The Thief Taker (4 page)

A
T FOUR O'CLOCK
, one of the Blanchards' three apprentices went to relieve the unfortunate Noah Prout of his watch. On discovering the corpse and the great pool of blood, and noting that Sir Bartholomew Grey's precious wine cooler was gone, he hurried to raise the alarm. He roused his fellow apprentice, then charged next door and banged repeatedly on the kitchen door until his fist was raw and bleeding.

It was a good ten minutes before Mr. Matthews arrived in his nightgown and nightcap. The butler's senses had been addled by sleep and several inches of port drained from the decanter, but the sudden blast of wind and debris that gusted in his face when he opened the door sobered him as effectively as a bucket of water to the head. It took him a minute or two to decipher the jumbled account of the nearly decapitated Noah and the missing wine cooler.

Leaving the apprentices ashen and shivering in his parlor, Mr. Matthews immediately went to Theodore's room. He knocked discreetly on the door and, hearing only raucous snoring, entered quietly so as not to disturb Lydia, who slept in the adjacent room.

Theodore was lying with his blankets tucked up round his chin and his nightcap over one nostril. The pointed tip of the hat puffed up and down with each great snore. Mr. Matthews had to give him several firm shakes before, with much incoherent groaning, he woke.

Pale and somber, he listened to the news, then sat in silence for some minutes. “A dreadful calamity, sir,” said Mr. Matthews. Theodore twisted his nightcap in his hands, then scratched his stubbly head, but said nothing. “Should I send for the constable now, sir?” pressed Mr. Matthews, half wondering if his master had properly understood him. “The villain may still be in the vicinity.”

At last Theodore spoke. “We are ruined. That wine cooler was the most valuable object ever made by this company. There can be no avoiding the fact—we are ruined.” If he was taken aback by this admission, Mr. Matthews did not reveal it by so much as a twitch. “Surely not, sir,” he said, in the tone of formal deference he found best in a crisis. “What would you have me do about the corpse?”

“Leave me in peace a minute, won't you? Don't expect me to think about that when such a catastrophe has taken place. Whatever am I to tell my father, and Sir Bartholomew? The wine cooler stolen the very night before it was due to be delivered.”

When Theodore had recovered himself sufficiently to collect his thoughts, he instructed Matthews to call for the constable and magistrate and to send watchmen in search of the missing wine cooler. Theodore would break the news to his father himself in the morning, at breakfast. He expressly forbade Matthews to discuss the tragedy below stairs until that time. “And since you and I are the only ones who know, I rely upon your discretion, Matthews.”

“You may rest assured upon it, sir,” said Mr. Matthews with a small bow.

Then, with Mr. Matthews's help, Theodore dressed swiftly and went next door to view the scene of the crime with his own disbelieving eyes.

A
S A RULE
, Agnes Meadowes slept dreamlessly, or at least forgot her dreams by the time she awoke. But the storm had disturbed her, and next morning she was burdened by an unfamiliar sense of foreboding. Her bolster felt damp and her eyes were swollen. The dream that had disturbed her was indistinct, but she knew that it had caused her to weep.

Sitting up in bed, she suddenly understood. The previous evening she had finally retrieved her letter from the ailing Mrs. Tooley. Reading it before retiring had preyed on her mind and caused her nightmares. She plucked it from her night table and considered it again.

Rereading the letter relieved and disturbed Agnes anew. She thanked God Peter was well, and yet where would she find another person to tend Peter at such short notice? She was permitted only one free Sunday a month and the next was not due for another fortnight. She would have to persuade Mrs. Tooley to allow her an extra day off, but the housekeeper was feeling frail and it would not be an easy task.

Agnes reminded herself that there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on her personal disturbances. Her duties awaited and should not be ignored. She would tackle Mrs. Tooley as soon as an opportune moment arose. After all, there were five days until Saturday.

It was now nearly seven. She splashed and scoured herself with a flannel soused in icy water, and donned her everyday garb: a pair of brown woolen stockings, a chemise, a petticoat, a worn gray skirt and bodice, a freshly laundered apron. With the exception of the apron, most of these items had belonged to Lydia Blanchard, who passed them on to her maid, Patsy. But Patsy, being rather larger than Lydia, was obliged to alter the clothes, and those she could not let out or down were passed to Agnes or one of the other servants.

Agnes was almost the same size as Lydia. The costume nicely outlined her narrow waist, but it had been several years since Agnes had taken more than the most cursory interest in her appearance. Today was no exception. She arranged her thick dark hair in a bun and topped it with a cap. A glance at her reflection revealed the effect of her worries over Peter. Her amber eyes were shadowed with purple, her cheeks were drawn. She looked away, and without further delay made her way along the narrow passage to the kitchen.

 

T
HE SIGHT
that greeted her thrust all other worries from her thoughts. The range should have been burning steadily, yet smoke and yellow flames belched from the grate, a sure sign it had not been lit long. The black kettle that should have been boiling for early-morning tea was barely tepid. There was no sign of the trays of patted butter or the preserves and jellies that should have been set out in preparation for upstairs breakfast. And upon the hub of Agnes's realm—the kitchen table—stood a final outrage: a pair of muddy boots.

If the owner of the boots was unknown (though Agnes had her suspicions), there was no doubt who was responsible for the undone chores. Rose Francis should have been up over an hour ago, but was conspicuously absent. It was as if the girl were challenging her. Agnes determined that today, Rose would not shirk her responsibilities. Agnes would banish all thoughts of the larder and stand over Rose all day if necessary.

Agnes searched for her in the yard, the scullery, and, steeling herself, in the larder. Finding no sign of her, she headed toward the butler's pantry and was startled to see Philip emerge. He was the same height as John, but broader about the shoulder and stronger in the thigh. He had fine, chiseled features, a wide, full-lipped mouth, and a flash in his olive green eyes that showed he knew how handsome he was. But today those eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and his complexion was unusually pale. He was brandishing the hog's bristle brush he used for cleaning boots, and reeked of sweat and stale beer.

“Morning, Mrs. Meadowes,” he mumbled with a barely disguised yawn. “Looking for something?”

“Have I
you
to thank for these?” Agnes inquired, waving over at the muddy boots in the middle of her table.

“Someone else must've left 'em. It weren't me,” said Philip, without a glimmer of contrition. He yawned again, more loudly and unapologetically, and whisked the boots back to the pantry.

Agnes's brow puckered at the sight of several large flakes of mud left behind. She swept them into her hand, followed Philip back to the pantry, and brushed her palms together, depositing the mud on the bench beside him. “Who, then, pray?”

Philip was just moving aside a cloak and muffler that were lying on the butler's table. He winced and drew back. “Not so loud. I ain't deaf. How should I know? Ain't you got more to worry you'n that?”

“Such as?” she said no more quietly than before. “You mean Rose, I presume? Where's she got to?”

“Shh,” said Philip, sliding a smooth wooden tree into each boot before beginning to scrub them. “Her whereabouts are naught to do with me.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Why don't you give me a rest and ask Patsy? There she is.”

“Ask me what?” said Patsy, Lydia's maid, looking from one to the other as she burst in with a tea tray. She was dressed in a pale blue woolen robe of Lydia's and looked quite the lady. She put down the tray and smoothed a lace ruffle on her sleeve. “I suppose it's Rose. Everything's got behind on account of her. I'm not one to complain, but how am I supposed to do my work as well as hers? I oughtn't prepare Mrs. Blanchard's tray, only take it up.”

“I'm sorry,” said Agnes, feeling responsible for Rose's failings. She had been as remiss as Rose, in her way. “I can't think what's come over her.”

Patsy shrugged petulantly. “Whatever her excuse, she's the cause of more trouble than anyone. I'd say she deserves a proper scolding. Anyway, I can't stop. I shall have to explain to Mrs. Blanchard why her tea is delayed.” She shot a meaningful look at Agnes before scurrying off up the back staircase.

Agnes returned slowly to the butler's pantry, where Philip was still pretending to clean the boots. “So where is she?” Agnes pressed with uncharacteristic insistence.

Philip looked stubborn. “I told you before, I don't know.”

“Are you certain you do not?” Her cheeks began to burn. A vision of Philip with his breeches round his ankles and his muscular buttocks flexed barged into her skull. She forced it away, looking over her shoulder to make sure they were alone. “Forgive me for asking,” she said in a lower tone, “but was she with you last night?”

“No,” said Philip, also speaking more softly. “Between you and me, I passed the evening at the Blue Cockerel in Lombard Street. But don't say nothing to Mr. Matthews about it or he'll cuff me. And hand on heart, after the night I passed there I wouldn't 'ave heard her if she'd been in bed beside me.”

Agnes was tempted to say he knew as well as she did that nocturnal sorties were strictly forbidden during the week and she saw no reason to keep his outing from Mr. Matthews. But she said nothing. Embarrassment, coupled with respect for the hierarchy of the household, held her back. As cook, she was one of the upper servants, but as a male servant, Philip was beyond her jurisdiction. In any case, she was not surprised at his reluctance to speculate on Rose's whereabouts, nor did she believe his denial. Just because he had gone to the Blue Cockerel did not mean Rose had not accompanied him. Doubtless the pair of them had overindulged and he wanted to protect her from trouble.

Agnes stalked back to the kitchen, took a stick of cinnamon from a tin, and bit down on it. Her fingers were smutted black—polish from the boots, perhaps—which did nothing to improve her humor. She heard a clanking behind her. Doris, the flame haired scullery maid, shuffled slowly in with a bucket in one hand, a mop trailing in the other.

“About time, Doris,” Agnes greeted her sharply. “You are an hour late with that. What has happened to Rose? Is she indisposed? If so, you ought to have told me; if not, you must fetch her at once.”

Doris's simple face flushed. “Sorry, Mrs. Meadowes. I never heard a squeak from her all night, but then I always sleep sound. And it being dark and all, I never noticed nothing when I got up. But Nancy says Rose were never in her bed this morning. And since she ain't here, it can only mean she's gone.”

Agnes regarded her aghast. “Gone?”

“Aye. Her bed were empty. Nancy thought she'd come down ahead of her and left her deliberately to sleep on. The pair of them had a great falling-out yesterday, and it came to blows. But Rose ain't here, as you see. It was Philip what said she must 'ave gone off. Last night he saw Mr. Matthews lock up, and just now when he went to the coal store, the kitchen door was open.”

Hearing this exchange, Philip added, “Lucky we wasn't all murdered in our beds.”

Agnes remembered the bruise on Rose's cheek. Nancy and Rose often squabbled, but she had never paid much attention to them. Was this disruption her fault? “What was the fight about?” she inquired.

“Dunno, Mrs. Meadowes,” said Doris. “But the screeching was something terrible.”

“Both of them was sweet on me,” said Philip. “
No
doubt I was what caused it.”

Agnes shot him a reproachful look. “I thought you said you knew nothing of her whereabouts.”

“She fought over me—that don't mean she told me where she was going.”

Without troubling to reply to this, Agnes turned back to Doris. “You might have had the gumption to call me earlier.”

Doris swallowed and blinked, looking down at her puffy hands. A limp strand of hair had emerged from her badly pinned cap and was stuck to her glistening forehead. She began picking at the hem of her apron with nails that were not as clean as they might have been. “I didn't know what to do, ma'am. Nancy said to leave you and Mrs. Tooley or we'd be in trouble. She said get on as best we could till you came.”

“Nancy is only the housemaid,” said Agnes darkly. “She's no right to give orders.”

“Ain't that a bit harsh, Mrs. Meadowes?” called Philip from the pantry. Then to Doris, “Never mind her, beauty. I'll look out for you.”

Doris's chin trembled and her cheeks flushed the same color as her hair. “Pardon me, Mrs. Meadowes. It was only after I'd scrubbed the floor and scoured the pots that John came down and told me he didn't know where anyone was, and if I didn't set to making the fire I'd catch it for knowing what had happened and doing nothing about it.”

Agnes steadied herself and forced a smile. She knew Philip was right. “Yes, yes,” she said. “I see you've done your best, though if you had let me know she had gone it would have been better. Even so, Nancy will have to help later on.”

“You'll be lucky,” muttered Philip, emerging with the boots between his forefinger and thumb and the cloak draped over his arm. He blew a kiss toward Doris.

“That's enough from you, Philip,” snapped Agnes, forgetting hierarchy for once.

He responded with a good-humored wink, and went whistling up the back stairs. Doris, who sorely wished Philip had winked at her, and treasured his compliments like gold, curtsied and contrived to follow him. Agnes suppressed her annoyance and gently began to prod the fire. Philip was only trying to get his own way, an extra favor here, a perk there. But what right had he to butter any woman after what he'd got up to with Rose in the larder? It never failed to astonish Agnes that every other female in the household held him in awe.

Her thoughts turned back to Rose. The girl going off had come as a shock; nevertheless, in her heart of hearts, she was not entirely surprised. Rose had come to work for the Blanchards a year ago. Her previous position, so she claimed, had been in the London mansion of a lord, who had a staff of thirty, including half a dozen grooms, four carriages, a steward, and five servants just for the nursery. She had never mentioned what had made her exchange that grand establishment for the more modest one of Foster Lane, nor had Agnes asked. Nevertheless, Agnes had occasionally wondered whether a man had been the cause. And now that she had run off, Agnes believed it most likely that a man had lured Rose away with a promise of some kind.

Agnes's own experiences of men had left her with a pessimistic view of them. Her father had been a physician of substance, a stern widower who had been possessive of his only child and had hardly permitted her to mingle with other girls of her station, let alone respond to potential suitors. He had died leaving her with enough to live on independently, but Agnes had craved companionship and had hurried into marriage with one of her father's patients, a well-to-do draper. Not until after their nuptials did she discover that her husband suffered from ailments and misadventures caused mainly by his fondness for brandy, and that when he returned from a night in the tavern, his affable nature vanished and he grew careless with his fists.