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Authors: Janet Gleeson

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On their sixth anniversary, by which time he had ruined his business and spent nearly all Agnes's inheritance, fate intervened. Her husband ate his supper, then left her to pass the evening in the Golden Magpie. At the stroke of midnight an overfriendly bar-maid inadvertently shoved him in the ribs. He stumbled and tripped over a log basket and fell plumb into the hearth, where his heart was impaled on a cast-iron firedog. Agnes had been relieved to be rid of him, but had been left almost penniless, bruised, and with Peter to care for. She had risen to the challenge and supported herself and her child by pursuing her culinary inclinations. Cooking had always been a solace, never more so than now. Having achieved the elevated status of cook, she had formed the unusual opinion that relations with men were no substitute for an independent life. Provided she did her duty, she could be sure that she would have a roof over her head, a warm bed, and would never again be woken and punched senseless in the middle of the night.

Rose had yet to learn this lesson. But there was no doubt she would, and little doubt either that any promise a man had made to Rose would not be what it appeared. Perhaps, thought Agnes with mingled apprehension and hope, she would be back in a day or two.

Chapter Eight

A
T EIGHT-THIRTY
—half an hour late—Nancy, the housemaid, tapped on the door to Nicholas Blanchard's bedchamber and bade him good morning. He was blissfuly unaware of the previous night's drama and the morning's disruptions, and Nancy was eager that he should remain so. She deposited a scuttleful of coal and kindling on the hearth, and moved to the window, aware of Nicholas Blanchard watching her closely, like a cat observing a moth. Nancy drew back the curtains gingerly, for the heavy fabric had rotted in the sun and threatened to disintegrate in her hands. As she always did, Nancy rubbed a roundel in the mist on the windowpane to survey the sky. “Not bad today, sir. Frosty but bright.”

Nicholas grunted a reply, whereupon Nancy began laying a new fire. When the flames burned at a steady crackle she glanced over her shoulder. Nicholas caught the look and, as he often did, threw back the bedcovers and called her over. Nancy unpinned her cap and went wordlessly toward him, feeling faint and a little queasy.

She removed her boots and loosened her bodice and lay stiffly beside him. He rolled on top of her and pinched her breasts with a bony hand. She tried not to wince, for they were much more tender than usual. He smelled different from Philip—of tobacco and pomade and claret, rather than sweat and ale. A minute later he had drawn himself in and was pumping up and down. Nancy lay silently, surveying the ceiling with its cupids and nymphs embracing one another, trying to breathe in shallow breaths to quell the nausea rising in her belly. Usually she felt grateful to Nicholas for singling her out as the recipient for his favors. She had saved most of the money he paid, and the sum now amounted to almost ten pounds. But her predicament had changed.

Should she confess to him that she was carrying his child? What would it be like to be swooped up by one of those nymphs and spend all day suspended in the air, with no chores and no child or Nicholas to please? She closed her eyes and imagined a world of white clouds and flowers and music. But suppose he denied responsibility and dismissed her? An instant later, Nicholas shuddered and finished.

He scrabbled under his pillow for his purse. He picked out a silver shilling and stuffed it in the top of her bodice. Then, unusually, he stuffed a further sixpence into her hand. “Leave me now. You are late—don't think I hadn't remarked it. Make up for the time lost or there'll be trouble with Mrs. Tooley. And you needn't expect me to take your part.” He said this in a matter-of-fact tone, not unkindly. Then he patted her arm in an almost fatherly manner.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, opening her palm and examining the extra coin. “'Course I won't dally.” She straightened the bed-clothes, then walked to the looking glass to quickly refasten her clothes. She looked thin and narrow, with neat, small features and hair that was glossy and smooth, the color of polished oak. She tidied her bun, then pinned her cap back on top of it. Her pale gray eyes were unnaturally bright, and the stubble on Nicholas's chin had given her cheeks a pink glow that improved her palid complexion. She turned her head sideways to examine a long red scratch on the side of her neck. She shivered, remembering the strident accusations of theft that Rose had made the previous afternoon. Rose had accused her of stealing her letter and now, miraculously, Rose was gone. Nancy pushed the fracas from her thoughts, then adjusted her collar, thankful that Nicholas had not noticed the scratch.

The clock struck the quarter hour as Nancy opened the cupboard by Nicholas's bed and removed the half-filled chamber pot. Despite the stench Nancy concealed any flicker of revulsion. She placed a duster over the rim and, with a careful curtsy, left the room.

 

A
T NINE
, Mr. Matthews swept in, bearing a tray of early-morning tea, doing his utmost to conceal the fact that he had been up most of the night with Theodore and the constable. He set Nicholas's dressing gown of crimson brocade, matching hat, and embroidered slippers to warm before the fire, which thanks to Nancy's ministrations was now giving out a steady heat. Then, reopening the door to the back stairs, he descended as far as the first landing, where he halted and bellowed down, “Oi there, Philip! What are you waiting for? Hot water for the master. At the double, if you'd be so kind.”

He returned to Nicholas's room with a pair of polished shoes in one hand and a well-brushed suit draped across his arm. While he waited for the water to arrive, his mind was a torrent of worry—how was he to break the news of last night's robbery and murder to his master? Nicholas's reaction was sure to be explosive. If the business was on the brink of ruin, what would happen to the stipend Mr. Matthews had been promised to keep him in his old age? Was he also to be ruined?

To calm himself he took out a leather razor strop and sharpened the blade. He had shaved Nicholas almost every morning for twenty years, and took considerable pride in the steadiness of his hand and the fact that in all that time he had hardly caused a scratch on his master's complexion.

He should also inform him of Rose Francis's disappearance, but he knew Nicholas would doubtless blame it on Agnes Meadowes. He had always regarded her as inferior to the French chef she had replaced. Mr. Matthews detested incurring Nicholas's wrath, but did not wish to cast Agnes in a bad light. In all his years he had known no cook more reliable than Agnes. It would be far better, he decided, to keep quiet on the subject of Rose. Lydia could raise it at breakfast, when Nicholas would be distracted by the news of the wine cooler's loss.

A good ten minutes passed before Philip arrived, carrying a steaming pail. Nicholas Blanchard had finished his second cup of tea and was growing restless.

Mr. Matthews glared at Philip. “Took your time, didn't you?” he hissed.

“Fire wasn't lit, was it, sir? It took twice as long,” whispered Philip.

“I'll give you twice as long,” muttered the butler, jerking his head toward the washstand. “That's what comes of having a trollop for a kitchen maid.”

“You said anything to him about that?” said Philip, quiet but undaunted.

“No,” whispered Mr. Matthews. “I'm waiting for the moment.” Then in a louder, more formal voice that Nicholas Blanchard could hear if he chose to listen, “Pour it in the bowl, if you please, Philip. And mind you don't splash the floor. The master don't like his feet getting wet.”

When Philip had gone, Nicholas stepped into his warmed slippers and allowed Matthews to ease him into the sleeves of his silk dressing gown. Lowering himself into a comfortable armchair before the fire, he stretched back his head so that Matthews might shave him and anoint him with powder and pomade, but not so far that he could not glimpse his reflection in the looking glass.

His face was large and angular, dominated by hollow cheeks and a long nose with hairy nostrils that flared when he was riled. His head was a carpet of dark gray stubble, for almost a week had passed since Matthews last shaved it so that his wigs would sit comfortably. At the lower limit of his forehead, luxuriant brows formed an almost uninterrupted line. There was scarcely a trace of gray in them; when his wig was on, he often thought, he could pass for a man ten years younger.

Today, Mr. Matthews lacked his customary steadiness and the razor caught under Nicholas's nose. The nick was painless, thanks to the sharpness of the blade, but a pearl of blood beaded up on Nicholas's smooth skin. Nicholas saw rather than felt it, but that did not stop him from bellowing, calling Matthews a clumsy oaf. The butler murmured an apology, and with a trembling hand anointed the wound. Now was not the time to break the news of the robbery or murder.

Chapter Nine

O
N THE STROKE OF TEN
, still attired in dressing gown, cap, and slippers, Nicholas Blanchard descended to the morning room to take his breakfast. Philip was waiting to open the door for him; John was carrying a teakettle to the sideboard. When his master appeared he put the pot down and drew out a chair at the head of the table. Nicholas's paper—the
Morning Post
—and two letters were arranged in a neat pile beside his place.

Lydia was already seated, nibbling a piece of toast. She acknowledged Nicholas's entry by half rising and giving him a jerking curtsy, the expression in her gray eyes grave and distant. Nicholas nodded unsmilingly and muttered an inaudible reply.

Lydia rarely found her father-in-law easy. Today she could see from the brusque manner of his entry that his temper was up. Lydia had learned of Rose's disappearance from Patsy, and while her maid had dressed Lydia's hair and anointed her face with powder, positioning a beauty spot on her left cheek, they had pondered what reasons the girl might have had to leave. Patsy had reminded Lydia that Rose had been in the habit of wandering about upstairs, where as far as anyone knew she had no business to be.

“You recall the letter Nancy found?” Patsy had said.

Lydia had nodded uncomfortably. “Were there other occasions?” she'd sharply inquired.

Patsy's eyes had narrowed. “I believe so. Mr. Matthews caught her on the stairs leading to the best bedrooms only yesterday. And she caused a dispute with Nancy. The pair of them went for each other like dogs—John had to pull them apart.”

“Dear God!” Lydia had said, eyes clouded with concern and concentration. “What was the reason for the altercation? Why ever did Mrs. Tooley not tell me?”

“It only took place in the afternoon, ma'am. No doubt she will tell you more when you see her this morning. Among the obscenities it was not easy to make out what they said. I believe it may have had something to do with the letter. Certainly the word ‘thief' was used.”

Lydia had shuddered. The dispute and the girl being upstairs when she had no business to be had an ominous ring. Nancy, she knew, already shared Nicholas's bed. Was Rose another of his amours? On more than one occasion his affairs had upset the smooth running of the house; several girls had fallen with child and had to be dismissed. Perhaps Rose—being a pretty bold girl, the kind that Nicholas preferred—found herself with child and had run off in distress. Or perhaps the argument had been some form of jealous spat and Nancy had bullied her into leaving. What else, wondered Lydia, might have caused Rose's forays upstairs, her argument with Nancy, and her sudden departure?

Lydia had intended to raise the subject of Rose with her father-in-law, but now, seeing his black look, she resolved to bide her time.

Nicholas broke the seal on his first letter and scanned it, while John poured him a cup of chocolate. “Damnation!” he declared, more to himself than Lydia. “The devil it was!” He tossed the letter in Lydia's direction. “Put this in Theodore's place, would you? It concerns a customer's grievance. There were never half so many complaints when I had charge of the business.”

Lydia glanced at the letter. Finding it described nothing more dreadful than a broken handle, she nodded dismissively and murmured half to herself, “A trifling matter—one that will be easily remedied.”

Nicholas affected not to hear. He took a sip of his chocolate and instantly spat it out. “God damn it, this is stone cold! Take it away, call for some hot milk—and let it be
properly
heated this time.”

Helping himself to a couple of rolls from the basket, he was further distressed to find that the butter had not been impressed with the family crest, but lay on a serving dish entirely undecorated. “Dear God! Has Mrs. Meadowes taken leave of her senses? Lydia, you are too lax with her. I always said she was inadequate to the task. I never understood what possessed you to take her on as cook rather than engage a decent French chef.”

“The fault doesn't lie with Mrs. Meadowes.”

“Then where?”

Lydia gave him a sweet smile. There was no avoiding the subject now. “Perhaps you are unaware that Rose Francis, the kitchen maid, has run off. There was only Doris, the scullery maid, to assist Mrs. Meadowes at breakfast. No doubt that is why the butter was not molded as usual, and the milk is a little cooler than it ought to be.”

“The maid has run off? Are you certain?”

“Patsy told me this morning,” said Lydia. Nicholas frowned, seeming surprised and puzzled, but no more. If there had been something between him and Rose, he masked it admirably. “Have you knowledge of this, John?” Nicholas said, turning to the footman, who was hovering by the side table.

John exchanged a brief glance with Philip, who was disappearing with the milk jug. He was unaccustomed to being engaged in conversation while the family were at the table. “'Tis true enough, sir. The girl is gone.”

“Can you add anything to Mrs. Blanchard's account?”

“No sir.”

“Most likely she will have stolen something of value to take with her. Have you made checks, Lydia?”

“I regret not yet, sir. I am only just risen.”

“Then please do so forthwith.”

“As you wish.” She hesitated. “I wondered if perhaps
you
might know why she went, sir?” she added.

Nicholas Blanchard raised his bushy brow and subjected his daughter-in-law to an indignant glare. “What on earth can you mean, madam? Do you imply I have some insight into the mental workings of a kitchen maid that you, as mistress of this household, lack?”

Lydia swallowed. It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that, yes, she did believe Nicholas might have an insight into the reasons for Rose Francis's departure. And for that matter, an intimate knowledge of Nancy, the housemaid. But then she saw that there was no reason to further rouse her father-in-law's temper when others might make discreet inquiries for her. So she replied demurely, “No sir, but I understand the girl was seen going on unauthorized excursions—I have reason to believe she ventured into the drawing room; and only yesterday Mr. Matthews caught her upstairs.”

“Upstairs? What for? I have no knowledge of it. Matthews said nothing to me. You must get to the bottom of this.”

“I intend to,” said Lydia.

Suddenly, Theodore burst into the room. He wore no wig, his hair was uncombed, and his coat flapped open. His complexion was mottled and his eyes puffy. “Good morning, Father—and Lydia,” he whispered in a strangely hushed yet agitated tone. He lowered himself into the chair John pulled out for him and, ignoring the astonished scrutiny of his wife, regarded Nicholas glumly. “Father,” he declared, “I fear I have some news of the utmost gravity.”

BOOK: The Thief Taker
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