoken to her?” said Agnes sharply. “What exactly did she say?”

  Elsie kept her head bowed. “Just that I was to show you this—a sign she’s well. She knows you’re looking for her, and says she wants you to stop. She says she don’t want no one from Blanchards’ bothering her now, however fond they may be of her. But if you’ve a message from time to time, you might pass it to me to convey.”

  Agnes looked again at the box. The outside was filthy, but she was struck by the beauty and delicacy of the decoration. She could see it was valuable, not the sort of thing a kitchen maid might own. And even if something so precious did belong to Rose, why would she entrust it to such a disreputable urchin as Elsie?

  Looking down, Agnes was startled to see that where before the girl had always been barefoot, now she was wearing a pair of stout brown leather boots that seemed a little large. “I don’t believe Rose told you any such thing,” she said sternly. “She and I were not friends. She would not send me messages, or expect to receive them from me. She worked as a kitchen maid. How would she have something like this in her possession? And why would she send it to me?”

  Elsie looked surprised and disappointed. “You deaf or summat? That’s what I said. I said she’s had enough with you. She don’t want nothing more to do with you…And you ain’t keeping that box—she only wanted me to show it to you.” She made a sudden lunge, but by some miracle Agnes anticipated her.

  Agnes clenched her fist and raised it over her head. “I’ll keep hold of this, if you don’t mind. You can tell Rose it’s safe with me. And tell me, by the by, where did you come by those boots?” She clasped Elsie by her bony shoulder, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You stole this, and those boots too I wager. They are Rose’s, even if this isn’t. You stole from me once before.” She brought her face close to the girl’s. “And just now you tried to do the same. Now unless you want me to call the constable, tell me where Rose is and when you robbed her.”

  The girl could not hide a flicker of shock. “I never robbed her.”

  “Then let us call a constable to ask the same question. He might well take you to the Round House. And while he’s at it have your father arrested.”

  “But you promised you’d keep him out of it.” Elsie tried to squirm from her grasp.

  Agnes tightened her grip. “What makes you think I am any more trustworthy than you? Tell me where you came by those boots and this box, or I’ll send for the constable directly.”

  “I never robbed her. What makes you say I robbed her?”

  Agnes called out to an errand boy a few yards away. “Boy! Here’s tuppence if you run now and fetch the constable. This creature just tried to rob me of my silver box. I’ll see to it she’s taken before the justice and branded.”

  “I never! She’s tricked me up! I give her the box and she’s gone mad.”

  “’Course you did,” said the lad, winking at Agnes. “An’ I’m Dick Turpin back from the dead, and I just gave her a sovereign to boot.”

  With this, the weakness of her situation seemed to dawn on Elsie. She stopped struggling. “I’ll give you the lot if it’s what you want. But you’re a bitch an’ a half to take it off me.”

  Agnes ignored the insult. “So you robbed her of more, did you? I want nothing except for you to tell me what you know. Where is Rose?”

  “I never robbed her, and you won’t never speak to her,” said Elsie, half spitting the words.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s dead. I found her.”

  There was silence for a minute, after which the lad began tugging at Agnes’s basket. “So, ma’am, am I going for the constable or not?”

  Agnes handed him a penny. “No. Now be off with you.” She turned back to Elsie and tried to steady her voice. “Where is she?”

  “Down on the mudflats. Near the barge mooring at Three Cranes Wharf. I found her yesterday at low tide. She was buried. I uncovered her.”

  “Dear God! She must have fallen into the river and drowned.”

  “No. Her throat was slit from ear to ear.”

  Agnes felt faint and a bitter taste rose into her throat. But she knew that Elsie was a slippery customer who would run off if she gave her an inch, so she focused on getting more information out of her. “I suppose you also found her twenty sovereigns. I take it that was the reason for your reluctance to reveal this discovery?”

  “No, there was not a penny on her. I swear.”

  Agnes was unconvinced. “I do not want the money, Elsie—so far as I am concerned, even if it was a hundred guineas you might keep it. Just tell me frankly how much there was. Remember the constable, Elsie. Remember your father.”

  “I told you. I still got the clothes, if you want to see. But there was no money.”

  Agnes could see she would get no further. “What else did you find—a pistol and a bag, perchance?”

  “The bag was there,” said Elsie, “but no pistol. Although I think I saw her drop it and pick it up. It’s my guess the man chasing after her nabbed it. And the money, too.”

  Agnes was taken aback. “You saw her? When? What man?”

  “I never saw much, but he were tallish and dressed in a cloak, with long dark hair tied back in a queue, and he ran like the
blazes…”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  AGNES WAS THROWN INTO a state of unusual indecision. A murder had been committed. She could hardly leave the poor girl’s body to rot in the mud. But if she observed convention and told the justice, he would demand to know how she had made the discovery and she would have to declare Elsie’s involvement. The girl’s pathetic attempts at deception had infuriated Agnes, but she had no real desire to see her apprehended.

  In the market, Agnes drifted blindly. She was scarcely aware of whether the pears she purchased were worm-eaten or the cardoons stringy; she neglected to squeeze the mutton for tenderness, nor did she ascertain whether the eels were as lively as she required.

  Returning to Foster Lane, Agnes was so engrossed that the faces she passed were invisible to her. It was only when a firm hand clutched her elbow that she realized that someone was addressing her.

  “Mrs. Meadowes, might I have a word? Mrs. Meadowes, did you hear me? Are you quite well? Has something distressed you?”

  “What? Oh, Mr. Williams,” said Agnes, blinking vaguely. “Forgive me, but I didn’t hear you. My mind was in another place entirely.”

  “So I see,” said Thomas Williams with a forlorn half smile.