The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  Agnes spoke without her usual caution. “My apologies, sir. I meant no insult. To tell the truth, I have just had a great shock.”

  “What on earth was it?”

  Agnes gave him a full account—her encounter with Elsie, and how the girl had spotted Rose running over the mudflats on the night of the robbery, and had just found her body buried there in the mud. She confessed uncertainty as to what to do, now having promised to keep Elsie out of trouble. Then she showed him the silver heart-shaped box.

  “Elsie says she discovered this upon Rose’s person. Lord knows how she came by it. Do you think Riley might have given it to her?”

  “Good God!” said Thomas. He gave the box a cursory look and ran the flat of his thumb over the engraving. “I should doubt it. Riley doesn’t strike me as the kind to give her such a thing. Perhaps it was a gift from a past paramour.” Then, he colored and altered tack. “If Drake was responsible for the death of the apprentice, where is the wrong in having him apprehended?”

  “If I do so, I will punish Elsie as well. She has no other family; so she would be an orphan and have to choose between the workhouse and the street. Surely it is better to have a parent, however deficient, than none at all?”

  “Perhaps,” said Thomas Williams uncertainly. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that her father is a murderer and she is his assistant.”

  Agnes did not doubt Drake was the thief, but something in Elsie’s description had shaken her conviction that he was the killer. Rather than voice this uncertainty, she concentrated on an argument that she knew held weight. “If Marcus Pitt hears we know the culprit is one of his men, there is every chance he will melt down the wine cooler, in which case Mr. Blanchard will be ruined and we will all suffer. But I cannot, in all conscience, leave Rose’s body in the mud to rot without a decent burial.”

  “Rest assured, Mrs. Meadowes,” said Thomas Williams. “But I hold that if Drake slit Noah Prout’s throat, you cannot describe him merely as deficient—he is evil, and should be punished. I pity anyone with such a man for a father. Do you think he killed Rose too?”

  She would have to confess her thoughts. “Prout and Rose met identical deaths—their throats were slit, which suggests the same hand murdered them. But I don’t believe Drake murdered Rose. Elsie said she saw a man chasing Rose, but if it had been her father, she surely would have recognized him and said nothing. It follows then that Drake did not kill the apprentice either. Which means that the murderer must be someone else—most likely the person in the Blanchards’ employ who involved Pitt and Drake in the first place.”

  “Do you trust the girl?”

  Agnes shook her head. “Truth is not a commodity Elsie holds in high regard.”

  “Then do not allow her to deflect you into forming unsound theories.”

  “My instinct tells me she isn’t lying in this instance, and I don’t believe my theories are unsound.”

  Williams scratched his corkscrew curls. “But murder is a matter for the law to resolve.”

  “Quite,” said Agnes. “How do I inform the justice of Rose’s murder without letting Elsie’s identity be known, thus causing the wine cooler to be lost forever?”

  After a lengthy silence, Thomas Williams’s jerked his head up. “I believe I have the resolution.”

  “What, then?”

  “I will tell the constable that I saw the body. I will say I was walking past the river at low tide and caught sight of something that appeared to be the body of a woman lying on the mud, surrounded by river scavengers. The reason for my particular anxiety is that I have heard a kitchen maid is missing from this household.”

  Agnes had not known what to do; now Williams had provided her with a workable solution. But should she trust him? He was, after all, a man. “You are most charitable, Mr. Williams, but I hesitate to accept. Your intervention might result in you enduring unexpected inconveniences. I should manage the matter myself.”

  “What is life if we don’t occasionally engage ourselves in the lives of others and offer our assistance?” he said stoutly. “Besides, I have an hour to spare, and don’t want to be cast out without a job any more than you do. Perhaps you should keep this. I am quite certain Rose would have wanted you to have it.”

  He thrust the box back into Agnes’s hand and before she had time to object, he raised his hat, bowed, and strode off in search of the constable. Just before he disappeared from view around the corner, he called over his shoulder, “Listen for the door this evening. I will come to tell you what passes.”

  THE SERVANTS ATE their last meal of the day at around eight, two hours or so before the upstairs supper was served. Upper and lower servants ate at the kitchen table in strict order: Mr. Matthews at the head, Mrs. Tooley on his right, Patsy on his left, Agnes beside Mrs. Tooley, and then the others strung out in descending order like pearls on a necklace, with Doris at the farthest end. Usually the downstairs meal was a simple affair of ale, cold meats, bread, and reheated leftovers. Tonight there were two quarts of ale, cold brawn in jelly, cold mutton, a piece of cheese, a loaf of bread, and a dish of warm cauliflower.

  It was Mr. Matthews’s or Mrs. Tooley’s habit to lead the conversation, to prevent an unholy row ensuing. There were times when one of the lower servants spoke out of turn, but provided the butler had not sampled too much wine, it was more likely than not they would be sternly rebuked for it.

  But this evening, no sooner had Mrs. Tooley asked Mr. Matthews why a constable had called than the news of Rose’s death was out and the table was in uproar.

  “Oh, my heavens!” said Mrs. Tooley, crossing herself. “Who ever would have thought it?”

  “Her throat was slit from ear to ear and hanging by a thread?” echoed Doris, looking pale.

  “And was there nothing about her person?” asked Nancy. “No letters, nor nothing to show where she was headed off to?”

  “It seems,” said Mr. Matthews portentously, “she was stripped of all her possessions save her chemise and petticoat.”

  “’Tis a crying shame, that’s what it is,” said Philip in a tone entirely devoid of his usual flirtatious sparkle.

  “Hear, hear,” echoed John.

  Mr. Matthews passed no disparaging remark, but Agnes thought that he, too, seemed uncommonly upset.

  “What a horror!” said Patsy, resting her long thin fingers against her cheek. “Though one cannot say it is entirely unexpected. To go off in the middle of the night, unprotected, is to invite calamity.”

  “Most likely she wasn’t unprotected,” said Nancy flatly. “She had the pistol. Ain’t that nor her bag been found, Mr. M.?”

  “I haven’t heard. No doubt some guttersnipe has sold it for a few shillings when at the very least it should have fetched five guineas.”

  “All this talk has quite unraveled me. I feel a headache coming on,” whispered Mrs. Tooley. “Perhaps you would kindly all excuse me.”

  DESPITE THE DRAMATIC REVELATIONS, the servants attacked the day’s final duties with military precision. Having departed earlier, Mrs. Tooley was unable to help Agnes and Doris get the dishes ready for upstairs. Patsy went off to tidy Lydia’s dressing table and put out her nightdress. John and Philip, loaded with buckets of coal, replenished the fires in the drawing room, library, and dining room, then changed into their evening regalia for serving supper. Nancy took three copper warming pans filled with hot coals and three new candles to the Blanchards’ bedrooms. She drew the velvet curtains, turned down the beds, folding a precise triangle of linen sheet over each eiderdown, stoked the bedroom fires (lit by Philip earlier in the afternoon), and ensured the chamber pots were all in the night tables.

  Mr. Matthews, meanwhile, put Nicholas’s nightshirt and cap to warm, and set out the things for his toilette next morning. He folded the towels neatly and laid out the razor, soap, and badger-bristle shaving brush. He ran a finger round the washbowl to make sure there was no trace of scum, then conveyed several items of clothing to his pantry for John to
brush and press.

  This done, he turned to the more pleasurable duties of the dining room. Proudly, with all the pomp and majesty of a royal attendant, he placed a decanter of claret on a silver salver and bore it upstairs. Setting it gently on the side table, he trimmed the wicks of the lighted wall sconces, and lit the candles of the candelabra. He then bellowed down the back stairs to John and Philip to get a move on and took up his position by the door, ready to summon the family.

  During these preparations, a steady downpour began to thrash the windows. Agnes looked up from the supper trays at the fat drops streaking the glass and shivered. Just then there was a hesitant tapping at the kitchen door. “Shall I see who it is?” asked Doris.

  “No,” said Agnes, stepping in front and blushing furiously, for she was certain it must be Thomas Williams and was anxious to avoid arousing gossip and speculation. “I’ll see to it. Leave the butter and go quickly to the scullery now and make a start on those pots. I shall manage quite well here.”

  Agnes opened the door. Thomas Williams was not alone. Her jaw dropped, yet no words came.

  “Well, Mrs. Meadowes,” he said, “that’s a strange welcome on a very nasty night. If you can think of nothing to say, perhaps we could come in and sit down until you do. I found my companion on your doorstep. He’s quite drenched through—and in urgent need of warmth and food, I’d hazard.”

  Feeling the blood receding from her cheeks as she spoke, Agnes murmured, “You had best both come in.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “PETER!” Agnes scooped her bedraggled son to her bosom. “What on earth has happened? How did you arrive here?” The round-cheeked, raisin-eyed ten-year-old was bleached with cold. His dark curly hair (which closely resembled his mother’s) was plastered to his head, and rain dripped from his sodden clothing in puddles on the floor.

  Between spasms of coughing and shivering, he explained. “Mrs. Catchpole’s condition got worse. Her sister was too busy with looking after her to have the bother of me, and said I’d have to go to you. So she put me on the coach and paid the driver’s lad to bring me to Foster Lane. But when we arrived at the Strand he was taken over by thirst and said I could make my own way, I only had to follow my nose, a simpleton could manage it.”

  “The scoundrel! The rogue!” said Agnes, pink with outrage. “To abandon a defenseless child beggars belief. What wouldn’t I like to do to such a man…”

  “You’re not angry with me, Ma? I was afraid I might get you into trouble, so I waited outside the door until this man arrived and forced me in with him.”

  Agnes stroked his damp head and dropped a quick kiss on his crown. “Angry with you? Not a bit of it, child. Only furious with those that should know better,” she said, marching to the butler’s pantry to fetch a large brown blanket. She kissed the top of his head again, then stripped his wet clothing, wrapped him up so that only his thin neck and head and spindly ankles were visible, and told him to sit in a large high-backed chair. “When did you last eat?”

  “I’d a cup of milk this morning.”

  “Poor child, you must be famished. I’ve some strong broth I’ll warm, and you must have some toast.”

  “Thank you, Ma,” said Peter, sitting up tall to watch his mother’s bustle.

  Agnes was in the midst of buttering a thick slice of toast when Mrs. Tooley entered the kitchen in search of a spoon for her elixir. The housekeeper was dressed in her nightgown and her hair dangled down over one shoulder in a stringy plait of pewter gray. She rammed her pince-nez in position and shot an incredulous look at Thomas Williams and the child wrapped in a horsehair blanket seated close to the fire. Bewildered eyes moved to Agnes, whose face seemed to radiate greater warmth than she had ever seen before. In contrast, Mrs. Tooley’s pale complexion turned as gray as her plait. “Mrs. Meadowes,” she said in a faltering voice, “I should not need to remind you of all people that servants in this house are strictly prohibited visitors of any kind! This man does not belong here. Neither does this child. I trust you can provide some proper explanation for their presence and that they will be on their way forthwith. You know I am unwell. How could you commit such a transgression? I really had thought—”

  “May I introduce Mr. Thomas Williams,” said Agnes, breaking in. “He is one of Mr. Blanchard’s journeymen. He brings information pertaining to Rose and the missing wine cooler. You know I am helping to recover it.”

  Mrs. Tooley seemed only slightly appeased. Her head oscillated on her neck like a wind-shivered leaf. “And the child? Is it his?”

  Agnes ladled a little warm soup into a cup. “No. Mr. Williams rescued him from the doorstep and brought him here because he had nowhere else to go,” she said. She handed the bowl to Peter, but upset by Mrs. Tooley, he shook his head and hung his hands by his sides, and refused to take it.

  “He rescued him from the doorstep? Then may I ask, Mr. Williams, what gave you the impression this kitchen doubles as an orphanage or hospital for foundlings?”

  Crimson now, Agnes took up the spoon and tried to coax a little of the hot liquor into her son’s mouth.

  “Of course I never thought that for a moment, madam,” replied Thomas Williams, avoiding Agnes’s eye. “I was only trying to help. The child is well cared for, but has somehow contrived to lose himself. I thought we might provide him with a little shelter and then ascertain where he belongs.”

  “Your philanthropy is most commendable, sir,” said Mrs. Tooley, drawing herself up and contracting her lips as though she were sipping vinegar. “But what gives you the right to pursue it in my kitchen? No doubt he’s brought lice and all manner of vermin in with him. Doris will have to scrub the whole place with caustic tomorrow.”

  She turned to Peter. “If you know what’s good for you, boy, you’ll take your clothes and leave. Otherwise I shall be forced to send one of the footmen out for the watch.”

  “No! I won’t allow it,” said Agnes. “If he goes, so will I.”

  “I beg your pardon? Mrs. Meadowes, have you taken leave of your senses? What concern of yours is this urchin?”

  “He is my son. The woman who has charge of him is ill and, being unable to care for him, has returned him to me. I will not have him sent out into the rain. I repeat, if he goes, so too will I.”

  Mrs. Tooley gave a gasp and seemed to sway on her feet. She put out one hand to steady herself, and raised the other to her brow. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped an octave. “Of course, the hair, those eyes—I should have known. How could I not have guessed!”

  While she now comprehended the predicament, Mrs. Tooley was too entrenched in her habits to see how she might allow an inch of leeway; yet unaccountably, she felt uncomfortable imposing what she knew to be right. “The fact that he is yours does not mean he can stay here,” she said, fumbling for her salts.

  “But what would you have me do, Mrs. Tooley? Send him to the workhouse or out into the street?”

  Mrs. Tooley sniffed her salts loudly. “That is for you to decide, Mrs. Meadowes,” she murmured feebly. “But whatever you choose, you will have to do something this night or I shall be taken ill, and then the matter will reach upstairs and we shall all have the devil to pay. And now, if you’ll excuse me I think I must lie down. I feel an attack coming on.”

  Agnes lowered herself stiffly into a chair just as Peter began to cry. Thin whimpering sobs racked his little body and turned his smooth complexion an angry red.

  “There, there,” said Thomas Williams, patting the child on the back with gauche kindness. “It ain’t so bad. Your ma won’t leave you at the workhouse or out in the cold. ’Course she won’t. Anyway, I believe I have the answer to the problem.”

  “What’s that?” said Agnes, rubbing Peter’s wet curls with a dishcloth.

  “My landlady, Mrs. Sharp, lives two streets away, on Bread Street. Her husband is a sea captain who is away for months at a stretch. She has a child of her own, who is seven years of age, and I warrant she would be quite willin
g for a short while to look after Peter. I will make the introductions if you wish.”

  Agnes could have wept for joy. But she had noticed that this was the second dilemma Thomas Williams had solved for her that day. Why would he take such trouble over someone he barely knew? To ingratiate himself into her favor for some improper purpose of his own? Her wariness remained, but for all this, she could not refuse his proposal. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. If your landlady is truly willing to take Peter, I would be most grateful,” she said stiffly. Then, to cover her embarrassment, she rubbed Peter’s head so vigorously with the cloth that he protested and wriggled away. Agnes let him go. The chance to see her son more regularly brought her a surge of pleasure. She flashed a smile over Peter’s head at Thomas Williams. “I can pay ten shillings a week, will that suffice?”

  He smiled back hesitatingly. “Come and discuss it with her now.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  AGNES WALKED OUT with Peter to one side of her and Thomas Williams to the other. The rain had eased, but the light from houses and shops streaked the wet streets. A keen northeast wind had begun to blow.

  “I gather the constable found Rose’s corpse,” said Agnes quietly to Thomas as they strode the short distance to his lodgings. “He paid the Blanchards a visit this afternoon.”

  “Yes,” returned Thomas in a subdued tone. “I accompanied him and showed him the place you described. He ordered the ground to be dug up and we found her without difficulty. I was able to identify the body.”

  “What condition was she in?”

  Williams shook his head as if the memory were one he would sooner forget. “You would not have liked to see her,” he said quietly. “She was badly disfigured by mud and water, stripped by scavengers of all her clothing save her undergarments.”

  Agnes clutched Peter’s frail hand tighter in hers. “Unless we understand why she left Foster Lane that night, I cannot see how we will unravel her death. I did think before that a man must lie behind it, and that her going off was quite separate from the robbery. But the fact that the apprentice and Rose were both killed in the same way suggests a link between them.”