The Thief Taker (27 page)

“Money, perhaps.” She sensed his patience was at an end, but there was yet more she wanted to discover. “And what did you think on learning she was in the employ of the Blanchards?”

“Nothing!” he exclaimed, twirling round with an air of majesty. “How many times must I say this? You cannot suppose a man of my standing pays attention to the servants of every household he happens to visit. So long as the meat and gravy are on the table, I do not bother myself over who puts them there.”

Agnes recoiled as if he had hit her. At that moment there was an unexpected creak from the far end of the room. A door hidden in the wainscoting was abruptly thrown open and an elegantly dressed young woman stepped through. She was clad in a silk dress of inky blue with a deep ruff of creamy lace around the décolletage; her neck was slender and white, her hair elaborately dressed with black silk flowers. She looked young enough to be Sir Bartholomew's daughter. Seeing Agnes, she pursed her lips in a moue of displeasure, walked to the table, and began to fan herself slowly. “Who is this, my dearest?” she said softly.

“'Tis no one but the cook of a tradesman of my acquaintance.”

“Then are we not to finish our game?”

“Certainly we shall finish it,” said Sir Bartholomew, ushering her to her seat, then hurrying to ring the servants' bell. A knot rose in Agnes's throat. Seeing them together made Agnes think of Thomas and Rose; the woman had something of Rose's nonchalant bearing. The footman appeared an instant later. “This visitor has concluded her business, and is leaving,” said Grey. “Miss Katherine and I will finish our game without disturbance—no matter who calls.” Then, turning to Agnes, “I do not comprehend your purpose in coming here or what you have learned. But whatever it was, I trust you are satisfied for I have no more to tell you. Good evening to you, madam.”

“Good evening, sir.” She curtsied, then remembered Theodore's injunction. “Before I leave, if I may make one last request.”

“What then?”

“I would ask that you keep this conversation to yourself.”

Sir Bartholomew regarded her carefully. “It is my belief that when servants exceed their duties, only mayhem ensues. Your visit has done little to change my view. Therefore I cannot give you any such assurance. Good night to you.”

T
HEODORE HAD GRANTED
Agnes the next day off, so she sent up a larger breakfast than usual—a cold knuckle of gammon, coddled eggs kept warm over a dish of hot water, and deviled kidneys. After writing down suggestions for the next day's menu on the slate, she headed over to Bread Street to see Peter.

The morning was fine and bright, and she decided to take him for an excursion on the river. But she could not get out of her mind her visit to Sir Bartholomew. Thomas had lied; he and Rose had been engaged and he had concealed their engagement. But
why
? A few minutes later, she presented herself at Mrs. Sharp's door. But Mrs. Sharp seemed puzzled to see her. “Forgive me for disturbing you, Madam Sharp. I won't delay you. I trust you got my message. Is Peter ready?”

Mrs. Sharp now looked truly baffled. “What? But he is already with you—I thought you had returned for something he had forgotten.”

“What do you mean? I wrote to tell you I would collect him this morning.”

“I got the note. But an hour ago a young girl came, saying you had sent
her
to fetch Peter. You were going out for a drive, you had a carriage arranged, she was the driver's girl. She showed me the carriage—it was waiting at the corner of Cheapside. I saw a woman's face and a gloved hand wave. I assumed the woman must be you.”

Agnes was speechless. Her heart filled her chest and her head pounded unbearably. Somewhere close by she heard a cat mewing for food. “Tell me,” she said faintly, “what did the girl look like?”

“Like an urchin—ill-kempt, scrawny, hair unwashed, wearing dirty clothes, infested with vermin of all kind, I daresay. She had a red shawl wrapped round her head, as I recall.”

Agnes sank against the doorjamb. Why would Elsie commit such an act of betrayal? But no sooner had Agnes framed the question in her mind than the answer presented itself. Elsie knew that her father was dead, and must believe that Agnes had had a hand in his murder.

“Do you know who these people were?” asked Mrs. Sharp, now looking anxious herself.

“I fear I know who the child was, which leads me to suspect who was behind the deed—Marcus Pitt the thief taker, who warned me of his influence.”

“Pitt! Would
he
take your child?”

“I wager he would enlist the aid of someone who would do worse besides take him.”

Mrs. Sharp shook her head in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“The murderer who employed him is concerned that, even though the wine cooler has been recovered, I intend to pursue him.”

“Shall I send for the constable?”

“No, that would only waste precious time. I will have to go after them and get Peter back.”

“But where will you start?”

“Pitt's premises in Melancholy Walk are as good a place as any.”

As she spoke, a shadow emerged from the stairwell. The disheveled figure of Thomas Williams, dressed only in breeches and a half-buttoned shirt. “And what will you do when you get there?” he said. “Employ your feminine charms to persuade the murderer to give Peter back?”

She stared at him mutely for an instant. “I will fathom some means when I get there. And now I must take my leave. Good day to you both.”

She picked up her skirts and hurried off in the direction of the river. A hackney carriage rumbled past, and she darted out into the road, waving feverishly. The driver drew swiftly to a halt. “Melancholy Walk—quick as you can!” she cried. Grabbing hold of the door, she clambered in. “A shilling extra if you get me there within the quarter hour.” Just as the driver cracked his whip and began to move off, Thomas Williams came careering up and grasped the door handle. Agnes shook her head. Thomas leaped round to the rear as the vehicle gathered speed. Agnes saw him stumble and fall back, but then he ran faster and leaped successfully onto the step. Through the rear window, she could see his face pressing against the mud-spattered glass as if he were clinging on for dear life.

The vehicle, with Thomas clinging to the back like a barnacle, jostled through Watling Street and down toward the bridge. Agnes watched as the dilapidated Nonesuch House passed her window, and the great stone gateway came into view. The air was filled with the stench of urine from the tanneries, bones from the glue makers, boiling fat from the makers of soap. Agnes tried to think of how she was going to trace Elsie. It was better than imagining what might be happening to Peter.

At the south side of the bridge, the carriage drew up at the gateway while a wagon came thorough in the opposite direction. Agnes peered over the parapet and glimpsed a grayish brown expanse. At the top of some decrepit stairs leading down from the quayside she saw a carriage.

Today being Sunday, there was little activity or traffic, making the sight of a carriage all the more noticeable. Close by stood a man, and two figures of short stature, one of whom wore something red. As she watched, the figure in red began running along the wharf and disappeared.

Agnes pushed down the window and shouted to the driver, “Take the road leading to St. Olave's, then turn left toward the quayside. I'm looking for a dark carriage.”

The driver turned the horses but he had traveled no more than twenty yards before the road narrowed to an alley, with another, wider road leading off to the right. He pulled up the horses, jumped down from his platform, and opened the carriage door. “Can't go further, never turn round if I do.”

Agnes got out. The river—a flash of silvery brown light—was just visible through the black frame of buildings. A few indistinct figures were shuffling down the alley; a stray dog sniffed the detritus in the gutter. There was no sign of the carriage. Agnes reasoned that if the hackney driver could not pass this way, the carriage she had seen must have taken another way down to the wharf. The distance was not great, and it would be easier to find the carriage and its occupants on foot.

Thomas Williams was standing some distance away, watching a woman hang laundry from an upstairs window.

“I never asked you to come,” called Agnes ungraciously to him.

“I would have been a fool to let you go alone on such a mission.”

“Peter and I are not your concern.”

“Perhaps not. Nevertheless I should not wish harm to befall either one of you.”

“That's a shilling and sixpence if you please,” interrupted the driver.

Agnes fumbled in her pocket and thrust a handful of coins, far more than the sum requested, into the driver's hand. Her cheeks aflame, she mumbled, “I cannot prevent you from following me, Mr. Williams, but I implore you to keep your distance.” Then she charged down the passage.

At the quayside, the warehouses and factories loomed over the river behind her, their chimneys spewing foul-smelling smoke. The wharf on the opposite bank was bathed in winter sun, but this side was shrouded in purplish shadow. She saw no sign of the carriage, or Peter.

Moments later, Thomas emerged from a passage farther up the river toward Pickle Herring Stairs. He pointed downriver, beckoning her wildly. She hurried along, and when she was no more than ten yards distant called out, “What is it? Did you see something?”

“No, but that laundress did—a carriage. She had an excellent view from her garret, and one had passed beneath her not ten minutes earlier. She saw a girl, a boy, and a man descend and head in this direction.”

“And do you see anything now?”

“Nothing. But perhaps we should proceed farther down.”

A keen wind made her shiver. She walked down to the foreshore. The tide was low, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could see the sagging underside of the wharf on her right. The massive wooden pillars were encrusted to the waterline with barnacles and olive green slime and ribbons of weed. To her left, the mud banked steeply down to the water's edge, its surface scarred with flotsam—wood, stones, rusting chains, lumps of coal, patches of slime, and yellowish sludge. In some places the mud was no more than a yard or two wide; in others it extended like probing fingers into the choppy brown water. Here and there, the surface was traversed by foul-smelling rivulets, where the sewers and gutters of the city disgorged raw sewage into the Thames.

Fishing smacks, barges, wherries, hay boats, and schooners were moored offshore; others were stranded by the tide, aground on the mud. There was no sign of life on any of them, but a stream of raggedly dressed people were combing the mud for whatever they could find.

Agnes searched among the darker shadows for Peter. Some moments later there was a flash of unexpected movement and something seemed to emerge from the dark shadows, then disappear.

Thomas saw her stop and called down to her from the sagging wharf. “Did you see something?” She shook her head. Thirty paces on, she saw it again—a spidery, hunched form, picking its way beneath the wharf. She ran toward it.

“What is it?” shouted Thomas.

“There!” she cried.

Thomas dropped to his knees, but could not see directly beneath the wharf. Finding no steps nearby, he launched himself onto the mud. As he landed, a shower of black water sprayed his stockings and breeches. He ran to catch up with Agnes.

“What is it? What did you see?”

“Under the wharf…fifty yards ahead…see them now, rounding that pier,” she gasped, pointing. “Two figures, one of them Peter.”

She ran closer to the wharf, skirting areas of soft mud which were impossible to cross, her eyes fixed upon the figures ahead.

But when they were still more than thirty yards apart, the shadowy form turned and caught sight of her. It was Peter. He froze for an instant, then looked up at his captor and back again at Agnes, and silently held out his hands in her direction. The captor then turned and, seeing Agnes and Thomas, stepped out from under the wharf.

Legs braced on the mudflats, the man stood, gripping Peter by the wrist. The front brim of his tricorn was pulled low over his brow. A muffler covered the lower part of his jaw.

Agnes waited for him to speak. I will know him then, she thought. But the man remained silent, staring at them as though willing them to move. Thus challenged, she began slowly to advance, but she had progressed no more than a dozen paces when Peter began to pull in her direction and cried out. “Help me, Mama, please help me. He won't let me go.”

Agnes knew whatever she said would only make matters worse. “Don't worry, Peter, do as he says and he'll treat you kindly. Be good.” Then she watched, horrified, as the man yanked Peter out across the mud, toward the deeper water.

The tide crept toward them. Peter called out, again and again, shrill, indecipherable pleas. Finally the man must have issued some threat, for after that Peter stopped.

“Do as he says, Peter!” cried Agnes. Furious at her own impotence, she plunged after them, oblivious to the piercing cold and to the stares of the river finders, who had withdrawn with the incoming tide and were now watching this spectacle from the wharfside. Several times she stumbled on some submerged obstacle or stepped in a patch of quicksand, but each time she recovered her balance and continued. Thomas Williams kept pace, but said nothing and never attempted to divert her from her course.

Some ten yards distant she saw a wooden rowboat moored to a post. The water was now up to Peter's chest and he began to wail as muddy waves splashed in his face. The man hoisted Peter onto his shoulders, and minutes later, they reached the boat. He lifted Peter and clabbered over the gunwale after him.

“Wait! Wait! Don't take him alone—take me, too. Whoever you are, whatever it is you want from me, you shall have it,” she called out wildly.

The man glared in her direction, but made no reply. He proceeded to retrieve the oars from the hull and slot them into their leather bindings.

“Wait! Please wait!” she implored again. But this time he did not even look up.

Suddenly, Thomas surged past her, waving his sword in the air. He reached the boat just as the man cast off the mooring rope. Thomas grasped the stern and made lunges with his sword. The man remained out of range, so he wrapped his legs round the rudder and began rocking the vessel as though he meant to capsize it. “Give back the boy or I'm not letting go,” he shouted between gritted teeth.

“Ain't you now?” the man mumbled, and swiveled the right-hand oar out of the oarlock and dropped it down flat on the crown of Thomas's head.

Thomas fell back into the water as blood gushed from a wound on his temple. He attempted to clamber onto the boat, but the man hit him again and steered the boat clumsily away toward deeper water, where it caught the current downstream.

Soon Peter was nothing more than a pale gray shadow, his features lost, his shape almost indistinguishable from the dull sweep of the river.