The Thief Taker (3 page)

D
URING THE NIGHT
, the gale turned so powerful that the lanterns in Foster Lane were all extinguished. A watchman was paid by various craftsmen to patrol the street and deter any villainy, but at two in the morning, reasoning that no villain would venture out in such inclement conditions, he decided to pass the rest of the night in his bed.

When the city bells chimed half past two, the moon was obscured by a cover of cloud. No one saw Harry Drake step out of Dolly's whorehouse in Cheapside, where he had spent half a sovereign most enjoyably, and creep toward the shadows of Foster Lane. Along the way he darted into a passage and collected a cart, borrowed for the evening from a rag-dealing acquaintance. The cart was empty and easy to push, although the wind hampered his pace. Some minutes later, Harry Drake reached the Blanchards' premises, where he had observed Elsie running off the day before. He left the cart nearby, and huddled in a doorway opposite, his eyes fixed on the Blanchards' shop and his heart thumping in his chest. The wind eddied down the street, moaning like a dying man. But Harry Drake was unperturbed, recalling the information he had gleaned from his daughter, which conveniently supplemented what he had learned elsewhere.

There were three apprentices who slept in the basement of the shop, each of whom had a four-hour watch. They started at eight, twelve, and four o'clock. The apprentice on duty was usually found in the first-floor showroom, keeping guard over the most highly prized pieces of silver, including the one for which Harry had come. He looked up at the three large windows that pierced the first-floor frontage. In one he discerned a yellowish dancing glow of candlelight and an indistinct form. This, Harry assumed, must be the apprentice keeping watch, seated in a chair. Harry had an hour and a half until the apprentice's colleague came to relieve him. What was he waiting for?

Harry took a strip of black cloth from his pocket and wrapped it like a bandage over his nose and mouth, tying it behind his head so that only the slits of his eyes were visible. From another pocket he extracted a length of rope, which he wrapped several times about his fist. Then he dipped into his trouser band and brought out a long-bladed knife. Clutching this tightly, he stepped out from his cover.

On one side of the Blanchards' doorway was the wide, bay-fronted shopwindow, but it was the narrower sash window at street level on the other side to which Harry Drake turned his attentions. He inserted the knife blade between the upper and lower sections of the frame. It was an easy matter to jiggle the blade and give it a swift twist so that the catch sprang back. Harry pushed up the sash, took out a file, and made quick work of a pair of iron bars. He flung his long legs over the sill and slid inside the downstairs showroom.

For a moment, Harry Drake sat on the floor in the pitch darkness to catch his breath and listen. Tension prickled in his spine. He began to unwind the rope from around his knuckles. If the apprentice upstairs had heard his entry, he would hear footsteps on creaking boards, and would be ready. But save for the complaining groans of the gale, he detected no sound.

He removed his hobnail boots and, holding them in one hand, inched forward silently. When he reached the corridor by the front door he put down his boots, then groped his way along the hallway. He slowly mounted the stairs, setting his feet close to the wall so that not a squeak would betray his presence. At the top there were four doors leading off to the left and right of the landing, but he spied the telltale thread of candlelight beneath only one of them. He inched open the door. This was the most perilous moment. He must creep up on the apprentice and silence him before the boy had time to cry out.

The apprentice was seated before the dying embers of the fire. A burned-down candle stub flickered on a table beside him. His head had lolled forward limply; there could be no mistaking, he had fallen asleep on the watch. He could not have made the task any easier if he had tried.

Harry Drake did not dither for an instant. With the stealth of a pirate, in three strides he had gathered a turn of his rope about each fist and positioned himself directly behind the unsuspecting apprentice. He seized the crown of the boy's head and yanked it back so that his neck would be elongated for one swift twist of the rope.

He expected a quick gurgle and a struggle, not the sight that confronted him. But the apprentice's lips sagged open and his tongue protruded from the dark hole of his mouth, swollen and dark. His eyes were wide open and bulbous, as though something had surprised him. Something
had
surprised him. He was not sleeping. He was dead already, throat cut from ear to ear so deep that his windpipe was severed and his head hung on by no more than a few sinews.

Harry Drake released his grip on the apprentice's head, but the sudden movement caused a new torrent of blood to spurt over the floor, as dark and thick as gravy. He was reminded of the pudding he had eaten earlier that night, and his intestines writhed at the thought of it.

He moved away from the corpse, stepping over the pool of blood that was oozing wider as he watched. He picked up the candle stub from the table and held it aloft, anxiously surveying the silverware displayed about the room. His eyes flickered over all manner of chandeliers, dishes, tureens, and ewers and halted on a hefty sideboard by the door. There sat a massive oval vessel, over three feet long and two feet wide, as big as the copper basin his mother had used for boiling her washing. Only this was not a washing copper.

It was made of silver, adorned with mermaids, dolphins, tritons, and a pair of stampeding horses dragging a naked Neptune from the foamy waves. It was Sir Bartholomew's wine cooler—the most valuable item ever made in the Blanchard workshop; the largest piece of silver seen in the city of London for many a month; the prize that Harry Drake had come to steal.

He unbuttoned his coat and took out a length of sackcloth, which he laid over the wine cooler then tucked under each scalloped leg in turn, sighing pleasurably at the weight. It was as heavy, he reckoned, as Nelly the whore, who had clung about his waist earlier that night. Putting his hands under the cloth, he grasped the receptacle around Neptune's torso and a mermaid's breast, and careless of whether or not the staircase creaked, hurried downstairs. He recovered his boots and unbolted the door. Then, as brazenly as if he were Sir Bartholomew Grey himself, he went out into the stormy street.

R
OSE
F
RANCIS EMERGED
surreptitiously from the kitchen door into the darkness of Foster Lane. The gale still blew, but for several minutes her mind was so taken up with thoughts of the step she had just taken and the rendezvous ahead that she paid little attention to the wind or her surroundings. But in the time she reached Cheapside her cloak billowed about, the lanterns on the shop frontages were all extinguished, signboards swayed eerily in the wind, and clouds gusting across the moon made the street grow disconcertingly dark. She heard the sound of footsteps a short distance behind her. Leather soles on cobbled streets, following the same route she had taken.

She hesitated, clutching her valise and lantern, uncertain whether to turn and look or pretend she had heard nothing and proceed. Perhaps by some misfortune it was the watchman, whom she had hoped to avoid. The bells of St. Paul's had recently chimed three. On this bitter night, at such an hour, she had expected to find the streets deserted. And she was quite alone, apart from the person behind her.

Rose peered over her shoulder, holding her lamp aloft. As if to help, just then the clouds cleared and silver moonlight fell across the street. Some twenty yards behind, near the great cathedral, she thought she glimpsed a shape. She was unsure whether it was a man or a woman, but the figure seemed to be of large to middling build, and dressed in a cloak that flapped about like hers. It was not the watchman—the figure carried no lamp or torch. Just at that moment, another cloud scudded over the moon and the figure melted into the dark.

Rose was, as a rule, immune from fears and fancy. She was headed to a rendezvous in Southwark, and, being conscious of the perils of London streets at night, she had armed herself before setting out. In her right pocket, tucked next to her purse, was a small pocket pistol with a silver-mounted handle.

When she stowed the weapon in her pocket, she was emboldened by her nerve, but now, she had a presentiment of danger that the pistol did nothing to dispel. Who was it? Please God let it not be one of the other servants from the house come chasing after her to bring her back. Surely that was not possible. When she had risen, the two other maids who shared her attic room had been sleeping peacefully. She had crept down the passage and back stairs, avoiding the basement corridor where the other servants slept. No one was up. No one could have observed her. No one knew her plan. Several hours would pass before any of them rose and began to question where she was.

What would happen then? Mrs. Tooley might be summoned from her bed, work herself into a state, and have to retire again. At the thought of the housekeeper sniffing her salts and flapping about, Rose couldn't help smiling. Then a vision of Agnes flitted into her mind. She imagined the cook stirring her sauce or mixing her fricassee, growing flushed with the heat from the fire. Agnes had always maintained her distance, requiring only that Rose perform her duties satisfactorily. But when Rose had been negligent, Agnes had hardly ever chastised her, and once or twice she had asked herself why this was, and grew remorseful. More often, she misbehaved expressly to provoke Agnes. When she never properly succeeded, it had spurred her to worse behavior. She had recounted her misdeeds afterward; Philip and John disapproved, while delighting in the accounts; Doris droned that one of these days she would lose her post. All of them were too dull-witted to see why she took such risks and was so careless of Agnes's and Mrs. Tooley's good opinion—she was leaving.

The footsteps distracted her. Was it her imagination, or were the steps getting closer? Rose increased her pace, gripping the handle of her bag and her lantern, so that the leather bit into her palm and the light wavered about. A few yards on, her anxiety mounting, an idea came to her. She could make a detour and head for the river. At any hour there were certain to be people about, and whatever her stalker's intentions, he could pose no further threat.

Invigorated with new purpose, she turned down Distaff Lane, a thoroughfare of overhanging clapboard houses, all the while gathering speed, and soon she was practically running. After several minutes, lungs aching, she stopped and listened. There was no sound. She believed, in that instant, that her scheme had worked, but then she heard the footsteps again, closer than ever.

Rose Francis transferred her bag to the same hand as the lantern and, with her free hand, took out the pistol. She flicked off the catch, then, turning abruptly right, slowed her pace. She felt cold perspiration gather on her face. She would confuse her pursuer into passing her. When he did so, she would reveal her weapon, and if necessary, she would use it.

But her pursuer failed to oblige. As if sensing a trap, he hung obstinately back in the overhang of a doorway. Rose edged forward, gripping the pistol in her quaking hand. She caught a glimpse of him lingering on the corner. Without pausing, she dashed in the opposite direction, into the first alley she saw. She zigzagged wildly through the labyrinthine passages and streets leading to the river. But whichever way she chose, her pursuer seemed to anticipate her every turn.

The cobbles gave way to mud. The wind was still fierce and the folds of her skirt and cloak tangled between her legs. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a cloak and dark hat. Should she simply turn, aim, and fire her pistol? Reason told her she should, but the instinct for flight had overwhelmed her.

When she emerged breathlessly at Three Cranes Wharf, the clocks of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Austin's began to sound the hour with competing resonance. An oyster moon illuminated the river and the wharfs and warehouses lining its banks. It was low tide and she could see barges aground on the muddy foreshore, lying strangely angled, but gray and flat as if drawn on an engraving.

Rose searched for someone to assist her. There were fewer people than she expected, but at least she was no longer entirely alone. A bald-headed man was slumped comatose in a doorway clutching a gin bottle to his breast. Another man, wearing a greatcoat, was stooped outside a warehouse, tying a barrel to a winch. Beyond, two figures sat hunched over a brazier. None of them appeared to notice her as she emerged from the alley at breakneck speed.

In the hope that the figures by the brazier might be watchmen, Rose cried out to them, but they seemed not to hear. She glanced back at the man with the barrel, only to see him disappear into the warehouse. Directly in front of her were steps leading down to the foreshore. She sidestepped to the right, heading for the figures by the brazier.

Just then the winch with the barrel on it creaked and its chains rattled loudly. Rose jumped at the sound and let go of her lantern and bag, which dropped over the edge of the wharf. She heard them land with a heavy thud. Half crying, she hurried down the steps to recover them. As her boots sank into the mud, she lost her footing and felt herself tumble forward.

For a few seconds she lay sprawled there. Then, slowly, she stumbled to her feet. She stood in her sodden, ruined skirt, peering into the gloom in every direction. It seemed that the person following her had vanished.

Suppose he was still waiting in an alley? She thought for a moment. Her rendezvous was on the south side of the river, which meant crossing the bridge, a distance of half a mile. With the tide out, she could reach the bridge by keeping to the mudflats. This would be safer than returning to the streets, where her pursuer might be waiting for her.

Rose felt her courage return. She retrieved her belongings and picked her way toward the bridge. A dark-cloaked figure slipped out of an alley and, clinging to the shadows, followed.