The Thief Taker (11 page)

A
T ELEVEN
the next morning, Agnes dressed in a warm woolen coat and a fine velvet hat (which Patsy had lent her after much prevarication) and strode purposefully down Cheapside with Philip by her side. Unconscious of the tempting window displays of the haberdashers, goldsmiths, and linen drapers, she gazed briefly at a windowful of confectionary before turning right toward Thames Street and thence on to London Bridge and Marcus Pitt's office.

It was a fine, crisp morning. A heavy hoarfrost still glazed parts of the pavement untouched by the sunlight, and the open gutter that ran down the center of the street was semifrozen. A flock of sheep and one or two oxcarts had recently traveled the route, perhaps on their way to Smithfield, and here and there mounds of fresh dung sent up small steamy wisps like miniature bonfires. The earthy odor mingled with other familiar smells—smoke from countless chimneys, the ovens of Bread Street, malt and hops from the Barclay Perkins Brewery, burning chestnut skins, and above all the dank pervasive tang of the river, which wound its way behind the crowded wharves and warehouses.

“Did you and Rose like to promenade together?” Agnes asked casually, as Philip loitered at the window of a milliner's shop, pulling faces at a prettily dressed assistant.

He was too absorbed to hear her. He was posing affectedly, with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Agnes, annoyed, repeated her question more loudly, nudging his side discreetly, causing his sword to clash on the glass. He gave Agnes an amiable smile. “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Meadowes? Did you say something?”

“Yes,” said Agnes. “How often did you and Rose walk out together?”

Philip shot a rueful glance back at the window. “To begin with it were once or twice a month. Whenever we was both off together on a Sunday. She liked somewhere lively: the pit at the Newgate Theatre, an excursion to Vauxhall.”

Agnes watched as a sedan chair drew to a halt on the pavement and a gentleman dressed with foppish elegance descended directly in front of them, forcing them into the doorway of an under-taker's. Without so much as a word of excuse the gentleman darted into a coffeehouse. Philip yelled an insult and stepped after him. Agnes yanked Philip back and told him to mind his manners in her company.

“Did she ever mention family or friends?” she continued.

“Never,” said Philip, after thinking for a moment. “It wasn't a subject either of us raised. I wouldn't want her thinking I had intentions when I hadn't. I enjoyed her company right enough, but I enjoy the company of others too. And I can't marry or I'll lose my position, won't I? I reckon that was why she cooled toward me.”

A sudden disturbing vision sprang to Agnes's mind of the pair of them in the larder, Philip with his breeches open and muscular buttocks on display, Rose's pale thighs spread wide. She could not conceive of Rose disporting herself in such a manner if she did not at least hope it would lead somewhere permanent. But the subject of physical love was one in which she was ill equipped to judge others. Nevertheless, she unwillingly recognized that she needed to know more. “Then when you went out on your excursions, was it just as companions—no more?”

Philip winked. “Depends what you mean by companions, I s'pose. I kissed her, and did more than that if she was agreeable and we could get somewhere out of the way. Mind you, it wasn't only me—she relished a good tumbling as much as I. At the beginning, that was.”

Agnes remembered that John had said their affair was over. “Did she change, then?”

“In the past few weeks she did. She went out the afternoons she was allowed, but it was never with me. And she wouldn't let me near her.”

Agnes recalled Lydia's suspicions. “You don't think she might have been carrying your child?”

Philip grinned as though the thought amused him. “No—not that. I reckon she found someone new.”

“Did you not ask who it was?”

“Of course. But she was devilish secretive on occasion—she wouldn't say.”

“Perhaps it was Riley she was set on?”

Philip regarded Agnes from the corner of his eye. “Like I said, she never let on anything to me. But as far as Riley goes, I should doubt it. She said she'd tired of him, or he of her—I forget which—before we became friends. I saw them talking once or twice, a while since, but that was all. And from the look of things there was nothing between them.”

“And what about Nicholas Blanchard? Did she ever mention him?”

“The old goat? It wasn't Rose that interested him, it was Nancy—though he won't be happy with her for much longer, I'd say.”

Agnes remembered Nancy's jealousy at being spurned when Rose arrived. “Why? Are you and she friendly again?”

“A bit, maybe, but that don't mean she'll pull the wool over my eyes. You asked me if Rose was with child. Ain't you remarked how Nancy's filled out? And you a mother too?”

Doubtless Philip did not intend this remark to be as hurtful as it was. But whatever his intention, Agnes was disconcerted. How was it that he had a better understanding of what drove both Rose and Nancy than she did? But as they continued on at a brisker pace, Agnes thought that if Nancy was with child, she must be in a state of turmoil. She remembered Nancy's resentment toward Rose. But even if Nancy did feel bitter about Rose coming between Philip and herself, she surely could not blame the girl for forcing her into Nicholas's bed or her present predicament.

Soon the Monument and the church of St. Magnus the Martyr came into view. They veered sharply to the right toward London Bridge. She gazed between the gaps in the decaying wooden houses that lined the bridge, out across the sparkling sweep of the river, and tried to think freely. She thought again of the money Nancy had reported seeing under Rose's mattress, and wondered how Rose had come by the hoard. The disturbing notion occurred to her that if Rose was as fond of intimacy as Philip implied, perhaps she had come by her fortune by selling
herself.
Perhaps another life as a whore had taken her away.

“By Nancy's account, Rose had a large sum of money in her possession—about twenty gold sovereigns. Did you ever see it? Did she mention how it came into her possession?”

Philip blanched. “Twenty sovereigns? God's teeth—the bloody jade! And her grumbling on about how little she had and how she was born to better things.”

“To what better things was she born?”

Philip shrugged. “I don't rightly recall. She'd had a maid of her own. Her father had died, and she had been forced to seek employ.” He shook his head and laughed. “I shouldn't give it much credence if I were you. She was always one to give herself airs if she thought it would get her out of a chore.” Suddenly, his eyes glistened with tears as he spoke.

“Then could not the money have been an inheritance?”

“No,” said Philip unhesitatingly. “That was one thing I never doubted about her story. There was no inheritance. She had to work and she detested it.”

Once across London Bridge, they headed toward the Borough. In the distance were St. George's Fields, a black latticework of leafless trees in front of the wintery slopes upon which a scattering of cows and sheep grazed. Philip's eye, meanwhile, settled on a cluster of pretty girls outside the George Tavern, one of whom winked at him and raised her skirt high enough to expose a well-turned ankle. Agnes caught Philip blowing her a kiss. She strode briskly to the tavern courtyard to ask for directions to Melancholy Walk.

Agnes narrowly avoided collision with all manner of men and conveyances, all jostling and barging in their efforts to load or unload, water, feed, harness, or unharness their horses. She found a groom who was able to direct her, but when he tried to engage her in further conversation she cut him short. “Philip,” she cried out brusquely, waving her arm to summon him hastily to her side, “this gentleman informs me the place we are looking for is this way. Let us leave now. There is no time to waste.”

Melancholy Walk was a narrow alley nestling in the shadow of the Southwark Glass House and the Clink prison. The houses here were newly built—tall, narrow structures, four stories high, with a single window on each floor. According to the directions that Theodore had provided, Marcus Pitt's office was the fourth house along.

 

I
N ANSWER TO
Agnes's knock, the door edged open and a puffy, pockmarked, unshaven face peered out. Taking a deep breath, Agnes announced stoutly, “I have an appointment on behalf of Mr. Theodore Blanchard. My name is Agnes Meadowes.”

“That so?” replied the man. His smile revealed a gash of blackened teeth. “And mine's Grant. If you're expected, I s'pose you'd better come in.”

Grant's physique, Agnes now saw, was as unwholesome as his face. His body was vast and round; the coat and shirt he wore were incapable of covering his girth; and slivers of hairy flesh protruded where buttons were missing and fastenings undone. Agnes averted her eyes and stepped into the hallway. Philip made to follow her, but Grant stepped forward, blocking his path. “Not you. He wants her alone. You wait here,” he said, shoving him in the chest.

Poised on Marcus Pitt's threshold, and separated from Philip, Agnes felt her pulse quicken, and darts of apprehension prick her spine. However, she had no choice but to face the ordeal. She peered around Grant's bulky mass. “It's all right, Philip,” she said. “Do as he says. I'll call if I need you.”

She found herself in a long narrow corridor, sparsely furnished with two seats set against the wall close to the front door and nothing else save at the far end, where a pair of benches were occupied by three boisterous boys playing a game of dice. They were all dirty and raggedly dressed, aged about twelve or thirteen, she guessed. Had she seen them in the street she would have assumed they were pickpockets and kept clear. Presumably, thought Agnes with an apprehensive shudder, it was by keeping lads such as these in his pay that Pitt derived his insight into London's murky goings-on.

“If you would care to wait a moment,” said Grant, signaling to the chairs by the door, “I will inform Mr. Pitt you are here.” Then, turning toward the lads, he bellowed, “You lot, mind your manners—there's company here.”

Agnes sat down gingerly as Grant sidled through an entrance leading off the corridor and swiftly yanked the door shut. The boys paid no attention to her presence, but continued their unruly brawling.

From behind the closed door, Agnes could hear the low sonorous sound of conversation, although the subject was impossible to discern above the racket. Then there was the crash of a door and the sound of heavy footsteps on wooden boards.

“He's ready for you now,” said Grant, poking his head out of the doorway. “This way, if you please.”

It was not at all what she had expected. The shutters in Marcus Pitt's office were half drawn across the window. Nevertheless, there was enough light for her to see that the room was orderly and the furnishings were of quality. There was a mahogany desk; two or three carved chairs; a cabinet, upon which stood a row of cut-glass decanters and half a dozen wineglasses, two of which were half full; and a coat stand, upon which was suspended a long black cloak, a tricorn hat, and a silver-topped walking cane.

The air was stuffy and sweetly scented, thanks to a blazing fire and a pastille burner that gave off a strong, sweet perfume—sandalwood or musk, Agnes guessed. The walls were lined with bookshelves, upon which stood row upon row of identical dark blue volumes. Agnes noticed that the spine of each was marked with two dates and that the books were ranged chronologically. The significance of the dates was not clear, but the care with which they were ordered brought a certain sense of formality to the room that she found reassuring.

Marcus Pitt was seated at his desk writing in a volume identical to the ones on the shelves. Agnes recalled the voices she had just heard. Judging from the wineglasses, Pitt had been entertaining company before her arrival. She could see a small door set into the paneling. Presumably his previous visitor had left through it.

Pitt put down his pen, rose to his feet, bowed, and held out his hand to greet her. He was tall, long-faced, and clean-shaven, with a thin nose, well-defined mouth, deep-set dark gray eyes, his hair impeccably dressed in tidy rolls over his ears and caught back in a shiny black ribbon. “Mrs. Meadowes, good morning to you. I received word of your visit from Mr. Blanchard. Allow Mr. Grant to take your cloak and hat.” His voice was surprisingly genteel, and the hand that shook hers well manicured, its grip authoritative and cool. His dress befitted a well-to-do gentleman: a fine blue velvet coat, silk waistcoat, buckskin breeches.

“That is quite all right, thank you, sir,” she said. “I prefer to keep them.”

Pitt smiled indulgently. “You have traveled some distance,” he continued with a look of solicitude. “Perhaps I can offer you some refreshment. A glass of wine?”

“Thank you, no,” said Agnes, blushing at the offer. “I am pressed for time. Mr. Blanchard is most anxious I return as speedily as I am able.”

“Naturally.” Marcus Pitt bowed slightly. “How could he fail to be eager for so charming a lady's swift return?”