The Thief Taker (19 page)

Agnes raised an arched brow, but said nothing. After a minute Thomas hesitantly continued. “Last night I fear I may have imposed upon you. I never meant to do so. Today the thought occurred to me that perhaps you did not reciprocate willingly, but acted rather from some misguided sense of obligation on account of your son.”

Agnes felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Her lips felt brittle and dry in the frosty night. “What do you mean, ‘misguided obligation'?” she asked hoarsely.

“When I embraced you I thought your response spontaneous; but afterward I wondered if all was as it seemed. I have little experience in such matters, but once before I mistook a lady's purpose. It has made me nervous in affairs of the heart. In short, I wanted to assure you that whatever your feelings may be toward me, I should rather you expressed them honestly. I detest subterfuge in such matters. Your son won't be affected. I would rather know where I stand.”

“Do I understand your meaning, Mr. Williams?” said Agnes sharply. “You believe I behaved improperly on my son's account, and that such liberties as I allowed you were not necessary?”

“Impropriety and liberties have nothing to do with it,” said Thomas, reddening under her harsh scrutiny. “I only meant that I hold you in high esteem, whatever your feelings toward me. I don't wish our friendship to be distorted by other matters. I beg you to be straight with me.”

“Nevertheless, you suspect I reciprocated your advances for reasons other than straightforward affection.”

“I said nothing of the kind. You are putting words into my mouth. Don't look for insult where none was intended. I can't say any clearer what I meant.”

But the subject he had raised was one to which Agnes was acutely sensitive. She stood in the snowy street, unable to move or find the words to respond. Thomas seemed to be confirming her earlier conviction that he believed her accustomed to behaving improperly. Her face burned with humiliation. She swiftly reminded herself of her resolution: she would maintain her indifference. Her mind felt clearer. She raised her chin. “How can I fail to feel insulted by the opinion you have formed of me? You have said you thought I might be bought by showing kindness to my son.”

“Far from it,” said Thomas, his tone growing louder as his patience wore thin. “I never had an ungentlemanly thought regarding you, either before or after last night. Whatever caused what happened between us, we cannot alter it—nor do I wish to. And since I see you are determined to think the worst of me, I have as much right as you to feel insulted. Good evening, Mrs. Meadowes. I think I shall go now to the Blue Cockerel.”

Without a word, Agnes curtsied and descended at perilous speed down the icy stairs to her kitchen.

A
GNES SLEPT FITFULLY
, going over every word of her exchange with Thomas, wishing she had thought to say this, that, or the other, to slight him as much as she felt his words had slighted her. When she awoke next morning, it was to a dismal overcast sky and snow that was rapidly thawing to unprepossessing slush.

At ten minutes to nine precisely, Agnes presented herself at the shop next door. Thomas Williams let her in. She noticed that once again he wore his sword for protection. Was this on Theodore's order? she wondered. He greeted her as if they were barely acquainted. “I went to the Blue Cockerel,” he declared coldly. “The landlord recalled that Philip was there the night of the robbery with one or two other fellows. He did not remember who they were, save that one of them was Riley. Nor did he know what time any of them left.” His eyes seemed cold as flint, and the face that had seemed friendly and reassuring before now seemed utterly impassive, as if it were hewn from marble. “And now, Mrs. Meadowes, Mr. Blanchard awaits you,” he said, as he bowed and led her into the small back office.

She wondered if she had been too hasty with him. Had she misconstrued his fumbling apology for having made love to her? But no sooner had such a possibility arisen than she coldly dismissed it. Their falling-out would not have happened were it not for his crass reference to such a delicate matter. And bearing this in mind, her earlier resolve to behave with detachment and the utmost propriety seemed the only dignified course open to her.

Theodore was in the back office. His wig was hanging on a hook by the wall, his bristly head was bowed over a bench. He looked up briefly as Agnes went in. There was an air of glum preoccupation about his tense mouth and unseeing gaze. The surface before him was crowded with dozens of small candlesticks; in the middle a space had been cleared. In this void Theodore had piled up twelve small towers of gold, ten coins in each. He now placed the gold, column by column, in an oak strongbox. The chink of metal made a knot in Agnes's stomach. She was conscious of Thomas standing on the other side of the bench, but dared not look in his direction, instead keeping her eyes fixed on the glittering heap in the box.

When all the coins were in, Theodore closed the lid, fastened iron bands over a hasp, and inserted a padlock through it the size of Agnes's fist. He locked it with a shiny key and threaded the key onto a length of cord. This he handed to her. “Put it about your neck, Mrs. Meadowes, and conceal it in your bodice.” He spoke in a monotone, as if numb from the enormity of what he was about to do. “You are not to give the key to anyone but Pitt himself. And only once you have the wine cooler in your sight. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

Thomas Williams coughed. “Wouldn't it be more prudent if I were to have the key, sir?”

Theodore turned stiffly. “Why, Williams?”

“Only on account of her—Mrs. Meadowes, I mean—being a woman. It might be safer if a man had it.”

Theodore blinked, astonished that his judgment should be questioned. “On the contrary, Mr. Williams, that Mrs. Meadowes is female makes her well suited to this task. Pitt is much stricken with her; I hazard he will be eager to keep to his undertaking partly to ingratiate himself further into her favors.”

Thomas's pale cheeks darkened. “Forgive me, sir—I was unaware there was something between them.”

“There is nothing between us,” said Agnes hotly, then wished she had kept quiet. She slid the cold metal key beneath her bodice. Thomas avoided her eye and said nothing. Soon after this, a shadow fell over the shopwindow and the snorting of horses and clink of harnesses was audible. A deep red equipage, drawn by a pair of lively black horses with steaming nostrils, juddered to a halt in the slushy road. The carriage's velvet curtains—of the same hue as the paintwork—were tightly drawn, but there was a coachman sitting up front, and to the rear, a pair of shabbily liveried footmen. Beneath their unbuttoned red greatcoats, both were armed with pistols.

No sooner had the carriage creaked to a halt than the footmen jumped down. One positioned himself close to the carriage door; the other, a portly man with lank hair drawn back in a bow, barged in without troubling to knock or remove his hat. Agnes recognized him as Grant, Pitt's corpulent attendant. “Mr. Pitt's carriage,” he announced.

“She will be with you directly. Kindly wait outside,” said Theodore. He instructed Thomas Williams to put the strongbox inside the carriage, sit beside it, and keep his feet on it at all times. Then he turned to Agnes. “Well, Mrs. Meadowes, are you ready? After the letter you sent, I hazard Pitt will be in a lather of expectation for you.”

Agnes dared not look in Thomas's direction.

“It won't be necessary for your man to carry that,” said Grant, suddenly barging back into the shop. “Mr. Pitt gave orders we should take it. And he'll only have Mrs. Meadowes inside the carriage. Her man is to sit up front. This way, madam, when you're ready. Follow me.”

As Agnes was ushered outside, Pitt's second attendant held out his hands for the box. Theodore stood at the doorway of the shop, legs braced, hands on hips, watching as a small fortune in gold was carried off to be delivered into the clutches of London's most infamous thief taker. Despite the winter chill, sweat beaded his brow. He opened his mouth as if to proffer another word of advice to Agnes, but then closed it again and waved her off with his hand.

Agnes's apprehensive gaze swung like a pendulum between the glittering façade of the shopwindow, resplendent with its silver display, and the ominous carriage, a gash of vermilion set against a bleak winter prospect. She wished she were anywhere but here; a powerful presentiment of misfortune caused a burning sensation in her throat. We are all in turmoil, she consoled herself, all of us groping in the dark, Theodore and Thomas as much as I.

Grant let down the carriage steps and bundled Agnes unceremoniously into the shadowy, curtained interior. Scarcely had she pulled her feet in than Grant cried out. “Quick now, stand away, ma'am,” and the door crashed closed and was fastened behind her.

Agnes groped around the strongbox to her seat. As the door was closed, she had the impression of a shadowy form in the far corner of the carriage. And now she peered toward the corner. But the gloom was so dense after the daylight, she could see nothing. She reached forward to draw back the curtain on her side. As she did so, a hand grasped hers. A voice whispered directly into her ear. “I prefer you to leave that for the time being, if you please, Mrs. Meadowes.”

Agnes flinched and drew back. The voice was soft but recognizable. “As you wish, sir.” She added hesitantly, “You are Mr. Pitt, are you not?”

The voice was deeper and stronger now. “How astute you are to recognize me, madam. I take that as a compliment.”

“I cannot conceive why. It was nothing but a question, Mr. Pitt,” retorted Agnes, forgetting her fear and that she was supposed to beguile him with her charms.

Pitt laughed but said nothing more. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she began to distinguish his outline. He was tall and angular, as she remembered; a broad-brimmed hat obscured his upper profile, and he appeared to be wearing a long dark coat. The air in the carriage had the same pungent, sweet, spicy smell as his room. He was holding a cane topped with a silver orb, which Agnes could see gleaming like a diminutive moon, with the knobbly shape of his fingers clenched round it. Once again, she was conscious of Pitt's allure. What am I thinking? I am in the presence of evil. I ought to be repelled. She turned her head away.

Abruptly, Pitt thumped the orb hard on the window frame. “Grant—tell the driver to depart directly.”

“Very well, sir.” After that came a muffled shout to Thomas Williams, who was ordered to climb up in front, and to the footmen, who resumed their positions behind. The vehicle sagged and lurched at their weight, then Grant called out, “All in place, let's go!” The coachman cracked his whip and the carriage jolted drunkenly, metal-bound wheels slewing through the snow.

Agnes was thrown back against the velvet upholstery. The strongbox knocked against the door as the carriage veered into Cheapside. Then it lurched again as it picked up speed. Once they were bowling along, the pace steadied; Pitt pulled the strongbox over toward him, stretched out his legs, and rested his crossed feet on it as if it were a footstool. “Forgive me for startling you just now, Mrs. Meadowes.”

“Were not the curtains and the dark intended expressly for that purpose, Mr. Pitt?” said Agnes, determined not to reveal any sign of the trepidation pulsing in her veins.

“I meant you no harm by them. Only it suited my purpose that Mr. Blanchard should remain ignorant of my presence.”

“Oh, and why is that?” said Agnes, recalling that Theodore was equally eager to avoid a meeting with the thief taker, whom he claimed might derive some profit by their association.

“I find it safer to avoid unnecessary contact with my clients. I prefer to deal with intermediaries. Matters run more evenly and are concluded quicker as a consequence.”

“I confess I still cannot see why such complications were necessary. Would it not have been simpler for Mr. Blanchard to hand you the money in person?”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of your company?”

Agnes tossed her head. “Whatever your reason for this arrangement, I don't delude myself
I
had anything to do with it.”

Pitt laughed. “Then if you want the honest truth I shall give it you. Once the money is handed over I make a habit of ensuring all transactions are properly concluded. I won't be with you when you recover the wine cooler. Should a constable stray into the vicinity, it would not do for me to be found with a large sum of money on my person and stolen property in my presence. Nevertheless, I shall observe proceedings from a distance—and if anything goes amiss you may be assured steps will be taken to rectify it.”

Agnes shuddered, recalling poor Elsie's fears that Pitt would sacrifice her father if he deemed it expedient to do so. What Pitt meant was that he lived and prospered by the terror he engendered in those around him. “Whatever the reasons for your presence, I assure you I have no intention of duping you, Mr. Pitt. My only desire is the same as yours—to recover the wine cooler and trouble you no longer.”

Pitt laughed mockingly again. “But therein your desires differ dramatically from mine, madam. Your pretty face and charming ways made an impression upon me. I had hoped from the tone of your letter that our acquaintance would continue. Or was that merely a contrivance to make me more eager to assist you?”

Knowing that she was now on perilous terrain, and that it would be prudent to affect at least some modicum of interest in him, Agnes answered with care. “It was no contrivance to say our future depends entirely upon how the business is concluded. For as I told you, I am a widow reliant upon my trade. Any person who helps secure my position, I will naturally regard with warm sentiments.”

“Then I shall hold you to your promise, Mrs. Meadowes.”

Some minutes later, the carriage slowed and Agnes judged they were in the vicinity of the bridge.

“Now we are a safe distance from Foster Lane, you are at liberty to open the curtain if you find the darkness distressing,” said Pitt.

Agnes pulled back the velvet awning. They were in a narrow alley, lined on either side with tall, decrepit, windowless buildings, with a maze of small courts leading off. The pedestrians were shabbily dressed and gawped with unseemly interest at their elegant carriage. The buildings might be abandoned warehouses, she thought. If only she could get a glimpse of St. Paul's, or a church spire or some other landmark with which she was familiar, she might form a more exact impression of her whereabouts, but the low carriage roof and the narrow way obscured the skyline.

Agnes turned to Pitt. Half of his face remained in shadow. His expression was distant, unreadable; he sat erect and alert in his seat, his long slender fingers curled over the knob of his cane, as if he were prepared to act at a moment's notice. “Where are we?” she said, sitting forward and gripping the edge of her seat. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Have patience. You'll discover where you are in good time. Each of us knows the other's requirements. Provided you have brought what I asked, you will be safe and your master's wine cooler will be returned within the hour.”

Agnes might have remonstrated further, but just then the carriage lurched to a halt. They were in a deserted alley scarcely wide enough for a single carriage. All she could see was decrepit wooden walls, a broken window, a shadowy doorway with a pile of dung mounded to one side. She tried to push down the glass so that she could gain a better view, but Pitt put a restraining hand on her arm. “Best not do that, my dear. In time you may admire the surroundings at your leisure. But not just now, eh?”

He tapped his stick sharply on the window. Grant descended, and a minute later his greasy, pockmarked face peered in on Pitt's side. Pitt leaned forward. “Is he still hooded up top?”

“All the way since Cheapside.”

“Any sign of our friend yet?”

“No sir—but it may be he's there before us.”