The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  “No sir. That’s ’cos they ain’t here,” said Elsie in an expressionless tone. “You must’ve imagined it, Mrs. Meadowes.”

  Ignoring Grant, Agnes lowered her gaze to the girl. “Elsie, I know it was you that took Peter away. Perhaps you did so because someone told you I was responsible for your father’s death. I assure you, that is not the case. Now tell me, do you know where Peter is?”

  “Why should I believe you? Why should I tell you anything?”

  “I do not know what you have been told, but, I repeat, I had nothing to do with your father’s death. Nothing save finding his body after Mr. Grant hid it. And since doing so, I have been much occupied in trying to ascertain who murdered him, for it was the same person who killed Rose and the apprentice.”

  “That ain’t true, is it, Mr. Grant? It were her what got my pa killed, you said.”

  Grant ignored the question. He came toward Agnes menacingly. “And what of Mr. Pitt? I suppose you had nothing to do with his apprehension, neither?”

  “I was not responsible for his arrest, although I cannot pretend sorrow at his fate. But do not fret on his account; by his own testimony, his friendship with a certain judge will swiftly ensure his freedom. In any case, Mr. Grant, now that you are left holding the reins of his enterprise, you cannot be entirely sorry he’s out of the way. This house will be very comfortable without Mr. Pitt ordering you about. So if Elsie won’t help, why don’t you reveal what you know and keep Pitt where he deserves to be? Think of the fruits that would then be yours to enjoy.”

  Grant shifted his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his groin and shuffled from side to side. Did Agnes imagine it, or had a flicker of doubt now appeared in Elsie’s eyes?

  Grant cocked his head, squeezing the fleshy folds of his neck into tight concentric rings. “What d’you wish to know?”

  “Where is my boy, and who in the Blanchard household assisted in robbery of the wine cooler?”

  Grant snorted. “Sorry, I can’t help you on either count. I was just taking a nap and never heard a whisper. But if young Elsie says he ain’t here, then he ain’t. And as for your other query—I’m in the dark as much as you. Besides, I’d be for the noose if I said a word. Pitt’d find out somehow or other. He’s too much hold on too many men of influence.” Then, giving Agnes a farewell nod, he added, “I’ll bid you good day now. I’ve urgent business to attend to,” and shuffled out. Halfway down the hall, he called to Elsie. “And you, girl—how about making yourself useful and fetching us something for dinner? I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Grant slammed the front door. Elsie hesitated for a second and then, without looking at Agnes, made as if to follow. Agnes placed her hand on her shoulder. “Wait a moment, Elsie. Listen to me. Whoever told you I killed your father only did so in order that you would help abduct Peter. None of it is true. I don’t believe you want Peter harmed, or me killed either. That is why my son has been taken—so that I would come after him and whoever murdered your pa would do the same to me. Is that what you want?”

  Elsie regarded Agnes intently, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Tears glistened on her lashes. “I don’t know his name. And even if I did, after what you done for my pa, I wouldn’t let on,” she said stubbornly.

  “Why would I kill your pa? You only have Grant’s word for it. And that is because he is afraid he might be murdered if he lets slip the real culprit. He knows who it is, though—you could see that as well as I. Did Grant tell you it was he that hid your pa’s body in the chimney?”

  “No.”

  “Then take a look at how dirty his coat is. The stains on it are your father’s blood and the soot from where he hid his body up the chimney. And if you still don’t believe me, go and speak to Mr. Pitt at the roundhouse. He knows the truth.”

  Agnes could see her waver as she absorbed the information. She waited. Give her time, Agnes told herself. She is under no obligation to help. Do not press too hard.

  Elsie sighed miserably, “It were Mr. Grant what told me to take ’im to where pa’s cellar were—he was going to take Peter there, down by Pickle Herring Quay,” she ventured.

  “Take who?”

  “I dunno who he was—a man, tall, dark-haired, middling sort of dress.”

  Agnes nodded, eyes gleaming. “You are quite certain of that? You never saw him before?”

  “Never said that, did I?” said Elsie, cross at being doubted. “He was all covered up in the carriage, but I fancy I did see him once before. Or if not, he were very like the man what chased after your friend by the river.”

  “I see,” said Agnes, pondering. “But it wasn’t one of the menservants from Foster Lane?”

  “No.”

  She hadn’t expected so firm a rebuttal. “I take it you know what Mr. Theodore and Mr. Nicholas Blanchard look like from watching the house. Was it one of them, or someone from the shop?”

  Again Elsie firmly shook her head. “Anyway, whoever he were, like I said, I went in the coach with him. When I spun Mrs. Sharp the story, he stayed in the coach; he put on a glove and waved from the window to masquerade as you. I was meant to keep an eye on Peter for a few hours, until someone came and took him away. He said getting a bit of a scare was no more than you deserved and the boy wouldn’t be harmed.” She now was looking at her feet as she spoke.

  “It’s all right, Elsie. I don’t blame you. He duped me just the same.” But Agnes was puzzled. Why hadn’t Elsie recognized the man in the carriage? But she nodded encouragingly, “And once you had Peter, what happened?”

  “Him and me and the other fellow went in the carriage down to the river. I showed him where to come and ran ahead to make things ready. Only him and Peter never arrived, and when I came back up the steps to see where they’d gone I saw them both going off in a boat.”

  Agnes nodded. “What brought you here?”

  Elsie blinked and turned away. “I don’t like being in that cellar much on my own, now Pa’s not there. Mr. Grant told me I might stay here. He said Pa’s death and Mr. Pitt’s arrest needn’t make a difference. I could help him just the same.”

  “So Grant was never involved in the scheme to snatch Peter?”

  “No. Only he told me to do what the man said.” Elsie looked nervously over her shoulder toward the door. “I never told him nothing about all this, nor that they come ’ere. He was fast asleep just now, and never woke.”

  Doubtless his slumbers were aided by the bottles of ale, thought Agnes grimly. “Tell me, that night when you waited for the message and I asked you to come down to the kitchen, why did you run off?”

  “I saw my pa standing there waiting in a doorway.”

  There had been a figure sheltering opposite, she recalled. “Waiting for you?”

  “I thought so at the time, though it can’t have been ’cos he never came after me. When I looked back he was waving his arms and making faces, but not at me.” She stopped. “I’d better go fetch the dinner now or Grant’ll be angry.”

  “One more thing. Was it you who let Peter and his abductor in just now?”

  “Yes. He said it would only be a short while afore you came looking. He wouldn’t stay long after that.”

  Agnes felt her heart pitch. Her arrival had been expected. Peter had been taken as a lure. “And where did they go?”

  “Upstairs. Don’t know where, though.”

  Agnes nodded. “Very well. Hurry off now. And on your way up the road, you will pass an alley where a friend of mine, Mr. Williams, a curly-haired man wearing a brown coat, is waiting. Tell him to come close to the front window of the house. I shall call him any moment now.”

  Elsie nodded as she marched off. Agnes sensed the girl’s regret at what she had done, but could see that she struggled to find the words to say so. She followed her down the corridor, waiting for half a minute, just in case Elsie should say something more; but she went out in silence, and Agnes could wait no longer. She was just about to climb the stairs when she observed that the previ
ously open door to Pitt’s front room was now closed. Grant had been gone a half an hour, she remembered. She had heard him go out and shut the front door. Was someone else now inside?

  Agnes looked in. A thin line of light leeched between the closed shutters. She was uncomfortably reminded of the ride in the carriage when Marcus Pitt had insisted the curtains remain closed. She had opened the shutters no more than an inch or two when she heard shuffling on the stairs and a heavy tread in the hallway. She spun round just as a head peered in. “Mrs. Meadowes,” said a familiar voice. “Thank God I have found you.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  AGNES WENT PALE. “Philip, whatever are you doing here?”

  “Come to offer my heartfelt sympathy and, more important, practical assistance.” He closed the door behind him. He was wigless and hatless, dressed not in livery but in his street clothes—a smart blue woolen cloak, black breeches, and leather boots, all of which were spattered with fresh mud, but looked new. “Mrs. Sharp told me about what happened. She came to Foster Lane and told Mr. Matthews that Mr. Pitt had taken your son. Mr. Matthews said we ought to offer you assistance. I knew this was where you would come since I’d accompanied you here before, so I said I’d come.”

  “I see,” said Agnes quietly. “You are most kind. But I already have Mr. Williams to help.”

  “I know—I saw him outside just now. But he alone is no match for all Pitt’s cronies. Furthermore, he asked me to tell you he has gone for the constable and will arrive directly.”

  Agnes took this in. Why had she felt compelled to resolve matters in such a foolhardy manner, without giving Thomas so much as a hint as to who she believed might be guilty? Was this a last remnant of the reserved person she once had been? Philip, meanwhile, showed little urgency about his commission. He examined the book-lined walls, then picked up items from Pitt’s desk. A silver inkwell, a goose quill, a candlestick, a box containing sealing wafers. “Nice things, ain’t they, Mrs. M.? Think he’d miss one or two, now he’s in the roundhouse?”

  She made no reply. She was conscious of his hands, flecked with dark hairs; of his long, strong fingers picking up the objects and turning them over. What else had those fingers held? “Give me back my son, Philip. It will help your case. You will never escape now, but I will do what I can to assist if you release him unharmed.”

  “What? Have you gone soft in the head? I told you, I’m here because Mr. Matthews sent me to help you find him.”

  “I doubt that. But Mr. Williams is waiting for my signal. I have only to cry out and he will come.”

  “I told you he isn’t there. Come, should we not begin our search for Peter at the top of the house?”

  “Why? Aren’t I what you wanted? Or is it that you plan to dispose of me by shoving me off the roof?”

  Philip’s amiable expression vanished. “I told you, Mrs. Meadowes, I don’t mean you harm. I am here to help. Why won’t you listen?”

  She had waited for this moment to confront him, but now she hardly knew what to say. She thought of Rose as Elsie had described her, running for dear life across the mudflats. She thought of Noah Prout’s murder, and Harry Drake’s decapitated body. She threw up the window sash and shouted into the deserted street, “Thomas! Come now and help me search for Peter!”

  As she bellowed, a powerful arm wrapped about her neck. Philip spoke slowly in her ear. “Whatever are you doing, making such a spectacle of yourself, Mrs. Meadowes? Thomas isn’t there. I told you, didn’t I? And you have me to help you.”

  “You may kill me, but you will not deceive me. Elsie saw you that night chasing Rose—she will identify you. Where is Peter?”

  Philip laughed bitterly. “Then if the girl betrayed me, I fancy some misadventure might soon befall her. Quiet, Mrs. Meadowes. No more questions. Let’s go and look for Peter together. And remember, you brought all this on yourself. I am only here to help.” He shifted his grip to her arm and began pushing her toward the door.

  Agnes twisted to face him. “My desire was only to uncover the truth. A woman who worked for me, and of whom I was fond, met an untimely death—is it so surprising I should want to discover what became of her?”

  “Fond!” cried Philip, spinning her back and pushing her up the stairs by the arm which he held in a firm grip. “There’s a joke. You was never fond of anything save duty.”

  Agnes paused. Perhaps you were right once, but not any longer, she thought. “Then I have become fond of Rose since her death. She was not perfect, I grant you, but she didn’t deserve to be killed.”

  “’Course not—a veritable tragedy, it was.”

  They reached the first landing.

  “I’m not entirely green,” retorted Agnes hotly, thinking of the pair of them in the larder. “I know you killed Rose in a jealous rage, and Noah Prout and Harry Drake.”

  Philip squeezed her arm tighter. “Now you’re going soft again. Why would I kill Rose when I loved her? Why would I kill any of them?”

  “Because the poor girl wanted no more to do with you. You don’t like being turned down, do you?”

  Philip pushed Agnes roughly up the next flight of stairs. “I was demented, was I? That’s rich. I would’ve married her. Is that a crime in your book? There’s any number of women want me, only not you ’cos you’re cold as granite, and not her. Even with money I wasn’t good enough for her.”

  “And so you followed her.”

  “I went after her to tell her I loved her. What I’d done for her, how rich we’d be in a week or two’s time. But instead she shamed me. Treated me like I was nothing. No other woman ever done that. And she had money all along—she offered it to me to leave her alone. It was that that done for her. Trying to pay me to go—like I was her lackey.”

  They had reached the third-floor landing, a long corridor with doors opening on each side, dimly lit at the far end by a garret window darkened with grime. Philip shoved her to the window, yanked open the latch with his free hand, and flung open the casement. “Look out there.”

  Beyond the jagged black gables stretched the wide curve of dull gray river. Silhouetted against it, seated on a parapet like a frail bowsprit on a ship, sat Peter. His mouth was bound. A blindfold had been tied around his eyes, ropes about his ankles and wrists. But there was nothing to stop him falling. Agnes opened her mouth to call out to him, but found she could utter no sound. What if I startle him? she thought. If he moves an inch he will fall.

  “Let me fetch him,” she whispered.

  “All in good time. I have told him he will be quite safe so long as he behaves himself and doesn’t move. Of course he can’t see, so he doesn’t know where he is. So, Mrs. Meadowes, feeling less meddlesome now?”

  “Ssh,” whispered Agnes. “Don’t let him hear or he might move.”

  He ignored her. “All I desired was Rose and the means to support her. You, of all people, should comprehend. Yet with every turn you obstructed me. You spoiled my scheme. I lost Rose and the money I was due from Pitt.”

  “My meddling had nothing to do with Rose spurning you,” whispered Agnes hotly. “You might deceive yourself that you acted for love, but in truth you were propelled by other, darker motives—jealousy, greed, and fear.”

  On hearing this, he lunged at her and closed his hands around her neck. Agnes reared back her head, crashing against the window frame. From the corner of her eye she saw Peter move, as if he were straining for the source of the sound.

  Philip increased the pressure about her neck and she tried to pry his fingers away. After a minute or two, sensing her waning strength, he let go with one hand and reached to his pocket. He gave a sharp flick of his wrist and a blade sprang out from its handle, gleaming in the dim light. “And now, since you are so very curious, I shall show you how I killed them so easily. Here is Mr. Matthews’s spare razor; he leaves it in his pantry drawer, and never remarks when I borrow it. When you left the wine label in the drawer I knew I would have to silence you. But I presume that was your intention. To
let me know you had found me out. Look how sharp it is.”

  Still holding Agnes firmly by the neck, he waved the blade in front of her face and sliced it down an inch from her cheek. A thick lock of hair fell onto her breast. Philip was speaking again, but his voice seemed to be fading. Somewhere below, she thought she heard the sound of voices, footsteps. She tried to wrench away and scratch his hands; she tried to say that of course she had not intended to threaten him by leaving the wine label in the drawer. But at every sign of resistance, Philip shook her, banging her skull viciously against the wall and laying the blade flat against her neck.

  Agnes felt her eyeballs bulge and her tongue swell over her teeth. Blood pounded in her neck and forehead so she could barely hear him. She was aware only of echoing shouts, footsteps growing louder, pain, and fear.

  He pressed his mouth to Agnes’s ear and asked her which way she preferred to die. Which way? Blade across the throat, or strangulation? Which way?

  “Philip! What the devil are you doing?” a voice boomed through the fog.

  Philip gave a start and turned to see who it was. “Keep away,” he muttered. “There’s business here in which you are not involved.”

  “I prefer to avoid trouble where I can, but I am here to help Mrs. Meadowes, and I don’t like to leave her in this disorder.” Over Philip’s shoulder, Agnes caught a glimpse of Thomas Williams as he drew his sword and ran Philip through.

  For an instant Agnes was unsure what was real and what she had imagined. But as Philip’s legs buckled under him, and blood gushed from his mouth, she came to her senses. She turned wordlessly to the window. It was no dream. Peter was still sitting there.

  Holding her finger to her mouth so that Thomas would not call out, she opened it, and tried to heave herself through. But the sill was too high.