The Thief Taker (28 page)

“I'
LL FIND ANOTHER BOAT
and pursue them.” Blood and muddy water ran down Thomas's cheek, his lips were gray with cold.

“No,” Agnes said. “He cannot row fast, it will be easier to follow them on land.” She could not bring herself to look at him, but asked, “Who was it? Did you see who it was when you were close?”

“I caught no more than a glimpse of him before he clouted me.”

Agnes began to wade downstream toward shallower water. Was he someone she knew? She considered the tall, lean outline, the flapping coat, the hat and muffler. None of it was distinctive or outwardly remarkable.

And what did he want? He had had ample opportunity to kill Peter before now, if that was his intention. Perhaps he had arranged a hiding place for Peter somewhere close to the river. Agnes guessed that the boat had not been part of the original scheme. She had precipitated their flight by pursuing him. But why snatch Peter in the first place? Agnes had known the answer to this all along. Peter was a lure. She was the real target. Pitt might adopt such a tactic, but he was in the roundhouse awaiting committal.

But that being so, why hadn't he taken her when she had chased him? She concluded that the presence of Thomas Williams or the audience of river finders had deterred him.

Agnes watched the man rowing inexpertly, splashing water and spinning the boat. He veered back toward the shoreline, which made it easy to keep track of him.

“Where are they going?” asked Thomas.

“I am not certain. Perhaps to Marcus Pitt's premises.”

Thomas took out his handkerchief and wiped away the blood from his eyes. “What makes you say so? Pitt has been apprehended.”

“Have you a better place to start?”

“I should begin by calling on Justice Cordingly.”

“Then go, if you wish. But what will he care for the missing son of a cook? He has done precious little about the murders thus far. Besides, whether or not he wielded the knife, Pitt lies at the heart of the murders and the robbery. The murderer knows him and knows his house. He might regard it as a refuge.” She regarded the expanse of bleak brown water ahead. “In any case, why should I justify my reasons to you, Mr. Williams? After the lies you have spun, you are hardly above suspicion yourself.”

“What? That's nonsensical. If I had been involved, would I be here offering you my assistance? Would I have saved you from Pitt yesterday?”

Agnes knew he spoke the truth, and she did not seriously believe him capable of murder, but she remained furious at his deception. “Then if you are so innocent, as you claim, why conceal the fact that you were enamored by Rose for years, and that you were engaged to marry her? Perhaps you killed her out of jealousy when she took up with Riley and Philip.”

“I kept the engagement from you because I knew it was irrelevant to recent events and would only mislead you—as indeed it has. Rose broke our engagement, and caused me much heartache. Perhaps I was wrong not to have been more open. But my deception was mainly caused by my fondness for you. And I have never made that secret.”

Then, without further prompting, he confirmed the story Riley had told her. Rose and he had been engaged. She had followed him to London following the death of her father, and so detested her work at Lord Carew's she had wanted to marry him sooner than previously arranged. “I would have agreed were it not for my situation with Blanchards'. The company's dwindling fortunes worried me; I did not want to wed and find myself unable to provide for her. So I asked her to be patient and wait a while longer at Lord Carew's. But Rose broke our engagement in a fit of pique, saying she believed plenty of other eligible men would happily provide for her if I would not. A month later, she changed her mind and tried to mend things between us. When I hesitated, she came to the Blanchards'. Soon after, rumors reached me of her flirtations with Riley and Philip; I believe she took up with them to spur me to take her back. But her antics worried me. I saw I should never be able to trust her and I told her I could not. Had I acted differently, she might be alive today.”

Thomas halted and seemed to wait for her reaction. But Agnes walked on, the wind whipping her soaking wet skirts and boots. The boat with her son and his unknown kidnapper was now no larger than a walnut shell, a blurred shape against a swath of oily water. It disappeared through one of the cavernous openings between the piers of London Bridge, as if Peter were being consumed by some river monster. Thomas marched ahead toward the wharf steps. She shouted after him to make herself heard above the wind. “I have no appetite to argue the matter further now.”

With this, Thomas swiveled round, looking down at her from halfway up the steps. “You talk of me deceiving you, when it is
you
who deceive yourself.”

Agnes climbed up the steps until she was nearly level with him. “What do you mean by that?”

“If you really believed
I
was involved in Rose's murder, why would you have spoken yesterday of your errors of judgment, or permitted my assistance as you just did? You have fabricated doubts in order to barricade yourself from the truth.”

“On the contrary, I am perfectly open to the truth. Yesterday, thanks to your deception, I did not know it. And as for your assistance just now, much good that proved!” Then, infuriated as much by her own ingratitude as her weakness, she raised her hands and added more softly, “For pity's sake, Mr. Williams, leave me be.”

But he gripped her by the elbow. “And now you intend to go off alone?”

Agnes wrenched her arm from his and turned toward the tow-path. A thin gray mist was falling over the water. Squinting into the gloom, Agnes fancied she could see the rowboat draw in to the quayside. Some yards ahead the path forked, the left-hand branch turning inland in a southerly direction; and she reckoned it must lead toward Melancholy Walk. Even as she watched, Peter's kidnapper moored the boat to a large metal ring on the quayside below.

Agnes instinctively pressed herself into an adjacent doorway and pulled Thomas with her. The two figures stepped from the boat and made their way to the street above. They then plunged into an alley out of view. “Not a word, he must not see us,” Agnes whispered. “And when we arrive at the house, please stay back. Do not follow until I beckon you to come. It will be better all round if I approach alone.”

“As a woman, you are hardly equipped to attempt such a rescue.”

“Peter is my son. After all I have recently endured, I believe I am well able to manage my own affairs.”

“Very well, then, if that is your choice. Do you prefer me to leave?”

“Not now, or someone might see you.”

“Indeed, then would it not be in Peter's interest for us to formulate a plan on which we both agree?”

Agnes had to concede his logic. For some minutes, they argued in whispers and eventually agreed that Agnes (who was unyielding on the point) would proceed ahead and find a means of entry without being observed. After ascertaining the abductor's whereabouts and identity, she would make herself known, thus allowing him to believe she had fallen for his trap. On her signal, Thomas would arrive and apprehend the villain and she would rescue her son.

Thomas protested that the plan was too sketchy and it would be better if they went in together. But she argued that two of them would be more likely to be noticed, and that once the element of surprise was lost, the abductor would have the advantage over them and might easily slip away. “Once we are certain who he is, at least if he escapes we may inform the justice and have him apprehended. Without proof, we can do nothing.”

With Thomas still muttering objections, they proceeded, taking the left-hand fork. A narrow alley was lined on both sides with a high wooden palisade. On the right reared the backs of a row of tall buildings. “Which house is it?” said Thomas.

“One of those over there,” whispered Agnes, waving at the houses. “But the road is on the other side and from this vantage point I cannot tell exactly which it is.”

They edged their way up an alley leading to Melancholy Walk. Presumably Peter and his captor must have traveled this way, but there was no sign of them. As she reached the corner, Agnes peered gingerly round into the street. Then through the mist, she glimpsed a pair of silhouettes, one tall, one short, hurrying away. “I see them,” she said. “I will go alone from here.”

Thomas nodded. She sensed his misgivings, but he made no attempt to follow her. Clinging to the wall, Agnes proceeded as far as she dared. A few yards on, the pair halted in front of a house, then mounted the stairs and knocked. She recognized the house as Pitt's. She could see Peter peer about, the dark-cloaked figure looming over him like a colossus. After a while the door creaked open. An occasional word drifted to her—“boat…pursued…wait here…” A minute later they stepped inside and the door crashed closed.

Agnes crept up to the house. The sash windows were dark, the shutters closed. She climbed the four steps and tried the front door. But as she expected, it was locked fast. She looked up at the façade, searching for a means to enter without being noticed. To one side of the main entrance, a narrow stone staircase led down to the basement, the wall punctuated by a casement window. The window might have been large enough to squeeze through, but it was locked and barred. Impossible. But then she saw that to one side of the basement, hidden beneath the stairs leading to the front door, was another, smaller entrance.

Filled with trepidation, she went down and tried the door handle, praying it would open. But the handle did not budge. She put her shoulder against the door and gave a sharp shove with all her weight, but the door was stout and there was no give in it at all. She would have to alter the plan and knock on Pitt's door to gain entry after all, she decided. And then rely upon her wits to save Peter. There was no other way.

But as she turned, her boot caught upon something. Beneath the stairs leading down from the street, a wooden cover with a thick rope handle was set into the flagged basement floor. Hope rising once more, she yanked on the rope, but the wood was sodden and swollen shut. Taking a firmer grip, she yanked harder. The rope bit into her palms, the cover creaked, she fancied she felt it give a little. She heaved again with all her might. This time she nearly fell backward as the lid pulled off.

Panting, Agnes squatted down and peered into the black opening. She could see nothing but a glistening black mound some four feet beneath her: the coal cellar. She swung her legs into the opening, then let herself fall.

The drop was greater than she had calculated and she wrenched her ankle as she landed and cried out involuntarily. Coal dust filled her eyes and nostrils but she stiffled her cough. As her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she could make out the walls, the beams supporting the ceiling, and a small arched doorway set into one wall.

A
GNES LIMPED ACROSS
the cellar and tried the handle; the door opened easily. She pushed it out a few inches and looked gingerly through the gap. There was a corridor leading, she supposed, to the kitchen. But all was silent, chill, deserted.

She stepped into the corridor. Doors opened to the left—disused sculleries and pantries and a larder filled with nothing but cobwebs. The corridor opened into a kitchen with a staircase in one corner. Agnes glanced disapprovingly at the rusted, unlit range, and a heap of pots encrusted with scraps of foul-smelling food. A rat scuttled beneath the skirting. Shuddering with cold and apprehension, she mounted the stairs.

Agnes found herself in the upper hallway. To the left was the front door and the room facing the street, where she had first met Pitt.

At first the place seemed deserted, but then she thought she heard a faint sound coming from the back—the muffled sound of footsteps, someone coughing. She moved toward it, barely able to keep from calling out Peter's name. Her scalp prickling with anticipation, her breathing shallow, she inched open the door and squinted in.

The room was sparsely furnished—a couple of deal chairs, an old splintered table, and a desultory fire burned in the grate. Standing in the center of the room was Elsie. The girl looked strained and worn, as if she hadn't slept for days, and she was coughing quietly into a grimy handkerchief. Rose's boots were still on her feet.

Boots, Agnes thought—that is what was troubling me. That is what I recognized. She recalled then the boots she had found on her kitchen table the morning of Rose's disappearance and the lean, dark form she had seen at the river, and nodded slowly. But a moment later, she was overcome by a surge of bitterness. Elsie had assisted in Peter's abduction. Elsie, with whom she had sympathized, whom she had tried to help.

“So, Elsie, I have found you at last,” she said.

She swept into the room and grabbed her arm. “Where is Peter? How could you assist in such an evil scheme?”

Elsie met Agnes's accusing look with one of equal rancor and indictment.

“Well,” Agnes said, “why did you take my son?” In her heart of hearts, she knew the answer—Elsie must hold her responsible for her father's death.

By way of reply, Elsie shifted her eyes to direct Agnes's attention to the door she had just entered. Agnes recognized a soft tread behind her. Still clutching Elsie's arm, she turned.

A grimy figure loomed in the doorway. It was Grant, Pitt's henchman. His gaze seemed blurred and unfocused. His trousers were half unbuttoned, the belt undone. He was wearing the same filthy stained coat that he had worn yesterday. He gave a noisy yawn and belched.

“Mrs. Meadowes,” he said. “What an unexpected surprise. Come to join us, have you?” As he approached them, Elsie pushed away Agnes's hand and sidled close to Grant. The stench of stale clothes and sweat emanating from him was overpowering, but Elsie looked up at Grant as though seeking reassurance, then fixed Agnes with a hostile glare.

Agnes stepped back. “Join you? All I want is to find my son. Some evil person has abducted him this morning and brought him here.” She was wary of Grant, but not afraid. He had not taken Peter—she knew it was not his stocky outline she had seen. Grant belched again. Agnes caught fumes of stale beer, mingled with onions and other odors too noxious to contemplate. He gave her a leering grin. “Abducted your son?” he said, drawing uncomfortably close. “That is a most tragic occurrence. Whoever would do such a thing? I trust you do not accuse little Elsie or me?”

Agnes glanced quickly at the window. Somewhere out there, she thought, Thomas awaits my signal. She felt a ridiculous urge to throw open the window and call him. “No,” she said, trying to disguise her revulsion and mounting unease. “I do not accuse
you
in particular. But I saw someone bring my son into this house here not fifteen minutes ago.” Grant scratched his stubbly cheek. “I never heard nothing, did you, Elsie?”

“No sir. That's 'cos they ain't here,” said Elsie in an expressionless tone. “You must've imagined it, Mrs. Meadowes.”

Ignoring Grant, Agnes lowered her gaze to the girl. “Elsie, I know it was you that took Peter away. Perhaps you did so because someone told you I was responsible for your father's death. I assure you, that is not the case. Now tell me, do you know where Peter is?”

“Why should I believe you? Why should I tell you anything?”

“I do not know what you have been told, but, I repeat, I had nothing to do with your father's death. Nothing save finding his body after Mr. Grant hid it. And since doing so, I have been much occupied in trying to ascertain who murdered him, for it was the same person who killed Rose and the apprentice.”

“That ain't true, is it, Mr. Grant? It were her what got my pa killed, you said.”

Grant ignored the question. He came toward Agnes menacingly. “And what of Mr. Pitt? I suppose you had nothing to do with
his
apprehension, neither?”

“I was not responsible for his arrest, although I cannot pretend sorrow at his fate. But do not fret on his account; by his own testimony, his friendship with a certain judge will swiftly ensure his freedom. In any case, Mr. Grant, now that you are left holding the reins of his enterprise, you cannot be entirely sorry he's out of the way. This house will be very comfortable without Mr. Pitt ordering you about. So if Elsie won't help, why don't you reveal what you know and keep Pitt where he deserves to be? Think of the fruits that would then be yours to enjoy.”

Grant shifted his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his groin and shuffled from side to side. Did Agnes imagine it, or had a flicker of doubt now appeared in Elsie's eyes?

Grant cocked his head, squeezing the fleshy folds of his neck into tight concentric rings. “What d'you wish to know?”

“Where is my boy, and who in the Blanchard household assisted in robbery of the wine cooler?”

Grant snorted. “Sorry, I can't help you on either count. I was just taking a nap and never heard a whisper. But if young Elsie says he ain't here, then he ain't. And as for your other query—I'm in the dark as much as you. Besides, I'd be for the noose if I said a word. Pitt'd find out somehow or other. He's too much hold on too many men of influence.” Then, giving Agnes a farewell nod, he added, “I'll bid you good day now. I've urgent business to attend to,” and shuffled out. Halfway down the hall, he called to Elsie. “And you, girl—how about making yourself useful and fetching us something for dinner? I'll be back in half an hour.”

Grant slammed the front door. Elsie hesitated for a second and then, without looking at Agnes, made as if to follow. Agnes placed her hand on her shoulder. “Wait a moment, Elsie. Listen to me. Whoever told you I killed your father only did so in order that you would help abduct Peter. None of it is true. I don't believe you want Peter harmed, or me killed either. That is why my son has been taken—so that I would come after him and whoever murdered your pa would do the same to me. Is that what you want?”

Elsie regarded Agnes intently, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Tears glistened on her lashes. “I don't know his name. And even if I did, after what
you
done for my pa, I wouldn't let on,” she said stubbornly.

“Why would I kill your pa? You only have Grant's word for it. And that is because he is afraid
he
might be murdered if he lets slip the real culprit. He knows who it is, though—you could see that as well as I. Did Grant tell you it was he that hid your pa's body in the chimney?”

“No.”

“Then take a look at how dirty his coat is. The stains on it are your father's blood and the soot from where he hid his body up the chimney. And if you still don't believe me, go and speak to Mr. Pitt at the roundhouse. He knows the truth.”

Agnes could see her waver as she absorbed the information. She waited. Give her time, Agnes told herself. She is under no obligation to help. Do not press too hard.

Elsie sighed miserably, “It were Mr. Grant what told me to take 'im to where pa's cellar were—he was going to take Peter there, down by Pickle Herring Quay,” she ventured.

“Take who?”

“I dunno who he was—a man, tall, dark-haired, middling sort of dress.”

Agnes nodded, eyes gleaming. “You are quite certain of that? You never saw him before?”

“Never said that, did I?” said Elsie, cross at being doubted. “He was all covered up in the carriage, but I fancy I did see him once before. Or if not, he were very like the man what chased after your friend by the river.”

“I see,” said Agnes, pondering. “But it wasn't one of the menservants from Foster Lane?”

“No.”

She hadn't expected so firm a rebuttal. “I take it you know what Mr. Theodore and Mr. Nicholas Blanchard look like from watching the house. Was it one of them, or someone from the shop?”

Again Elsie firmly shook her head. “Anyway, whoever he were, like I said, I went in the coach with him. When I spun Mrs. Sharp the story, he stayed in the coach; he put on a glove and waved from the window to masquerade as you. I was meant to keep an eye on Peter for a few hours, until someone came and took him away. He said getting a bit of a scare was no more than you deserved and the boy wouldn't be harmed.” She now was looking at her feet as she spoke.

“It's all right, Elsie. I don't blame you. He duped me just the same.” But Agnes was puzzled. Why hadn't Elsie recognized the man in the carriage? But she nodded encouragingly, “And once you had Peter, what happened?”

“Him and me and the other fellow went in the carriage down to the river. I showed him where to come and ran ahead to make things ready. Only him and Peter never arrived, and when I came back up the steps to see where they'd gone I saw them both going off in a boat.”

Agnes nodded. “What brought you here?”

Elsie blinked and turned away. “I don't like being in that cellar much on my own, now Pa's not there. Mr. Grant told me I might stay here. He said Pa's death and Mr. Pitt's arrest needn't make a difference. I could help him just the same.”

“So Grant was never involved in the scheme to snatch Peter?”

“No. Only he told me to do what the man said.” Elsie looked nervously over her shoulder toward the door. “I never told him nothing about all this, nor that they come 'ere. He was fast asleep just now, and never woke.”

Doubtless his slumbers were aided by the bottles of ale, thought Agnes grimly. “Tell me, that night when you waited for the message and I asked you to come down to the kitchen, why did you run off?”

“I saw my pa standing there waiting in a doorway.”

There had been a figure sheltering opposite, she recalled. “Waiting for you?”

“I thought so at the time, though it can't have been 'cos he never came after me. When I looked back he was waving his arms and making faces, but not at me.” She stopped. “I'd better go fetch the dinner now or Grant'll be angry.”

“One more thing. Was it you who let Peter and his abductor in just now?”

“Yes. He said it would only be a short while afore you came looking. He wouldn't stay long after that.”

Agnes felt her heart pitch. Her arrival had been expected. Peter had been taken as a lure. “And where did they go?”

“Upstairs. Don't know where, though.”

Agnes nodded. “Very well. Hurry off now. And on your way up the road, you will pass an alley where a friend of mine, Mr. Williams, a curly-haired man wearing a brown coat, is waiting. Tell him to come close to the front window of the house. I shall call him any moment now.”

Elsie nodded as she marched off. Agnes sensed the girl's regret at what she had done, but could see that she struggled to find the words to say so. She followed her down the corridor, waiting for half a minute, just in case Elsie should say something more; but she went out in silence, and Agnes could wait no longer. She was just about to climb the stairs when she observed that the previously open door to Pitt's front room was now closed. Grant had been gone a half an hour, she remembered. She had heard him go out and shut the front door. Was someone else now inside?

Agnes looked in. A thin line of light leeched between the closed shutters. She was uncomfortably reminded of the ride in the carriage when Marcus Pitt had insisted the curtains remain closed. She had opened the shutters no more than an inch or two when she heard shuffling on the stairs and a heavy tread in the hallway. She spun round just as a head peered in. “Mrs. Meadowes,” said a familiar voice. “Thank God I have found you.”