The man looked confused and stumped for a moment and then said he'd have to enquire with the housekeeper. The look Rowan gave him suggested that now would be an excellent time to do that. When the man grudgingly disappeared, reluctant to leave Rowan on his own, Rowan looked up the windows on the back façade of the house—again nothing discernibly out of the ordinary.
"Three weeks ago," the man said when he returned.
"Alright. Show me the upstairs."
There had been nothing disturbed upstairs either. If the jewel hadn't been taken there was nothing else to indicate that someone had been in the house. The servants were established and trusted; still the bobbies had thoroughly questioned them and searched their quarters. Rowan had read through all of their statements and came across nothing to indicate one of them being involved, but he knew that if he didn't solve this crime a good chunk of them, if not all of them, would have their employment terminated.
The bracelet had been in a jewelry box in Lady Chemsford's bedroom, having been placed there by her maid three nights ago, who had shown him where in the box she had placed it. Apparently Lady Chemsford had worn it to a ball organized by Lord Jutherey at his home. Servants tended to know everything about the people they served, Rowan had learnt over time, and they were often more honest about their master and mistresses whereabouts and activities than the people themselves.
Last, he met Lord and Lady Chemsford in the breakfast room, where they were waiting for him, still seated at opposite sides of a large polished table. He introduced himself and they viewed him as unwelcome as something living in the pond outside, filthying their house with his presence. Lady Chemsford had not noticed anyone taking particular interest in the piece and she had not had it evaluated in the last year. She took offense to the question. After a tirade about how honest people were subjugated and the uselessness of law enforcement, he left, happy to return to the street where the world made sense.
Rowan had never liked the gentry—not that he really had anything to do with them, but their sense of entitlement and hoarding of wealth was the biggest crime of all, but they ran the country and they made the laws to suit themselves. Theirs was a different world that functioned concurrently with his, but crime did cross social boundaries like nothing else.
Chapter 3:
* * *
Serephina's heart beat wildly. Someone was coming and she was cut off from her entrance point. Looking around, she searched frantically for a hiding place. Whoever it was, was coming closer. Taking a breath to dissipate some of the panic rushing through her, she undid the window clasp and peered out. The ledge outside was only wide enough for her toes, but what choice did she have? Carefully and silently, she climbed out onto the slippery ledge, gripping a small decorative protrusion above her head tightly with her fingers. It was a long way down if she fell. She wouldn't survive it.
"Who left the window open? It's freezing," a woman's voice said, a maid by her dialect. Serephina held her breath as an arm reached out to clasp the handle of the window and drew it closed. The maid left and Serephina placed her head to the cold wet surface of the external wall. This was bad—not a good position to get herself into. There was nothing on the wall other than this little ledge. She couldn't go up and she couldn't go down. Desperately looking around, she searched for a solution to her predicament, her fingers soaking up the coldness of the wall.
There was a tree, but her chances of reaching it if she jumped were tentative. Despite the numbing cold, her fingers were burning with her tense grip and her legs had a distinct tremble with the strain of being perched on her toes. She couldn't stay in this position for long. Slowly, she made her way along the ledge, carefully moving along until she reached the house next door where a façade protrusion gave her a moment to recover her breath and her nerves. She stood leaning against the wall for a moment looking around for a route to the roof.
A lamp was lit in Mrs. Castlemore's window ensuring that her target for the night was firmly out of reach. She would return empty-handed that night.
The bang of the door flying open made Serephina jump. Placing her hand on her heart, she sucked in her breath when Millicent bounded into the room. "You scared me half to death."
"A mouse would scare you," Millicent accused. "You are the most faint-hearted person I know."
Serephina smiled tightly. Perhaps she wouldn't be so faint-hearted if she didn't live under the fear that the law would come and drag her out the door, or worse, the owner of this house evicting them. Placing her comb down, she looked at Millicent through the mirror. "And to what do I owe such an abrupt visit this morning?"
"Mary says there is ice-skating in Hyde Park," she said pleadingly. Sometimes it amazed Serephina how young Millicent was. They were only a few years apart, but the gravity of their situation had pressed heavily on Serephina, making her forget the joys and pleasures that could be had on a cold winter’s day. Through her labor and planning, she had succeeded in hiding their true situation from Millicent. "Please, please, please. I adore ice-skating."
"It is freezing outside," Serephina said, knowing that their plan for the day included a visit to Hyde Park. Millicent would be unable to let it go, being quite determined in getting what she wanted.
"We'll dress warmly. I will let you wear my coat."
"And what will you wear?"
"I will wear my riding coat—it is warm enough. Besides, ice-skating requires exertion. I won't be cold, provided I don't stop."
"If you can convince Mrs. Rushmore," Serephina relented, turning to Millicent with a challenging look, as convincing Mrs. Rushmore was the prominent barrier to the plan.
Millicent jumped up off the edge of the bed and marched out of the room. Serephina could hear her calling Mrs. Rushmore's name, searching through the house. There was no lack of will in Millicent. Serephina smiled at her sister's pig-headed ways; they could both be accused of the trait, then grew more serious. She would do anything to protect Millie's world—the one where everything was possible and the future was bright. Serephina couldn't afford to think beyond this overarching objective to a future of her own. The only thing that mattered now was Millicent's season and getting her settled with a good husband. What came after that would have to wait until she could plan such things at leisure.
Rushing footsteps were coming up the stairs. "She's coming. Are you ready?"
"I will be in ten minutes," Serephina called back, not sure what Millicent had said to make Mrs. Rushmore relent so easily. Millicent's steps returned down the stairs. Ice-skating, Serephina said to herself with disbelief and walked to her wardrobe. It had been a long while since she'd been ice-skating. But perhaps there was nothing better for a day like this and to chase away the tension left from the previous night.
It didn't take them long to find the ice, which covered a pond. Serephina was carrying the two picnic chairs while Millicent carried their basket with the warm chocolate Cook had prepared for them. "I will go hire some skates," Millie said and strode off to a booth set up to let skates.
They set up the chairs and the basket served as a small table between them. "You returned empty handed last night," Mrs. Rushmore said quietly as they prepared their seating area.
"Yes. I was interrupted."
"I'm sorry to press on you, but we are running low on funds."
"I will go back tonight." It was a risk going back, particularly if someone had noted the open window as suspicious.
Millie returned with two sets of skates. "I only got skates for us. I can go back and get you a pair as well, Mrs. Rushmore."
"Absolutely not. Over my dead body will I put blades on my feet and traipse around hard ice—a recipe for disaster if I ever heard one, with my petticoats splayed for all to see," Mrs. Rushmore said with a disapproving sniff.
"I suspected as much," Millicent said, giving Serephina an I-told-you-so look. Serephina looked at her skates with conflicting emotions. She could already anticipate the pleasure of moving around on the ice, letting
the wind color her face. It also felt like something she shouldn't allow herself. She had to be the responsible one, and this didn't feel responsible. But perhaps she also needed balance in her life, or the pressures would break her. "Come on," Millicent said. "You're not in your dotage yet." Millicent already had her skates on and was stepping carefully toward the ice.
Dotage indeed, Serephina thought with an offended huff.
Lifting her skirts up, she tied the skates to her shoes. Millie was nervously finding her feet on the ice and Serephina joined her, hovering unstably on the blades. Moving a little further away, Millie fell flat on her backside laughing and Serephina couldn't help laughing with her, but was interrupted by her own severe instability. It had been too long since she'd been on ice-skates, but she knew she had to move to gain stability. Tentatively, Millie got up and shuffled her feet forward. Mrs. Rushmore was in fits of laughter behind them.
Carefully moving forward, a young man came skating over. "Oh, dear," he said. "You seem to require some assistance." He was a handsome young man, smiling; his attention firmly on Millicent, who looked up at him and smiled in return. She did look lovely, Serephina noted. Her hair was informal, tied back in a loose knot, her long dark blond curls wild and her cheeks rosy with the cold. The man held his hands out for her, skating backward and drawing Millie with him. They moved around the frozen pond, the man helping Millie. She grabbed his waist when she lost her balance at one point. It was one of the only times a strange man could effectively experience such intimacy, while still properly supervised—except at a ball, where there were hundreds of disapproving matrons watching.
"Young man!" Mrs. Rushmore complained and the man smiled, slowly letting go of Millicent.
"Can I offer my services as an escort?" another young man asked Serephina. He was of dark complexion and had an intense stare, which made Serephina blush.
"I would be very grateful," Serephina relented, taking the man's arm. "You seem to be very stable on your skates."
"I must confess, I have spent a great deal of time whiling winter days away on the ice," the man said. "I have just returned from St. Andrews in Scotland. I am Vincent Marsh."
"Serephina Woodford," she said in return. He moved her along the ice faster than she could manage on her own. Serephina turned her attention to her escort. Without a doubt, he was a young man from one of the finer households, just returned after completing his education. They were around the same age, she suspected, or he might be slightly younger. "Are you enjoying being back in London?"
"Immensely." He was handsome, with a slim nose and firm lips. "Although I am planning on traveling very soon. My intention is to see Egypt."
"Egypt? How marvelous." Images and possibilities rushed through Serephina's mind. A trip to Egypt would possibly be the most amazing thing she could imagine. It would be something she could only ever do with a husband, which seemed unlikely at this point. The chances were good that she would never leave the British Isles. "You must be very excited."
"It is particularly exciting planning travel. I did a fair bit of it in my youth. I was born in India, you see."
Serephina was impressed. Vincent spoke some more about his plans and Serephina listened. His gloved hand took hers as she was more stable now and they could skate a little further apart, and she felt his fingers wrap around hers. He didn't say anything, just smiled and slid them along. It was an intimacy she wasn't used to; it wasn't out bounds in the current situation, but an intimacy nonetheless—something that would be common and expected by a husband. Suddenly she wondered what it would be like to be kissed. His eyes sought hers and she wondered what it was he wanted from her. In a sense, she knew; he wanted to be near her, wanting an intimacy far more indelicate than holding hands, or so she had been warned. Technically she had some idea how that such things worked, but effectively it was a mystery. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to be touched in such a way. Blushing deeply, she turned her gaze away, seeking distraction.
"May I call on you?" Vincent asked.
"Of course," she replied. "I would very much like to hear of your plans before you go." Serephina blushed again, still feeling a bit intimidated by her recent thoughts on intimacy. She felt clumsy and nervous when a man paid her attention, seeking to spend time with her. Vincent was clearly not looking for a wife at this point, his mind turned to expeditions, but he still sought to include her in his excitement in a small way.
Serephina's focus had been so exclusively on Millicent, she had done nothing to encourage male attention to herself. She wasn't unattractive, but she never put herself in a situation making her available for their attention. Although this young man sounded too intriguing to pass by, and what was the harm with a call from a young gentleman? She wasn't made of stone. Bidding him goodbye, she returned to her chair beside Mrs. Rushmore.
"They buzz around you two like flies drawn to honey," Mrs. Rushmore stated. Serephina clasped her hands in her lap, watching Millicent reticent to withdraw from the ice and the young man still skating around her. "I think he's quite taken that one. Nice clothes. He might be worth having a look at. Probably too young, but you never know. Some young men have the means for taking a wife."
Seraphina looked at Mrs. Rushmore, amazed how firmly the woman went about the task of finding a match for Millicent. She saw Vincent skating on the other side of the pond, talking with his acquaintances. She couldn't help wondering at the honey part. What would it be like to be so intimate with a man? She couldn't help a frisson of nervousness steal down her spine at the very thought of it—although she couldn't quite describe the nature of the nervousness.
Chapter 4:
* * *
A message came to the rooms Rowan kept in an old house on Whitefriar Street. It was delivered by an unkempt-looking boy and Rowan gave him a tuppence which he quickly pocketed. Closing the door, he sat down at the worn table and opened the note, which by the nature of the script had been hastily written. He noted Superintendent Stephenson's handwriting immediately. There had been another burglary. The note gave no more details other than the address—another fine house, this time in Belgravia.
Rowan took a large sip of his ale and placed the tankard back on the table. Getting up, he grabbed his jacket draped over the table and stepped out of his rooms, locking the door firmly behind him. A baby was crying somewhere in the building and Rowan had to step over some poor soul sleeping in their common stairwell, a vagrant having been pitied by one of the tenants during the freezing cold night. It was an older man, stinking of gin, wearing a suit that would have been very fine in its day. Rowan briefly wondered if the man had been the owner of the suit when it was a garment to be proud of or if he had bought it in the market, already reduced to its current worn condition, but it didn't matter. Mrs. Herrier, the landlady, would chase the man away as soon as she spotted him. Mrs. Herrier had the mercy of a highwayman and as much charm, but she kept the building in order.
The building was never entirely quiet, but more so than the street outside, which was in full swing this time of the morning. The air still had an icy quality and the horses' breath condensed as they worked their way through the crowded street. Rowan pulled his gloves out of his jacket pocket and put them on, before stopping by the costermonger cart that was always present, rain or shine, and bought some bread and cheese, wishing he had time to stop for a coffee, but that would have to wait.
At least the sun was coming out, which meant the day would be somewhat warm for a while. The cold did keep the fog away, which everyone was grateful for. London tended to be better behaved when its activities were plain for all to see.
Walking past the remains of old parliament, he made his way to Belgravia and the house that had been targeted by the thief. It was one of a row of finely façaded houses, whitewashed with glossy black and brass trimmings. Standing across the street, surveying the house, Rowan wondered how the thief had chosen this house. The thief was selective, which indicated that they may know exactly what they
were after. Perhaps they picked the jewel and then the house as consequence. Again, he could see no signs of intrusion anywhere. Rowan conceded that the thief may be an expert locksmith, but doubted an officially sanctioned one as that guild was very selective of its members and the character of apprentices to whom they chose to convey they skill and profession to.
Making himself known to the house, he went inside, past frightened servants, and surveyed the interior and the bedroom where the jewel had last been placed. There were already a couple of bobbies there, taking statements and making drawings of the house and its particulars.
There was nothing remarkable about the room, nor any signs that someone had been there. The necklace had apparently been placed in a flat bowl that had also contained a string of pearls—also gone.
The maid informed him that the necklace had been worn two days prior during a ball, but the pearls had been sitting there for quite a while. The comment struck him. The previous housebreaking had involved jewelry worn three days prior at another event. Suddenly, Rowan knew how the thief was identifying his victims. He must travel in those circles to identify the pieces he wanted from events where all the fine ladies and gentlemen paraded their jewelry in front of each other. The thief would select the one he wanted and then follow it home.
A logical sequence clicked into place and as much as he tried, he couldn't see it unfolding any other way. These housebreakings were not random; there were no unfocused searches. This thief functioned on precision, knowing exactly what he wanted and where to find it. It had to be that they identified their targets ahead of time. Questioning the maid further, he learned that the piece had not been evaluated or worked on by a jeweler.
Thief Taker Page 2
