The Thief Taker (18 page)

Agnes was conscious of John hovering inquisitively. And behind him she now sensed the shadowy presence of Mr. Matthews. How much did they know of these matters? She would be wise not to reveal her familiarity with Elsie's background, or keep her longer in their presence than necessary. Suppose John remembered Elsie from the morning before the robbery and saw that she was a link between Pitt and the theft. Ignoring her question, Agnes said, “You'll be dead from cold before you reach the bridge if you don't get something warm inside you first. Come down to the kitchen. I'll give you something to eat on the way.”

Elsie shrugged her bony shoulders. “I don't mind, then,” she said ungraciously, mounting the steps.

“Don't think of coming this way,” said John, blocking her path. “Pardon me, Mrs. Meadowes, I cannot but wonder at you inviting creatures such as this in here, and with so many valuables about.”

“Quite right, John,” concurred Mr. Matthews loudly from the shadowy hall.

Elsie flinched as though John had hit her. There was a gleam of fear in her eyes. “I didn't ask—you heard her offer.”

“Wait, just a moment!” cried Agnes, skidding down the steps and grabbing Elsie's arm.

“Let me alone! What are you doing?” Elsie wrenched her elbow free. “Leave me be and save yourself some bother.”

“No.” She leaned down and whispered in Elsie's wind-reddened ear. “Go down those steps by the railings, they'll bring you to the kitchen door. Wait there a minute and I'll bring you some food.”

Elsie regarded Agnes with doubtful eyes. Agnes patted her on the back and went inside with the others.

“The recklessness of some people never ceases to amaze me,” said John as he fastened the bolt and watched Agnes stamp her snow-clogged shoes on the doormat. “You're asking to be done over a second time with that one, Mrs. M., you mark my words.”

“Quite probably, John,” said Agnes darkly. There was every possibility he was right. Yet somehow, when she was faced with Elsie's misery, his scorn seemed unimportant.

In the kitchen Agnes reasoned that one less pasty would not be missed from the servants' supper—and that if anyone went short she would ensure it was John or Mr. Matthews. She grabbed one from the warming tray and she opened the door.

For a minute she stood there, with the cold wind howling in, listening for the sound of a clumping boot or a glimpse of Elsie's shawl. But there was nothing. She gingerly mounted the icy steps leading to the street. At the top were some narrow footprints, descending three steps and no further, as though Elsie had started to step down and had then changed her mind. Where the stairs reached the street, the footprints were indiscernible among other trampled imprints. Had John frightened the girl away as soon as Agnes had gone? A man hovered in a nearby doorway, sheltering from the blizzard or waiting to be admitted. In the snowy distance she could vaguely make out a couple of muffled figures walking briskly away.

Agnes took a frustrated bite from the hot pasty, feeling the meat and potatoes warm her as she had wished them to warm Elsie, then went back inside. The girl was nothing to her, she reminded herself.

A
GNES HAD PROMISED
P
ETER
she would see how he was settling in at Mrs. Sharp's. Nothing on earth would make her disappoint him—but neither had she any desire to beg Mrs. Tooley's permission and have her request refused. She claimed a headache and told Doris to see to the servants' supper. She was going to her room to lie down until it was time to put out the upstairs meal.

She was reluctant to confess it even to herself, but there was more than Peter to draw her out on that snowy night. She had seen and heard nothing from Thomas Williams all day. Several times she had found herself looking up at the windows, but she could only make out the lower portion of passersby, the tailcoats and calves of gentlemen, the hems of ladies' cloaks. Whenever she glimpsed a pair of well-muscled legs marching past, she blushed and wondered if they were his and whether he might be on his way to call on her, or if he might contrive to send a message on some pretext or other. He did not call or make any attempt at communication.

That morning she had not blamed him for taking what she had freely offered him, nor had she regretted her actions. But now that hours had passed and no word had come, shadows of her old self returned. His failure to communicate led her to only one conclusion. He must think she was in the habit of comporting herself thus and deemed her favors of so little worth they did not require acknowledgment.

She decided that henceforth, whenever she met him, she would be a model of decorum. Last night's aberration would never be repeated. He would not inveigle his way into further intimacy. The bolts would be redrawn.

 

S
ARAH
S
HARP'S HOUSE
was only two streets from Foster Lane, but Agnes, being prudent in matters of dress, as in every other portion of her life, put pattens on her feet and a woolen shawl over her head. She fastened her cloak tightly and picked up a muff, in which she inserted a small paper parcel that she had wrapped up earlier. As protection against footpads, she concealed a small kitchen knife in the pocket of her cloak. Then she slipped out.

The snow had ceased falling but lay several inches deep; moonlight mottled its surface with silver, filling the rutted streets with ghostly streams of light, broken only by occasional mounds of horse dung and detritus in the gutter. Against an inky sky, familiar landmarks were transformed. The dome of St. Paul's had become a luminous orb, pediments resembled white brows, signboards were wiped clean. Agnes turned left at the bottom of Foster Lane into Cheapside, then, passing Gutter Lane and Wood Street on her left, turned right into Bread Street. She walked with her head down, crunching over snow as crystalline as salt, wondering if the river would freeze, and if so whether Sarah Sharp would take Peter and Edward to see the boats and barges frozen at their moorings.

“Mrs. Meadowes! What a night to come out on,” said Sarah Sharp two minutes later, when a pink-cheeked Agnes knocked upon her door.

“Mrs. Sharp. My apologies for coming so late. Duties delayed me.”

“Don't trouble yourself over that. You took me by surprise, that's all. Come in out of the cold.”

The smell of chicken broth and bread filled the narrow hallway, soothing Agnes with its homeliness. The thought flashed through her mind that if her feckless husband had not perished, she might be living in such a house as this. Agnes found herself feeling less stoical than usual. She was disturbed at the hand fate had dealt her and the choices she had made. Is it possible, she wondered, I have taken the wrong path?

Pushing this worrisome thought away, Agnes removed her cloak and asked after Peter.

“Come and see for yourself. My boy, Edward, has taken to him very well. They have entertained one another all day.”

The kitchen was lit by tallow candles whose light reflected off an array of shiny copper pots. The fire was low but smoldered comfortingly. The furniture was plain and sparse, but well polished and spotlessly clean.

“Ma!” Peter cried, leaping up as Agnes appeared at the threshold, “I thought you'd forgot. This is Edward. I taught him how to play checkers.” Peter was sitting at the table beside a fair-haired little fellow, with the same round face and pale blue-gray eyes as his mother. Both boys were sipping bowls of broth and were dressed in nightshirts and nightcaps. Peter's cheeks were scarlet, his eyes bright, the hair on his forehead ruffled and damp as though his face had been recently washed.

Agnes embraced her son. “However could you think I'd forget you?” He seemed a different child from the woebegone wretch of last night. An image of Elsie floated across her thoughts. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Edward,” she said, forcing it away. “And what have the pair of you done today?”

“We went out in the snow, and threw snowballs. And we ate chestnuts. Then Mrs. Sharp said we should come back inside lest we catch our deaths.”

“And Peter fashioned a horse from a piece of wood. And I made a model of my father's ship,” added Edward, pointing to two roughly hewn models on the windowsill.

“And Mrs. Sharp said I should give you mine when it was done,” interrupted Peter.

Agnes smiled at the boys' excitement.

She took from her muff the small parcel she had brought, and handed it to Peter. “Here's something for you both—when the broth is finished.”

Thomas Williams was nowhere to be seen. Should she be relieved, or disappointed? Neither, she told herself firmly. She was unmoved, and would remain so.

Peter gulped down the last of his soup and tore away the paper. Inside were two gingerbread figures with currant eyes and buttons down their fronts, and almond mouths and hair. The boys grinned and began a mock fight with them. As biscuit limbs snapped and currant eyes came loose, they munched swiftly until there was nothing left but the heads.

Mrs. Sharp drew up a chair by the fire and indicated that Agnes should settle herself in it. Just then there came the sound of heavy stamping by the back door. A moment later Thomas Williams marched in. He was carrying a bucket of coal. His hair was in its customary disorder, a mass of chestnut spirals; he wore a shirt and mustard-colored waistcoat, but no coat, and was shivering from the cold. As he caught sight of Agnes, a new light seemed to enter his eyes. “Mrs. Meadowes, good evening,” he said with a courteous bow as he deposited his load by the hearth. He sprinkled a shovelful on the embers, causing them to crackle and spit. “I wasn't aware you were intending to visit. Had I known, I'd have come to fetch you. It isn't safe to travel alone—you ought to know that.”

“'Tis a distance of only two streets, and I'm well acquainted with this district,” said Agnes nonchalantly, responding to his bow with a tiny inclination.

Thomas's expression was somber. “Even so, a woman alone, unarmed—and after what happened to your kitchen maid. It is folly to tempt fate in such a manner.”

Agnes thought of Rose and of the kitchen knife in her cloak pocket, and the gun in the cellar. With a murderer at large, she was probably no safer in her kitchen than in the street, but she saw no reason to argue the matter. Let Thomas fret a little. Hadn't she passed more time than she cared to acknowledge watching for him?

She regarded him levelly. “In my son's case it was a risk worth taking. I could not rest easy unless I knew he was well. And now I see him very well, for which I thank Mrs. Sharp heartily.”

Mrs. Sharp must have guessed from this stilted exchange that there was some misunderstanding between them. She turned the conversation to lighter subjects: the latest entertainment at the theater, a production by Garrick, which she had heard from an acquaintance was most diverting; the price of herrings at the market; and the likelihood of the river freezing and the boys being able to go skating. When they had consumed the last crumb of gingerbread, the boys traipsed upstairs to bed and Mrs. Sharp bustled after them, ordering Agnes to sit a while longer with Thomas until she called.

Anxious to steer matters away from the events of the previous night, Agnes told him matter-of-factly about her discovery of the gun in the cellar, and the letter that Pitt had sent—and that Theodore had decided he should accompany her to deliver the money and collect the wine cooler.

“Has Justice Cordingly been informed of any of this?”

“No,” said Agnes. “Theodore can think of nothing but the wine cooler. He is adamant that Justice Cordingly should be kept in the dark until it is recovered. I never told him about the gun—I feared if I did he would have seen it as an effort to undermine this determination and it would only have annoyed him.”

The explanation sounded lame as she said it, but Thomas Williams was gracious enough not to criticize her. “He is willing to stake our safety against Pitt's integrity in order to safeguard the business—a dubious bargain, in my opinion,” he said. “And even if Pitt is not the murderer, he surely knows the murderer's identity. It cannot be right just to allow the fellow to evade apprehension.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Agnes, thinking of Rose lying dead with her throat cut. “Moreover, the gun suggests the murderer is someone in the household. But I dare not contradict Theodore's order. And since we cannot doubt that the business depends upon the recovery of the wine cooler, your position is as much at risk as mine. But on the subject of the murderer, there is one more thing I would like to ascertain, but I cannot easily do so by virtue of my sex.”

“What is it?” said Thomas.

“There is an alehouse in Lombard Street called the Blue Cockerel. Philip was out on the night of the robbery, but he claims he spent the evening there in the company of various ladies. He says the landlord will remember him. Would you be so kind as to call on him to verify it?”

Thomas muttered inaudibly, poured himself a tankard of ale from a jug on the dresser and silently gulped it, gazing at the fire as he did so. The clock struck the half hour and Mrs. Sharp summoned Agnes upstairs. After bidding Peter good night, Agnes wasted no time in taking her leave. “I should return directly,” she said to Mrs. Sharp, avoiding Thomas's eyes. “There is still upstairs supper to put out.”

Thomas helped her into her cloak and then strapped on his sword and donned his overcoat and hat. Agnes feigned nonchalance. “If you are coming out just on my account, I assure you, Mr. Williams, there's no need. I shall be as safe on my return as I was coming here.”

His green eyes settled on hers intently. “I insist. It is foolhardy to travel alone at this time of night.”

Agnes ignored his look. “I am quite able to protect myself.”

“Then humor me and allow me the pleasure of your company,” he said, holding open the door for her. As she passed, he lowered his voice so that Mrs. Sharp did not hear. “Besides, there's something more I wish to say to you—in privacy.”

Few people were abroad now, and Thomas walked close to Agnes's side, holding a lantern in one hand and extending his other arm so that she could rest hers upon it to steady herself on the street. She felt uncomfortable taking his support and they walked for some moments in silence, their feet crunching over the snow, clouds of white breath mingling in the dark night. Agnes was acutely aware of his stocky presence close to her; from time to time she sensed his eyes slide toward her and then away. She wondered what it was he wished to say, but offered him no assistance, waiting for him to speak.

When they reached the corner of Bread Street and Cheapside, Thomas cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you to be careful, Mrs. Meadowes. I spoke to Riley today regarding the box you showed me. There was something dark in his manner. I don't pretend to comprehend what it was, but it worried me all the same. When I told him Rose's body had been found, he seemed little surprised or sorry to hear it. Soon after that he inquired after you. I don't know how he discovered it, but I had the impression he knew there was something between us.”

Finding herself a subject for rumor was what she had feared almost as much as Thomas Williams's poor opinion of her. She shook her head and managed to cover her dismay. “Never mind Riley's interest in me—I don't suppose he offered any theory on Rose's death?”

Thomas looked at the ground. “Nothing. His words, as I recall, were that she was a meddlesome, flirtatious girl who doubtless was killed as a result of one of her intrigues.”

“He made no further suggestion that might help?”

“None. His chief concern was to probe my friendship with you.”

Agnes swallowed uncomfortably. “He must have heard some idle rumor. Philip, our footman, is friendly with him and one of the apprentices. In any case, Riley is the least of our worries. The assignation with Mr. Pitt tomorrow is a far more perilous undertaking.”

“But that at least is an easily recognizable danger.”

They were now halfway down Foster Lane, passing Goldsmiths' Hall. In a minute they would reach the steps leading down to her kitchen. A few yards from the railings, Thomas Williams paused and drew a deep breath. “It wasn't only Riley I wished to discuss, Mrs. Meadowes.” He hesitated, his arm still supporting hers, looking down at his snow-caked boots. “It is a delicate matter. But it needs to be said, and I beg you won't think me presumptuous for voicing it.”