Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  Unable to garner any more useful information, Rowan left and returned to Charing Cross, adamant that the thief is someone who attends these events. He felt pleased with his progress this morning, but was a little uncertain how to proceed. Thiefs, beggars and murderers he knew, but not the quality.

  The files of the previous burglaries were sitting on his desk and he started searching through each one, determining where the piece had been worn last. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms and looked out of the window, where nothing but roof-tops and smoking chimneys could be seen. All the pieces had been worn very recently to them being taken, except in one case where it didn't say, but he would be ready to wager it had also recently adorned some fine lady.

  "Cox!" Superintendent Stephenson shouted from inside his office. "The Commissioner wants a word."

  Rowan groaned with annoyance. The Commissioner was taking an unusual interest in this case, which meant that he had to report his progress. Normally he was left to go about his business and nick the person responsible when he had enough proof to hang them. Burglary wasn't a hanging offense, which only highlighted that this case was being treated as special because of the nature of the victims. He still bristled at it, knowing his time was better spent chasing Mr. Allerson's murderer.

  Seeking the Commissioner, he walked down the large marble staircase to the first floor where the Commissioner had an office. Mr. Alstrom, the Commissioner's secretary, greeted him vaguely, telling him to proceed into the Commissioner, Lord Stansom's, office.

  "There you are, Cox," the Commissioner said, emerging from his private room in the back. "I take it you heard about the new burglary."

  "I have, my lord," Rowan said to the man who could dismiss his service without notice or consequence. "I have just come from the house now."

  "And what are your thoughts? We must catch this person. What say you of the man?"

  "He is a determined individual, and skilled. Leaves very little evidence of his presence, but I have deduced some insight from his habits."

  "What insights?" the Commissioner said, sitting down awkwardly to appease an old war wound. The Commissioner previously being a military man had garnered him respect with the men.

  "It seems that most of the pieces were worn within a few days of the housebreakings," Rowan started. "It would appear that the thief is privy to these events and is selecting his targets there."

  "Privy? What kind of events?" the Commissioner asked, his mustache bristled with his frown.

  "From my enquiries, they are dances—balls, to be exact. It seems the thief attends these events, my lord."

  "Attends? No, you are wrong, Cox. Thieves don't attend balls. What you are suggesting is preposterous. Clearly, you are mistaken. If what you say is true, and the thief sees these pieces of jewelry, then it must be someone who serves, or is watching from outside. Look there and you will find your thief." The Commissioner made a dismissive wave with his hand and Rowan knew this discussion was over.

  The Commissioner, as so many of his class, was reluctant to believe his own society was capable of producing criminals, except the odd duel between drunken hotheads. It was an issue Rowan had run into previously—this reluctance to associate any of the upper class with crass behavior, but they were as guilty and complicit in crime as any other. The truth was that no servant could have access to a dozen of these events, even if hired in to assist. The chances were just too infinitesimal. Admittedly, it could be someone observing these events, seeing pieces from outside, but it would still have to be someone with intimate knowledge of society—able to identify the wearer and where to find them.

  He would need strong proof in this case, Rowan knew, and his gut told him it would be a shock when it became known who the thief was. His instincts said it was someone known to the victims, perhaps some young man either fallen on hard times, or even approaching it as a challenge. None of the victims would suffer for the loss of the jewelry.

  While Rowan was willing to entertain the idea that an outside party—a member of the cold, hungry masses—might be the culprit, his gut told him this was someone from their own society. He wasn't sure if the ilk of the victim had anything to do with the selection, or if the thief was motivated purely by the quality of the jewelry. They certainly didn't compromise on the pieces they were after. Unfortunately, he didn't know enough about society to be able to garner the standing of the victims, needing to get more information to make a determination. Finding out who the victims were could be very telling, he concluded, about the selection process and maybe even the thief himself.

  Chapter 5:

  * * *

  Captain Heresworth shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Mary carried the steaming hot tea service into the parlor, interrupting the quiet unease. Serephina guessed that calling on young women was not a regular habit of the young Captain, who smiled back whenever Millie smiled at him. It would be fair to say that they all had high hopes for this young man, particularly so as Millie seemed to like him.

  "I read in the paper that they are exhibiting German paintings in one of the halls at Greenwich," Millie said.

  "Yes," Captain Heresworth said, still looking uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "It is open to the public. I could show you, if you like."

  "I think Greenwich might be a bit far to take our Millicent, young man," Mrs. Rushmore cut in.

  "Oh course," the Captain said looking admonished and embarrassed.

  "Would you like some tea?" Serephina asked, feeling sorry for him.

  "That would be splendid." He smiled awkwardly.

  Mary returned as Serephina poured the tea into the fine bone-china tea set. It wasn't their mother's tea set with the damask roses painted on them; Serephina hadn't been able to find it, so she’d had to buy another. It still hurt that her mother's things were gone, but over the years of her father's unstoppable demise, all their mother's treasures had been sold.

  Mary stood awkwardly, "Miss?" she said in a whisper, looking at Serephina. With a bright smile, Serephina excused herself and followed Mary out into the hall.

  "What is it, Mary?"

  "This came for you," Mary said. "Delivered by a boy who said it had to be given to you." Mary opened her palm to show a white shell.

  Serephina grabbed the shell and palmed it. "Thank you, Mary," she said with a small smile, before returning to the parlor and the company of Captain Heresworth, who was regaling them with a story on the exercises they had performed recently. The young man was perhaps not the most fluent conversationalist, but he enjoyed talking about his career.

  The shell sat inside Serephina's palm. Turner wanted to see her. The shell was the signal he sent when he wanted her to seek him out. They had agreed that he would never come to the house so she had to go see him. Sometimes Mrs. Rushmore delivered the cargo that they regularly supplied to the young man Serephina had met during the time their world had imploded.

  Before long, Captain Heresworth had to leave, coming to the end of the appropriate amount of time for a social call; one that had been quite awkward, but he endured like the gentleman he was.

  "We have plans for this evening," Millie said as they were all about to stand.

  "Madam Tierry's ball?" Captain Heresworth asked.

  "Yes," Millie said with a smile. "Shall you be there?"

  "I shall make the effort."

  "Then I might save you a dance," she said slightly haughtily. Millie wasn't afraid of dealing with young men and she also had a propensity for teasing, which at times made Captain Heresworth blush. She didn't mind the balls and events of the season, enjoying dressing for the evening and the resulting gossip afterward. Serephina would happily do without them.

  They all bid him good day and Serephina turned to Mrs. Rushmore. "I have to go see Turner," she whispered.

  "What does he want?" Mrs. Rushmore never like Turner, who was nothing more than a necessary evil in her book, as he received the goods they provided and drove a hard bargain. "Would you like me to go in
your stead?"

  "No, he's asked for me and he wouldn't unless there was something he needed to say." Serephina, on the other hand, had learnt to accept Turner for what he was—a crook. He was a creature who survived the harsh realities of London's streets. He had stolen from them when they were at their lowest, but he had also been the only person who had shown her a form of kindness—taught her how to act with a bit of ruthlessness. His lessons had served her, even if she'd always wished they hadn't been necessary. He had pushed her at the time when they were lost and falling, so that she had to take matters into her own hands, like he did. He'd also been honest about her options, which were either sell her body or find something else to support them, if not to thrive. It was through his advice that she had succeeded in rescuing their lives. For all she owed him, he still made her very nervous.

  Donning her hooded cloak, she had Mary call a hack, who carried her eastward toward Temple. Everyone who saw her hooded figure would know she was hiding her identity, but that was better than people actually seeing her.

  Getting out, she walked a while until she found the gin palace he'd assigned for their rare meetings—The Lucky Goose. Large flames shot up from two curved metal tubes outside the door, which hissed slightly as she walked past. The place was exuberantly decorated with bright paintings and elaborate plaster moldings, but this time of day it was less busy than at night, when a place like this served as a bright, shining beacon for every person living or working around here—a point of brightness in a dark, harsh night.

  Spotting the man she sought, she slipped into the polished wooden bench across from him. "Turner," she said as greeting and finally dropped the hood back. He smiled tightly as he leaned back and considered her. His reddish-brown hair had been cut short, but otherwise, he didn't look that different from the last time she'd seen him. He was well dressed—by all accounts a successful man around these parts, helped considerably by her activities, along with whatever else he did—which she didn't want to know about. He wasn't much older than her, but had experienced a much different life from hers. "I am here," she said, knowing he wouldn't call her here unless there was something they needed to discuss.

  Tipping his empty, small gin glass to balance on its bottom edge, he looked around. "Would you like a drink?"

  "No," Serephina said. “Thank you.” She truly did fear gin and the things people did in their relentless dedication to it.

  "There have been bobbies going around the jewelers," he said in his heavy east-London accent after a while, his voice low and earnest. "They're lookin’ for some particular pieces if you catch my drift." Serephina understood; they were looking for the jewelry she had taken, or he wouldn't be telling her. "So I've asked around, and the coppers have put one of the former runner on the case, Cox. Now he's a mean bastard, and he's looking for you."

  Serephina blinked; her heart beat wildly. She didn't know what this meant, but Turner was worried enough to call her here, which meant that she should be worried too. She didn't know what the fact that he was 'a former runner' meant, but it was obviously not good. "What does this mean?"

  Turner considered her for a while, his eyes dark-blue like bilberries. He was a handsome young man by some, but Serephina knew too much of his personality and ruthlessness to ever see him as such. "It means you have to be careful. It also means that they're going to start looking for the stones by themselves, if they aren't already. This changes things." He brought his finger up to his chest, pointing at himself. "It puts me at risk."

  Serephina bit her lips together. "Should we stop?" She couldn't afford to stop. They had to see this season through and seasons tended to hemorrhage money. She tried to think of ways of cutting down their expenses, but it was difficult to do and keep Millie within the group of marriageable young women, which required attendance to all the balls, and other important events. And now they had Captain Heresworth, who seemed genuinely interested in her. Pulling back now could be detrimental.

  Turner leaned back and put his arm along the backrest of the bench. "Two choices," he said. "We either go for smaller pieces with less distinct qualities, or we sell them elsewhere."

  Serephina considered what he was saying. "What do you mean elsewhere?"

  "Paris."

  "Paris?" she repeated with surprise.

  "The only other market for stones of this quality. Where else? Scotland? It has to be Paris, but the costs will be high."

  He'd have to take more of a cut, she realized. She knew that everything he told her could be false and he was taking advantage of her—she had no doubt he would do that. Unfortunately, she was not in a position to find an alternative fence as he was the only fence she knew. What he was saying could also be true.

  Smaller pieces would be a nightmare and would take much more effort and risk, while she would get a smaller cut if she kept to larger pieces. Neither outcome was good for her as she would have to do more work either way. The precariousness of her situation pressed down uncomfortably on her, making her terrified that they were going to lose it all. Rubbing her temples, she tried to ease the tension. She had to save Millie; she refused to let her have to face the violence and degradation on the streets. Death might actually be kinder.

  Pulling herself together after a moment of sheer panic, she nodded. She had to deal with this setback; she had no choice. Standing up, she replaced her hood to protect her identity.

  "You watch out for Cox," he said as a parting piece of advice. "Do not toy with him. He is a singular man, but make no mistake—he is ruthless."

  Serephina was taking the words in, but her mind was too jumbled to be impacted by a new level of unease. Cox, she thought mentally. She would just have to be more careful.

  Serephina's sense of unease after her meeting with Turner didn't let. Millie and Mrs. Rushmore were waiting for her when she finally descended, feeling embarrassed that she had been so distracted she had made them wait for her. Smiling cautiously, she took a deep, ragged breath as they stepped out the door to the hired carriage, which would slowly take them through Mayfair's evening traffic.

  There was a queue for alighting at the house's entrance and they sat in the darkened carriage waiting their turn. The house was brightly lit, with golden lights shining through the windows. The ball was already in full swing and they could see dashing gentlemen in black and women in colorful gowns.

  "Do you think Captain Heresworth is there already?" Millie asked.

  "I expect so." Serephina responded.

  "Do you think he likes me?"

  Mrs. Rushmore chuckled. "I think he'd be there with bells on if it brought your attention."

  Millie turned her gaze back to the bright windows and their carriage slowly moved up the line. Serephina wondered if Millie was actually quite attached to the young Captain. She would never admit it so blatantly.

  Turning her gaze out the other way, Serephina saw a man leaning on the wrought iron gate on the other side of the street, wearing a brown bowler hat and a green jacket. He was watching the scene intently, eating what looked like pistachios out of a small brown paper bag. By his dress, it was clear he was not a gentleman. His sharp eyes seemed to survey the coming and going carriages.

  Serephina's breath froze. She knew who he was. This could be the Cox that Turner had warned her about. She didn't know how, but she just knew. Ruthless, was the word that reverberated through her mind and she could see how it applied to the man. Suddenly, she wanted to flee, but she calmed herself, realizing that he couldn't see her in the darkness of the carriage.

  Putting her hand up to her mouth, she studied him. He was large and muscular, his form showing through his clothes. His jaw line was strong, with high cheekbones and full lips. This was not a man who'd lived an idle life. Her eyes took in the lean muscles along his arms and thighs and a trim waist. Not a man to be trifled with.

  He was looking for her—hunting for her, she realized and Turner's warning crashed back into her mind. Serephina felt a tremor work its way up her sp
ine.

  Before she knew it, it was their turn to alight.

  "I'm so excited for this evening," Millie said. "This will be a grand ball, I think."

  Serephina only nodded, refusing to raise her eyes from the pavement as their carriage moved away.

  "In we go then," Mrs. Rushmore said and Serephina raised the skirts of her pale green gown. Unable to help herself, she threw a look back at the man as she reached the top of the stairs. His gaze absently met hers and her heart froze, but his eyes traveled on, releasing her from the hold had on her. Clenching her fist, she walked into the house, guided by liveried footmen.

  Chapter 6:

  * * *

  Rowan was led through the well-known house on Fentiner Street. It was sumptuously decorated in rich, dark-red velvets and gold. A large gilt mirror in the hall reflected all the lights, making it sparkle, while he walked through seeing gentlemen in the parlor with finely dressed women entertaining them. This was not some common whore-house; this was where gentlemen paid a fortune to be entertained.

  Miss Amelia's private parlor was in the back and as he was let in, he found her at her desk, recording the business of the establishment. A pair of small spectacles sat on the end of her nose. She smiled cautiously when she looked up and saw him. "Mr. Cox, to what do I owe this pleasure? Please sit," she said, indicating toward a round table. "Would you like a drink? Tea perhaps? Or something stronger?"

  "Tea would be fine," he said, actually parched after his walk. Amelia Summer joined him at the table, the silks of her dark-blue gown making a rushing sound as she moved, as fine a gown as any lady he had ever seen. This was her establishment. With the ring of a bell, a tea service was brought and he saw the small scar on her neck that testified to how they knew each other.

  Miss Summer had been stuck with the misfortune of being the target of a disturbed mind and Rowan had chased the man down, who had held a knife to the young Miss Amelia's throat. He remembered the sight of her well; tears of fear had been running down her cheeks, while the man ranted about cleansing the world of filth.