Turning back, he made his way down the house again, past irate owners who glared at him as he passed. As there was nothing else to see, he made his way out to the street and started walking back toward the station.
Faint sunlight made the day a little brighter. People were wrapped up against the cold and Rowan picked a coffee house to have his midday meal. Taking a seat, he looked out the window at the never-stopping activities on the street outside. This was a wealthy part of town, so there were finely dressed couples walking past, servants returning from market and costermongers plying their trade.
He was making progress with the case, narrowing down the culprit's methods. He knew what to watch out for now—someone who skulked around the roofs of London. And not just that: someone who could fit into the small window they had entered the house through.
Pulling out the piece of paper he'd been working on, he perused the names of those who had attended all the events. It was narrowing and there was now one more list of invitees to come. The names all sounded ridiculously incapable—Harold Halthorpe, Ignatius Forthbridge, Benedict Worthy. None of these people sounded like thieves, or even capable of taking the risks necessary for this venture. One of them was even a vicar. He didn't know what the others did, in so much as the people in this class did anything other than thought well of themselves, but he would find out. If he was a less cynical man, he would cross the vicar off the list, but Rowan had learnt that moral fortitude was sometimes an illusion.
Taking the steps up the entrance of the Metropolitan Police building, he dodged the flow of people coming out, almost wishing he'd taken the back entrance where the accused were brought in, as he'd run into a tour of the building, which included finely dressed women, clinging to each other, here for a thrill—observing where criminals were brought and questioned.
This morbid fascination with crime was ever pervasive. People flocked to every murder scene he's ever worked, wanting to know every detail, seeking the incomprehensible thrill of it all. They never saw or considered the truly horrible parts: the grieving mother, the destitute family and the uncomprehending children. Reality wasn't what these people wanted; they wanted shock and delighted horror while never actually having to touch any of it.
"Mr. Cox," he heard as he passed through the busy hall, turning to see Mr. Alstrom. "I took the liberty of requesting the invitation list of the event you observed a night back."
Rowan approached the man, wondering if he was more convinced than his employer as to who was responsible for these crimes. "That is very helpful. Thank you."
"Lord Stansom expects you to report to him by weeks end," the man said stiffly. Rowan knew full well that Mr. Alstrom didn't entirely approve of him, but then, he couldn't really bring himself to care.
Taking the list, which covered several pages, he gave Mr. Alstrom a nod before seeking out his desk on the floor above, where McPherson was sorting through a pile of files. He looked up and smirked. "How's it going with the dandy thief?" he asked with a snigger.
"It is progressing," Rowan stated and placed the invitation list down on his desk. Ignoring McPherson's jibes, he started studying the list. It was written in a beautiful hand, probably a woman who had worked on the beauty of her penmanship. It still baffled him the things that the gentry felt was important.
Going down the names, he looked for the now familiar names on his list. The vicar was absent, which finally crossed him off Rowan's list, but a few of the names stood out. It was time to hone in on his suspects. From experience he knew things tended to go quickly from here.
Calling a boy, he sent a note to Amelia Summers to see if she knew anything of these men, then sought out Mr. Alstrom again.
"What other invitations have been forwarded to Lord Stansom in the next week or two?" Rowan asked, wanting to get a handle on where the thief would strike next.
"I am not his social secretary, Mr. Cox," Mr. Alstrom said with an offended sniff.
"You can still get access to his invitations. Who else am I going to ask?" Rowan said with a challenge.
Alstrom's chin rose in annoyance, but he quietly continued. "I will enquire and forward you the results." Rowan didn't like Alstrom either as he was a man who thrived on his meager elevation in social standing through his affiliation with Lord Stansom. Elevation by association was not a quality Rowan admired, but then there were a great many people who did.
A note returned from Amelia Summers in the afternoon. One of the gentlemen on his list was a botanist of some renown, another was a drunk and the other two she knew nothing about.
Rowan considered this information, dismissing the drunk, who, although he had means, would never have the discipline required for this undertaking. The botanist being of some renown was likely older, but Rowan would confirm that conclusion. The other two he would have to seek out, which was a simple task as one of the invitation lists included the addresses the invitations had been sent to, both at notorious bachelor residences.
They weren't far apart, but Rowan went to the nearest first and veered to the closest coffee house, which was warm and filled with young gentlemen, sitting around and drinking in groups, waiting for their titles to finally be given to them.
Rowan knew these men were raucous and responsible for a good portion of the disturbance in London as they sought entertainment and distraction, while seeking a wife who would accept the reduced circumstances of a man living on allowance.
"Harold Halthorpe," Rowan said to the large man behind the bar, wearing a white apron and a neat moustache.
The man indicated with his head toward the left of the shop. "The loud one," he said in an Irish accent and turned away.
Rowan turned his gaze to the direction indicated, spotting a portly man laughing. He had pink spots on his cheeks. "That one?" Rowan asked the attendant behind the bar.
"That's your man."
He really isn't, Rowan thought. That man couldn't clamber over a fence let alone a roof. His waistcoat button stretched across the man's round belly, which wobbled as he laughed. With a growl, Rowan left, seeking out the address of the other man on his list.
After a costermonger pointed the door out to him, Rowan withdrew across the street and watched for the man coming out of his house. It took a while. Patience truly was a virtue in Rowan's profession, but he wasn't ready to let the man know he was there yet.
Eventually the man came out. He was small and slim, brown hair and eyes—a very average-looking young man. The nature of his residence meant he wasn't a man of great means. This whole street was for young men like him. Rowan watched as the man adjusted his hat and walked down the street, and Rowan followed.
The list of upcoming events was delivered to Rowan's rooms that evening and he surveyed it. Another of the season's mainstays was taking place the next night and Rowan knew in his gut that the thief would be there.
Lying back in his bed with the faint light from his lamp barely chasing away of the dark of the room, he closed his eyes and felt the tension in him. He wondered if he should send for Lizzie. She knew his body and he knew hers, and she never pried too close or indicated that she was interested in staying after. She liked the state of their transaction the way it was, and it suited him too. He also knew that he was not the only person who she availed her services to, garnering a decent living in the process. But Lizzie wasn't necessarily available at a moment's notice, and he certainly wasn't prepared to risk seeking comfort in some unknown woman on the street.
Closing his eyes, he sighed. Tomorrow he would be on the trail. He had his man in sight, knowing both the target and the mode this man preferred. He would be free to turn his attention back to Allerson—probably within a few days.
Standing at the entrance of yet another fine house, Rowan observed the line of carriages and the gentry arriving, dressed in silks and jewels.
"Scram," a footman said, approaching him. "No one wants your presence here." The man waved him away dismissively.
"Police," Rowan said. "Fuck o
ff."
The man sniffed and pursed his lips, but interfered no further.
Through the procession of people, Rowan saw a set of sapphires that would draw anyone's attention, particularly his thief. This was the priciest jewel Rowan had seen and he called over the footman who looked reticent at obliging. "Who is that woman?" Rowan called, indicating the older woman.
"Marchioness de Rayenel," the man said, stiff with disapproval.
That was the most worthy piece of jewelry there and Rowan was sure he had the place where he would catch the thief. He continued to study the stream of persons arriving, but young Ignatius Forthbridge wasn't one of them. "Is there another entrance?" he asked the footman who was still stationed at the entrance.
"Just a servant's entrance."
Annoyed, Rowan returned to his vantage point. The young man would definitely not use the servant's entrance. He waited, but the man didn't arrive and attendees were starting to leave. By the time the house closed, he had neither arrived nor left. The Marchioness, with her lovely jewels left, and Rowan was torn over following the jewelry or firmly identifying whether Ignatius Forthbridge had really been in attendance. The judge trying this case would need to know so Rowan stayed.
The house finally closed its door and extinguished the multitude of candles lighting the ballroom. It was too late to make enquiries at Mr. Forthbridge's residence, but Rowan could keep watch on the target residence. The footman might know where, but he was firmly shut inside his employer's house and the street was quiet.
Rowan took a moment to enjoy the sunrise on the Marchioness’ roof, where Rowan had spent the night in wait for the thief. It was a rare sight in his life and actually quite beautiful up this high, through the dark coal smoke starting to flow out of the chimneys of London. The thief normally didn't strike the same night as identifying the jewelry, but Rowan hadn't wanted to take the chance. He would be back that night.
Climbing back down with stiff limbs after a cold night on a roof, he made his way over to Mr. Forthbridge's residence and knocked sharply on the door. It was still early, but any servant would be about their business. An older woman answered, wearing a white mob-cap and matching shawl around her shoulders.
"I seek Mr. Forthbridge."
"He is not here," she answered.
"It is a matter of urgency," he said, which is what he usually said to get information about someone.
"He has been called away," the woman responded, "to Sussex. His father has taken ill. You will have to seek him there, or wait for his return."
"When did he depart?"
"Around midday yesterday. A note came and he left immediately. Can I assist you with something?"
"Are you sure?"
"I am quite certain," she said sharply. He saw no artifice in her and that disapproving look could only be genuine. The woman closed the door, uninterested in assisting further.
The story was easy enough to check, but if Mr. Forthbridge was away, there may not be any more burglaries until his return.
Exhausted, Rowan made his way home, but he didn't have time to take off his jacket before a messenger arrived, handing him a note. Another burglary had occurred the previous night, at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Cavisham. Rowan couldn't believe his eyes. He swore. It was the same thief or they wouldn't have sent him the note if the methods didn't indicate such. It couldn't be Mr. Forthbridge—which meant all suspects had been ruled off his list. He had missed something.
Despite his exhaustion, he pulled out the lists of invitations and went over them again. There were no gentlemen in common across the sheets. Maybe Stansom had been right all along, but there had been no one watching—unless the thief and the person directing them were separate. He'd discarded the women, but perhaps that had been a misstep.
Drawing up another list, he had a new list of suspects. One of these women would be informing the thief—hell, one of these women could be the thief. Having scoured the streets of London for criminality, he knew what women were capable of, even if many didn't believe so. And she'd struck again.
A week later, he took a spot on the broad entrance to Grennington House after explaining his business to the butler. He watched the stream of people arriving for the evening, and the elderly man pointed out the women on his list—those that had been to every event where a piece of jewelry had been identified.
"Miss Clara Venterville, and Dowager Fairchild," the man said. While the Dowager was too old, Rowan considered the woman with small, round spectacles. His gut told him not. He got a tingle in his stomach when he felt he had his man—woman in this case, and Miss Clara wasn't it.
"Madam Rouchard," the butler said, indicating a slightly older woman wearing purple with black trim. "American. Obscenely wealthy and looking to marry a title." Rowan observed the diamonds around the woman's neck. She could certainly be the target, but the thief had changed their method last night and he was out of step on that account as they had gone for a piece he hadn't noticed—a set of more demure earrings, but then it could have been an anomaly.
He studied another pair of women as they seemed to travel in pairs if not entire groups. There was a group of giggling girls and he dismissed the lot of them. He was sure they were of age, but they were entirely too young in mentality.
Rowan was getting bored, wondering if he was wasting his time.
"Miss Millicent Woodford, Miss Serephina Woodford and Mrs. Rushmore."
His eyes traveled to the young girl, whose eyes were shining bright with excitement and anticipation. Next came the older woman who he dismissed on sight, and then the second young woman.
The tingle in his stomach asserted itself as he watched her, carefully taking the steps up to the entrance with her head down, while lifting her skirts to give her feet clearance. Reaching the top, she let go of the material of her skirt and smiled, adjusting the gloves that covered her arm. Her hair was light brown with shades of gold and her eyes were clear and blue. A perfect mouth—full and rosy. She said something to the older woman, the chaperone, the looked around, spotting him.
It was her. He knew it in his gut. He'd found his thief.
The reaction in her was barely perceptible, but he thought he saw one. She knew who he was. The guilty were always looking for him. Stiffly, she walked past him into the house. She wore blue, a shade lighter than her eyes and he studied her profile as she walked past.
"Permanently residing in London, I believe," the butler continued, before spotting another person on his list, but Rowan had stopped listening. He itched to follow her into the house, but he wasn’t allowed and it didn't matter what business he had there. Lord Stansom would have him over the coals if he barged into a ball. He didn't need to—he had her now.
Chapter 9:
* * *
Splotches of water distorted the view out of the window pane. The panes were cold to the touch and a mist formed around her fingers. It had rained all morning and they'd been stuck inside, even though the only thing Serephina felt like doing was walking—long and far to burn the nervous energy she felt. A sense of agitation had set in and she wanted to move. Instead, she was stuck pacing inside.
"Is he here yet?" Millie said as she entered the parlor.
"What?!" Serephina responded, feeling her heart beat wildly inside her chest. Millie gave her a curious look. "Oh, sorry, no. Not yet." Serephina felt stupid. Millie was obviously asking about Captain Heresworth, who'd sent a note around earlier saying he would call around midday—not the other man who was occupying Serephina's mind.
"Are you alright? You seem a bit pale this morning."
"Just feeling a little trapped inside," Serephina said with a forced smile. Millie didn't look entirely convinced and crossed her arms, before Mrs. Rushmore entered the room and Millie got distracted.
Serephina returned her gaze to the window, spotting a lone horse and cart trundle down the street, miserable in the wet cold. Her mind returned to the man she'd seen last night—Cox. A shiver ran up her spine at those co
ld, piercing eyes.
"Are you cold, my dear?" Mrs. Rushmore asked.
"No, I'm alright," she said reassuringly. A horse rode up to their entrance and a man dismounted. Again, Serephina's heart lurched before she realized Captain Heresworth was there. "He's here."
"Mary!" Mrs. Rushmore called and the girl came bounding down the stairs to give the Captain entrance and to take his hat and coat. Mary announced him and he came into the room, looking tall and handsome.
Serephina, along with Millie and Mrs. Rushmore, curtsied and they all sat down on the settee. The inevitable moment of awkwardness followed, before Captain Heresworth began speaking of his plans for the summer, which he was quite vague on. Unable to focus on his plans, Serephina's mind wandered again. He'd looked straight at her. She'd felt his eyes following her. Surely he didn't know. How could he?
Captain Heresworth laughed—a deep sound that drew her attention. Smiling broadly, his eyes were firmly on Millie, following her movement as she poured tea. He looked like he was in love. Serephina's gaze shifted to Millie, who also looked captured by their guest. They truly did like each other. The way things were going, there would be a proposal before long. Serephina wondered what it was like to be of such interest to a man and for there to be potential for more. Folding her hands, she looked down into her lap. Serephina had to make this happen. She owed it to Millie to do her best by her. Millie would be a wife and later a mother—ideally to this man who smiled so tenderly at her. He would make a good husband and Serephina expected their marriage would be a happy one. Mrs. Rushmore would prefer a richer man, but Serephina thought it was better that Millie settled with a man she could love. What could be better in the whole world than happiness—that elusive quality that had to be fought for.
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