Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  Thief Taker

  By Camille Oster

  Copyright 2014 Camille Oster

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Camille Oster - Author

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579

  Camille.osternz@gmail.com

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  London, 1838

  Silently crouching down, Serephina Woodford let her leg dangle over the edge of the roof. The city was dark and foggy, with the gaslights forming large orbs down on the streets. The streets were never quiet, even at this time of night. She felt like she could see the whole city from there, high on her perch, unseen by anyone.

  Serephina felt safe up here—hidden in the wet fog that clung to her black woolen breeches. Her chestnut-colored hair was hidden under a dark cap and the necklace—her target for the evening—sat heavy in the pouch she’d tied around her waist. It had been dangerous perusing this jewel as its home was well guarded, but a limber body and a light touch had secured the item.

  While Serephina wasn't proud of her profession, she couldn't help feeling a sense of achievement tonight, and its efforts would pay their way for a few months during this crucial period of her sister's first season.

  Returning her gaze to the street, her mind wandered back to when they had been turned out of their home after their father's death, left on the street to fend for themselves. Serephina had learnt a valuable lesson that day—no one came to help. There was no knight in shining armor; there were no gentlemen coming to assist two girls in distress, and the predators on the street soon stripped them of everything they had.

  Swallowing a lump, she pressing down the fear that still persisted from those days; the worry of what was to become of them. That time had taught her exactly how far they could fall, and they'd been plummeting—a day away from eviction from the drab one-room hovel they'd had to retreat to. A charity had given them money, but only enough for a scant meal or two. Something had to be done and it was abundantly clear that it was up to her. No honorable professions were open to her; at least not in a way that let her take care of her sister. So a dishonorable profession it was.

  Getting up, she snuck along the roofline to the point where she would descend, emerging cloaked out the back of a mews. Even the predators seemed to avoid a cloaked figure gliding along the streets like a ghost, back to their decent rooms at the edge of Mayfair. The area wasn't the most stylish, but perfectly respectable for two unwed women of society. This is what her activities afforded them—a place in society and the chance for Millicent to marry. It also supported Mrs. Rushmore—another unloved and unsupported stray, a heartbeat away from starving in the rookeries—who facilitated Millicent's debut.

  "How did the night go?" Mrs. Rushmore asked when Serephina silently entered the servants’ entrance to their town house.

  "Well," she said. "Not a mouse was stirred."

  "Good. I will see Turner in the morning."

  Serephina nodded, moving close to the kitchen fire to warm her frozen body. "How is Millicent?"

  "Snug in bed—dreaming of her beaus, no doubt."

  "I'll retire," Serephina said, feeling tiredness creep into her stance and the cold of the city into her bones. There was the chance that she would catch her death, or fall off the treacherously slippery roofs she clambered over, but she couldn't afford to stop, at least until Millie was safely wed.

  Retreating to her room, she stripped off the woolen clothes which had by now absorbed the chilly fog of the city and hung them in front of the coals. Slumping down on her bed, she placed her face in her hands and tried to breathe out the tension and worry she felt. She hated that she had to do this. Morally it didn't sit easily, but she had no choice—their fate loomed over her constantly.

  Moving closer to the fire, she crouched down on the floor in front of it, letting it warm her still cold extremities. She closed her eyes and was grateful that the night had been fruitful.

  Tomorrow the dressmaker would come to measure Millie for another ball gown. She knew it sounded ridiculous going through all this danger and effort for ball gowns, but Millicent had to marry and this was the only way of securing a good match for her.

  Technically, Serephina was still of marriage age, but fast approaching spinsterhood. Her own debut hadn't been properly managed. They'd had no money and her father had been too far gone in drink to do anything about it. She'd been distraught at the time, but her priorities had changed now. Everything had changed now. The ebbs and flows of the society that had seemed so important before had faded when she'd realized just how very precarious their situation was. They didn't deserve to be discarded—Millicent didn't deserve it.

  Serephina would give anything to return to how things used to be—even with the fact that they'd hardly had any money and she'd end up taking care of her drunken and distraught father at the end of most nights. She still hadn't understood the sheer brutality of the world then. Things had been unfortunate, but she'd still believed that things would come right and the natural state of the world was happy and charming. She knew too much now to even delude herself that it could be true.

  Looking out the window of the hired carriage, Serephina smiled at Millicent's clear excitement for the evening. They were on their way to Lord Jutherey's—a large annual event, which was an important part of the Season.

  "Do you think he'll be there?" Mills asked, wringing her hands.

  "Who?"

  "Captain Heresworth."

  "Do you like him?"

  "He is handsome. Beautiful eyes and nice hands. Don’t you think?"

  "You can do better," Mrs. Rushmore said dismissively.

  "He had a commission and his family is well known in Cornwall," Millicent said earnestly. Mrs. Rushmore snorted and anger colored Millicent's cheeks. "Wealth isn't everything!" Turning away, Millie held her head high, ignoring Mrs. Rushmore's presence.

  Serephina was pleased Millicent believed that, and she would do her very best to ensure Millicent had a future where she was loved and protected. She had never heard Millie defend a man she'd met at the balls before—maybe her sister really liked Captain Heresworth. Mrs. Rushmore only saw the practicalities—perhaps that was a consequence of the reduced state her life had devolved to once her husband had deserted her. If Millie believed she'd found a love match, Serephina would support her, provided he wasn't grossly inappropriate. Serephina wasn't sure she believed in love, but Millicent was sensible and a sufficiently good judge of character. If Millicent liked this man, he was likely a decent chap.

  Lord Jutherey's ballroom was crowded and warm. Mrs. Rushmore immediately went about her job, introducing them to all the people she knew—and she knew a great deal. Apparently Mrs. Rushmore had been a celebrated beauty in her day, before ending up stuck in a bad marriage.

  Millicent’s dance card soon started filling, which wasn't unusual as she was a pretty girl, but she was still eagerly looking for this Captain Heresworth. Mrs. Rushmore had subtly been revealing the size of Millicent's dowry to notable gossips who would spread the word—the dowry Serephina had steadily built over the last nine months. It wasn't extraordinary; it was small, but not embarrassing so.

  Serephina left Millicent with Mrs. Rushmore and went to find some refreshment for them, having excused herself to make a path through the crowded ballroom.

  "I wish Lord Jutherey wouldn't be so generous with his invitations," an older woman said haughtily, her powdered face drawn disapprovingly. "There needs to be a limit. Every poor cousin i
n the country is here. It really brings down the tone of the evening." The woman's eyes traveled to Serephina and her gown, which was neither new nor the height of fashion. The woman sniffed as if Serephina was proving her point. "He is a dear man, but he has no proficiency in being discerning. There were people arriving on foot. Why should we have to suffer being exposed to such company?"

  Serephina bristled with anger. Wealth did not make a worthy person, she wanted to say to the woman, but she had to hold her tongue. Serephina was here for Millicent and it would serve her sister no good to make herself a subject of gossip. She was not in a position to tangle with a woman like that, who likely had sway over society and could make things very difficult for Millicent. Serephina had no doubt the woman was spiteful.

  Noting the woman's features, and the gaudy ruby bracelet she wore, Serephina swore she'd found her next target. Mrs. Rushmore would know who the woman was.

  * * *

  Chapter 2:

  * * *

  Stopping at a stall, Rowan bought himself a ham butty. The girl at the stall smiled at him and he gave her a wink before taking a bite of the butty and moving down the noisy, crowded street toward the central police station, dodging the carts that trundled down Charing Cross.

  Central Station was new with large rooms and dark wooden paneling throughout. It was much fancier than their old quarters and he didn't feel comfortable here and the regard was mutual. The constables gave him a wide birth and he took his hat off, making his way past the gathering room, where the Superintendent was holding the morning gathering. Men in dark-blue uniforms rushed around him as he made his way to his desk in the office he shared with another former Bow Street Runner. They weren't trusted, being seen as representing the old, corrupt system, but they were necessary. While the bobbies were good at keeping order, they were ineffective at solving crime. Increasingly, their services were being utilized and the men were getting used to seeing them around. They weren’t yet officially incorporated into the Metropolitan police, but the process was continuing. He knew all the former runners that worked there—they'd been his colleagues for years through their former employment.

  The runners had been effective in finding criminals, but they'd never had the numbers that the Metropolitan had been allowed, and these new policemen, along with the public, believed the accusation that the runners were all corrupt, turning blind eyes to crime when it suited them. To combat this, an act of Parliament had been put in place to uniformly and unerringly enforce lawful behavior amongst the greater populace of London.

  He hated being at his desk, preferring to be on the streets, searching for answers, following leads and apprehending the guilty. He was a man of the streets; he'd grown up in the streets and felt comfortable there.

  "Cox," Superintendent Stephenson roared. "Your presence is required."

  Standing, Rowan put on his worn dark-green jacket and made his way out of the office he currently shared with McPherson, expecting that he would be questioned on his progress on the Allerson murder—the body of the junior customs clerk found floating in the Thames, stab wound into the heart.

  "Come in, Mr. Cox," the Superintendent said when he made his way into the Superintendent’s messy office. "There has been another burglary at one of the Mayfair houses."

  "There are thieves about their business every day," Rowan said. Housebreaking usually wasn't his area, being seen as too trivial in comparison to the cases he usually investigated.

  "Yes, but this one happened to Lady Chemsford. The Commissioner is upset. This isn't some opportunist. These burglaries are carefully planned and executed, only targeting specific pieces—expensive pieces. The thief leaves everything else."

  Rowan's curiosity piqued. Normally, robbers hurriedly grabbed everything they could get their hands on, before running out and disappearing into the streets. But it didn't matter; he didn't have time to deal with a housebreaking, even if they were more clever than most. He had a murder to solve. "I am working on the Allerson murder, Sir."

  "That is a most unfortunate case. I trust you are making progress."

  "I am, but I would not appreciate a distraction at this point."

  "Well, unfortunately you will have to tolerate one. The quality are getting upset and they start causing trouble when they're upset."

  Rowan knew the trials and failings of the Metropolitan Police was one of the favorite topics in the House of Lords and they were powerful men who didn't like their property threatened, even if in the scale of things, it was a small crime.

  "But … " Rowan went to argue.

  "It is an order, Mr. Cox."

  "As you wish," Rowan said and stood, internally cursing the Commissioner who felt it was appropriate to utilize their limited resources chasing some nuisance haunting the quality.

  Annoyed, he made his way back to his desk, where his notes on the Allerson murder were spread out. Running his hand through his dark-blond hair, he recognized that he was well overdue for a cut. He packed away his current work in a folder and pulled out a new, empty one, writing 'Quality Thief of Mayfair' on the front of it. This was still a misuse of resources, he thought as he put the Allerson folder away in his desk drawer.

  McPherson entered the room. "Cox," the man said in greeting. McPherson was a rough character, his nose broken several times in fights while apprehending suspects. They were both worse for wear. Rowan had a bullet wound that still gave him trouble, not to mention a healthy distrust of people. Anyone could commit crime, he'd learnt. Ruthlessness and criminality came from every part of society, even the innocent looking could reveal a viciousness that would baffle the mind. Very little baffled Rowan at this point. Parents could sell their own children, lovers kill their partner in unfounded jealous fits of rage, but more often, money was at the root of it—as it was with this thief. But then they didn't take everything, he thought, leaning back on his chair and lighting a cheroot, squinting as the acrid smoke stung his eyes. This thief was selective—maybe that just made them smarter. If these were noteworthy pieces, then they would be unlikely to sell whole—they would be too recognizable. More than likely the gold and stones were broken up, sold separately. That's what he would do.

  Walking out of his office, he asked the desk sergeant to retrieve any notes possibly relevant to the housebreaking case and the man returned about half an hour later with a dozen files. Taking them, Rowan walked out of the building and down the street to the coffee shop he often used, ordering a coffee from Mary, the Irish girl taking orders and waiting on the men who frequented this particular coffee house.

  As his coffee arrived, he paid for the beverage and a shilling for Mary's service. The girl smiled at him before retreating. She served him every day, but they hardly spoke. She had a fear of him for what he did for a living.

  Placing his hat on the table, he took a sip of the dark, rich liquid and opened the first file to start absorbing information about this thief. Although he didn't want the case, there was something intriguing about it. He liked his criminals intriguing. He liked the chase, narrowing down the suspect, chasing them down and taking them in. It gave him a sense of achievement, but the accusations placed against the Bow Street Runners were partially true; they—and he—would do just about anything to get their man. They made deals with criminals in exchange for information and it did at times put them in unfortunate situations as information was sometimes more important than justice.

  The information about the things stolen was very detailed, with good insurance drawings of the pieces. Most of them were insured and the owners were compensated for their loss, but it was the imposition that stung. The imposition on Mr. Allerson's mother was more pressing, but the quality had their way in all things.

  If he solved this one quickly, he could get back to the Allerson case before the trail grew too cold. He wanted to do it for the woman who had lost her only son and support—not that it would make her situation much better, having to now live on the small annuity her late husband had provided for h
er. But knowing justice was done was always a comfort—even if a cold one.

  After finishing his coffee, he decided to investigate the latest housebreaking, walking over to Mayfair through busy streets until they grew a little cleaner and more sparsely populated. Finely dressed women walked in groups under parasols, their hair intricately designed underneath silk hats. He'd never understood them or ever really tried to. Even though not far geographically, this was far away from Whitefriars, where he grew up in its tight, crowded alleys.

  Looking up, he noted the façade of the house in question. It was a large one, whitewashed with four stories. The windows and doors on the lower floor were intact and he saw no evidence of abuse on their surfaces. Knocking, he waited for the staff to give him entrance.

  The large glossy black door opened and an older man peered out. "The servant's entrance is in the back," he said haughtily. Sometimes Rowan wondered if the servants of these houses put on more airs and graces than the people who owned them, but they were the law; they didn't use servants’ entrances.

  "Police," Rowan said harshly. "Open the door."

  The man was set to argue, but the look Rowan gave him froze whatever was in his throat. The man swung the door aside and gave Rowan entrance. "Lord and Lady Chemsford are breakfasting. I will enquire if they wish to speak to you," the man said with a sniff.

  "I'll see the house first," Rowan stated. "Where was the piece when it was taken and have there been any signs of disturbance?"

  The man moved toward the stairs. "It was a bracelet. Rubies, purchased in Egypt. It had—"

  "I have seen a depiction of the piece," Rowan cut in. "How long had Lady Chemsford owned it?"

  "About fifteen years."

  "Take me out the back first."

  Again there were no signs of disturbance. Rowan walked around looking for any unusual markings or footprints, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. The sills and sashes were all clean. "When was the last time these windows were washed?"