The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  He was stout and florid of complexion, with a bulbous nose, small blue eyes, and a slightly receding chin. He was formally attired in a silk jacket of dark purple damask, black velvet breeches, and an old-fashioned full-bottomed wig. Cards and ivory tokens were strewn across the table. A black lace fan with silver sequins lay at the empty place facing him. On a sofa nearby a book lay open.

  “I have come, sir, to ask a favor of you.”

  Sir Bartholomew’s ruddy countenance flickered with unease. “Blanchard said nothing of any favors. Do not expect to take advantage of me, just because you recovered something of mine that should never have been lost in the first place. And if it’s a position you are after, I have to tell you I already have a French chef.”

  “I do not seek to take advantage,” said Agnes, as her pulse sturdied. “Or a post. Only answers to certain questions.”

  Grey rested his hand on the table, as though bracing himself against an unfavorable onslaught. “Questions on what subject?”

  “Three murders took place around the time your wine cooler went missing. But unlike it, those lives can never be recovered. All I ask is your assistance in finding the killer and bringing him to justice.”

  Sir Bartholomew Grey got up and began to pace around the room. “I suppose your aim is worthy. But it strikes me that a woman of your position should not be meddling in such matters. Why has Blanchard never mentioned this? I assumed he would inform the justice, who would pursue the villainous thief. Tell me his name and I’ll have him apprehended directly.”

  “The thief’s name is Harry Drake,” said Agnes, “a professional housebreaker, who operated with the connivance of the thief taker Marcus Pitt. But as for apprehending the pair—you need not concern yourself over that.”

  “Why?”

  “Drake is dead, and Pitt is in the roundhouse awaiting committal.”

  “Then I confess myself baffled, Mrs. Meadowes. What more do you want?”

  Agnes smiled sweetly. “As I said, the murders are all connected to the theft of your wine cooler. But I don’t believe either Drake or Pitt was responsible for them; I think it was someone inside Blanchards’. The break-in was not fortuitous. Drake was instructed on what to steal—he entered knowing that the wine cooler was the most valuable item Blanchards’ had ever made and that Mr. Blanchard would pay a sizable sum for its return. That sum was doubtless to be shared between the three conspirators.”

  “You mean Drake, Pitt, and the anonymous traitor would all have shared in the reward?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But the money was recovered, I understand. So the plot was foiled.”

  “Only in a material sense,” Agnes countered levelly. “There are still three murders that Justice Cordingly has little inclination to pursue. The murders of a servant girl, an apprentice, and a housebreaker do not apparently merit the same justice as the robbery of someone of means.”

  Uneasily, Sir Bartholomew nodded. “But did not Pitt commit the murders?”

  “I do not believe so; he tends to keep himself distant from his crimes—though he must know who did.”

  Grey pulled up another chair and offered it to Agnes before sitting heavily in his own. “Then leave the matter in my hands. Justice Cordingly is an acquaintance of mine. If Pitt has been apprehended, it will be no hard task for one of his constables to wheedle out the identity of the traitor inside Blanchards’.”

  “I’m not certain Cordingly will do so when he learns the range of Pitt’s influence. I think the chances of Pitt remaining in custody and revealing who employed him are remarkably slim.”

  Grey began to pile the counters into perfect columns. “Do I take it you have another scheme?”

  “Perhaps,” said Agnes, sitting erect, head held high. “But first I should like to ask you about another matter, which I believe may somehow have a bearing on these events.”

  Sir Bartholomew nodded and waved his hand, signaling her to proceed. Agnes drew a deep breath. “What I should like to know, sir, is what you can tell me of the background of the craftsman who made your wine cooler, Thomas Williams.”

  “Surely you do not suspect that Williams, one of the most talented silversmiths of my acquaintance, could be a cold-blooded murderer?

  “I think there is more to him than we know.”

  “I very much doubt it. His father is a craftsman of the highest skill. He supplied me with much of the plate for my house in Newcastle. Thomas is his second son; he served his apprenticeship under his father, but wanted to better himself and thought London was the place to do it. He asked me for assistance in finding a suitable master who might offer him a place as a journeyman. I was happy to assist and mentioned him to Theodore Blanchard, who was in need of additional help following the retirement of his father. And so he was taken on.”

  “Are you familiar with the family mark?”

  “Naturally. As I said, I have been a patron of the father’s for many years.”

  Agnes pulled the heart-shaped box from her pocket and handed it to him. “Is the mark on this his father’s?”

  Sir Bartholomew took up a magnifying glass from a nearby side table. He plucked the box off Agnes’s palm and held it between forefinger and thumb close to the candelabra, turning it and raising and lowering the glass to gain the best view of the marks.

  After a while he nodded, then put the glass and box down on the table. “Yes, as far as I can tell the initials are his father’s mark. And the extra mark, the one that resembles three small turrets, shows the box was made in Newcastle.”

  Hearing Riley’s account thus partially confirmed, Agnes’s spirits plunged. Thomas had deceived her. Her dismay made her reckless. “Were you aware of the engagement between Thomas Williams and Rose Francis, who was kitchen maid for Lord Carew and then moved to the Blanchards’?”

  “A kitchen maid?” Sir Bartholomew looked at her as if she were mad. “You cannot suppose I involve myself with maidservants. My housekeeper takes care of such matters.”

  “Do you know Lord Carew?”

  “He is a casual acquaintance of mine.”

  “But you never set eyes on the girl?”

  Sir Bartholomew adjusted his cravat, and blew his nose noisily in a lace-edged handkerchief. Then he began to pace again. “As I’ve told you, no. I assume you are not suggesting they conspired to aid Pitt to steal my wine cooler, or that Williams committed the murders. What motive would he have?”

  “Money, perhaps.” She sensed his patience was at an end, but there was yet more she wanted to discover. “And what did you think on learning she was in the employ of the Blanchards?”

  “Nothing!” he exclaimed, twirling round with an air of majesty. “How many times must I say this? You cannot suppose a man of my standing pays attention to the servants of every household he happens to visit. So long as the meat and gravy are on the table, I do not bother myself over who puts them there.”

  Agnes recoiled as if he had hit her. At that moment there was an unexpected creak from the far end of the room. A door hidden in the wainscoting was abruptly thrown open and an elegantly dressed young woman stepped through. She was clad in a silk dress of inky blue with a deep ruff of creamy lace around the décolletage; her neck was slender and white, her hair elaborately dressed with black silk flowers. She looked young enough to be Sir Bartholomew’s daughter. Seeing Agnes, she pursed her lips in a moue of displeasure, walked to the table, and began to fan herself slowly. “Who is this, my dearest?” she said softly.

  “’Tis no one but the cook of a tradesman of my acquaintance.”

  “Then are we not to finish our game?”

  “Certainly we shall finish it,” said Sir Bartholomew, ushering her to her seat, then hurrying to ring the servants’ bell. A knot rose in Agnes’s throat. Seeing them together made Agnes think of Thomas and Rose; the woman had something of Rose’s nonchalant bearing. The footman appeared an instant later. “This visitor has concluded her business, and is leaving,” said Grey. “Miss
Katherine and I will finish our game without disturbance—no matter who calls.” Then, turning to Agnes, “I do not comprehend your purpose in coming here or what you have learned. But whatever it was, I trust you are satisfied for I have no more to tell you. Good evening to you, madam.”

  “Good evening, sir.” She curtsied, then remembered Theodore’s injunction. “Before I leave, if I may make one last request.”

  “What then?”

  “I would ask that you keep this conversation to yourself.”

  Sir Bartholomew regarded her carefully. “It is my belief that when servants exceed their duties, only mayhem ensues. Your visit has done little to change my view. Therefore I cannot give you any such assurance. Good night to you.”

  Chapter Forty

  THEODORE HAD GRANTED Agnes the next day off, so she sent up a larger breakfast than usual—a cold knuckle of gammon, coddled eggs kept warm over a dish of hot water, and deviled kidneys. After writing down suggestions for the next day’s menu on the slate, she headed over to Bread Street to see Peter.

  The morning was fine and bright, and she decided to take him for an excursion on the river. But she could not get out of her mind her visit to Sir Bartholomew. Thomas had lied; he and Rose had been engaged and he had concealed their engagement. But why? A few minutes later, she presented herself at Mrs. Sharp’s door. But Mrs. Sharp seemed puzzled to see her. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Madam Sharp. I won’t delay you. I trust you got my message. Is Peter ready?”

  Mrs. Sharp now looked truly baffled. “What? But he is already with you—I thought you had returned for something he had forgotten.”

  “What do you mean? I wrote to tell you I would collect him this morning.”

  “I got the note. But an hour ago a young girl came, saying you had sent her to fetch Peter. You were going out for a drive, you had a carriage arranged, she was the driver’s girl. She showed me the carriage—it was waiting at the corner of Cheapside. I saw a woman’s face and a gloved hand wave. I assumed the woman must be you.”

  Agnes was speechless. Her heart filled her chest and her head pounded unbearably. Somewhere close by she heard a cat mewing for food. “Tell me,” she said faintly, “what did the girl look like?”

  “Like an urchin—ill-kempt, scrawny, hair unwashed, wearing dirty clothes, infested with vermin of all kind, I daresay. She had a red shawl wrapped round her head, as I recall.”

  Agnes sank against the doorjamb. Why would Elsie commit such an act of betrayal? But no sooner had Agnes framed the question in her mind than the answer presented itself. Elsie knew that her father was dead, and must believe that Agnes had had a hand in his murder.

  “Do you know who these people were?” asked Mrs. Sharp, now looking anxious herself.

  “I fear I know who the child was, which leads me to suspect who was behind the deed—Marcus Pitt the thief taker, who warned me of his influence.”

  “Pitt! Would he take your child?”

  “I wager he would enlist the aid of someone who would do worse besides take him.”

  Mrs. Sharp shook her head in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

  “The murderer who employed him is concerned that, even though the wine cooler has been recovered, I intend to pursue him.”

  “Shall I send for the constable?”

  “No, that would only waste precious time. I will have to go after them and get Peter back.”

  “But where will you start?”

  “Pitt’s premises in Melancholy Walk are as good a place as any.”

  As she spoke, a shadow emerged from the stairwell. The disheveled figure of Thomas Williams, dressed only in breeches and a half-buttoned shirt. “And what will you do when you get there?” he said. “Employ your feminine charms to persuade the murderer to give Peter back?”

  She stared at him mutely for an instant. “I will fathom some means when I get there. And now I must take my leave. Good day to you both.”

  She picked up her skirts and hurried off in the direction of the river. A hackney carriage rumbled past, and she darted out into the road, waving feverishly. The driver drew swiftly to a halt. “Melancholy Walk—quick as you can!” she cried. Grabbing hold of the door, she clambered in. “A shilling extra if you get me there within the quarter hour.” Just as the driver cracked his whip and began to move off, Thomas Williams came careering up and grasped the door handle. Agnes shook her head. Thomas leaped round to the rear as the vehicle gathered speed. Agnes saw him stumble and fall back, but then he ran faster and leaped successfully onto the step. Through the rear window, she could see his face pressing against the mud-spattered glass as if he were clinging on for dear life.

  The vehicle, with Thomas clinging to the back like a barnacle, jostled through Watling Street and down toward the bridge. Agnes watched as the dilapidated Nonesuch House passed her window, and the great stone gateway came into view. The air was filled with the stench of urine from the tanneries, bones from the glue makers, boiling fat from the makers of soap. Agnes tried to think of how she was going to trace Elsie. It was better than imagining what might be happening to Peter.

  At the south side of the bridge, the carriage drew up at the gateway while a wagon came thorough in the opposite direction. Agnes peered over the parapet and glimpsed a grayish brown expanse. At the top of some decrepit stairs leading down from the quayside she saw a carriage.

  Today being Sunday, there was little activity or traffic, making the sight of a carriage all the more noticeable. Close by stood a man, and two figures of short stature, one of whom wore something red. As she watched, the figure in red began running along the wharf and disappeared.

  Agnes pushed down the window and shouted to the driver, “Take the road leading to St. Olave’s, then turn left toward the quayside. I’m looking for a dark carriage.”

  The driver turned the horses but he had traveled no more than twenty yards before the road narrowed to an alley, with another, wider road leading off to the right. He pulled up the horses, jumped down from his platform, and opened the carriage door. “Can’t go further, never turn round if I do.”

  Agnes got out. The river—a flash of silvery brown light—was just visible through the black frame of buildings. A few indistinct figures were shuffling down the alley; a stray dog sniffed the detritus in the gutter. There was no sign of the carriage. Agnes reasoned that if the hackney driver could not pass this way, the carriage she had seen must have taken another way down to the wharf. The distance was not great, and it would be easier to find the carriage and its occupants on foot.

  Thomas Williams was standing some distance away, watching a woman hang laundry from an upstairs window.

  “I never asked you to come,” called Agnes ungraciously to him.

  “I would have been a fool to let you go alone on such a mission.”

  “Peter and I are not your concern.”

  “Perhaps not. Nevertheless I should not wish harm to befall either one of you.”

  “That’s a shilling and sixpence if you please,” interrupted the driver.

  Agnes fumbled in her pocket and thrust a handful of coins, far more than the sum requested, into the driver’s hand. Her cheeks aflame, she mumbled, “I cannot prevent you from following me, Mr. Williams, but I implore you to keep your distance.” Then she charged down the passage.

  At the quayside, the warehouses and factories loomed over the river behind her, their chimneys spewing foul-smelling smoke. The wharf on the opposite bank was bathed in winter sun, but this side was shrouded in purplish shadow. She saw no sign of the carriage, or Peter.

  Moments later, Thomas emerged from a passage farther up the river toward Pickle Herring Stairs. He pointed downriver, beckoning her wildly. She hurried along, and when she was no more than ten yards distant called out, “What is it? Did you see something?”

  “No, but that laundress did—a carriage. She had an excellent view from her garret, and one had passed beneath her not ten minutes earlier. She saw a girl, a boy, and a man
descend and head in this direction.”

  “And do you see anything now?”

  “Nothing. But perhaps we should proceed farther down.”

  A keen wind made her shiver. She walked down to the foreshore. The tide was low, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could see the sagging underside of the wharf on her right. The massive wooden pillars were encrusted to the waterline with barnacles and olive green slime and ribbons of weed. To her left, the mud banked steeply down to the water’s edge, its surface scarred with flotsam—wood, stones, rusting chains, lumps of coal, patches of slime, and yellowish sludge. In some places the mud was no more than a yard or two wide; in others it extended like probing fingers into the choppy brown water. Here and there, the surface was traversed by foul-smelling rivulets, where the sewers and gutters of the city disgorged raw sewage into the Thames.

  Fishing smacks, barges, wherries, hay boats, and schooners were moored offshore; others were stranded by the tide, aground on the mud. There was no sign of life on any of them, but a stream of raggedly dressed people were combing the mud for whatever they could find.

  Agnes searched among the darker shadows for Peter. Some moments later there was a flash of unexpected movement and something seemed to emerge from the dark shadows, then disappear.

  Thomas saw her stop and called down to her from the sagging wharf. “Did you see something?” She shook her head. Thirty paces on, she saw it again—a spidery, hunched form, picking its way beneath the wharf. She ran toward it.

  “What is it?” shouted Thomas.

  “There!” she cried.

  Thomas dropped to his knees, but could not see directly beneath the wharf. Finding no steps nearby, he launched himself onto the mud. As he landed, a shower of black water sprayed his stockings and breeches. He ran to catch up with Agnes.