The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  “Where is the ring now?”

  “I have it here.” She slipped the silver band off her finger. “I looked, but there is no inscription on it.”

  “Peculiar that she should leave it,” said Agnes, examining the inside of the ring. There were five marks instead of the four she expected, and she recognized only two—the leopard’s head and lion passant.

  “Would you consent to lend me this for a day or two?”

  “By all means, if you think it will help you. I only wore it to keep it safe. I always expected that one day she would send some communication and then I would return it.”

  Agnes held the ring carefully in her palm, then threaded it onto her ring finger. As she tried to push it on, it bit painfully into her flesh; she pressed harder and eased it over her knuckle.

  “Now I think on it, she had another unusual possession, a small silver box—a vinaigrette, I believe it was—heart-shaped, prettily engraved with flowers and leaves,” said Mrs. Moore.

  Agnes immediately recalled the box Elsie had found in Rose’s pocket. “Did she ever say where it came from?”

  “I did ask her where she got it. She said it was a parting gift from the mansion where she had worked before coming here, but I suspected that wasn’t the truth. I had yet to learn that the character she had written was a fabrication, or anything of her probable history, but since the box was not the sort of thing most servants possess, I felt it my duty to take it to Lord Carew and ask if it belonged to him or one of his guests.” Two crimson stains had appeared suddenly in Mrs. Moore’s pale cheeks. Agnes was reminded of Mrs. Tooley’s discomfiture when she had interviewed Rose over the letter.

  Agnes shifted in her seat. “And what did he say when he saw it?”

  “He looked long and hard at it, and declared that though the work was extremely fine, he didn’t believe he had seen it before, nor to his knowledge had any of his friends lost it. He surmised that far from being a gift from her previous employer, the box might be a love token and that I should give the girl a talking-to over consorting with the opposite sex.”

  “I see, and how long after this did you discover the matter of the forged character?”

  “A month or two—it was partly seeing the box and sensing there was something unusual about it that made me pursue the matter.”

  “And having found that Rose’s character was forged, did you raise the matter again with Lord Carew?”

  “I would have done so, naturally, but by then he was visiting his country seat in the north, as I recall. By the time he had returned, she had gone.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ON RETURNING TO Foster Lane, Agnes scarcely had time to change her dress and wash her face before she was thrown into the thick of it. Mr. Matthews was complaining loudly about a wine label missing from the dining room, while instructing John on how to clean two claret jugs by mixing a confetti of brown paper with soap, warm water, and a little pearl ash. “Mr. Blanchard will expect you at one in the library,” he called out when he caught sight of her passing his pantry door.

  “What wine label has been lost?” said Agnes, recalling the one she found in Drake’s pocket, which was now lying in her own.

  “Shrub wine,” replied John. “Missing since yesterday. You seen it on your travels?”

  “I’ll keep a look out.” Trying not to blush, she hurried to the kitchen.

  AGNES SUPPOSED THAT Theodore wanted to thank her for recovering the wine cooler and his money. Retrieving both was a better result than he could possibly have hoped for. Undoubtedly, the future of Blanchards’ would now be secure. But an appointment in half an hour scarcely allowed her time to peruse the dinner menu and ascertain what still needed to be done, let alone make a start on it. “Very well, Mr. Matthews,” she said, as she read what Mrs. Tooley had written on the slate:

  First course: leek potage, broiled eels, small salad, Scotch scallops

  Second course: mutton with haricots, calf’s liver stew, cardoons, dish of jelly

  Dessert: flummery, brandied apricots, Spanish biscuits

  Agnes surveyed the table, the range, and the larder. She felt none of her usual enthusiasm for her work. Her limbs were leaden; her feet heavy in her boots; there was a sharp pain in her neck. Mrs. Tooley appeared to have done nothing save put the haricots to soak and make the jelly. According to Philip, she was currently occupied with checking the linen with the laundry maid who came once a week. Doris was in the scullery, scouring a tray. The dresser and kitchen table had been scrubbed and the floor mopped, but she had yet to make a start on the vegetables.

  Wearily, Agnes instructed her to wash the leeks, peel the potatoes, and string the cardoons. Turning her attentions to the mutton, she unlocked the meat safe, unwrapped the joint from its bloody muslin, and set it in her copper stew pot, adding onion, carrot, celery, bay and thyme, half a dozen peppercorns, and the soaked beans. Then she filled the pot with water and put it on a low hook over the hottest part of the fire so it would come swiftly to the simmer.

  She was vague and restless, scarcely conscious of what she said to Doris. She cut her thumb while she was slicing onion, and it bled so profusely she was forced to wrap it in a bandage, which only added to her clumsiness and made her drop a basin of eggs on the floor. Normally, Agnes might have chastised herself for such a waste. But as she mopped up the slimy pool, she told herself that half a dozen eggs was a trifling matter.

  Philip stood in the hall trimming the lamps when Agnes presented herself for her appointment with Mr. Blanchard. “I see you are returned from your morning’s adventures. And I gather the wine cooler was recovered,” he said amiably.

  “Indeed it was. And the money, too. I presume that is why the master has asked me to see him in the library.”

  “Has he? Then you’ll have to wait. He ain’t come yet.”

  Agnes went in. The windowpanes were fogged with moisture, but she could dimly discern icicles along the top of the window frame, thawing and dripping noisily onto the outer sill. Beyond was the usual traffic of the street: an urchin wheeling a barrow of cabbages; an oxcart laden with barrels of water; a cart full of cackling poultry; a coach and four, the coachman so swaddled by scarf, hat, and coat that only the tip of his nose and brows were visible.

  Agnes surveyed the brown wheel tracks in the muddy snow; then, shivering, moved toward the fire. She wondered whether Theodore would keep his word and pay her the twenty-pound reward he had promised. She would set the money aside for Peter’s schooling and ask Mrs. Sharp if she would keep Peter on even after Mrs. Catchpole recovered. Having Peter where she might see him three or four times a week seemed preferable to sending him back to Twickenham.

  She put her hand in her pocket and rubbed her thumb over the label recovered from Harry Drake’s pocket—apparently the same one lost from this house yesterday. Either Drake had somehow entered the house before meeting his death, or someone had given it to him. But why? Was this the reason he had died? Should she give it to Mr. Matthews, or mention it first to Mr. Blanchard?

  Still shivering, she regarded the ornaments upon the mantelpiece. A pair of silver candlesticks embellished with shells reminded her of the wine cooler. She wished she had found the means to ask Thomas to examine the marks, and confirm whether or not they had been transposed. If they had been, then Theodore must be behind the fraud; but what would have been his motive? She had heard talk of friction between Theodore and his father, that Theodore wanted to move the premises west. Was this sufficient reason for Theodore to devise a scheme to cheat his own father? She remembered Thomas expressing doubts that such fraud could be perpetrated on so sizable an object. Now that she had seen the wine cooler, and appreciated its magnificence, she agreed. In their present straitened circumstances, the Blanchards would want to advertise the commission, not keep it secret. In which case it would be impossible not to pay the duty owed.

  But Agnes could not dismiss the matter entirely. Thomas had no doubt that the marks on the salver had been tra
nsposed; therefore, someone had been profiting. And since Theodore had control of the books and all marked items were listed, it seemed probable that he was the guilty party. But if he was culpable of such petty crime, was he also capable of something graver? Suppose Theodore, tired of the small sums gained from duty dodging, had engineered the theft to take a share of the reward behind his father’s back and thus gain the wherewithal to move the business without his father’s approval. If so, the theory she had previously dismissed as implausible might be correct, and Theodore had committed all three murders.

  Agnes did not want to believe it. Her livelihood and that of all the other servants in the household depended on Theodore; she owed him her loyalty. But then she recalled how Thomas had defiantly summoned the constable and deputies. Loyalty was all very fine, she reminded herself, but not if it defied reason.

  At last, the door swung open and Theodore, Lydia, and Nicholas Blanchard entered, accompanied by Justice Cordingly. Agnes expected smiles and congratulations, but Nicholas’s face was ominously set, Lydia glowered, Theodore looked uncomfortably at the carpet. Only Justice Cordingly had arranged his features in an expression of neutrality.

  Her stomach drawing itself into a knot of apprehension, Agnes bobbed a curtsy, bade them good afternoon, and waited. Nicholas addressed her first.

  “Justice Cordingly desires a word with you. But it wasn’t he that sent for you, Meadowes. I have a grievance which I wish to convey to you in person.”

  “A grievance, sir?” She had just saved Nicholas Blanchard’s family from ruin.

  “I have just received word from Lord Carew that this very morning you went uninvited to his house and subjected his housekeeper to a rigorous interrogation. The poor woman was so disturbed by your visit she mentioned the matter to him—and he, being curious and concerned as to your purpose, apprised me of the fact. It seems you deliberately duped her into believing you were authorized by Justice Cordingly and my son. Do you disagree with my account in any way so far?”

  Agnes looked helplessly at Justice Cordingly and Theodore, but their attention was fixed upon Nicholas. “I did not dupe her, sir. Mr. Blanchard and the justice did ask me to assist, by reporting what I knew and helping with Mr. Pitt.”

  “One moment,” said Theodore, interrupting. “You twist the truth, Mrs. Meadowes. I gave you no such authority to pursue the matter as you please. Indeed, I recently ordered you to leave the subject of Rose Francis alone. I certainly never would have sanctioned such a visit had I been forewarned of it.”

  Agnes looked at Lydia. “Mrs. Blanchard also requested that I should find out what became of Rose.”

  “Is this true, Lydia?” said Nicholas sharply. “What was your reason for that?”

  “I asked her to search the girl’s room. But I certainly never gave her authority to chase across London calling upon whomsoever she chose.”

  Nicholas nodded at this further affirmation of his suspicions. “I have striven to discover a reason for your duplicitous actions, Mrs. Meadowes. Lord Carew is a man of considerable influence; if we irk him, he has it within his power to ruin our reputation.”

  Agnes could not believe her ears. The morning’s dramas had worn away at her usual circumspection. After all she had endured on this family’s behalf, what right had any of them to speak to her in such a tone? “I would not have called on Lord Carew’s housekeeper unless I thought it useful. After all, unless the murderer is captured, what is to prevent such a thing happening again?”

  Justice Cordingly regarded Agnes with renewed interest, but Nicholas paced up and down, pretending to examine papers and objects. Then he stopped, his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his waistcoat, lowering over her like a malevolent colossus. “I do not comprehend your meaning, Mrs. Meadowes. Cordingly tells me the dead man in the chimney was Drake, a notorious housebreaker. Undoubtedly it was he that committed the theft, killed the apprentice boy, and perhaps also killed Rose Francis, who I gather was on her way to some romantic assignation. And Drake was killed no doubt by Mr. Pitt or one of his henchmen. In what way could such an unauthorized visit conceivably have proved useful?”

  “Harry Drake committed the robbery, but I do not believe he killed Noah Prout or Rose. Nor do I think it creditable that Mr. Pitt murdered Harry Drake.”

  “Have you evidence for this assertion?” said Justice Cordingly.

  “Yes sir. I went down to the cellar yesterday and saw the pistol that was taken from Mr. Blanchard’s room. Assuming Rose Francis took it, who returned it here? The only explanation I can fathom is that whoever killed her has been in this house since the robbery. Moreover, the apprentice, Rose, and Harry Drake were killed in an identical manner. This surely points to the same hand. Therefore it is my belief that Drake was merely a servant in the scheme, not the murderer; the murderer lives among us.”

  “I always thought something of the kind was the case,” said Theodore with a look of satisfaction.

  “Be quiet, Theodore,” said Nicholas, glaring brusquely at his son. He swiveled his gaze back to Agnes, thumping his fist on the table. “You discovered my gun!” he exclaimed, balls of spittle spraying from his agitated mouth. “Then why on earth did you not say so sooner? Why was I not informed of it?”

  Agnes quivered with indignation, but outwardly she remained cool. “I assumed, sir, that Mr. Matthews knew it was there and that he would return it to you. It was encrusted with dirt when I saw it. Perhaps even now he is cleaning it for you.”

  “Your silence was foolish, Mrs. Meadowes,” blustered Nicholas. “Common sense seems to have abandoned you. You saw a valuable gun that you knew was missing and said nothing of it. I find that quite incomprehensible. I want no repetition of such misdemeanors, and no more harrying of important personages. Especially not Lord Carew. If you value your position, you will remember that.”

  Anger now began to cloud Agnes’s mind like a fog. And in its midst came the image of Pitt’s leering face as he pressed himself against her, kissed her neck, and held his pistol at her head. Was she not due even a word of thanks for what she had endured? Were her opinions worthless? She opened her mouth to say as much, just as Theodore rose. “Enough, Father! We should be grateful to Mrs. Meadowes for recovering the money as well as the wine cooler. Undoubtedly she has saved us from ruin.”

  “Ruin of your making.”

  Theodore turned to her. “I regret our having to speak to you like this, Mrs. Meadowes. Your actions were certainly misjudged. But now we must all let this matter rest. I will endeavor to smooth things with Lord Carew—perhaps I might invite him to visit our showroom and he will offer us a further commission and this business will have a happy conclusion.” With this, he gave a brief laugh. He extracted a sheaf of folded banknotes from his pocket and peeled one from the pile. “Here is the reward I promised, Mrs. Meadowes. And as a further sign of our gratitude you may have tomorrow off. I understand you requested it of my wife. All things considered, apart from your last error, you have acquitted yourself satisfactorily.”

  Agnes took the money with murmured thanks, but saw that he had given her a mere five pounds instead of the promised twenty guineas. She briefly considered reminding him of his promise, but then dismissed the notion. Such impertinence would only result in further reprimands or even dismissal. Instead, she wondered, did the face of a swindler or a cruel murderer lie behind Theodore’s placatory smile?

  Nicholas glared at his son and wordlessly stepped to the other side of the fire and tugged at the bell pull. John entered immediately, which made Agnes suspect he had been listening at the door. In a curt tone, Nicholas ordered him to fetch his cloak and hat and call a carriage, then he shot his son another venomous look. “Good day, Theodore. I’ll leave you in conference with Mrs. Meadowes, who appears to have taken over at the helm of our family’s business.”

  Theodore’s cheeks colored and the veins in his neck pulsated visibly. “Come, Father, can you deny she has acquitted herself well and deserves our hearty thanks and rewar
d?”

  “I cannot say Williams or Riley, alone or even acting together, wouldn’t have done as well—and made fewer blunders.”

  “I told you before, I suspected that they or one of the servants might have been involved. Someone inside the workshop or this house must have told Pitt the wine cooler was ready. Mrs. Meadowes is only reiterating what I believed all along,” he said in a low, tremulous voice.

  “Then why in God’s name did you not send a man from the household—Matthews, for instance?”

  “But Father, Matthews is not what he once was. He is too old to be capable of such an onerous duty. It is all he can do to mount three flights of stairs. Besides, thanks to Mrs. Meadowes and Thomas Williams, this situation has been resolved more successfully than any of us could have hoped.”

  “That it ended thus owes more to luck than good judgment—or Mrs. Meadowes’s doubtful skill.” Then he shook his head as though he could not be bothered to argue anymore. “I am going to White’s—I trust I shall find someone there with whom to talk sense.” And with this Nicholas stalked out.

  THE MOMENT THE door closed, Justice Cordingly finally spoke. “Returning to your earlier conversation, Mrs. Meadowes, if the gun Rose Francis supposedly stole is in the cellar of this house, where is the proof she took it? Might not one of the other servants be guilty?” Agnes thought of her promise to Elsie and wondered how she would parry this question. But with Harry Drake dead, there was no longer any reason to keep Elsie out of it; with judicious promotion she might gain a position in the household. “There was a witness to Rose running off,” she replied. “A most obliging young girl I happened to meet. She saw Rose down by the river close to where her body was found. She said Rose was chased by a man and dropped a gun, which she believed the man pursuing her later recovered. The pistol I saw in the cellar was ingrained with mud. It seems probable, therefore, that the same man who pursued and killed Rose put it there.”