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Authors: Janet Gleeson

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“Who wrote her character reference? Was it Lady Carew, or a member of her staff?”

Mrs. Tooley colored. “I don't recall. I believe it may have been the housekeeper or steward. It was a hand of some education, finely formed and written on paper of quality. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, if that is what you are implying.”

“Oh, I did not mean to imply anything of the kind,” assured Agnes quickly. “Do you have the letter still?”

Mrs. Tooley nodded. She opened a dresser drawer and took out a large card folder filled with a sheaf of some twenty or so papers. These she turned over slowly until at last she came to the one she was searching for. “Ah yes, as I thought, written by the housekeeper. Here it is.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Agnes.

To whom it may concern,

I hereby confirm that Miss Rose Francis has been employed as housemaid in this establishment for the past twelve months and is leaving of her own free will. Throughout this time she has shown herself to have an obliging, sober, and handy disposition. Her temper is by and large good, her character sociable. She appears sound of health.

Mrs. Moore, housekeeper to
    Sir Henry Carew

She handed the letter back to Mrs. Tooley. “There is another letter that interests me,” she said carefully. “I understand Mrs. Blanchard recently spoke to you about a communication she found upstairs belonging to Rose.”

“That is an incident I should prefer to forget. My nerves were dreadfully frayed by it.”

“I do not mean to upset you, ma'am. I simply wondered what was in the letter and whether you kept it?”

Mrs. Tooley shook her head. “I returned it to her after I had given her a talking-to. It was a note half a page long, unsigned, but written in her hand to someone addressed as ‘Dearest.' The contents said little save that she was glad to learn he was well and would think over his proposal. She thanked him for his generous assistance, and hoped to see him on her next free afternoon to discuss the proposal further and give him her decision.”

“Do you recall the address?”

Mrs. Tooley swallowed and fidgeted with her spectacles. “There was none—as I said, the letter was unfinished.”

“And what excuse did she make for the letter being in the drawing room when you spoke to her about it?”

“She was aghast to learn where the letter had been found, and claimed that she had never been in there. She had left the note in her closet. She said that someone must have taken it and put it in the drawing room to cast her in a bad light.”

“Did she say who she believed had done such a thing?”

“Either Nancy or Patsy, both of whom she declared were jealous of her. But since she had no proof of the assertion, I dismissed it.”

“Did you ask for whom the letter was intended?”

Mrs. Tooley winced as if the question were painful to her. “When I asked whether she was writing to the man I had seen her with in the street, who she had claimed asked her for directions, and whether the proposal was one of marriage, she refused to disclose anything. I reminded her that maids were not permitted followers, and that if she did not behave properly, she would be denied her usual Sunday afternoon off. I had already heard rumors that she had been out without permission on several evenings with Philip.” As she said this, Mrs. Tooley began to tremble again.

Agnes recalled her own difficulties with Rose and sympathized. “What did she say to your admonition?”

“She grew heated and said that Philip was neither here nor there. They were nothing to each other. And just because the note was written in an affectionate manner did not mean it was intended for a lover. I was viewing the matter unjustly. Even servants were surely permitted a life outside their place of work. And then she did something most untoward.”

“What?”

“She stamped her foot like a petulant child, and said she had had enough of being put upon and tarnished just because the other maids were jealous of her. And she had had enough of drudgery too. I had made up her mind for her. She deserved a better life. And in front of my eyes, she tore the letter up. I said, ‘I'll show you drudgery,' and set her washing pickling jars for her impudence. And before ten minutes were passed she had dropped a jar of apricots on the floor. It was spitefully done—I've no doubt of that whatsoever. I should have dismissed her then. I would have done if finding new girls was not such a trial…”

The effort of remembering and relating all this was manifest: Mrs. Tooley's color was heightened and her chin quivered with emotion.

“Of course,” said Agnes, patting the housekeeper's hand. Such a dramatic and defiant gesture was typical of Rose. But if the letter did not refer to a marriage proposal, what proposal did it concern, and why be so secretive over it? She must have had something else to hide. An impending robbery, perhaps?

Chapter Eighteen

O
NCE UPSTAIRS SUPPER
had been served and all the other evening duties were completed, most of the servants retired to their quarters. Agnes, however, used an hour or two to tidy the kitchen, survey the pantry and larder, and determine what was needed for the next day. Often, too, she used these quiet hours to write letters to Peter. To be surrounded by the tools of her trade and the residual smells of cooking, and be warmed by the dying embers of the fire, brought Agnes comfort and a sense of belonging. The kitchen was where she felt most at peace.

But that evening, as she rearranged the boxes of spices on her dresser and stacked the stoneware dishes in a more orderly fashion than Doris had left them, she was unsettled by thoughts of the visit she had to make the next morning. Annoyed to see that a silver salver had been carelessly left out behind the pestle and mortar instead of being locked in the silver cupboard or taken upstairs, she moved it to a more conspicuous spot where John or Philip would be sure to notice it. When there was nothing more to tidy, she sat at the table with her recipes and papers, still feeling weighed down with dread. She wrote a brief line to Mrs. Catchpole, telling her that she regretted to learn of her ill health and explaining that she could not come immediately to take Peter away, but was making every attempt to do so soon and hoped for Mrs. Catchpole's forbearance. Next she penned an affectionate note to Peter, writing in large, clear script so that he would be able to read it himself. When this was done, to keep her thoughts from returning to Pitt, she began copying out a new recipe for orange tarts given to her by the local confectioner.

Agnes had scarcely put down her pen when she heard a gentle tapping at the kitchen door. She picked up the candlestick. “Who is there and what is your business?” she called out, checking hurriedly that the bolts were pushed to, for after last night's murder she had no intention of opening to just anyone.

“It is I, Thomas Williams, the journeyman.”

Agnes opened the door an inch, then, seeing it was he, opened it until the gap was just wide enough to fit her head through. “Yes, Mr. Williams?” she said warily.

Williams removed his hat and gave a small bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Meadowes. I have come about the subject we spoke of this afternoon—Benjamin Riley.”

“Oh yes, indeed. Please enter.” She stepped back, cradling the flame of her candle against the sudden burst of air, feeling foolish for her caution and grateful for the interruption. It was something to keep her mind off tomorrow.

Thomas Williams put his hat upon the table, then prowled around, gazing at the vast range, the ranks of pots and coppers, and all the other equipment as if he had never before seen the like. “May I take a seat?” he said at length when his survey was complete. Agnes hesitated, and to her consternation felt a blush begin to spread across her cheeks. She was alone in her kitchen with a man who was not a servant in the household, a man she barely knew, and he wanted to sit down. She found herself wondering where Williams lived and if he was married, then a moment later scolded herself for being foolish enough to wonder such things. The admonition did not prevent her heart beating faster. She wondered how long would it take Mrs. Tooley or Mr. Matthews to come if she called. She reprimanded herself again. Williams had come at her invitation. There was no reason to suppose he was anything but a respectable craftsman who had helped a fellow employee.

“Please, Mr. Williams, do sit down,” she said with an air of formality. She briskly closed her book of recipes and, to cover her awkwardness, offered him a mug of ale and a slice of cake. Thomas Williams pulled up the chair closest to her own, while Agnes prepared the refreshment. When she returned to her seat, she shifted it six inches in the opposite direction.

“Well,” she said, sitting straight-backed, watching him drink, “what have you learned, Mr. Williams?”

He put down his mug and examined the backs of his surprisingly clean and long-fingered hands. “Nothing very much,” he said bleakly.

“Nothing at all?”

“He said she was sweet on him, but that apart from a brief flirtation some months ago, there was nothing between them. But his opinion means nothing. He thinks every woman is a captive to his charms.”

Agnes sat in silence for a moment. “Am I to take it you do not care for him much?”

Williams nodded, meeting her gaze in a piercing manner which disturbed her slightly. “Or trust him, either.” He paused and looked away, his green eyes seeming to grow more wistful as he did so. “He and I work side by side, spend hours in each other's company, but neither of us has much time for the other.”

Agnes nodded sympathetically. Feelings of estrangement from those with whom she worked were familiar to her too. She leaned a few inches toward him. “What gave you the impression he was not truthful?”

“I told you before—I saw Rose come to call on him recently, not months ago as he claimed.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Yes. He said it was nothing—that she had been sent upon an errand by Theodore Blanchard.”

Agnes frowned, instinctively rejecting this as most improbable. “What manner of errand?”

“Something concerning the pieces to be taken to Goldsmiths' Hall for marking.”

“Marking?”

“Every piece that is fabricated in our workshop, or any other in London, is taken to Goldsmiths' Hall and tested for the purity of its metal. If the piece passes the test, it is marked with a lion.”

Agnes furrowed her brow. Despite working for one of the most renowned silversmiths of London, she had no notion of such matters. She vaguely recollected seeing marks on pieces of silver, but had never paid them much attention or wondered what they signified. Recalling the salver carelessly left on her dresser, she went to fetch it. Four small symbols were impressed in the surface. Only one resembled a lion. She handed the salver to Thomas Williams. “But there is more than one mark on this.”

He nodded. “And so there should be. See, here is the lion, walking to the left. A lion
passant,
it is termed. That is the mark that shows the piece contains at least nine hundred and twenty-five parts pure silver in a thousand and has been passed as sterling.”

“And the other marks—what purpose do they serve?”

Williams laughed, but not unkindly, and leaned toward her, pointing one by one to the symbols. Distracted by the fact that his head was only inches away from her, she barely heard what he said. “There is the maker's mark—usually the initials of the silversmith. The
NB
you see shows the piece was made at Blanchards'. There is a date letter, which changes with each year—
P
shows the piece was marked this year. And the last mark shows where the piece was tested: a leopard's head in the case of Goldsmiths' Hall.” As he spoke, he suddenly looked puzzled. He sat back with the salver and held it toward the light.

“And is every piece marked?”

Williams nodded. He was scrutinizing the salver with a strange intensity. “By statute it should be. And the purchaser is well advised to ensure it. The system is designed to prevent unscrupulous craftsmen using less-pure metal than they should.”

“But why would Theodore Blanchard send a kitchen maid with a message concerning marking? If he had something of that nature to communicate, why did he not tell Riley himself—he is there every day, after all—or send one of the footmen?”

“I don't believe what he said any more than you do.”

“What time of day did you see Rose come to the workshop?”

“I can't be certain, but from memory it was early afternoon. Around two or three.”

Agnes half closed her eyes. Two or three o'clock—the hours she was busiest, serving lunch and up to her eyes with cooking dinner. At that time Rose might melt away and return without being noticed. Suppose there
was
a grain of truth in what Riley had said? Suppose Rose had called at the workshop on Theodore's business—it might give credence to Rose's involvement in the robbery. But why would Theodore use a kitchen maid rather than a manservant to convey a message?

“It would be helpful to know exactly what the errand entailed. Would Riley say nothing more on the subject?”

Thomas Williams looked up from the salver and swallowed. “No. Which is why I don't believe him.”

“No more do I, but whatever he says may shed light on what happened.”

“Then if you wish I will press him again.” His attention strayed back to the salver. He examined the underside intently. He breathed on it, looked again, then buffed it with his sleeve. When finally he noticed her gaze on him, he put the salver down as if embarrassed.

“The marks seem to have captured your attention, Mr. Williams. Is there something out of the ordinary about them?”

Thomas Williams scratched his head, his brow ruffled in consternation. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without saying a word.

“What is it, Mr. Williams? I pray that you tell me, for I see plainly there is something.”

Williams sighed, looking somber. “Very well. By statute, before any silver object may be sold, it is liable for duty—the sum of sixpence per ounce. The sum is usually paid immediately after the piece has been taken for assay. Unscrupulous silversmiths who wish to avoid duty have been known to cut out the marks from a small marked piece and set them into the metal of an untested piece. That way the heavier piece appears to be legally marked and duty is avoided. The practice is known as duty dodging.”

“And you believe the salver has been tampered with—that this is an example of duty dodging?”

“There have been no salvers made to this pattern in the last two years. Two years ago, the date letter was
N,
yet the salver has a
P
impressed upon it—the letter for this year. The only possible reason for this discrepancy is if the original marks have been removed, a new piece of metal inserted, with marks from a recently assayed piece.”

“Why did you breathe on the marks?”

“To verify my suspicion. You will see a slight ridge around the marks.”

Agnes squinted closely at the marks. She breathed on them as he had done, and faintly detected a dark circle around them.

“I see it. But how does that prove the marks are not original?”

“If a new piece of metal is inserted into another, it can never be made as smooth as if it had been fashioned from a single metal sheet. That ridge indicates that the metal on which the marks are impressed has been set into the salver.”

Agnes nodded slowly and looked up. “Did you know such deception took place at Blanchards'?”

Thomas Williams met her gaze. “No,” he said. “I had no notion whatsoever.”

With this he looked toward the fire with a distant, unfathomable gleam in his eye. Agnes too was lost in thought, wondering at the significance of what he had told her. Did duty dodging have any bearing on Noah's murder, the theft of the wine cooler, or Rose's disappearance? Was Rose somehow embroiled in the fraud?

But before she could draw any conclusions, Thomas Williams coughed loudly, and she looked up with a start. “Forgive me, Mrs. Meadowes, I was thinking of you going off to visit Pitt, and wondering what made you accept such a dangerous undertaking. Your husband cannot be happy with the situation—or perhaps you haven't told him?”

Agnes was caught unawares. She could not see how this abrupt remark was relevant to their conversation. Confused, and hoping she was not blushing, she said, “Danger? My husband? But I have none. He is dead.”

As soon as these words were out, Agnes caught Williams darting a glance at the letters on the table. The one addressed in a large clear hand to “My darling child” and signed “Your loving mother” lay in front of him. Immediately she felt exposed, and she resented his queries. Peter's existence was a private matter, and she had no intention of discussing him with a stranger.

“Then if you alone are responsible for your son, is that not even more reason to be prudent?” said Thomas quietly.

Agnes gave him a short hard smile. “My reasons for going are my own, Mr. Williams. But I assure you my son's welfare is at the forefront of my mind. Now, since the hour is late, I believe it is time you left.”

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