The Thief Taker

by Janet Gleeson

  She regarded him levelly. “In my son’s case it was a risk worth taking. I could not rest easy unless I knew he was well. And now I see him very well, for which I thank Mrs. Sharp heartily.”

  Mrs. Sharp must have guessed from this stilted exchange that there was some misunderstanding between them. She turned the conversation to lighter subjects: the latest entertainment at the theater, a production by Garrick, which she had heard from an acquaintance was most diverting; the price of herrings at the market; and the likelihood of the river freezing and the boys being able to go skating. When they had consumed the last crumb of gingerbread, the boys traipsed upstairs to bed and Mrs. Sharp bustled after them, ordering Agnes to sit a while longer with Thomas until she called.

  Anxious to steer matters away from the events of the previous night, Agnes told him matter-of-factly about her discovery of the gun in the cellar, and the letter that Pitt had sent—and that Theodore had decided he should accompany her to deliver the money and collect the wine cooler.

  “Has Justice Cordingly been informed of any of this?”

  “No,” said Agnes. “Theodore can think of nothing but the wine cooler. He is adamant that Justice Cordingly should be kept in the dark until it is recovered. I never told him about the gun—I feared if I did he would have seen it as an effort to undermine this determination and it would only have annoyed him.”

  The explanation sounded lame as she said it, but Thomas Williams was gracious enough not to criticize her. “He is willing to stake our safety against Pitt’s integrity in order to safeguard the business—a dubious bargain, in my opinion,” he said. “And even if Pitt is not the murderer, he surely knows the murderer’s identity. It cannot be right just to allow the fellow to evade apprehension.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” said Agnes, thinking of Rose lying dead with her throat cut. “Moreover, the gun suggests the murderer is someone in the household. But I dare not contradict Theodore’s order. And since we cannot doubt that the business depends upon the recovery of the wine cooler, your position is as much at risk as mine. But on the subject of the murderer, there is one more thing I would like to ascertain, but I cannot easily do so by virtue of my sex.”

  “What is it?” said Thomas.

  “There is an alehouse in Lombard Street called the Blue Cockerel. Philip was out on the night of the robbery, but he claims he spent the evening there in the company of various ladies. He says the landlord will remember him. Would you be so kind as to call on him to verify it?”

  Thomas muttered inaudibly, poured himself a tankard of ale from a jug on the dresser and silently gulped it, gazing at the fire as he did so. The clock struck the half hour and Mrs. Sharp summoned Agnes upstairs. After bidding Peter good night, Agnes wasted no time in taking her leave. “I should return directly,” she said to Mrs. Sharp, avoiding Thomas’s eyes. “There is still upstairs supper to put out.”

  Thomas helped her into her cloak and then strapped on his sword and donned his overcoat and hat. Agnes feigned nonchalance. “If you are coming out just on my account, I assure you, Mr. Williams, there’s no need. I shall be as safe on my return as I was coming here.”

  His green eyes settled on hers intently. “I insist. It is foolhardy to travel alone at this time of night.”

  Agnes ignored his look. “I am quite able to protect myself.”

  “Then humor me and allow me the pleasure of your company,” he said, holding open the door for her. As she passed, he lowered his voice so that Mrs. Sharp did not hear. “Besides, there’s something more I wish to say to you—in privacy.”

  Few people were abroad now, and Thomas walked close to Agnes’s side, holding a lantern in one hand and extending his other arm so that she could rest hers upon it to steady herself on the street. She felt uncomfortable taking his support and they walked for some moments in silence, their feet crunching over the snow, clouds of white breath mingling in the dark night. Agnes was acutely aware of his stocky presence close to her; from time to time she sensed his eyes slide toward her and then away. She wondered what it was he wished to say, but offered him no assistance, waiting for him to speak.

  When they reached the corner of Bread Street and Cheapside, Thomas cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you to be careful, Mrs. Meadowes. I spoke to Riley today regarding the box you showed me. There was something dark in his manner. I don’t pretend to comprehend what it was, but it worried me all the same. When I told him Rose’s body had been found, he seemed little surprised or sorry to hear it. Soon after that he inquired after you. I don’t know how he discovered it, but I had the impression he knew there was something between us.”

  Finding herself a subject for rumor was what she had feared almost as much as Thomas Williams’s poor opinion of her. She shook her head and managed to cover her dismay. “Never mind Riley’s interest in me—I don’t suppose he offered any theory on Rose’s death?”

  Thomas looked at the ground. “Nothing. His words, as I recall, were that she was a meddlesome, flirtatious girl who doubtless was killed as a result of one of her intrigues.”

  “He made no further suggestion that might help?”

  “None. His chief concern was to probe my friendship with you.”

  Agnes swallowed uncomfortably. “He must have heard some idle rumor. Philip, our footman, is friendly with him and one of the apprentices. In any case, Riley is the least of our worries. The assignation with Mr. Pitt tomorrow is a far more perilous undertaking.”

  “But that at least is an easily recognizable danger.”

  They were now halfway down Foster Lane, passing Goldsmiths’ Hall. In a minute they would reach the steps leading down to her kitchen. A few yards from the railings, Thomas Williams paused and drew a deep breath. “It wasn’t only Riley I wished to discuss, Mrs. Meadowes.” He hesitated, his arm still supporting hers, looking down at his snow-caked boots. “It is a delicate matter. But it needs to be said, and I beg you won’t think me presumptuous for voicing it.”

  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 m
ind 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.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  AGNES 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 h
is 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?”