The Thief Taker (17 page)

T
HERE WAS NO SIGN
of Mr. Matthews in the butler's pantry, nor in his office. As Agnes returned to the servants' corridor, she walked past the small paneled door which concealed a narrow staircase to the cellar. The door was usually kept locked to keep out pilfering servants, but Agnes noticed that it stood an inch or two ajar. She pushed it open and peered down the first flight of dingy stairs. It was dark as soot and she felt a sudden draft of cold damp air. Was that a muffled voice drifting up from below? She called out, “Mr. Matthews, is that you?” When she heard nothing, she called again, more loudly, “Mr. Matthews, are you there?” Still there was no reply.

There were no windows in the cellar. Whenever she had ventured down here before on Mr. Matthews's instruction she had always taken a candle with her. She used her folded handkerchief as a wedge to prop open the door and turned down the stairs.

The air became danker. An unwholesome smell of mold and dust caught the back of her nose and made her want to sneeze. She was three quarters of the way down when the handkerchief slipped out and the door creaked closed. Enveloped in chilly darkness, she groped her way forward, feeling along the wall with her hand, her nails catching on the peeling distemper. When she arrived at the bottom she peered into the musty gloom.

A dim light emanated from a wall sconce in front of her, which had been lit to one side of a half-opened door. The door led to a long narrow chamber, much of which was obliterated by shadows, but halfway along, on an upturned barrel, a tallow candle flickered. By its smoky halo of light Agnes could see the curved ceiling vault, a long wall lined with racks of wine, and, facing it, another crammed with wooden kegs of varying sizes. From above she could hear the servants' clock striking, Doris clattering pots in the scullery, the sharp rap of someone at the door, the faint cry of a knife grinder in the street. But in the cellar itself there was no sound at all except her own breathing and the soft rustle of her skirts.

It was only after several minutes, when her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, that she noticed a niche in the wall at about waist height, just a yard from where she stood. She saw that there was something indistinct, an object about the size of her fist, resting upon it. Agnes reached forward and picked it up. It was wrapped in a cloth and was surprisingly heavy. Leaning toward the light from the wall sconce she began to unwrap it. It was a pistol. Small enough to fit in a pocket, the hilt was inlaid with silver decoration that was filthy with mud and grit. Was this one missing from Nicholas Blanchard's room? As the thought struck her, she heard the chinking sound of glasses or crockery from somewhere nearby. There was no mistaking the voices now: Mr. Matthews was in conversation with John. Before she had time to call out, another door creaked open and the pair emerged from the darkness.

The butler held a lantern in one hand. In his other he clutched a pair of glasses and a bottle. John carried a wooden crate.

Agnes knew that she should announce her presence. She was holding a pistol that everyone believed had been lost. If Rose did take the gun to protect herself, it was most likely left here by the person Elsie had seen chasing her on the mud. The murderer.

Mr. Matthews was now no more than a few yards away. Agnes hastily rewrapped the gun in the cloth and place it back on the ledge. Suddenly, Mr. Matthews halted. Putting down the bottle, the glasses, and his lantern on the upturned keg, he placed an arm around the footman's shoulder.

“Dear boy,” he said, slurring his words, “leave those bottles now. As soon as you've finished your other duties come back and take a couple of 'em off to Berry's chophouse. I'll leave the door unlocked for you. Tell him I said it's to be kept aside for us—ready for our celebration next week.”

John put down his crate. “As you wish, sir. But are you not fearful the loss might be remarked?”

Matthews shook his head vehemently. “Never mind that. Who's there to notice? After all my years of service I'm entitled to a little reward. And if I choose to share it with you, that's my affair.” Matthews's face was no more than an inch from John's. “You richly deserve it.”

John was several inches taller than the elderly butler. He stared down, then he smiled uneasily, licked his lips, and shook his head. The gesture made Agnes shudder. She could see the moisture glisten on his lower lip. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly. “I am most grateful.” He held up the butler's hand and pressed his palm against his cheek before planting a kiss upon it. “Where'd I be without your kindness?” he whispered. “Still scrubbing pots in some hellhole kitchen.”

The gesture so astonished Agnes that for a moment she half wondered if it was a trick of the shadows. She had not even been conscious of a special rapport between the two, let alone suspected anything like this. She had witnessed something intimate, untoward, something both Mr. Matthews and John would desire to keep hidden. She had heard of such alliances, but never had she encountered them firsthand: men in love with each other—mollies, they called them. She was uncannily reminded of the unsettling kiss that Pitt had placed upon her hand, and involuntarily brushed her palm against her skirt.

She backed slowly toward the staircase, but she had climbed no more than four or five steps when the heel of her shoe caught in her petticoat and she stumbled forward. Instinctively she put out her hand to break her fall, but not before her ankle twisted painfully beneath her. She let out an involuntary cry.

“Who's there?” called Mr. Matthews, grabbing his lantern. “Who is it?” He walked briskly toward her. “Answer me, damn you! What do you want?”

Blanking out the agony in her ankle, Agnes hobbled up the steps, and when she had almost reached the top, turned and made as if she was descending. “Mr. Matthews?” she called out. “Where are you, sir? Is that you? I hear there's been a message from Mr. Pitt.”

Mr. Matthews halted at the foot of the stairs. “Mrs. Meadowes! What on earth are
you
doing here?”

“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't mean to trespass. It was only that I've just now seen Philip, and he says there's been a message from Mr. Pitt,” she said, hoping she sounded calm.

“What if there has?”

“Nothing, sir. I only mean, that's the reason I came looking for you. I went to your pantry and office and then, seeing as the cellar door was open, I thought I'd see if I might find you down here. I only wondered if you knew anything about the message, and whether Mr. Blanchard will need me to visit Mr. Pitt again.”

Mr. Matthews started up the staircase toward Agnes. The breach in his defenses was apparently of greater concern to him than Pitt. “The door was open? How curious when I distinctly recall that I closed it.”

“Perhaps the wind blew it. At any rate, if it's inconvenient just now I won't trouble you any longer. I haven't much time myself—I must check that pie doesn't burn.”

“Not so fast.” Mr. Matthews grabbed her wrist. Agnes winced. “What's this? Hurt, are you?” He drew her palm close to the lantern. “You have a nasty scratch. How did you come by it?”

“It's nothing, sir,” said Agnes. She pulled her hand away and stepped back.

The butler moved next to her and placed an arm behind her so she could withdraw no further. He drew his face close—so close Agnes could smell brandy on his breath, and his pale eyes seemed full of menace; he reminded Agnes of a snake. “It might be nothing, Mrs. Meadowes, but I wish to know,” Mr. Matthews whispered urgently. She looked desperately to John for help, but his face seemed empty, neutral.

Agnes summoned her resources. She spoke firmly but softly, in a voice she had mastered long ago to mask her inner fright. “I stumbled just now, sir, when I began to descend without a light. And then you came out with your lantern.”

“You weren't spying on John and me, I don't suppose?”

“Spying on you? Whatever for, Mr. Matthews? I assure you I have no desire to cause trouble. I only wanted to speak to you. If you don't believe me, ask Doris or Philip. They will tell you I was in the kitchen with them not two minutes ago.”

Mr. Matthews finally seemed to take her at her word and withdrew a little. “Very well,” he said, “in that case I shall give you the benefit of the doubt and let it pass. But you are not to come back down here without my permission. No matter how urgent the matter seems to you, it's more than likely it'll be a trifle to me. Do I make myself clear?”

“As daylight, Mr. Matthews.” Then, emboldened by her narrow escape, she coughed. “And if I may be so bold, the letter from Pitt, sir?”

“Ah yes, it was nothing urgent or I should have said. Mr. Theodore has it. He wants you to go to him directly after dinner on account of it. He did not tell me why. Becoming quite the favorite, aren't you?”

“I think not, sir.”

“Now, just so there are no more accidents, let me light your way.” He edged past Agnes and pushed open the door. “Careful now. Dear me, this door seems tighter than usual. Is something caught?” Before Agnes could intercept him, he had bent down and pulled out the handkerchief she had folded and wedged there. “What's this?” He shook it out, then glared at her. “Has it anything to do with you, Mrs. Meadowes? Can you hazard how it came to be so strangely positioned?”

Agnes looked at the white square that now wafted between his finger and thumb. Thankfully she had never been much of a needlewoman, and had never embroidered her initial on any of her belongings. “I suppose Mrs. Tooley or one of the other servants must have dropped it, sir. But unless there's a name or initial sewn on it, there's no way of telling. It might belong to almost anyone.”

A
T SIX THAT SAME EVENING
, Agnes went upstairs to learn what message Pitt had sent. Snow had settled over the rutted street and obliterated the city's dirt and danger. Theodore had retired to the library to enjoy a decanter of port. Agnes found the room in semidarkness, the book-lined walls and velvet curtains lost in shadow. A fire burned fiercely in the grate, framed by a pair of squat brass andirons with lion's paw feet. Light from a silver candelabrum illuminated a drum-shaped table in the center of the room, on which an opened folio of engravings and other papers was scattered. The engravings were designs for antique urns and sarcophagi, which Theodore was scrutinizing through an ornate silver-handled magnifying glass, making notes on a sheet of paper. At the sound of Agnes's tread, he looked up, with eyes that seemed unfocused and dull.

“I've come, sir, because Mr. Matthews said a letter was delivered, and you wished to see me on account of it.”

“A letter,” echoed Theodore. He set down his glass, belched gently, and began rummaging through the papers on the table. “Yes, yes, indeed. Mr. Pitt's communication, delivered by one of his assistants earlier on.”

“It was good news, I hope?”

He nodded morosely. “Promising enough—and all I had hoped for, given the circumstances. Mr. Pitt claims he has located the villains that stole the wine cooler. It is still intact, and will be returned forthwith, provided we pay the sum required.”

“Is the sum reasonable?”

Theodore's lips puckered as though there were a bitter taste in his mouth. He lowered his eyes to the engraving in front of him and, with his forefinger, slowly traced the curvaceous outline of a funerary urn, whose handles were shaped like elephant ears. “Two hundred guineas,” he declared miserably.

Agnes gasped. “Will you pay it?”

Theodore's eyes shone as though tears welled in them. He turned to another engraving, of a candelabrum in the form of a Corinthian column. “If I do not pay, the wine cooler will be melted down, and the metal untraceable. Pitt isn't prone to making idle threats, he knows precisely what he's doing. I think I told you before, our business is not as strong as it once was. A loss like this might land me in the debtors' prison.”

The engraving turned Agnes's thoughts to the salver that Williams had examined. If Theodore was operating a duty-dodging scheme, the loss would not be as great as he claimed. The sum he would have charged Grey for making the wine cooler would have included duty—an extra thirty pounds. Assuming the wine cooler had never been taken to Goldsmiths' Hall, that sum would go straight into Theodore's pocket.

Agnes thought of Rose's unexplained forays upstairs and to the workshop, and her association with Riley. Much pointed to her involvement in the scheme. Perhaps Theodore had used Rose as a go-between, and she had grown greedy, and knowing she was about to leave to join her lover, wanted more for her assistance than Theodore was willing to pay. Had her greed led to her death? But given that the robbery was most likely orchestrated by the same person who had killed Noah and Rose, this theory fell apart. It was ludicrous to suppose that Theodore would engineer the robbery of his own premises, murder his own apprentice, and pay for his own property to be recovered.

Having dismissed Theodore as a possible suspect, Agnes was on the verge of mentioning to him her discovery of the gun. But he had told her unequivocally that his only concern was the wine cooler and there was nothing to be gained by bringing up a subject certain to rile him. She was overcome by a sense of gloom as she considered her predicament. The room began to feel stifling, the rich smell of port overpowering. Theodore was not ready to dismiss her yet.

Eventually Theodore found the letter among his papers and put on a great show of perusing it. “Ah yes, here we are, Mrs. Meadowes. Yes, Pitt has addressed himself to you although the communication concerns me. What he says is this!

“If I am in agreement with his terms, you are to send word to him this evening. The messenger who delivered this will be waiting outside to take the reply. Tomorrow morning, first thing, you are to deliver the payment to him and he will then set in motion the return of the wine cooler. Since it is a sizable sum, and he has no wish for you to be robbed, he will send his own driver and carriage to fetch you. You may bring a single escort of your own to assist you in recovering the wine cooler.”

Agnes felt a sudden burning in her chest and tried to breathe deeply. “Has Justice Cordingly been apprised?”

“Not until the transaction is complete. He might insist upon intervening, and if Pitt got word that the law was involved, there would be no chance of a satisfactory conclusion to this business.”

“With respect, sir, two murders have taken place that are almost certainly connected with the wine cooler. Surely they merit his intervention? Should not Pitt at least be apprehended and questioned on the matter?”

“You know very well that Justice Cordingly has both matters in hand. And why ever would I insist upon Pitt's arrest when there is no evidence to connect him to either crime and he is poised to engineer the return of my wine cooler? I should be a dolt to do so, Mrs. Meadowes.”

Agnes remembered Pitt's kiss, the touch of his lips upon her fingers, his insinuating glance. Her agitation grew. She did not want to believe the murderer could be someone with whom she lived and worked. She did not want Theodore or John or Philip or Nancy or Mr. Matthews to be guilty. Could Pitt have accompanied Drake on his nocturnal adventure, killed Noah Prout, and then murdered Rose only because she happened to pass him on her way to her rendezvous? Improbable though this hypothesis was, Agnes wanted to believe it in order to negate the other more disturbing possibilities. But there was one obstacle she could not reason away: if Pitt were the murderer, how did the gun get in the cellar?

She had only to mention Elsie's name, and the link between Pitt and the robbery would be established. But she had given her word, and the repercussions would be terrible for Elsie if she broke it. Instead, she attempted further deferential argument. “With respect, sir, does not Pitt's proposal strike you as suspicious? He has countless henchmen at his disposal. If he knows I'm carrying two hundred guineas, even if I have a man as protection, what is to stop him organizing another assault?”

Theodore fixed her with his bloodshot eyes and shook his head. “I need hardly say that I too have my concerns. Yet I know enough of Pitt's modus operandi to comprehend that that is not the way he does business. After all, he has a reputation to nurture just as we all do. Besides, I didn't say so before, but his letter implies he is quite taken with you.” Her pulse began to pound in her neck. “Then you will let Philip go with me, just as a precaution, won't you, sir?”

Theodore frowned. “Not Philip. This time I think it would be better if you take one of the journeymen—Williams, I think—he is sharp-witted and more diligent than Riley, and knows the wine cooler well. I would not want Pitt trying to fob you off with a replica.”

Agnes desisted from asking why, if such a swindle were possible, being held up with two hundred guineas in her possession was not. Besides, the news that Thomas Williams was to be her escort bolstered her spirits; she bowed to the inevitable.

Theodore waved her to a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Read his letter. Since it is addressed to you, the reply must come from you. Take this quill and paper. Say that you have discussed the matter with me and I have agreed. He may send his carriage at nine tomorrow. You will see where he invites you to step out with him. I commend you on the way you've charmed him. It can only work to our advantage if you give him some hope that he might be accepted. But rather than accepting outright you should remain a little vague—it will help sustain his eagerness.”

Agnes perused the letter. The first paragraph concerned the details as Theodore had described them. The last part caused her cheeks to burn.

Agnes had a sense of foreboding as real and dark as the liquor in Theodore's glass. Nevertheless, duty overcame her better judgment, and instead of demanding that someone else go in her stead, she wrote precisely as Theodore dictated. She wrote concisely in her usual elegant hand, accepting the terms Pitt had stated and concluding with the following:

When she had finished, she sanded the page and read it through. The last words seemed to her larger and less flowing than the rest, as though someone else had written them. She handed the sheet to Theodore, who smiled grimly. “Very good, Mrs. Meadowes. Admirable indeed. The final sentence will have him tossing all night, I wager.” He glanced up and caught her blush. “Don't look coy when I compliment your skill.” He folded the page into three, tucked the ends over, and sealed it with scarlet wax. “Take it out into the street. There will be someone waiting for it.”

Agnes curtsied and retreated. John was waiting in the hall directly outside. From the strange look he gave her, she wondered if he had heard their exchange and knew thus of her perilous mission the next day, or if he was remembering their encounter in the cellar. She had many questions she wanted to ask him. Who put the gun there? Did you see Rose leave early that morning and follow her? Did either you or Mr. Matthews have a hand in her death? But she knew that if either of them were guilty, to press them in such a way would only place her own life in jeopardy, and then Rose's killer would never be found. So she drew a breath and looked coolly at him. “Mr. Blanchard says there is a messenger waiting outside for this letter.”

John smiled faintly. “Follow me.” At the front entrance he pulled open the hall door. A blast of whirling snow and wind rushed in, and with it a small body that had been hunched up against the door. John took a step back. The body jolted into life and sat up with a start. Agnes recognized the pinched triangular face, the red shawl, and the overlarge boots.

Elsie had apparently been waiting since midday, when she had delivered Pitt's letter. Having paced an hour or two to keep warm, she had grown tired and taken refuge on the doorstep. From time to time John or Philip or Mr. Matthews had caught sight of her through the hall window and shooed her away. Only when they became engaged with other duties had she at last been left in peace. Now John was infuriated to see her here.

“Move off! How many times did I tell you already not to park yourself here?” He gave her scrawny haunches a prod with the pointed toe of his shoe. “What d'you think the master would have to say if he saw you here?”

Elsie scrambled hastily to her feet as if she expected another, harder blow to follow. She shot him an indignant look. “I told you before, I ain't what you think. I've orders from Mr. Pitt to await a reply.” Her face was white with cold, her lips were gray. Her crimson shawl was coated with snow, like flour on raw meat.

John clearly gave her remark little credence. He jerked his chin toward the street to indicate she would be wise to clear off now. But Elsie caught sight of Agnes standing behind John, staring worriedly in her direction and returning her gaze with an equal measure of anxiety. Agnes comprehended the underlying reason—her father. “Tell him, missus,” Elsie said with a show of bravado. “It's the least you could do after the age you've kept me waiting.”

“I didn't know you were here, Elsie,” said Agnes, maneuvering her way past John.

“Never mind that. 'Ave you penned the answer yet?”

Agnes held out the paper. “I have it here for you.”

No sooner had Agnes uttered these words than Elsie plucked the letter from her grasp and stuffed it in her pocket. Agnes recalled the orange and the purse, stolen with similar swiftness, and the silver box. But the sight of the pathetic retreating figure aroused no anger; the image of Peter as he had appeared in her kitchen last night, bedraggled from the rain, came into her mind. She couldn't scold the girl for snatching the letter; nor, in all conscience, could she watch her trudge off in such a miserable condition.

“Wait a moment, Elsie. Have you eaten today?”

“How could I, waiting so long for you?” said Elsie, shooting her an accusing look as if to say, “You told them, didn't you?”

“Then won't you let me make amends by giving you something warm to eat before you set off back to Mr. Pitt's?”

Elsie stamped her boots and looked anxiously toward the river. “It'd be more'n my life's worth. Pa'll be wanting his supper, and Mr. Grant said I wasn't to do nothing but go straight here and come straight back with an answer.”

“Mr. Grant?”

“The man what tells us Mr. Pitt's orders and keeps an eye on us.” She wiped a drip from her nose with the back of her hand, then whispered, “You didn't say nothing about me or no one else, did you?”