The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  She had only to mention Elsie’s name, and the link between Pitt and the robbery would be established. But she had given her word, and the repercussions would be terrible for Elsie if she broke it. Instead, she attempted further deferential argument. “With respect, sir, does not Pitt’s proposal strike you as suspicious? He has countless henchmen at his disposal. If he knows I’m carrying two hundred guineas, even if I have a man as protection, what is to stop him organizing another assault?”

  Theodore fixed her with his bloodshot eyes and shook his head. “I need hardly say that I too have my concerns. Yet I know enough of Pitt’s modus operandi to comprehend that that is not the way he does business. After all, he has a reputation to nurture just as we all do. Besides, I didn’t say so before, but his letter implies he is quite taken with you.” Her pulse began to pound in her neck. “Then you will let Philip go with me, just as a precaution, won’t you, sir?”

  Theodore frowned. “Not Philip. This time I think it would be better if you take one of the journeymen—Williams, I think—he is sharp-witted and more diligent than Riley, and knows the wine cooler well. I would not want Pitt trying to fob you off with a replica.”

  Agnes desisted from asking why, if such a swindle were possible, being held up with two hundred guineas in her possession was not. Besides, the news that Thomas Williams was to be her escort bolstered her spirits; she bowed to the inevitable.

  Theodore waved her to a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Read his letter. Since it is addressed to you, the reply must come from you. Take this quill and paper. Say that you have discussed the matter with me and I have agreed. He may send his carriage at nine tomorrow. You will see where he invites you to step out with him. I commend you on the way you’ve charmed him. It can only work to our advantage if you give him some hope that he might be accepted. But rather than accepting outright you should remain a little vague—it will help sustain his eagerness.”

  Agnes perused the letter. The first paragraph concerned the details as Theodore had described them. The last part caused her cheeks to burn.

  The nature of my profession ensures I encounter a great many people from all walks of life. At our first meeting you impressed me greatly, not only by your radiance and composure but also by your wit. When I asked you before to do me the honor of accompanying me to the theater, you declared “present commitments precluded it.” May I query your exact meaning? Does that mean no invitation of mine will ever be favorably received, or was my overture inconvenient in that instance only?

  Agnes had a sense of foreboding as real and dark as the liquor in Theodore’s glass. Nevertheless, duty overcame her better judgment, and instead of demanding that someone else go in her stead, she wrote precisely as Theodore dictated. She wrote concisely in her usual elegant hand, accepting the terms Pitt had stated and concluding with the following:

  I am honored you have taken the trouble to offer a further invitation to me. I cannot promise acceptance. Let us conclude the present business before pursuing our private pleasures.

  When she had finished, she sanded the page and read it through. The last words seemed to her larger and less flowing than the rest, as though someone else had written them. She handed the sheet to Theodore, who smiled grimly. “Very good, Mrs. Meadowes. Admirable indeed. The final sentence will have him tossing all night, I wager.” He glanced up and caught her blush. “Don’t look coy when I compliment your skill.” He folded the page into three, tucked the ends over, and sealed it with scarlet wax. “Take it out into the street. There will be someone waiting for it.”

  Agnes curtsied and retreated. John was waiting in the hall directly outside. From the strange look he gave her, she wondered if he had heard their exchange and knew thus of her perilous mission the next day, or if he was remembering their encounter in the cellar. She had many questions she wanted to ask him. Who put the gun there? Did you see Rose leave early that morning and follow her? Did either you or Mr. Matthews have a hand in her death? But she knew that if either of them were guilty, to press them in such a way would only place her own life in jeopardy, and then Rose’s killer would never be found. So she drew a breath and looked coolly at him. “Mr. Blanchard says there is a messenger waiting outside for this letter.”

  John smiled faintly. “Follow me.” At the front entrance he pulled open the hall door. A blast of whirling snow and wind rushed in, and with it a small body that had been hunched up against the door. John took a step back. The body jolted into life and sat up with a start. Agnes recognized the pinched triangular face, the red shawl, and the overlarge boots.

  Elsie had apparently been waiting since midday, when she had delivered Pitt’s letter. Having paced an hour or two to keep warm, she had grown tired and taken refuge on the doorstep. From time to time John or Philip or Mr. Matthews had caught sight of her through the hall window and shooed her away. Only when they became engaged with other duties had she at last been left in peace. Now John was infuriated to see her here.

  “Move off! How many times did I tell you already not to park yourself here?” He gave her scrawny haunches a prod with the pointed toe of his shoe. “What d’you think the master would have to say if he saw you here?”

  Elsie scrambled hastily to her feet as if she expected another, harder blow to follow. She shot him an indignant look. “I told you before, I ain’t what you think. I’ve orders from Mr. Pitt to await a reply.” Her face was white with cold, her lips were gray. Her crimson shawl was coated with snow, like flour on raw meat.

  John clearly gave her remark little credence. He jerked his chin toward the street to indicate she would be wise to clear off now. But Elsie caught sight of Agnes standing behind John, staring worriedly in her direction and returning her gaze with an equal measure of anxiety. Agnes comprehended the underlying reason—her father. “Tell him, missus,” Elsie said with a show of bravado. “It’s the least you could do after the age you’ve kept me waiting.”

  “I didn’t know you were here, Elsie,” said Agnes, maneuvering her way past John.

  “Never mind that. ’Ave you penned the answer yet?”

  Agnes held out the paper. “I have it here for you.”

  No sooner had Agnes uttered these words than Elsie plucked the letter from her grasp and stuffed it in her pocket. Agnes recalled the orange and the purse, stolen with similar swiftness, and the silver box. But the sight of the pathetic retreating figure aroused no anger; the image of Peter as he had appeared in her kitchen last night, bedraggled from the rain, came into her mind. She couldn’t scold the girl for snatching the letter; nor, in all conscience, could she watch her trudge off in such a miserable condition.

  “Wait a moment, Elsie. Have you eaten today?”

  “How could I, waiting so long for you?” said Elsie, shooting her an accusing look as if to say, “You told them, didn’t you?”

  “Then won’t you let me make amends by giving you something warm to eat before you set off back to Mr. Pitt’s?”

  Elsie stamped her boots and looked anxiously toward the river. “It’d be more’n my life’s worth. Pa’ll be wanting his supper, and Mr. Grant said I wasn’t to do nothing but go straight here and come straight back with an answer.”

  “Mr. Grant?”

  “The man what tells us Mr. Pitt’s orders and keeps an eye on us.” She wiped a drip from her nose with the back of her hand, then whispered, “You didn’t say nothing about me or no one else, did you?”

  Agnes was conscious of John hovering inquisitively. And behind him she now sensed the shadowy presence of Mr. Matthews. How much did they know of these matters? She would be wise not to reveal her familiarity with Elsie’s background, or keep her longer in their presence than necessary. Suppose John remembered Elsie from the morning before the robbery and saw that she was a link between Pitt and the theft. Ignoring her question, Agnes said, “You’ll be dead from cold before you reach the bridge if you don’t get something warm inside you first. Come down to the kitchen. I’ll give you
something to eat on the way.”

  Elsie shrugged her bony shoulders. “I don’t mind, then,” she said ungraciously, mounting the steps.

  “Don’t think of coming this way,” said John, blocking her path. “Pardon me, Mrs. Meadowes, I cannot but wonder at you inviting creatures such as this in here, and with so many valuables about.”

  “Quite right, John,” concurred Mr. Matthews loudly from the shadowy hall.

  Elsie flinched as though John had hit her. There was a gleam of fear in her eyes. “I didn’t ask—you heard her offer.”

  “Wait, just a moment!” cried Agnes, skidding down the steps and grabbing Elsie’s arm.

  “Let me alone! What are you doing?” Elsie wrenched her elbow free. “Leave me be and save yourself some bother.”

  “No.” She leaned down and whispered in Elsie’s wind-reddened ear. “Go down those steps by the railings, they’ll bring you to the kitchen door. Wait there a minute and I’ll bring you some food.”

  Elsie regarded Agnes with doubtful eyes. Agnes patted her on the back and went inside with the others.

  “The recklessness of some people never ceases to amaze me,” said John as he fastened the bolt and watched Agnes stamp her snow-clogged shoes on the doormat. “You’re asking to be done over a second time with that one, Mrs. M., you mark my words.”

  “Quite probably, John,” said Agnes darkly. There was every possibility he was right. Yet somehow, when she was faced with Elsie’s misery, his scorn seemed unimportant.

  In the kitchen Agnes reasoned that one less pasty would not be missed from the servants’ supper—and that if anyone went short she would ensure it was John or Mr. Matthews. She grabbed one from the warming tray and she opened the door.

  For a minute she stood there, with the cold wind howling in, listening for the sound of a clumping boot or a glimpse of Elsie’s shawl. But there was nothing. She gingerly mounted the icy steps leading to the street. At the top were some narrow footprints, descending three steps and no further, as though Elsie had started to step down and had then changed her mind. Where the stairs reached the street, the footprints were indiscernible among other trampled imprints. Had John frightened the girl away as soon as Agnes had gone? A man hovered in a nearby doorway, sheltering from the blizzard or waiting to be admitted. In the snowy distance she could vaguely make out a couple of muffled figures walking briskly away.

  Agnes took a frustrated bite from the hot pasty, feeling the meat and potatoes warm her as she had wished them to warm Elsie, then went back inside. The girl was nothing to her, she reminded herself.

  Chapter Thirty

  AGNES HAD PROMISED PETER she would see how he was settling in at Mrs. Sharp’s. Nothing on earth would make her disappoint him—but neither had she any desire to beg Mrs. Tooley’s permission and have her request refused. She claimed a headache and told Doris to see to the servants’ supper. She was going to her room to lie down until it was time to put out the upstairs meal.

  She was reluctant to confess it even to herself, but there was more than Peter to draw her out on that snowy night. She had seen and heard nothing from Thomas Williams all day. Several times she had found herself looking up at the windows, but she could only make out the lower portion of passersby, the tailcoats and calves of gentlemen, the hems of ladies’ cloaks. Whenever she glimpsed a pair of well-muscled legs marching past, she blushed and wondered if they were his and whether he might be on his way to call on her, or if he might contrive to send a message on some pretext or other. He did not call or make any attempt at communication.

  That morning she had not blamed him for taking what she had freely offered him, nor had she regretted her actions. But now that hours had passed and no word had come, shadows of her old self returned. His failure to communicate led her to only one conclusion. He must think she was in the habit of comporting herself thus and deemed her favors of so little worth they did not require acknowledgment.

  She decided that henceforth, whenever she met him, she would be a model of decorum. Last night’s aberration would never be repeated. He would not inveigle his way into further intimacy. The bolts would be redrawn.

  SARAH SHARP’S HOUSE was only two streets from Foster Lane, but Agnes, being prudent in matters of dress, as in every other portion of her life, put pattens on her feet and a woolen shawl over her head. She fastened her cloak tightly and picked up a muff, in which she inserted a small paper parcel that she had wrapped up earlier. As protection against footpads, she concealed a small kitchen knife in the pocket of her cloak. Then she slipped out.

  The snow had ceased falling but lay several inches deep; moonlight mottled its surface with silver, filling the rutted streets with ghostly streams of light, broken only by occasional mounds of horse dung and detritus in the gutter. Against an inky sky, familiar landmarks were transformed. The dome of St. Paul’s had become a luminous orb, pediments resembled white brows, signboards were wiped clean. Agnes turned left at the bottom of Foster Lane into Cheapside, then, passing Gutter Lane and Wood Street on her left, turned right into Bread Street. She walked with her head down, crunching over snow as crystalline as salt, wondering if the river would freeze, and if so whether Sarah Sharp would take Peter and Edward to see the boats and barges frozen at their moorings.

  “Mrs. Meadowes! What a night to come out on,” said Sarah Sharp two minutes later, when a pink-cheeked Agnes knocked upon her door.

  “Mrs. Sharp. My apologies for coming so late. Duties delayed me.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself over that. You took me by surprise, that’s all. Come in out of the cold.”

  The smell of chicken broth and bread filled the narrow hallway, soothing Agnes with its homeliness. The thought flashed through her mind that if her feckless husband had not perished, she might be living in such a house as this. Agnes found herself feeling less stoical than usual. She was disturbed at the hand fate had dealt her and the choices she had made. Is it possible, she wondered, I have taken the wrong path?

  Pushing this worrisome thought away, Agnes removed her cloak and asked after Peter.

  “Come and see for yourself. My boy, Edward, has taken to him very well. They have entertained one another all day.”

  The kitchen was lit by tallow candles whose light reflected off an array of shiny copper pots. The fire was low but smoldered comfortingly. The furniture was plain and sparse, but well polished and spotlessly clean.

  “Ma!” Peter cried, leaping up as Agnes appeared at the threshold, “I thought you’d forgot. This is Edward. I taught him how to play checkers.” Peter was sitting at the table beside a fair-haired little fellow, with the same round face and pale blue-gray eyes as his mother. Both boys were sipping bowls of broth and were dressed in nightshirts and nightcaps. Peter’s cheeks were scarlet, his eyes bright, the hair on his forehead ruffled and damp as though his face had been recently washed.

  Agnes embraced her son. “However could you think I’d forget you?” He seemed a different child from the woebegone wretch of last night. An image of Elsie floated across her thoughts. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Edward,” she said, forcing it away. “And what have the pair of you done today?”

  “We went out in the snow, and threw snowballs. And we ate chestnuts. Then Mrs. Sharp said we should come back inside lest we catch our deaths.”

  “And Peter fashioned a horse from a piece of wood. And I made a model of my father’s ship,” added Edward, pointing to two roughly hewn models on the windowsill.

  “And Mrs. Sharp said I should give you mine when it was done,” interrupted Peter.

  Agnes smiled at the boys’ excitement.

  She took from her muff the small parcel she had brought, and handed it to Peter. “Here’s something for you both—when the broth is finished.”

  Thomas Williams was nowhere to be seen. Should she be relieved, or disappointed? Neither, she told herself firmly. She was unmoved, and would remain so.

  Peter gulped down the last of his soup and tore away
the paper. Inside were two gingerbread figures with currant eyes and buttons down their fronts, and almond mouths and hair. The boys grinned and began a mock fight with them. As biscuit limbs snapped and currant eyes came loose, they munched swiftly until there was nothing left but the heads.

  Mrs. Sharp drew up a chair by the fire and indicated that Agnes should settle herself in it. Just then there came the sound of heavy stamping by the back door. A moment later Thomas Williams marched in. He was carrying a bucket of coal. His hair was in its customary disorder, a mass of chestnut spirals; he wore a shirt and mustard-colored waistcoat, but no coat, and was shivering from the cold. As he caught sight of Agnes, a new light seemed to enter his eyes. “Mrs. Meadowes, good evening,” he said with a courteous bow as he deposited his load by the hearth. He sprinkled a shovelful on the embers, causing them to crackle and spit. “I wasn’t aware you were intending to visit. Had I known, I’d have come to fetch you. It isn’t safe to travel alone—you ought to know that.”

  “’Tis a distance of only two streets, and I’m well acquainted with this district,” said Agnes nonchalantly, responding to his bow with a tiny inclination.

  Thomas’s expression was somber. “Even so, a woman alone, unarmed—and after what happened to your kitchen maid. It is folly to tempt fate in such a manner.”

  Agnes thought of Rose and of the kitchen knife in her cloak pocket, and the gun in the cellar. With a murderer at large, she was probably no safer in her kitchen than in the street, but she saw no reason to argue the matter. Let Thomas fret a little. Hadn’t she passed more time than she cared to acknowledge watching for him?