The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  Agnes opened her drawer and took out the letter she had extricated from Nancy. “In a minute. Look at this first. Tell me, did you write it?”

  Philip regarded the letter, then glanced at Doris and grew awkward. “Not that thing again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nancy showed it to me.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days since, as I recall.”

  “Monday—the day before the robbery?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “What does it say?”

  A sudden flush spread across Philip’s countenance. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Like I told her, never learned my letters, did I?”

  Agnes nodded. “Surely you must have asked her what it said?”

  Philip seemed to forget his consternation. He smiled and ruffled his dark hair, as if trying to beguile her with his charms.

  Agnes was unmelting. “Well?”

  “’Course I did. There’s no pulling wool over your eyes, is there? Nancy said Rose was planning to go off.”

  “So did you follow Rose when she left for her rendezvous?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “No. ’Course not. I told you where I was that night—at the Blue Cockerel in Lombard Street. There’s plenty there to feast the eye and more besides…Ask the landlord, if you like.”

  “Then why did Nancy show you the letter? And why did you say nothing before?”

  He tensed his mouth thoughtfully. “Perhaps she wants to incriminate me as the father of her child. To do so she reckons she has to turn me against Rose. But why would I fall for it? I told you before, things between Rose and me cooled some weeks ago. I didn’t say nothing before because even if our affair was over, I was still fond of her. I wouldn’t have wanted her to get into trouble with the Blanchards.”

  Without waiting for further invitation, Philip fell upon the drumstick with a victorious smile and began to gnaw it hungrily. “By the way, how’s Mr. Williams keeping? Coming to visit again today, is he?”

  Agnes saw Doris’s eyes pop open. “None of your business, Philip. Any more cheek like that and I’ll feed you crusts for a week.”

  “Beg pardon. Didn’t mean to give no offense.”

  “P’raps that’s why Mr. Matthews kept your letter—he wants to tear a strip off you, ma’am,” piped in Doris.

  “Why on earth should he want to do that?” said Agnes.

  “’Cos of what Mrs. Tooley told him. You being with Mr. Williams and your boy in the kitchen.”

  Agnes colored, and told Doris to stop being foolish and fetch the oysters from the larder. If Doris knew, and Mrs. Tooley had told Mr. Matthews, then by now the entire household must be aware of Thomas Williams’s presence in her life. Grim-faced, she scattered bay leaves and juniper berries on the top of a shin of beef.

  She moistened it with pig’s trotter jelly, then covered it with a lid and carried it to the fire. What did Philip and Doris know of her predicament? Or her desire? Was this what Rose had felt—misunderstood in her desire? Besides, what more could she expect? All households thrived upon gossip; it was human nature. She wiped her hands on her apron and went in search of Mr. Matthews and Marcus Pitt’s letter.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  THERE WAS NO SIGN of Mr. Matthews in the butler’s pantry, nor in his office. As Agnes returned to the servants’ corridor, she walked past the small paneled door which concealed a narrow staircase to the cellar. The door was usually kept locked to keep out pilfering servants, but Agnes noticed that it stood an inch or two ajar. She pushed it open and peered down the first flight of dingy stairs. It was dark as soot and she felt a sudden draft of cold damp air. Was that a muffled voice drifting up from below? She called out, “Mr. Matthews, is that you?” When she heard nothing, she called again, more loudly, “Mr. Matthews, are you there?” Still there was no reply.

  There were no windows in the cellar. Whenever she had ventured down here before on Mr. Matthews’s instruction she had always taken a candle with her. She used her folded handkerchief as a wedge to prop open the door and turned down the stairs.

  The air became danker. An unwholesome smell of mold and dust caught the back of her nose and made her want to sneeze. She was three quarters of the way down when the handkerchief slipped out and the door creaked closed. Enveloped in chilly darkness, she groped her way forward, feeling along the wall with her hand, her nails catching on the peeling distemper. When she arrived at the bottom she peered into the musty gloom.

  A dim light emanated from a wall sconce in front of her, which had been lit to one side of a half-opened door. The door led to a long narrow chamber, much of which was obliterated by shadows, but halfway along, on an upturned barrel, a tallow candle flickered. By its smoky halo of light Agnes could see the curved ceiling vault, a long wall lined with racks of wine, and, facing it, another crammed with wooden kegs of varying sizes. From above she could hear the servants’ clock striking, Doris clattering pots in the scullery, the sharp rap of someone at the door, the faint cry of a knife grinder in the street. But in the cellar itself there was no sound at all except her own breathing and the soft rustle of her skirts.

  It was only after several minutes, when her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, that she noticed a niche in the wall at about waist height, just a yard from where she stood. She saw that there was something indistinct, an object about the size of her fist, resting upon it. Agnes reached forward and picked it up. It was wrapped in a cloth and was surprisingly heavy. Leaning toward the light from the wall sconce she began to unwrap it. It was a pistol. Small enough to fit in a pocket, the hilt was inlaid with silver decoration that was filthy with mud and grit. Was this one missing from Nicholas Blanchard’s room? As the thought struck her, she heard the chinking sound of glasses or crockery from somewhere nearby. There was no mistaking the voices now: Mr. Matthews was in conversation with John. Before she had time to call out, another door creaked open and the pair emerged from the darkness.

  The butler held a lantern in one hand. In his other he clutched a pair of glasses and a bottle. John carried a wooden crate.

  Agnes knew that she should announce her presence. She was holding a pistol that everyone believed had been lost. If Rose did take the gun to protect herself, it was most likely left here by the person Elsie had seen chasing her on the mud. The murderer.

  Mr. Matthews was now no more than a few yards away. Agnes hastily rewrapped the gun in the cloth and place it back on the ledge. Suddenly, Mr. Matthews halted. Putting down the bottle, the glasses, and his lantern on the upturned keg, he placed an arm around the footman’s shoulder.

  “Dear boy,” he said, slurring his words, “leave those bottles now. As soon as you’ve finished your other duties come back and take a couple of ’em off to Berry’s chophouse. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you. Tell him I said it’s to be kept aside for us—ready for our celebration next week.”

  John put down his crate. “As you wish, sir. But are you not fearful the loss might be remarked?”

  Matthews shook his head vehemently. “Never mind that. Who’s there to notice? After all my years of service I’m entitled to a little reward. And if I choose to share it with you, that’s my affair.” Matthews’s face was no more than an inch from John’s. “You richly deserve it.”

  John was several inches taller than the elderly butler. He stared down, then he smiled uneasily, licked his lips, and shook his head. The gesture made Agnes shudder. She could see the moisture glisten on his lower lip. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly. “I am most grateful.” He held up the butler’s hand and pressed his palm against his cheek before planting a kiss upon it. “Where’d I be without your kindness?” he whispered. “Still scrubbing pots in some hellhole kitchen.”

  The gesture so astonished Agnes that for a moment she half wondered if it was a trick of the shadows. She had not even been conscious of a special rapport between the two, let alone suspected anything like this. She had witnessed something intimate, un
toward, something both Mr. Matthews and John would desire to keep hidden. She had heard of such alliances, but never had she encountered them firsthand: men in love with each other—mollies, they called them. She was uncannily reminded of the unsettling kiss that Pitt had placed upon her hand, and involuntarily brushed her palm against her skirt.

  She backed slowly toward the staircase, but she had climbed no more than four or five steps when the heel of her shoe caught in her petticoat and she stumbled forward. Instinctively she put out her hand to break her fall, but not before her ankle twisted painfully beneath her. She let out an involuntary cry.

  “Who’s there?” called Mr. Matthews, grabbing his lantern. “Who is it?” He walked briskly toward her. “Answer me, damn you! What do you want?”

  Blanking out the agony in her ankle, Agnes hobbled up the steps, and when she had almost reached the top, turned and made as if she was descending. “Mr. Matthews?” she called out. “Where are you, sir? Is that you? I hear there’s been a message from Mr. Pitt.”

  Mr. Matthews halted at the foot of the stairs. “Mrs. Meadowes! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t mean to trespass. It was only that I’ve just now seen Philip, and he says there’s been a message from Mr. Pitt,” she said, hoping she sounded calm.

  “What if there has?”

  “Nothing, sir. I only mean, that’s the reason I came looking for you. I went to your pantry and office and then, seeing as the cellar door was open, I thought I’d see if I might find you down here. I only wondered if you knew anything about the message, and whether Mr. Blanchard will need me to visit Mr. Pitt again.”

  Mr. Matthews started up the staircase toward Agnes. The breach in his defenses was apparently of greater concern to him than Pitt. “The door was open? How curious when I distinctly recall that I closed it.”

  “Perhaps the wind blew it. At any rate, if it’s inconvenient just now I won’t trouble you any longer. I haven’t much time myself—I must check that pie doesn’t burn.”

  “Not so fast.” Mr. Matthews grabbed her wrist. Agnes winced. “What’s this? Hurt, are you?” He drew her palm close to the lantern. “You have a nasty scratch. How did you come by it?”

  “It’s nothing, sir,” said Agnes. She pulled her hand away and stepped back.

  The butler moved next to her and placed an arm behind her so she could withdraw no further. He drew his face close—so close Agnes could smell brandy on his breath, and his pale eyes seemed full of menace; he reminded Agnes of a snake. “It might be nothing, Mrs. Meadowes, but I wish to know,” Mr. Matthews whispered urgently. She looked desperately to John for help, but his face seemed empty, neutral.

  Agnes summoned her resources. She spoke firmly but softly, in a voice she had mastered long ago to mask her inner fright. “I stumbled just now, sir, when I began to descend without a light. And then you came out with your lantern.”

  “You weren’t spying on John and me, I don’t suppose?”

  “Spying on you? Whatever for, Mr. Matthews? I assure you I have no desire to cause trouble. I only wanted to speak to you. If you don’t believe me, ask Doris or Philip. They will tell you I was in the kitchen with them not two minutes ago.”

  Mr. Matthews finally seemed to take her at her word and withdrew a little. “Very well,” he said, “in that case I shall give you the benefit of the doubt and let it pass. But you are not to come back down here without my permission. No matter how urgent the matter seems to you, it’s more than likely it’ll be a trifle to me. Do I make myself clear?”

  “As daylight, Mr. Matthews.” Then, emboldened by her narrow escape, she coughed. “And if I may be so bold, the letter from Pitt, sir?”

  “Ah yes, it was nothing urgent or I should have said. Mr. Theodore has it. He wants you to go to him directly after dinner on account of it. He did not tell me why. Becoming quite the favorite, aren’t you?”

  “I think not, sir.”

  “Now, just so there are no more accidents, let me light your way.” He edged past Agnes and pushed open the door. “Careful now. Dear me, this door seems tighter than usual. Is something caught?” Before Agnes could intercept him, he had bent down and pulled out the handkerchief she had folded and wedged there. “What’s this?” He shook it out, then glared at her. “Has it anything to do with you, Mrs. Meadowes? Can you hazard how it came to be so strangely positioned?”

  Agnes looked at the white square that now wafted between his finger and thumb. Thankfully she had never been much of a needlewoman, and had never embroidered her initial on any of her belongings. “I suppose Mrs. Tooley or one of the other servants must have dropped it, sir. But unless there’s a name or initial sewn on it, there’s no way of telling. It might belong to almost anyone.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  AT SIX THAT SAME EVENING , Agnes went upstairs to learn what message Pitt had sent. Snow had settled over the rutted street and obliterated the city’s dirt and danger. Theodore had retired to the library to enjoy a decanter of port. Agnes found the room in semidarkness, the book-lined walls and velvet curtains lost in shadow. A fire burned fiercely in the grate, framed by a pair of squat brass andirons with lion’s paw feet. Light from a silver candelabrum illuminated a drum-shaped table in the center of the room, on which an opened folio of engravings and other papers was scattered. The engravings were designs for antique urns and sarcophagi, which Theodore was scrutinizing through an ornate silver-handled magnifying glass, making notes on a sheet of paper. At the sound of Agnes’s tread, he looked up, with eyes that seemed unfocused and dull.

  “I’ve come, sir, because Mr. Matthews said a letter was delivered, and you wished to see me on account of it.”

  “A letter,” echoed Theodore. He set down his glass, belched gently, and began rummaging through the papers on the table. “Yes, yes, indeed. Mr. Pitt’s communication, delivered by one of his assistants earlier on.”

  “It was good news, I hope?”

  He nodded morosely. “Promising enough—and all I had hoped for, given the circumstances. Mr. Pitt claims he has located the villains that stole the wine cooler. It is still intact, and will be returned forthwith, provided we pay the sum required.”

  “Is the sum reasonable?”

  Theodore’s lips puckered as though there were a bitter taste in his mouth. He lowered his eyes to the engraving in front of him and, with his forefinger, slowly traced the curvaceous outline of a funerary urn, whose handles were shaped like elephant ears. “Two hundred guineas,” he declared miserably.

  Agnes gasped. “Will you pay it?”

  Theodore’s eyes shone as though tears welled in them. He turned to another engraving, of a candelabrum in the form of a Corinthian column. “If I do not pay, the wine cooler will be melted down, and the metal untraceable. Pitt isn’t prone to making idle threats, he knows precisely what he’s doing. I think I told you before, our business is not as strong as it once was. A loss like this might land me in the debtors’ prison.”

  The engraving turned Agnes’s thoughts to the salver that Williams had examined. If Theodore was operating a duty-dodging scheme, the loss would not be as great as he claimed. The sum he would have charged Grey for making the wine cooler would have included duty—an extra thirty pounds. Assuming the wine cooler had never been taken to Goldsmiths’ Hall, that sum would go straight into Theodore’s pocket.

  Agnes thought of Rose’s unexplained forays upstairs and to the workshop, and her association with Riley. Much pointed to her involvement in the scheme. Perhaps Theodore had used Rose as a go-between, and she had grown greedy, and knowing she was about to leave to join her lover, wanted more for her assistance than Theodore was willing to pay. Had her greed led to her death? But given that the robbery was most likely orchestrated by the same person who had killed Noah and Rose, this theory fell apart. It was ludicrous to suppose that Theodore would engineer the robbery of his own premises, murder his own apprentice, and pay for his own property to be rec
overed.

  Having dismissed Theodore as a possible suspect, Agnes was on the verge of mentioning to him her discovery of the gun. But he had told her unequivocally that his only concern was the wine cooler and there was nothing to be gained by bringing up a subject certain to rile him. She was overcome by a sense of gloom as she considered her predicament. The room began to feel stifling, the rich smell of port overpowering. Theodore was not ready to dismiss her yet.

  Eventually Theodore found the letter among his papers and put on a great show of perusing it. “Ah yes, here we are, Mrs. Meadowes. Yes, Pitt has addressed himself to you although the communication concerns me. What he says is this!

  “If I am in agreement with his terms, you are to send word to him this evening. The messenger who delivered this will be waiting outside to take the reply. Tomorrow morning, first thing, you are to deliver the payment to him and he will then set in motion the return of the wine cooler. Since it is a sizable sum, and he has no wish for you to be robbed, he will send his own driver and carriage to fetch you. You may bring a single escort of your own to assist you in recovering the wine cooler.”

  Agnes felt a sudden burning in her chest and tried to breathe deeply. “Has Justice Cordingly been apprised?”

  “Not until the transaction is complete. He might insist upon intervening, and if Pitt got word that the law was involved, there would be no chance of a satisfactory conclusion to this business.”

  “With respect, sir, two murders have taken place that are almost certainly connected with the wine cooler. Surely they merit his intervention? Should not Pitt at least be apprehended and questioned on the matter?”

  “You know very well that Justice Cordingly has both matters in hand. And why ever would I insist upon Pitt’s arrest when there is no evidence to connect him to either crime and he is poised to engineer the return of my wine cooler? I should be a dolt to do so, Mrs. Meadowes.”

  Agnes remembered Pitt’s kiss, the touch of his lips upon her fingers, his insinuating glance. Her agitation grew. She did not want to believe the murderer could be someone with whom she lived and worked. She did not want Theodore or John or Philip or Nancy or Mr. Matthews to be guilty. Could Pitt have accompanied Drake on his nocturnal adventure, killed Noah Prout, and then murdered Rose only because she happened to pass him on her way to her rendezvous? Improbable though this hypothesis was, Agnes wanted to believe it in order to negate the other more disturbing possibilities. But there was one obstacle she could not reason away: if Pitt were the murderer, how did the gun get in the cellar?