The Thief Taker (22 page)

T
HOMAS AND
A
GNES
traveled back to Foster Lane with the wine cooler squatting on the floor of the carriage like a splendid footbath, the strongbox of gold recovered from Pitt's carriage, and one of the constable's deputies as escort. The constable and the other deputy traveled in a separate vehicle to convey Pitt to the roundhouse and Drake's body to a certain barber surgeon, who paid good rates to dissect the corpses of criminals.

For much of the way Agnes was silent, preoccupied by the disturbing sequence of events. Elsie was now an orphan. Did she know her father had been brutally murdered? Who would mind her now? Agnes wondered how she could ever have considered Pitt anything but repellent. What would have happened to her had Thomas Williams not arrived when he did?

She saw that her resentment over the crass comments Thomas had made last night was trivial. She wanted to tell him so, and thank him for what he had done and for the great change he had effected in her. But she could not bring herself to raise a subject so personal in front of the deputy constable.

She studied the wine cooler at her feet. She had seen drawings, but she was awestruck by its sheer scale and opulence. Every inch of its surface was rippled with lively ornament—mermaids reaching out to smooth their hair; dolphins exploding from the waves, shell-wielding tritons astride them; and a great seminaked figure of Neptune, drawn by a pair of large-eyed, nostril-flaring horses. Agnes pictured the wine cooler filled with wine and ice at a grand banquet, resplendent on Sir Bartholomew Grey's sideboard. And unlike the magnificent tables of food I create, she thought ruefully, this will not be demolished in a matter of hours. Thieves permitting, it will endure for generations.

She wondered briefly whether or not the marks on it had been transposed from another piece to avoid duty. She wanted to ask Thomas where they were, and if he would examine them to determine whether or not they had been tampered with. But making such a request in front of a deputy constable might imply that Blanchards' had been involved in illegal practices. So for most of the journey Agnes lost herself in silent pondering.

 

W
HEN THEY WERE
nearly back in Cheapside, Agnes cleared her throat and asked Thomas to halt the carriage and set her down. There was a new softness to her voice as she explained that she had an urgent commission she wanted to perform before returning to the kitchen. “What is it? Where are you going?” he replied, astonished.

“I intend to call in at Bruton Street, the home of Lord Carew. Mrs. Tooley told me that Rose Francis used to work there before she came to Blanchards'.”

“But why worry now the wine cooler is recovered? Whatever Rose's involvement was, it is irrelevant now.”

Agnes was disappointed to hear Thomas echo sentiments that Theodore had expressed. She expected more of him. “The wine cooler is recovered, but three people have been murdered. And we are no closer to knowing by whose hand. I, for one, won't rest until I know who the murderer was.”

Thomas regarded her sternly. “But that is a matter for Justice Cordingly.”

Agnes turned to the deputy constable, who was plainly agog at the dispute unfolding before him. “Sir,” she said, “do you suppose it likely the justice will ever discover who brought about the deaths of an apprentice, a kitchen maid, and a thief?”

The deputy, a portly fellow with a broad florid face, shook his head. “In my experience, most murderers who are apprehended are caught by someone connected to the victim who makes an effort to trace them. The justice has too many other matters to occupy him. Rich corpses tend to make more racket than poor 'uns, if you take my meaning.”

Agnes turned back to Thomas. “I recall you once saying we should all occasionally involve ourselves in matters outside our immediate concerns, Mr. Williams. I have never done so till now, always believing I was better equipped to manage my own affairs than anyone else. But today, without your assistance, goodness knows what might have happened to me. I thank you heartily for your aid, and for revealing my earlier deficiency. Be in no doubt that from here on I intend to rectify it. And I shall start by trying to bring the murderer to justice.”

Agnes expected Thomas to be mollified by this but he appeared quite unmoved.

“But what makes you believe Lord Carew has anything to do with all of this?”

“I don't know precisely. Intuition, perhaps. But it strikes me that none of us in the household knows much about Rose's background. I should have asked her more about herself, but I never did.”

“Even so, after all that has happened this morning, now is hardly the time to pay a gentleman such as him a visit.”

“It is my only chance. Now the wine cooler is recovered, I will have no excuse to escape the kitchen.”

“Then let me go in your stead.”

“No,” said Agnes. “This is something I should do myself. You were barely acquainted with her; it will be easier for me to uncover her past.”

“Forgive me for mentioning it, Mrs. Meadowes, but what I meant was you are scarcely in a condition to make social calls.”

Agnes realized that she was, as usual, entirely oblivious of her appearance. She peered down at her distorted reflection in the curved bowl of the wine cooler. Her clothes were disheveled, her face was smeared with soot. She wet her fingers with her tongue and attempted to clean it off. Then she rearranged her hair, pushing a few stray tendrils back into her bonnet, and brushed at the sooty stains on her sleeves. She was far from pristine, but under the circumstances, it was better than nothing.

“Have you money?”

“Enough for a hackney there and back.”

“Then if there's no way I can persuade you otherwise, I suppose I'll have to let you go.”

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER
, Agnes arrived at Bruton Street, a fashionable thoroughfare of wide houses a world apart from the dismal landscape she had recently been in. Lord Carew resided in in a gracious mansion, five stories tall, with draped and valanced sash windows on either side of a grand columned entrance. Agnes's hackney drew up at the front of the house, and she spent some moments gazing at it in awe. Remembering Thomas's criticism of her appearance, she decided against presenting herself at the front door and instructed her driver to go round to the mews at the rear, promising him a shilling if he waited while she made her way to the servants' entrance.

A plump curly-haired scullery maid was emptying a bucket of slops into the gutter. “Looking for summat?”

“The house of Lord Carew.”

She jerked her head at an open door set back through a yard. “Then look no further. You have found the place.”

“Are you employed here?”

“I am,” answered the girl curtly. She looked Agnes over. “But I can tell you straight, we don't give out food to those that come begging.”

“I'm not a beggar,” said Agnes, bristling. “If I look a little disheveled, it's only because I've come straight from the Newark coach.” She was surprised at how glibly this lie slipped out.

“Have you, indeed? Then what brings you here, may I ask?”

“I seek news of a cousin of mine, who I have reason to believe works here,” Agnes continued untruthfully.

“And who might that be?”

“Rose Francis.”

The maid's face relaxed a smidgeon. “Forgive me, ma'am, if I appeared unfriendly. I meant no harm. 'Twas only my manner. 'Tis true those coaches can turn the best laundered dress into a rag in a few hours.”

“So do you know my cousin?”

“No, but her name is familiar. She quit this house some while ago. I took her place after she'd gone. If it's recent news of her you want, you'll find none here.”

“But perhaps someone who knew her might know where she has gone.”

The maidservant shrugged. “You'd best speak to one of the upper servants. They might know. Come in and I'll see if they've a moment to spare.”

Agnes followed the girl into a kitchen that was four times the size of her own in Foster Lane. An entire wall was given over to the vast fire and ovens, another to dressers, cupboards, and shelves. A parade of copper pans and molds and baskets of every shape and form was suspended from a line of meat hooks strung out upon a wooden beam. Arranged on a table twelve feet long were a bowl of dried fruit, a basket of eggs, a pat of butter, a basin of flour, and a half chopped cone of sugar. At one end, a woman stirred a vast basin of ingredients.

She was around fifty years of age, stoutly built. Her complexion was pink, and smooth as a sugared almond, her features small and fleshy. She wore her dark hair caught in a plump bun. Two stains the size of apples beneath her armpits bore testimony to the heat of the kitchen and her present exertions.

“Mrs. Lugg,” said the scullery maid, raising her voice above the hubbub of half a dozen maids and pot boys, “I found this lady outside; she wants a word.”

“Does she think I've nowt better to do than prattle to whomsoever comes calling?” replied the woman, sniffing bad-temperedly as she jiggled the spoon vigorously in the bowl.

“I'll tell her to go then, shall I?”

“Should have done so in the first place,” snapped Mrs. Lugg. “Those what have time to waste nattering in the street generally find they're up betimes to catch up on the work they ain't finished.”

“That will be a sizable cake when you've done,” said Agnes, stepping hastily forward and peering in the basin.

“Reckon you know something about cooking, do you?” said Mrs. Lugg, regarding Agnes whilst wiping a drip from her nose with the back of her hand.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” said Agnes. “Only I reckon from the proportions of your basin the household I'm used to is not half as sizable as yours. We've only three upstairs and fewer than ten below.”

“There's more than twice that in this establishment,” said Mrs. Lugg. “So you'll comprehend why I've no time for chitchat. What brings you here? Ain't no good searching for employ without a character, I'll tell you that straight off. And I'd advise you to pay a visit to the bathhouse before you come presenting yourself to a respectable place like this.”

“It ain't employ she's after,” broke in the scullery maid. “It's news of one what used to work here—her cousin, she says. She's all messed up from the coach.”

“A cousin? And who might that be?”

“Her name is Rose Francis.”

Mrs. Lugg set down her spoon, made fists and placed them knuckle-down upon her hips. “Rose Francis!” She nodded as though she should have guessed. “Sharp so-and-so, wasn't she?”

Agnes nodded. “On occasion, though she was not all bad, I think.”

“'Tis a while since I heard her name mentioned. After the way she behaved, 'tis a wonder she's the nerve to own to having anything to do with us here.”

“Who in heaven's name is this person?” said a clear, somewhat shrill voice.

Everyone from the pot boy to the cook fell silent.

“Mrs. Moore!” said Mrs. Lugg, looking as if she'd been caught with a finger in the treacle. “I was just about to send a maid in search of you, ma'am. There's a visitor come. She wants a word.”

The newcomer was a woman considerably younger than Mrs. Lugg, slender as a lily and infinitely more regal in bearing. Her dress was of fine-quality wool, dyed an attractive shade of pale blue and buttoned high about her neck. Her cap and collar were of fine lawn, pristine and ironed. Her features were strong and striking, a straight nose, well-chiseled lips, gray eyes. A large bunch of keys tied about her waist dangled in the folds of her skirts. This, Agnes supposed, must be Lord Carew's housekeeper.

“Oh, and why's that?” said Mrs. Moore, looking Agnes briefly up and down. “The kitchen is not a place for visitors—especially not those of disreputable appearance. Go away, please, this instant. There's no takings to be had here.”

“'Tis news of Rose Francis she's after. Says she's her cousin.”

Ridges of surprise erupted suddenly on Mrs. Moore's smooth brow.

“It's Rose you're interested in, is it?”

Agnes nodded.

“And your name is?”

“Mrs. Agnes Meadowes.”

“In that case, Mrs. Meadowes, you'd best come with me.”

Mrs. Moore led Agnes down a labyrinth of back corridors to her parlor. No sooner had she crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her than she rounded on Agnes with a look of ominous determination. “And now, Mrs. Meadowes, may I inquire as to your real reason for coming to Bruton Street?”

“I believe my cousin once worked in this household,” answered Agnes guardedly.

Mrs. Moore compressed her lips and shot Agnes a withering glare. “You are correct in that respect. But why should it concern you? I may say your assertion that she's your cousin cuts no ice with me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because Rose has no family—that was how we were persuaded to take her in. But that is by the by. I ask again, what is your interest in her?”

Agnes wavered, and glanced about the room. The only adornment on the walls was a series of five silhouettes in oval frames hung on either side of the chimney—two were of men, two of ladies, one of a child. Was this Mrs. Moore's family? Agnes wondered. Or was Mrs. Moore as alone in the world as Mrs. Tooley? Will I become someone hard and intractable like this, or fragile and fussy like Mrs. Tooley, with nothing to show for my life save a few ornaments and years of service? No, I have Peter. Then, seeing suddenly that unless she spoke firmly she would get nowhere, Agnes said, “To tell the truth, Rose worked under me when she left you. I am the cook at a house in Foster Lane where she took up her position. She disappeared a week ago without explanation. We subsequently found a letter that showed she had an assignation with a lover with whom she intended to run off. I hoped perhaps someone here might have had news of her that mentioned his name and would help trace her.”

Mrs. Moore regarded Agnes unblinkingly. “Rose Francis left this house a year ago. We've heard nothing since. That is all I can tell you.”

Agnes had avoided mentioning the full catalog of events to avoid causing unnecessary distraction and upset. But with Mrs. Moore being so unforthcoming, she found it hard to fathom how else she could avoid mentioning them.

Suddenly the events of the day took their toll. All the determined vigor that had brought her here seemed to seep away. She wished for a moment that she had heeded Thomas Williams and not come, or that she had considered more carefully how to approach the household. If she had sent word beforehand advising of her interest and the reason for it, Mrs. Moore might have greeted her more openly.

But just as she was poised to take her leave, Agnes reminded herself why she had acted so precipitously. The wine cooler had been recovered. She would be expected to resume her usual duties; it might be days before she had the chance to come again. She had to discover all she could now, even if it meant revealing more than she would have liked.

Mustering all her flagging energy, Agnes drew a deep breath. “Let me explain more plainly what I meant to convey. The same day Rose left, a valuable wine cooler was stolen and an apprentice was murdered. A few days later, Rose herself was discovered dead. My employer, Mr. Blanchard, will not rest until he knows the exact circumstances of the robbery and the deaths. He believes that someone inside the house may have been involved, and that perhaps Rose was somehow embroiled. Were there any signs of dishonesty when she was with you?”

Agnes saw Mrs. Moore start at the mention of murder, but no sooner had she finished speaking than the housekeeper's stony manner returned. “Do you ask these questions with your employer's authority?”

Agnes nodded. “Both Mr. Blanchard and Justice Cordingly have sought my assistance.”

“I see. Then I suppose that does alter things.”

There followed a long, long silence while Mrs. Moore, paler but no more friendly, indicated that Agnes should sit down. She toyed with a narrow silver band on her finger, but did not reply to Agnes's question. Finally, she said slowly, “I suppose I ought not to be surprised at her demise.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Moore?”

The housekeeper seemed lost in her own train of thought. “Rose Francis worked here for less than a year,” she declared at length. “I expended considerable energies on teaching her how to carry out her duties. When she left without so much as a day's notice I felt let down—deceived, even. But then, judging by your account, she made a habit of mysterious departures.”

Agnes let this pass, though the bitterness in Mrs. Moore's tone did not escape her. “Under what circumstances did she come to you?”

“She applied for a post in writing. As I recall, the letter declared she had been raised in the north of England, but sought a position in a London establishment, there being no permanent vacancies in the vicinity and all her family having recently perished in an outbreak of cholera. Her mother had taught her the rudiments of domestic economy. She had been to school until the age of thirteen, could sew neatly and read and write fluently. Her letter was well penned—her hand was one of the neatest of any servant I've ever known; it could have passed for that of a lady. As I later had reason to believe it did. You asked me if she was dishonest. That was her first transgression.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Her letter enclosed a character, purportedly to be written by the housekeeper of a north-country mansion. She claimed Rose had worked there during the summer months when the house was in use. I made attempts to contact this person but received no response. After some weeks I contacted the local rector. From him I learned that not only had the housekeeper never written the character, but such a mansion never existed. But he did reveal that there was a girl by the name of Rose Francis in the vicinity. She was the daughter of the local schoolmaster. Both parents had died from cholera while her brother was abroad. Thus she was forced to leave her home and seek employ elsewhere. As far as the rector knew, she cut herself off entirely from all previous acquaintances. Nobody had heard where she had gone. But since work was hard to come by in that part of the country, it was assumed she had gone to London.”

Agnes was struck by a strange thought. She had never dreamed she and Rose had anything in common, yet now she saw similarities in their sad pasts. Rose had been forced, as she had, to leave the genteel life into which she was born and enter service. But where Agnes had resigned herself to her fate, Rose had not.

Agnes studied Mrs. Moore thoughtfully, and detected a gleam of wistfulness in her face. Perhaps beneath her implacable exterior lay someone as torn as Agnes herself. “What impressions did you form of Rose when she first began working here?” said Agnes.