The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

“Shouldn’t there be more besides what is here? Underclothes and a nightgown? They aren’t here.”

  “Perhaps. I hadn’t thought.”

  “And had she no personal possessions—no letters, papers, keepsakes from her family?”

  “If she had, I never saw ’em.”

  “She must have had some things,” said Agnes carefully. “If nothing’s here she must have taken them with her, which suggests she did not intend to return.” She looked at the scant belongings on Rose’s shelf, and then at the fuller shelves lower down—presumably Nancy’s and Doris’s possessions. All were neatly stowed in deference to Mrs. Tooley’s inspections. She raised her eyes and caught a strange look on Nancy’s face. “What is it? Has something else gone?”

  “No, Mrs. Meadowes. Nothing from what I can see. It’s only you asking me made me recall there was something in particular that was somewhere else. I haven’t looked to see if that’s gone. I pray you won’t scold me for not mentioning it sooner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A week ago, while I was changing the linen on her bed, I found it under her mattress—a purse stuffed with gold sovereigns. There were twenty of ’em.”

  Agnes’s brow knotted. “Show me where you found it.”

  Nancy stepped over to Rose’s bed and rolled the thin horsehair mattress forward to expose the wooden slats. She pointed to the top right-hand corner. “It was here.”

  “Did you speak to her about it?”

  Nancy laughed and shook her head vehemently. “I wouldn’t dare. No point in asking for trouble. She could be ferocious when she wanted.”

  How would a kitchen maid like Rose have come by such wealth? The accusations of Lydia and Mr. Matthews still rang in her ears. “Have you any notion how she got the money?”

  “Must’ve been something underhand, mustn’t it?”

  “Did you mention the matter to anyone else?”

  “No,” said Nancy, her head down.

  She was holding back something. “Why did you dislike her?” asked Agnes impulsively.

  A sudden flush spread across Nancy’s pale face. “I weren’t like her, ma’am—she’d do anything for a man. Philip got taken in by her—more fool him. She were scarce better than a whore at times.”

  Agnes remembered now Philip’s quip that he was the cause of Rose and Nancy’s argument. “Was Philip the reason you fought yesterday?”

  Nancy’s gaze flashed toward the window, then she looked quickly back at Agnes. “I told you that was over nothing more than the mess she made. But there’s something else, Mrs. Meadowes…although I don’t know if it’s aught to do with her running off.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a pair of pocket pistols that are always kept in a box in Mr. Nicholas’s room, with a small flask of powder. This morning when I looked, one was gone. I didn’t say nothing before, on account of I shouldn’t have been looking. Do you think she might ’ave took it?”

  Agnes hesitated. “I don’t know, Nancy.”

  What she meant was that she did not want to know, but she feared she would now be obliged to find out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AT ONE O’CLOCK , the servants gathered for lunch. Doris had laid the table, knives and spoons haphazardly askew, and set out yesterday’s leftovers—dropping a meat pudding, which burst all over the flags and turned them slippery as grease. Once everyone was seated, Mr. Matthews declared he had an important announcement, and a ripple of unease and excitement spread through the assembly.

  The butler stood at one end of the table to say his speediest grace—“Lord, we give humble thanks for the fruits we are about to receive. Amen”—then without further pause, he cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, with as much gravitas as a judge announcing a death sentence, “I have news of a tragedy.” He looked at the assembled faces, waiting for hush to descend. “Last night as we slept in our beds, an interloper entered the premises next door and cruelly murdered the apprentice keeping watch. This same interloper then helped himself to a valuable wine cooler and made off with it.”

  As Mr. Matthews picked up his carving knife and fork and began expertly carving the bacon, he added further detail to his news. He had first heard the news from the apprentice who found Noah’s body; the constable had visited the Blanchards’ workshop soon after the crime was discovered. The justice had been left undisturbed until nine, by which time the undertakers had arrived and transported the corpse away on their wagon. The only obvious evidence of the crime was a large wine-colored stain on the ceiling of the downstairs showroom, where blood had dripped through the floor above. Despite the efforts of the other two apprentices, this had so far proved impossible to obliterate.

  Greatly shaken, Mrs. Tooley had to forage in her pocket for her smelling salts and take several noisy sniffs before she was able to swallow a morsel. Agnes rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, staring blankly at the crescent of bacon on her plate. Lydia Blanchard’s suspicion that Rose was somehow involved in what had happened obliged her to take an interest in the conversation. Yet she did so unwillingly. That the young boy’s death had been eclipsed by the theft of a valuable wine cooler seemed even more poignant, and everyone’s vicarious delight in the drama seemed somehow indecent.

  “John,” Agnes said, in a tone inaudible to the rest, “do you think it possible that a woman could have had a hand in the murder and robbery?”

  John put his knife down softly on his plate and turned to look at her. His face was narrower than Philip’s, his features less regular—his nose long and aquiline, his eyes set at a slanting angle, his lips thin. Yet for all that, thought Agnes, it was a more appealing countenance. John was never presumptuous or unseemly. She could speak to him with an ease she never felt with Philip.

  “I doubt any woman would have had the strength,” he replied. “Butchering a man requires considerable force, don’t it? And from what I hear the wine cooler was a sizable one—as big as a bathtub. Too heavy for a woman to carry.”

  Agnes nodded at this confirmation of her own suspicions. Whatever Lydia thought, Rose alone was unlikely to have been responsible. But had she had an accomplice?

  “What do you know of Rose Francis’s male acquaintances?” she asked.

  John took a bite of bread and chewed it slowly before swallowing. “You think she was behind it, do you? Reckon it was more than a coincidence, her going off?”

  Agnes shrugged noncommittally. “If it were so, who might have helped her?”

  John smiled. “There was quite a collection of men friends, by all accounts. But the only ones I know came from this house, or the premises next door, and none of them have disappeared—so I somehow doubt it were any of them.”

  Agnes sensed that behind his shrewd gray eyes lay more. But John was never as keen to gossip as Philip. She wondered whether he held back from loyalty to Rose.

  “I gather there was an argument yesterday between Rose and Nancy.”

  John’s mouth tensed. “I witnessed it and cooled them down.”

  “What was it over—Philip?”

  He shook his head. “Rose and he was no longer sweet on each other. Nancy could have him if she chose.”

  “What, then?”

  “Something about a letter Nancy had taken that belonged to Rose.”

  “From whom? What did it say?”

  John regarded her, then smiled again. “They never said, and I never asked. Just pulling ’em apart was enough to test me to the limit.”

  “Did you happen to hear anything about her and Benjamin Riley, the journeyman next door, or Mr. Blanchard, Senior?”

  John tapped his nose as he had the previous day when informing her of Mrs. Catchpole’s letter. “I don’t suppose the rumors I’ve heard are any different from those that’ve reached you, Mrs. Meadowes. Seeing as how we all live in the same place and eat the same food and breathe the same air.” He paused, wiping the rim of his plate with the last piece of bread. “And where’s the use in
picking over the same bone? ’Twould leave us all hungry.” Then, before she could press him further, he swiveled himself pointedly toward Philip and broke into his conversation with the now giggling maids. “Now, what happened to all them candle stubs in the dining room? Was it you or Nancy that took ’em?”

  AT THE UPPER SERVANTS’ TEA in Mrs. Tooley’s parlor an hour later, Agnes did not let the subject of Rose Francis rest. “Most of Rose’s belongings are still in her closet. What do you intend to do with them?” she inquired, while Mrs. Tooley unlocked the tea caddy and spooned a mixture of green and black leaves carefully into the pot.

  “Nothing, for the time being,” returned Mrs. Tooley tartly, for in truth she was tired of the subject of Rose Francis, and now that she had overcome her initial shock, she was eager to press Mr. Matthews further on the terrible drama of the previous night. “But if Doris and Nancy are helpful till we find a replacement, I might offer them the pick of her things.”

  “Most of them are too worn to be much use to anybody,” said Agnes. “She took the best with her.”

  “Didn’t she ever,” put in Mr. Matthews glumly.

  “Dusters, then,” said Mrs. Tooley decisively, locking the caddy and turning to the butler. “So, Mr. Matthews, you say the apprentice who found the body had no notion of what had taken place until he went in. He heard no sound at all, you say? And then the first thing he saw was Noah’s head hanging on by a thread and blood flooding all over the floor?”

  “That’s according to him,” said Mr. Matthews, nodding sagely.

  “And the blood was quite prodigious—enough to soak through the ceiling, you said?” Mrs. Tooley shuddered, but seemed less distraught than Agnes had expected.

  “There were footsteps all across the floor, leading to the exact place where the wine cooler was displayed. I saw them quite clearly when I accompanied Mr. Theodore last night.”

  Agnes found this gruesome exchange insupportable. She was eager to leave, but remembering her need to ascertain what had happened to Rose, attempted to steer the conversation her way. “Rose leaving those things in her closet shows she no longer needed them. That might mean she had money enough to buy new things.”

  As she spoke, she observed that Mr. Matthews’s expression turned disdainful, as if this were a trivial matter of no interest to him. He picked up his tea and sipped it, gazing into the middle distance. Patsy, tall and elegant, paused with a teaspoon in her hand. She was a dark-haired, somewhat masculine woman with a longish nose. She patted the back of her neat coiffure with her large hands. “Rose Francis must have had a very rich friend indeed, to leave everything behind. Or perhaps she had more than one sponsor.”

  “She did not leave everything behind. Only her working clothes,” insisted Agnes.

  “Either way, we’re all better off without her,” said Mrs. Tooley, glancing toward Mr. Matthews for approval. But he was maintaining his air of disinterest and gazing at his tea, and thus did not notice her.

  Agnes addressed the butler directly. “Nancy happened to mention there was a pistol missing from the dressing chest in Mr. Blanchard’s room. Do you know anything of it?”

  Matthews nodded self-importantly. “I have been apprised of the loss. Mr. Blanchard was as astonished and distressed to discover it as I. Naturally, we can only assume that Rose took it. I must make an inventory of the household silver at the earliest opportunity. We must hope nothing else is gone.”

  Agnes remembered that the day before, Mr. Matthews had found Rose upstairs, and wondered if stealing the pistol rather than intimacy with Nicholas was the cause. “Nothing,” she said, “save a valuable wine cooler and a life.”

  “Upon my soul, Mrs. Meadowes!” exclaimed Mrs. Tooley. “You are surely not suggesting Rose—”

  But before she could finish, there was a heavy thumping at the door. “’Scuse me for interrupting,” said Philip, popping his powdered head around the door of the parlor. “I’ve an important message for Mrs. Meadowes. Mr. Theodore Blanchard asks that she attend him immediately. And by the by, he doesn’t want to see you upstairs, ma’am, but in the showroom next door. Ain’t you the lucky one? Don’t forget to look up at the ceiling so you can tell us all what it’s like.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  AGNES COULD COUNT on the fingers of one hand the times she had entered the Blanchards’ business premises. Usually she had been sent to borrow extra items of silverware prior to important dinners. Perhaps bowls for sweetmeats or leaf-shaped pickle dishes, or her particular favorite, salt cellars fashioned like muscular sea gods supporting open oyster shells—so realistically modeled that every stria of the shell was visible.

  She knew that downstairs was the main shop, where smaller objects were displayed for customers, and leading off from the rear were the workshop and an office where accounts were prepared. Upstairs was a grander showroom, containing the magnificent silverware upon which Blanchards’ reputation was founded. She had never entered this hallowed place, but according to Mr. Matthews, the pieces were of fabulous scale and intricacy, fashioned not simply for sale but to elicit commissions. Almost anything could be custom made: a set of serving dishes with a border design taken from a tea caddy, legs from a soup tureen, and handles like those on a teapot. There was almost nothing the ingenious Blanchard craftsmen could not fashion for a patron who ordered it. With a heavy heart, Agnes presented herself in the downstairs shop. Fortunately she was not left to linger. As soon as she mentioned that Mr. Theodore Blanchard awaited her (her eyes fixed firmly on her feet), one of the surviving apprentices scurried off to fetch a journeyman. Minutes later, someone clattered down the stairs at surprising speed. She raised her head, and discovered to her relief that it was not Benjamin Riley but Thomas Williams who had come to fetch her.

  “Mr. Blanchard is almost ready, Mrs. Meadowes. He asked me to show you upstairs, and asks that you wait a moment there for him,” said Williams in a somber tone, after bowing and bidding her good day. He was a stocky man, not much taller or older than she, with rusty-colored hair sprouting from his head in wild curls. His flat, wide face and rather solid jaw gave him a stubborn expression, which contrasted oddly with the somewhat melancholy glow in his green eyes.

  Agnes greeted him with a brief curtsy. “Thank you, Mr. Williams,” she returned as he held the door open for her. She was halfway up the stairs before she realized with relief that she had not once caught sight of the ceiling.

  Williams ushered her into the showroom. “Please won’t you sit down, Mrs. Meadowes,” he said, walking to the far end of the room and arranging a chair near the fire. “Mr. Blanchard is finishing some business in the office. He bade me tell you he will join you shortly.”

  The room was long and thin, paneled in oak, with a carved chimneypiece in the center and a pair of large sash windows draped with elaborate swagged curtains at either end. It was furnished not as a conventional shop but rather as a dining room, with a dark red Turkey rug, a pair of consoles, a well-polished mahogany sideboard, and a matching circular dining table. Every surface was covered with silver: small candelabra and silver boxes fashioned in various forms. The dining table was set as if for the grandest of banquets, complete with candlesticks, covered dishes, silver wine coolers, goblets, salt cellars, condiments, plates, and cutlery. At each end of the sideboard stood a pair of massive twelve-branched candelabra. The only incongruous note was the large empty space in the middle. Agnes supposed that was where the wine cooler had stood.

  As she took in the details of the room, Agnes was aware that Thomas Williams observed her. She felt anxious being scrutinized by a man she barely knew, but there were several matters with which Thomas Williams might assist her and she forced herself to make conversation with him. “I came upon your Mr. Riley yesterday. He was carrying a basket of silver and dropped it in the road.”

  Williams looked doleful. “Indeed? He never mentioned it. How unfortunate.”

  “It was,” she said emphatically, then after a short hesitation pressed on.
“I expect you knew that he was friendly with our kitchen maid, Rose Francis?”

  Thomas Williams frowned. “I caught a glimpse of her from time to time.”

  “Where did you glimpse her, Mr. Williams?”

  He scratched his head. “I don’t exactly recall. In the street—or was it here perhaps? She visited occasionally.” He hesitated again. “I hope I am not speaking out of turn—I would not wish to embroil her in any trouble.”

  Agnes shot him a piercing look. “Of course not. I only ask because Rose Francis has gone missing. Compared with recent events here this might seem a trivial matter, but I need most urgently to find her.”

  He looked up sharply. “Did you ask Riley?” he said in a more businesslike tone.

  “Yes, but he refused to say much. Indeed, he offered no help at all.”

  Williams took a deep breath. The soft, mournful expression returned. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He fingered a candlestick. “I’m sorry to hear that she’s gone,” he said. “Riley has not mentioned the matter to me, and I have no knowledge of their dealings, or what they were to one another. I didn’t pay much attention. Why are you after her? Is she in trouble?”

  “No, though she caused me a deal of inconvenience. But Mrs. Blanchard would like to know what made her go off like that.”

  As she had hoped, this mention of Lydia’s name seemed to sway Williams in her favor. “Then if it would assist you, I’ll question Riley about it and see if he says any more.”

  Agnes congratulated herself. Perhaps she was better than she knew at the art of conversation. She smiled, feeling easier now. “Anything you discover would be welcome. Rose could be unpredictable. She was inclined to be overfriendly with her men friends. But to go off without a word—none of us expected that. Do you think Mr. Riley might have set her up in rooms somewhere close by?”

  Williams gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “On a journeyman’s salary, I doubt it—besides, he has a landlady who’s fiercer than a mad dog. He’s forever arguing with her. But still, he might know where she is.”