The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  “What is it? What did you see?”

  “Under the wharf…fifty yards ahead…see them now, rounding that pier,” she gasped, pointing. “Two figures, one of them Peter.”

  She ran closer to the wharf, skirting areas of soft mud which were impossible to cross, her eyes fixed upon the figures ahead.

  But when they were still more than thirty yards apart, the shadowy form turned and caught sight of her. It was Peter. He froze for an instant, then looked up at his captor and back again at Agnes, and silently held out his hands in her direction. The captor then turned and, seeing Agnes and Thomas, stepped out from under the wharf.

  Legs braced on the mudflats, the man stood, gripping Peter by the wrist. The front brim of his tricorn was pulled low over his brow. A muffler covered the lower part of his jaw.

  Agnes waited for him to speak. I will know him then, she thought. But the man remained silent, staring at them as though willing them to move. Thus challenged, she began slowly to advance, but she had progressed no more than a dozen paces when Peter began to pull in her direction and cried out. “Help me, Mama, please help me. He won’t let me go.”

  Agnes knew whatever she said would only make matters worse. “Don’t worry, Peter, do as he says and he’ll treat you kindly. Be good.” Then she watched, horrified, as the man yanked Peter out across the mud, toward the deeper water.

  The tide crept toward them. Peter called out, again and again, shrill, indecipherable pleas. Finally the man must have issued some threat, for after that Peter stopped.

  “Do as he says, Peter!” cried Agnes. Furious at her own impotence, she plunged after them, oblivious to the piercing cold and to the stares of the river finders, who had withdrawn with the incoming tide and were now watching this spectacle from the wharfside. Several times she stumbled on some submerged obstacle or stepped in a patch of quicksand, but each time she recovered her balance and continued. Thomas Williams kept pace, but said nothing and never attempted to divert her from her course.

  Some ten yards distant she saw a wooden rowboat moored to a post. The water was now up to Peter’s chest and he began to wail as muddy waves splashed in his face. The man hoisted Peter onto his shoulders, and minutes later, they reached the boat. He lifted Peter and clabbered over the gunwale after him.

  “Wait! Wait! Don’t take him alone—take me, too. Whoever you are, whatever it is you want from me, you shall have it,” she called out wildly.

  The man glared in her direction, but made no reply. He proceeded to retrieve the oars from the hull and slot them into their leather bindings.

  “Wait! Please wait!” she implored again. But this time he did not even look up.

  Suddenly, Thomas surged past her, waving his sword in the air. He reached the boat just as the man cast off the mooring rope. Thomas grasped the stern and made lunges with his sword. The man remained out of range, so he wrapped his legs round the rudder and began rocking the vessel as though he meant to capsize it. “Give back the boy or I’m not letting go,” he shouted between gritted teeth.

  “Ain’t you now?” the man mumbled, and swiveled the right-hand oar out of the oarlock and dropped it down flat on the crown of Thomas’s head.

  Thomas fell back into the water as blood gushed from a wound on his temple. He attempted to clamber onto the boat, but the man hit him again and steered the boat clumsily away toward deeper water, where it caught the current downstream.

  Soon Peter was nothing more than a pale gray shadow, his features lost, his shape almost indistinguishable from the dull sweep of the river.

  Chapter Forty-one

  “I’LL FIND ANOTHER BOAT and pursue them.” Blood and muddy water ran down Thomas’s cheek, his lips were gray with cold.

  “No,” Agnes said. “He cannot row fast, it will be easier to follow them on land.” She could not bring herself to look at him, but asked, “Who was it? Did you see who it was when you were close?”

  “I caught no more than a glimpse of him before he clouted me.”

  Agnes began to wade downstream toward shallower water. Was he someone she knew? She considered the tall, lean outline, the flapping coat, the hat and muffler. None of it was distinctive or outwardly remarkable.

  And what did he want? He had had ample opportunity to kill Peter before now, if that was his intention. Perhaps he had arranged a hiding place for Peter somewhere close to the river. Agnes guessed that the boat had not been part of the original scheme. She had precipitated their flight by pursuing him. But why snatch Peter in the first place? Agnes had known the answer to this all along. Peter was a lure. She was the real target. Pitt might adopt such a tactic, but he was in the roundhouse awaiting committal.

  But that being so, why hadn’t he taken her when she had chased him? She concluded that the presence of Thomas Williams or the audience of river finders had deterred him.

  Agnes watched the man rowing inexpertly, splashing water and spinning the boat. He veered back toward the shoreline, which made it easy to keep track of him.

  “Where are they going?” asked Thomas.

  “I am not certain. Perhaps to Marcus Pitt’s premises.”

  Thomas took out his handkerchief and wiped away the blood from his eyes. “What makes you say so? Pitt has been apprehended.”

  “Have you a better place to start?”

  “I should begin by calling on Justice Cordingly.”

  “Then go, if you wish. But what will he care for the missing son of a cook? He has done precious little about the murders thus far. Besides, whether or not he wielded the knife, Pitt lies at the heart of the murders and the robbery. The murderer knows him and knows his house. He might regard it as a refuge.” She regarded the expanse of bleak brown water ahead. “In any case, why should I justify my reasons to you, Mr. Williams? After the lies you have spun, you are hardly above suspicion yourself.”

  “What? That’s nonsensical. If I had been involved, would I be here offering you my assistance? Would I have saved you from Pitt yesterday?”

  Agnes knew he spoke the truth, and she did not seriously believe him capable of murder, but she remained furious at his deception. “Then if you are so innocent, as you claim, why conceal the fact that you were enamored by Rose for years, and that you were engaged to marry her? Perhaps you killed her out of jealousy when she took up with Riley and Philip.”

  “I kept the engagement from you because I knew it was irrelevant to recent events and would only mislead you—as indeed it has. Rose broke our engagement, and caused me much heartache. Perhaps I was wrong not to have been more open. But my deception was mainly caused by my fondness for you. And I have never made that secret.”

  Then, without further prompting, he confirmed the story Riley had told her. Rose and he had been engaged. She had followed him to London following the death of her father, and so detested her work at Lord Carew’s she had wanted to marry him sooner than previously arranged. “I would have agreed were it not for my situation with Blanchards’. The company’s dwindling fortunes worried me; I did not want to wed and find myself unable to provide for her. So I asked her to be patient and wait a while longer at Lord Carew’s. But Rose broke our engagement in a fit of pique, saying she believed plenty of other eligible men would happily provide for her if I would not. A month later, she changed her mind and tried to mend things between us. When I hesitated, she came to the Blanchards’. Soon after, rumors reached me of her flirtations with Riley and Philip; I believe she took up with them to spur me to take her back. But her antics worried me. I saw I should never be able to trust her and I told her I could not. Had I acted differently, she might be alive today.”

  Thomas halted and seemed to wait for her reaction. But Agnes walked on, the wind whipping her soaking wet skirts and boots. The boat with her son and his unknown kidnapper was now no larger than a walnut shell, a blurred shape against a swath of oily water. It disappeared through one of the cavernous openings between the piers of London Bridge, as if Peter were being consumed by some rive
r monster. Thomas marched ahead toward the wharf steps. She shouted after him to make herself heard above the wind. “I have no appetite to argue the matter further now.”

  With this, Thomas swiveled round, looking down at her from halfway up the steps. “You talk of me deceiving you, when it is you who deceive yourself.”

  Agnes climbed up the steps until she was nearly level with him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “If you really believed I was involved in Rose’s murder, why would you have spoken yesterday of your errors of judgment, or permitted my assistance as you just did? You have fabricated doubts in order to barricade yourself from the truth.”

  “On the contrary, I am perfectly open to the truth. Yesterday, thanks to your deception, I did not know it. And as for your assistance just now, much good that proved!” Then, infuriated as much by her own ingratitude as her weakness, she raised her hands and added more softly, “For pity’s sake, Mr. Williams, leave me be.”

  But he gripped her by the elbow. “And now you intend to go off alone?”

  Agnes wrenched her arm from his and turned toward the tow-path. A thin gray mist was falling over the water. Squinting into the gloom, Agnes fancied she could see the rowboat draw in to the quayside. Some yards ahead the path forked, the left-hand branch turning inland in a southerly direction; and she reckoned it must lead toward Melancholy Walk. Even as she watched, Peter’s kidnapper moored the boat to a large metal ring on the quayside below.

  Agnes instinctively pressed herself into an adjacent doorway and pulled Thomas with her. The two figures stepped from the boat and made their way to the street above. They then plunged into an alley out of view. “Not a word, he must not see us,” Agnes whispered. “And when we arrive at the house, please stay back. Do not follow until I beckon you to come. It will be better all round if I approach alone.”

  “As a woman, you are hardly equipped to attempt such a rescue.”

  “Peter is my son. After all I have recently endured, I believe I am well able to manage my own affairs.”

  “Very well, then, if that is your choice. Do you prefer me to leave?”

  “Not now, or someone might see you.”

  “Indeed, then would it not be in Peter’s interest for us to formulate a plan on which we both agree?”

  Agnes had to concede his logic. For some minutes, they argued in whispers and eventually agreed that Agnes (who was unyielding on the point) would proceed ahead and find a means of entry without being observed. After ascertaining the abductor’s whereabouts and identity, she would make herself known, thus allowing him to believe she had fallen for his trap. On her signal, Thomas would arrive and apprehend the villain and she would rescue her son.

  Thomas protested that the plan was too sketchy and it would be better if they went in together. But she argued that two of them would be more likely to be noticed, and that once the element of surprise was lost, the abductor would have the advantage over them and might easily slip away. “Once we are certain who he is, at least if he escapes we may inform the justice and have him apprehended. Without proof, we can do nothing.”

  With Thomas still muttering objections, they proceeded, taking the left-hand fork. A narrow alley was lined on both sides with a high wooden palisade. On the right reared the backs of a row of tall buildings. “Which house is it?” said Thomas.

  “One of those over there,” whispered Agnes, waving at the houses. “But the road is on the other side and from this vantage point I cannot tell exactly which it is.”

  They edged their way up an alley leading to Melancholy Walk. Presumably Peter and his captor must have traveled this way, but there was no sign of them. As she reached the corner, Agnes peered gingerly round into the street. Then through the mist, she glimpsed a pair of silhouettes, one tall, one short, hurrying away. “I see them,” she said. “I will go alone from here.”

  Thomas nodded. She sensed his misgivings, but he made no attempt to follow her. Clinging to the wall, Agnes proceeded as far as she dared. A few yards on, the pair halted in front of a house, then mounted the stairs and knocked. She recognized the house as Pitt’s. She could see Peter peer about, the dark-cloaked figure looming over him like a colossus. After a while the door creaked open. An occasional word drifted to her—“boat…pursued…wait here…” A minute later they stepped inside and the door crashed closed.

  Agnes crept up to the house. The sash windows were dark, the shutters closed. She climbed the four steps and tried the front door. But as she expected, it was locked fast. She looked up at the façade, searching for a means to enter without being noticed. To one side of the main entrance, a narrow stone staircase led down to the basement, the wall punctuated by a casement window. The window might have been large enough to squeeze through, but it was locked and barred. Impossible. But then she saw that to one side of the basement, hidden beneath the stairs leading to the front door, was another, smaller entrance.

  Filled with trepidation, she went down and tried the door handle, praying it would open. But the handle did not budge. She put her shoulder against the door and gave a sharp shove with all her weight, but the door was stout and there was no give in it at all. She would have to alter the plan and knock on Pitt’s door to gain entry after all, she decided. And then rely upon her wits to save Peter. There was no other way.

  But as she turned, her boot caught upon something. Beneath the stairs leading down from the street, a wooden cover with a thick rope handle was set into the flagged basement floor. Hope rising once more, she yanked on the rope, but the wood was sodden and swollen shut. Taking a firmer grip, she yanked harder. The rope bit into her palms, the cover creaked, she fancied she felt it give a little. She heaved again with all her might. This time she nearly fell backward as the lid pulled off.

  Panting, Agnes squatted down and peered into the black opening. She could see nothing but a glistening black mound some four feet beneath her: the coal cellar. She swung her legs into the opening, then let herself fall.

  The drop was greater than she had calculated and she wrenched her ankle as she landed and cried out involuntarily. Coal dust filled her eyes and nostrils but she stiffled her cough. As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she could make out the walls, the beams supporting the ceiling, and a small arched doorway set into one wall.

  Chapter Forty-two

  AGNES LIMPED ACROSS the cellar and tried the handle; the door opened easily. She pushed it out a few inches and looked gingerly through the gap. There was a corridor leading, she supposed, to the kitchen. But all was silent, chill, deserted.

  She stepped into the corridor. Doors opened to the left—disused sculleries and pantries and a larder filled with nothing but cobwebs. The corridor opened into a kitchen with a staircase in one corner. Agnes glanced disapprovingly at the rusted, unlit range, and a heap of pots encrusted with scraps of foul-smelling food. A rat scuttled beneath the skirting. Shuddering with cold and apprehension, she mounted the stairs.

  Agnes found herself in the upper hallway. To the left was the front door and the room facing the street, where she had first met Pitt.

  At first the place seemed deserted, but then she thought she heard a faint sound coming from the back—the muffled sound of footsteps, someone coughing. She moved toward it, barely able to keep from calling out Peter’s name. Her scalp prickling with anticipation, her breathing shallow, she inched open the door and squinted in.

  The room was sparsely furnished—a couple of deal chairs, an old splintered table, and a desultory fire burned in the grate. Standing in the center of the room was Elsie. The girl looked strained and worn, as if she hadn’t slept for days, and she was coughing quietly into a grimy handkerchief. Rose’s boots were still on her feet.

  Boots, Agnes thought—that is what was troubling me. That is what I recognized. She recalled then the boots she had found on her kitchen table the morning of Rose’s disappearance and the lean, dark form she had seen at the river, and nodded slowly. But a moment later, she was over
come by a surge of bitterness. Elsie had assisted in Peter’s abduction. Elsie, with whom she had sympathized, whom she had tried to help.

  “So, Elsie, I have found you at last,” she said.

  She swept into the room and grabbed her arm. “Where is Peter? How could you assist in such an evil scheme?”

  Elsie met Agnes’s accusing look with one of equal rancor and indictment.

  “Well,” Agnes said, “why did you take my son?” In her heart of hearts, she knew the answer—Elsie must hold her responsible for her father’s death.

  By way of reply, Elsie shifted her eyes to direct Agnes’s attention to the door she had just entered. Agnes recognized a soft tread behind her. Still clutching Elsie’s arm, she turned.

  A grimy figure loomed in the doorway. It was Grant, Pitt’s henchman. His gaze seemed blurred and unfocused. His trousers were half unbuttoned, the belt undone. He was wearing the same filthy stained coat that he had worn yesterday. He gave a noisy yawn and belched.

  “Mrs. Meadowes,” he said. “What an unexpected surprise. Come to join us, have you?” As he approached them, Elsie pushed away Agnes’s hand and sidled close to Grant. The stench of stale clothes and sweat emanating from him was overpowering, but Elsie looked up at Grant as though seeking reassurance, then fixed Agnes with a hostile glare.

  Agnes stepped back. “Join you? All I want is to find my son. Some evil person has abducted him this morning and brought him here.” She was wary of Grant, but not afraid. He had not taken Peter—she knew it was not his stocky outline she had seen. Grant belched again. Agnes caught fumes of stale beer, mingled with onions and other odors too noxious to contemplate. He gave her a leering grin. “Abducted your son?” he said, drawing uncomfortably close. “That is a most tragic occurrence. Whoever would do such a thing? I trust you do not accuse little Elsie or me?”

  Agnes glanced quickly at the window. Somewhere out there, she thought, Thomas awaits my signal. She felt a ridiculous urge to throw open the window and call him. “No,” she said, trying to disguise her revulsion and mounting unease. “I do not accuse you in particular. But I saw someone bring my son into this house here not fifteen minutes ago.” Grant scratched his stubbly cheek. “I never heard nothing, did you, Elsie?”