“Allow me,” said Agnes. She felt for the knife in her pocket and with a single swipe, cut the string. The sack’s contents rolled at their feet, and Agnes and Thomas gasped in horrified unison.
A human head. The tongue half protruded from the mouth and had been nearly bitten through; a stump of spine and a few ragged sinews several inches long were still attached. What was most striking was the surfeit of blood. The hair was matted with it; blood had run into every imaginable cavity—the ears and nostrils and eye sockets—and clogged in the lids and lashes and brows; a trail of thick viscous red seeped from both corners of the lips.
Agnes glanced up at Thomas Williams. He was gray as a ghoul and had clamped his hand over his mouth. She too felt an acrid taste rise in her throat, but she swallowed several times and summoned all her resources of detachment. The murderer will escape, she told herself bitterly, if I cede to emotion. And she was determined to convey her invulnerability to him. He might waver and feel ill; she would not.
As it turned out, her aim was easily achieved. Thomas bolted from the room and she heard him retching outside. Agnes was quaking and her heart pulsed wildly, but she forced herself to reach into the chimney. With trembling hands, she gave the sack and its remaining ghastly contents a firm, hard pull.
Chapter Thirty-three
AGNES TOSSED THE SACK from the chimney onto the floor. Biting hard on her lip, she examined the headless corpse. Every now and again she turned to compare it with the head. At the sound of Thomas’s entry, she looked up. “Are you quite recovered, Mr. Williams?”
“Of course,” he said, then seeing the headless corpse, he stepped back. “What are you doing?” he mumbled.
Agnes breathed deeply to quell the heaving in her own stomach. “Trying to ascertain what has happened.”
Thomas coughed uncomfortably. “Is it not perfectly transparent what has happened? His head has been cut off.”
“Quite so, Mr. Williams, but by whose hand? And why?” Her insides felt molten with the shock of handling the body, and there was a burning sensation in her throat. But she forced herself to remain composed. “Does anything in particular strike you about this killing?”
“Not especially,” said Thomas, keeping his eyes glued to the boarded window. “What do you make of it?”
“His throat had been cut just as Noah and Rose’s were, which suggests it was committed by the same hand. I don’t suppose you recognize him, do you?”
“No,” replied Thomas uneasily.
Noticing his returning pallor, Agnes said more kindly, “You say you recovered the wine cooler.”
“Yes,” he said, looking at his feet.
“Then while I finish here, may I suggest you go in search of some means of conveying it back to Foster Lane? I shall stay and guard it.”
“Are you not afraid to wait alone?”
“What relevance have my fears? The wine cooler is too heavy for us to carry any distance.”
It was unlike him to give in to her with so little protest, but either he recognized the truth of what she said or his stomach was heaving once more. In any case, he needed no more persuasion to nod and disappear. Agnes wondered if she had been wise to send him away. What would she do if he didn’t return?
The head was sunken-eyed, hook-nosed, and unshaven, and—to judge from the smell of tobacco and stale sweat—unwashed for heaven knows how long. She attempted to draw an accurate impression of the man’s means from his costume. It was saturated with blood, but she could see that, while it was undeniably shabby, it had curious touches of eccentricity. His coat was worn and ingrained with filth, but his lapels were lined with velvet and the cravat was silk. She rummaged through his pockets and found a silken handkerchief, a couple of pennies, a small pocketknife, a length of rope, a pair of knitted gloves, and a silver wine label engraved Shrub. Nothing that shed any light on who he was. It was only when she turned over the wine label that she discovered anything of note. The marks were those of Blanchards’.
She was still clutching the label when she heard the sound of a soft footfall close behind her. Swiveling round, her eye caught a pair of flawlessly polished black boots standing by the door. She looked up slowly, taking in a pair of black breeches, a black under-coat surmounted by a long black cloak that nearly brushed the ground, a gloved hand holding a cane with a silver knob.
“Mrs. Meadowes,” said a suave but chilling voice. “How very unexpected to find you still here. What on earth are you doing with that corpse?”
It was the voice she most dreaded, the man she most feared. She rose swiftly to her feet and faced Marcus Pitt. “As you see, I am examining it. Do you know him?”
“May I ask why you think I should?”
“Because you sent us to this house, and the wine cooler was hidden in the next room. It seems probable to me that he is therefore a member of your confederation of rogues.” She was still clutching the wine label and suddenly a realization dawned. “Is he Harry Drake?”
Pitt snorted but did not deny it. “And you think I killed him, do you?”
“No,” said Agnes, still maintaining her bravado, “I do not.”
Marcus Pitt nodded. “Why is that?”
“Why would you have him decapitated when you might have got a reward for handing him over to the justice?”
“Very good, Mrs. Meadowes. Very good. Who would suspect that beneath that feminine exterior there beats such a steely heart?”
Agnes held her head high. Her eyes narrowed. “It has always been my experience that exteriors are deceiving, sir. Most of us, when called upon, can convincingly conceal the person we really are. But that is by the by. May I inquire what has prompted you to return here? I thought you never risked entering a building where stolen property was present.”
Pitt flashed a dangerous smile. “On rare occasions I find it behooves me to take a risk. After all, what would this humdrum existence of mine be without a little danger—a dull thing, a very dull thing indeed. Where one as winsome as you is concerned, is it strange that I abandon my usual precautions?”
“So you expected to find me here,” said Agnes. Her pulse was beating wildly again and fear spread like a stain.
Pitt grinned; the malice in his eye was unmistakable. “So you know what has brought me here, do you?”
“You wished to see Drake’s corpse with your own eyes.”
“Why should I want to do that?”
“Because you are as surprised as I by his death. No doubt you wished to do the same as I—try and ascertain who did kill him. I believe Grant must have discovered the body this morning lying on the floor, where there is a large dark stain. I hazard it was he who hid it up the chimney, so that Mr. Williams and I would not find it and become distracted from our task. That was the reason you held me so long in the carriage, and why Grant’s hands and suit were so noticeably sullied when he returned.”
Pitt gave a noncommittal smile. “I congratulate you, Mrs. Meadowes. Your answer contains an element of the truth. Drake’s murder has surprised me, and I dislike surprises. But I also dislike being refused something upon which I have set my heart.”
“Who do you suppose killed Drake?” said Agnes quickly.
“I have my suspicions, but let us save them for later. You know very well I am taken with you. I think you were teasing me in the carriage.” He pulled back his lips in a leering grin and advanced toward her.
“My apologies, Mr. Pitt, if I misled or offended you,” said Agnes, backing away from him. “I meant no harm; it was only that you took me by surprise when you asked for the key.”
But Pitt seemed not to hear these remonstrations. “Do you think I don’t see the heat in your cheeks, or the desire in your eyes? Come here—let me hold you. But first, let’s throw away that knife in your pocket, shall we?”
With this, he grasped Agnes firmly by the wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. He began to rummage in her cloak, and after much unnecessary probing of her person, withdrew the knife. “A ve
ry nasty weapon,” he said. He examined its blade with his thumb, then flung it away. He drew Agnes toward him and pressed his mouth into her neck. “Ah, this is what I’ve waited for!” he said, as he held his other hand against her chin and pressed his moist lips to her cheek.
Once again, Agnes noticed the pungent sweet scent of him. But whereas before in his office he had thrilled her, now she was sickened by his proximity. “Release me, Mr. Pitt! Let me go at once!”
“Such effort is futile, Mrs. Meadowes. There’s no one to hear and it will only excite me further. Or is a bruising what you want?” he whispered in her ear.
Agnes kicked out viciously at his shins. Pitt clamped his hand across her mouth and pushed her toward the corner of the room. Seeing that she would soon be trapped, she gave his fingers a hefty bite.
“Bitch! What the devil do you mean? Now I’ll give you something you don’t like.”
“Get away! Leave me be!” she screamed as he shoved her against the wall and rammed a leg between her thighs, then extracted a pocket pistol.
“Is this what you want?” Pitt cocked the weapon and brandished it in front of her, before pressing the muzzle to her forehead and wedging her into the corner, arms pinioned by her sides. “Now spare me any more theatricals and I’ll finish with you more quickly—isn’t that what you want?”
He fumbled with his breeches then pressed against her, his free hand probing among her skirts. Mustering all her remaining strength, Agnes brought her heel down hard on the top of Pitt’s foot. Pitt withdrew an inch or two, and she wrenched her arms free and gave his shoulders an almighty shove. He lurched backward and sprawled on top of Drake’s prostrate corpse. The pistol went flying into the sooty fireplace. Agnes did not bother to recover it—she dodged past Pitt and bolted for the door. She was nearly through, but he clambered after her on his hands and knees and grabbed hold of her skirt. “Now, my lovely, before you run off, think of this. If you leave, the wine cooler will be unguarded and any rogue might come and steal it. Then it might be melted down, and what would Blanchard have? No wine cooler—no money, either.”
“That isn’t your way,” said Agnes, hesitating.
“As I told you before, on occasion my ways alter.”
In the distance Agnes heard a dog bark and the sound of a barge man shouting. If only she were outside, on the river. Without the wine cooler, Blanchards’ would be ruined. And what of Peter—how would she care for him? There was no longer any doubt in her mind what she should do. Her face was as pale as milk as she drew back her leg as he clutched her skirt. Then with all her might she planted a firm kick on the side of his head. There was a thump, then a howl as he released her. Agnes, feeling a swell of pride, scrambled for the door.
She careered headlong into a figure coming in the opposite direction.
“Mrs. Meadowes, what is it? Where are you going? Didn’t we agree you would await my return?”
“Thomas,” cried Agnes wildly, “do not go in there under any circumstance. Forget the wine cooler. It is of no consequence. Pitt is there, armed with a pistol.”
“Calm yourself, please,” he said, holding her shoulders. She felt his gaze lingering on her face; she could feel a bruise burning on her neck and an impressed circle pulsing in the center of her forehead, where Pitt had thrust the pistol at her. “Wait there,” he said.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? He has a pistol, he put it to my brow.”
Thomas nodded. “I have not come unaccompanied, Mrs. Meadowes. This morning, prior to our departure, I thought it prudent to notify the authorities. They followed us and were waiting a safe distance away all along. A constable and his two deputies should be more than a match for Mr. Pitt, no matter how violent his temper.”
Agnes glanced over his shoulder. Standing in line behind him were two stout fellows holding wooden staves and another leaner man with a pistol. She recalled Theodore expressly ordering that the authorities should not be apprised of this transaction. Yet Thomas Williams had not been afraid to defy him. She had never been so glad of insurrection in her life.
“Gentlemen,” called Thomas, “this way if you please.”
Pitt was on his way out the back door when the constable and his deputies apprehended him. Realizing there was no escape, he held up his palms in a gesture of mock submission as Agnes and Thomas reentered the house. “Very well,” he declared. “But don’t think I am beaten entirely. A certain judge of the King’s Bench—a most influential man within the judiciary—happens to be an old acquaintance of mine. I recovered a pocketbook of his not long ago; it made most interesting reading. He was so delighted to have it returned, he promised to assist me if I ever fell foul of the law. There’s no proof of my involvement in the robbery.”
“There is proof you tried to force yourself upon me,” said Agnes hotly. “And I shall testify against you.” She paused and shot him a crafty look. “Unless, that is, you tell me where your carriage has gone.”
“Why do you wish to know that?”
“Because now the thief is dead, you do not need to pay his reward. Your claim to be an innocent intermediary can thus only be credible if you return the gold Mr. Blanchard paid.”
Realizing that Agnes had outmaneuvered him, Marcus Pitt scowled.
“You bitch. You’re no better than a common whore and a thief.”
“That’s no way to address Mrs. Meadowes. Answer her politely. Where is your carriage and Mr. Blanchard’s gold?” Thomas Williams grabbed the neck of Pitt’s shirt and screwed it tight so Pitt had difficulty in breathing. Pitt’s deep-set eyes watered with the discomfort of Thomas’s grip, but he refused to speak.
“So, Mr. Pitt, you prefer me to make a statement to the justice, do you?” said Agnes.
Still Pitt said nothing.
Thomas Williams tightened his grip until Pitt’s face turned puce. When Pitt began flapping his hand up and down, making strange gurgling sounds, Thomas lightened his grip. “Well?”
“The carriage is in the court at the end of the road,” he stuttered. “But don’t think I’ll forget this, Mrs. Meadowes.”
Agnes regarded him coolly. “It strikes me, sir, that unless you tread with care, freedom of memory will be one of the few liberties you have left.”
Chapter Thirty-four
THOMAS AND AGNES traveled back to Foster Lane with the wine cooler squatting on the floor of the carriage like a splendid footbath, the strongbox of gold recovered from Pitt’s carriage, and one of the constable’s deputies as escort. The constable and the other deputy traveled in a separate vehicle to convey Pitt to the roundhouse and Drake’s body to a certain barber surgeon, who paid good rates to dissect the corpses of criminals.
For much of the way Agnes was silent, preoccupied by the disturbing sequence of events. Elsie was now an orphan. Did she know her father had been brutally murdered? Who would mind her now? Agnes wondered how she could ever have considered Pitt anything but repellent. What would have happened to her had Thomas Williams not arrived when he did?
She saw that her resentment over the crass comments Thomas had made last night was trivial. She wanted to tell him so, and thank him for what he had done and for the great change he had effected in her. But she could not bring herself to raise a subject so personal in front of the deputy constable.
She studied the wine cooler at her feet. She had seen drawings, but she was awestruck by its sheer scale and opulence. Every inch of its surface was rippled with lively ornament—mermaids reaching out to smooth their hair; dolphins exploding from the waves, shell-wielding tritons astride them; and a great seminaked figure of Neptune, drawn by a pair of large-eyed, nostril-flaring horses. Agnes pictured the wine cooler filled with wine and ice at a grand banquet, resplendent on Sir Bartholomew Grey’s sideboard. And unlike the magnificent tables of food I create, she thought ruefully, this will not be demolished in a matter of hours. Thieves permitting, it will endure for generations.
She wondered briefly whether or not the marks on it had been tra
nsposed from another piece to avoid duty. She wanted to ask Thomas where they were, and if he would examine them to determine whether or not they had been tampered with. But making such a request in front of a deputy constable might imply that Blanchards’ had been involved in illegal practices. So for most of the journey Agnes lost herself in silent pondering.
WHEN THEY WERE nearly back in Cheapside, Agnes cleared her throat and asked Thomas to halt the carriage and set her down. There was a new softness to her voice as she explained that she had an urgent commission she wanted to perform before returning to the kitchen. “What is it? Where are you going?” he replied, astonished.
“I intend to call in at Bruton Street, the home of Lord Carew. Mrs. Tooley told me that Rose Francis used to work there before she came to Blanchards’.”
“But why worry now the wine cooler is recovered? Whatever Rose’s involvement was, it is irrelevant now.”
Agnes was disappointed to hear Thomas echo sentiments that Theodore had expressed. She expected more of him. “The wine cooler is recovered, but three people have been murdered. And we are no closer to knowing by whose hand. I, for one, won’t rest until I know who the murderer was.”
Thomas regarded her sternly. “But that is a matter for Justice Cordingly.”
Agnes turned to the deputy constable, who was plainly agog at the dispute unfolding before him. “Sir,” she said, “do you suppose it likely the justice will ever discover who brought about the deaths of an apprentice, a kitchen maid, and a thief?”
The deputy, a portly fellow with a broad florid face, shook his head. “In my experience, most murderers who are apprehended are caught by someone connected to the victim who makes an effort to trace them. The justice has too many other matters to occupy him. Rich corpses tend to make more racket than poor ’uns, if you take my meaning.”
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