Agnes took out a clean paper from her drawer and addressed a note to the name at the bottom of the letter—M. Paul Francis, Vieille Pension, Rue Marte, Calais. She outlined for him the sad fate of his sister. When she had finished she pressed her fingers on her eyelids, sealed the letter, and put it in her pocket. She penned a second brief note to Mrs. Sharp, telling her that she would come the next day at ten to take Peter out. Then she put on her coat and stepped out in search of the post boy, and to call on Thomas Williams to give him the letter for Mrs. Sharp.
Chapter Thirty-eight
BENJAMIN RILEY WAS ALONE in the workshop, seated at his workbench, hunched over a coffeepot, a flickering lantern suspended on a hook above his head. He looked up at the sound of the door opening. “Mrs. Meadowes, returned safely from your adventures this morning, I see.”
“Thank you, yes, Mr. Riley. Forgive me for troubling you. Is Mr. Williams about?”
“As you see, he is not.”
She was uneasy being alone with Riley. Her earlier suspicions toward him resurfaced. Whether or not he had been engaged to Rose, he was almost certainly involved in a duty-dodging fraud. “Where is he?” she asked casually, her gaze fluttering over what she presumed must be his table. It was strewn with an assortment of small articles: pillboxes, vinaigrettes, snuffboxes, patch boxes, bonbonnières.
Riley sat up and folded his arms. “Why do you ask?”
“No particular reason, only I had something to tell him.” She knew she should say more, or he would grow suspicious—but what? “I saw Mr. Williams earlier today in conversation with Mr. Matthews. I thought perhaps he gave him a message for me, concerning our excursion this morning. Only Mr. Matthews fell asleep and has told me nothing. But if he is not here, then I will leave you in peace.”
Riley shot her a curious look. “I doubt Williams gave Matthews a message for you. It was your butler that had business with him.”
“Oh. How can you be sure?” She remembered the furtive look on Mr. Matthews’s face, and his denials. Any hint of subterfuge made her anxious. Perish the thought that Thomas was somehow embroiled.
“He mentioned it on his return. It seems Matthews has a nephew who is due to come of age in a few days’ time. He was inquiring what manner of gift he might give him.”
“A nephew?” said Agnes, temporarily disconcerted. But an instant later she recalled the conversation in the cellar, and Mr. Matthews’s denial at being observed in the street. The gift must be for John—the celebration they planned was to mark his coming of age. Doubtless the gift was a surprise. That was why Matthews was perturbed that Agnes had seen him talking to Thomas, and why he’d denied it.
Riley got up. “Don’t let me delay you, Mrs. Meadowes. I’ll let Williams know you called for him.” With this, he stalked to the door.
Realizing that Riley wanted to be rid of her as much as she wanted to get away from him gave Agnes courage. Since Thomas was not there and she had braved Riley thus far, why not broach the subject of duty dodging? “One more thing before I leave, Mr. Riley,” she said with affected nonchalance.
“Yes?”
“There is a salver in the hall of the Blanchards’ house.”
“What of it?”
“Did you give it to Rose not long ago, after some repair?”
Riley’s cheeks paled. “What if I did?”
“What repair did you carry out?”
“That is none of your affair.”
“I only ask because Rose was observed not long ago with the salver in her hand. Mr. Williams happened to see the same item and was perplexed at some discrepancy with the marks. He explained a certain fraud to me—duty dodging, he termed it. He also said it was you who takes pieces to assay. Were you and Rose operating such a scheme?”
“Williams!” muttered Riley, running his hand over his chin. “Naturally he planted the seed in your thoughts.” He paused, then spoke in a lighter tone. “Have you mentioned these suspicions to anyone else?”
“Not yet.”
Riley nodded. “It is well you did not. Has it occurred to you that Williams might have misled you? In our profession, duty dodging is a widespread and trivial offense—hardly the heinous crime he makes it out to be.”
“Then you would not mind if I mentioned such a ‘trivial offense’ to Mr. Blanchard?”
“Do so and I warrant he would tell you to mind your own affairs. And mention it to Mr. Nicholas and you will cause a violent ruction between him and his son which will hardly benefit the business, which is already in a dire predicament. Either way, you risk losing your position. It may be me that alters the marks, but I do so at Theodore’s instigation. He is prepared to go to almost any lengths to salvage his business. Even the few pounds saved from duty are worth it in his eyes. I cannot refuse him any more than you could when he sent you unwillingly to the thief taker.”
“And what was Rose’s role in all this?”
Riley gave her a bitter half smile. “You are very quick to think the worst of her, but let me assure you she had nothing to do with it, save transporting pieces here and returning them on one or two occasions.”
Agnes raised a skeptical brow. “Why would a kitchen maid be chosen for such a task? Why not one of the menservants? Or Theodore himself, since he comes here every day?”
“As I said, it was only on occasion—mostly Theodore did bring pieces, or we used those from the workshop. It was I who asked Rose to return something to the house the first time, when we were still friends. I asked her to put back a box without being seen. She was forever bemoaning the drudgery of her work and saying it wasn’t what she was used to, and that she relished a challenge. I never told her why it was important she was not observed, but she must have known there was subterfuge of some kind. Not that it bothered her in the least. After that, Theodore employed her too if it suited him.”
“I see,” said Agnes. “And when you say you were ‘friends,’ is what you really mean that you were engaged?”
Riley shot her a calculating look, then smiled more openly. “No, it wasn’t me that was engaged to her. You ask your Mr. Williams who it was.”
“What do you mean?” said Agnes, with as much composure as she could muster. “What does he know?”
Riley smiled maliciously. “Rose and he were engaged before either came to London,” he said flatly. He glanced at Thomas’s desk, and the array of silver items spread upon it, then turned back to face her. Agnes could feel the blood flood her cheeks, though she tried to maintain an air of calm. “Williams did not serve his apprenticeship at Blanchards’. He learned the trade in Newcastle under his father, Andrew Williams, a master silversmith. He came here as journeyman two years ago. Sir Bartholomew Grey was somehow involved. I do not know in what manner exactly, but he has an estate in those parts.”
“Go on,” said Agnes. She remembered the strange marks on Rose’s ring and box. The maker’s initials were AW.
“Before he came to London, Williams was friends with Rose’s brother; I think he told me they had met in the classroom. Rose’s father was a schoolmaster, I gather. Rose was well educated, and Thomas and she became sweethearts while he was still apprenticed in his father’s silversmith shop. They became engaged when he became a journeyman and found a post in London. Soon after, Rose arrived in London. She had found employ as a maid. I do not recall where.”
He paused and gazed at Agnes. The gleam of malice had disappeared. Agnes fancied there was a look of pity in his eye, which irked her even more.
“At Lord Carew’s,” she said.
Riley nodded. “She was not used to domestic drudgery. She hated being a maid. I am not entirely certain what happened between her and Williams, except that there must have been a falling-out. All I know is that one day a year ago she appeared next door, and set to buttering me.” He paused and frowned. “What is it, Mrs. Meadowes? Surprised to learn your Mr. Williams isn’t all you thought him?”
Agnes shrugged. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
/> “You never asked.”
“I spoke to you on the morning of Rose’s disappearance.”
Riley snorted. “All you asked was if there was something between me and her. I don’t know how that notion was planted in your head, but I told you the truth. She and I were friendly at one time, but not for long. That was when Williams took against me. She would flaunt her affection for me in front of him. It was deliberate, what she did, as though she wanted him to see. I enjoyed her for a while, but then I met a pretty milliner in Fleet Street who wasn’t half so demanding. After that I think she took up with Philip. She was no more discreet with him, let me tell you—but I daresay you already know that. There may have been others, I cannot say. In any case, if anyone deceived you it was Williams for concealing his engagement. But even if he has, there’s no cause to blame me on account of it.”
Agnes was speechless. Rose and Thomas—the very thought of them together was insupportable. Her throat burned, her finger-nails bit into the skin of her palm. Rose’s ring felt branded into her flesh. She wanted to fling it to the ground and trample on it, but would not give Riley the satisfaction of seeing her distress. But if Thomas were here now, she thought, I should fly at him. She battled to compose herself. Why had she blindly assumed that it was Riley Rose was after? The answer was plain. She had been lured along the wrong path by Thomas himself. By hinting that Riley was dishonest and was involved in some secret affair with Rose, he had deliberately deceived her.
Agnes abruptly took her leave and strode briskly to Sarah Sharp’s house and pushed the letter through her door. On her return to Foster Lane, she stood for several minutes at the top of the steps, mastering her self-control before descending.
Her self-possession remained shaken by what Riley had told her, but she had not entirely lost her powers of reason or forgotten her morning’s adventures. Was it possible that what Riley said was true? If so, how did this fit with the theft of the wine cooler and the murders? Thomas’s assistance remained an indubitable fact. And Riley was someone she had never trusted—but nevertheless his account seemed too particular to be a fabrication. So much deceit, so much lying, so much unfamiliar ground. Agnes fumbled for the truth. She told herself she owed Thomas a chance to redeem himself. But then, if he had deliberately lied and deceived her—as it seemed he had—would he tell her the truth now?
She would be wise to arm herself with further evidence before confronting him, she concluded. Who else might shed light on this perplexing matter? In the end, just one name presented itself: Sir Bartholomew Grey, who Riley claimed had brought Thomas to London, and for whom the wine cooler had been made. Nicholas had warned Agnes against further unauthorized forays, but given the present urgent circumstances, this was an instruction she chose to ignore.
Somber but resolute, Agnes was unable to taste a morsel of her supper, nor did she feel inclined to start the evening meal preparations. She was quite prepared to leave most of them to Doris and slip out at the earliest opportunity. But as fate would have it, Mr. Matthews roused himself from his slumbers when he was summoned upstairs by a bell. He returned to the kitchen some minutes later with particular instructions from Lydia Blanchard. Nicholas had not returned from his earlier excursion and was presumed to be staying at his club. Theodore had gone after him and Lydia had accepted an invitation to play cards and would sup elsewhere. There would be no upstairs supper, and thus, Agnes had no further duties that night.
Chapter Thirty-nine
BEFORE LEAVING FOR Sir Bartholomew Grey’s residence, Agnes considered her appearance for once. She donned her finest garb: a bodice and skirt of gold-colored wool that deepened the amber of her eyes, a clean lawn collar that nicely emphasized the curve of her breast. She regarded herself in the looking glass on her dressing chest and saw that her eyes had a fierce gleam in them. No matter what anger I rouse in the Blanchards, I shall get to the root of this, she thought. Even servants are entitled to justice and to know the truth.
She dressed her hair in a tight knot and dipped a forefinger in egg white and vinegar to coil a single fat ringlet over one shoulder. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks, things she had not troubled herself to do for many years. Then, so that no one should remark on her finery and question her destination, she swathed herself in her cloak before she slipped into the night.
It was raining softly and she avoided the puddles. There were no stars, but by the moonlight filtering through the wafting clouds she could see there was still some traffic about. Agnes took shelter in a doorway and waited. A carriage and four trotted past, spraying muddy water, then came a hackney with a pair of passengers, then several more equipages. Before long, Agnes’s boots and the hem of her cloak were drenched and there was still no sign of an empty carriage. Suppressing her frustration, she waited a short time longer, until at last a free hackney came by. She hailed the driver and settled back on the cold seat.
The carriage reeked of tobacco smoke and damp. As it jolted its way toward Cavendish Street, Agnes clutched the door frame and stared through the rain-speckled window. Pedestrians muffled against the weather hurried into doorways. She saw barefoot beggars cowering in corners and drunkards sprawled in the gutter. She listened to the distant curses of watermen, and the occasional cries of the watch, and tried not to think of the risk she was running and why Thomas had deceived her.
Presently the carriage lurched past the elegant façades of Cavendish Street. Lanterns burned on each side of the entrance to Sir Bartholomew Grey’s house, and through the fanlight blazed a large chandelier, heavily swagged with droplets of crystal. The windows on either side of the hall were dark—was this because the curtains were drawn or because there was no one within?
Telling the driver to wait, Agnes stepped out and knocked at the door. A liveried footman wearing a powdered wig answered, bowing and clicking his heels as he bade her a lofty good evening. Agnes saw that his uniform—deep crimson velvet with gold epaulets and shining silver buttons, and without a single bald spot anywhere to be seen—was ten times more splendid than the Blanchard livery. Despite her best gown, she felt drab by comparison.
“Good evening. I have come to visit Sir Bartholomew Grey,” she said with as much hauteur as she could muster.
The footman puffed his chest and stared. “Are you expected, ma’am?”
“A matter of urgency has arisen. There was no time to forewarn him.”
He folded his arms and raised his chin. “Then I doubt he will see you. He is currently occupied at the card table.”
Agnes had come too far to be cowed by a spotless velvet suit. “My good man,” she said, drawing up to her full height, “the fact that I have no appointment is neither here nor there. Go to your master, and inform him a Mrs. Agnes Meadowes desires a moment of his time. She has been sent by Mr. Blanchard and Justice Cordingly, on a matter of grave importance concerning his wine cooler.”
The footman dropped his arms to his sides. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then, thinking better of it, closed it wordlessly. Bowing again, briskly and more deeply than before, he ushered her in and departed through a double door, without allowing her a glimpse of what lay within.
Agnes strode about the hall, anxiously waiting. The fire was unlit, the stone floor shiny with polish yet inhospitable. How many housemaids had spent hours scrubbing and buffing here until their arms ached? she wondered. A bracket clock on the mantelpiece ticked with agonizing slowness. She regarded a row of marble busts of Roman emperors ranged on columns. She began to pace the corridor, unsettled by the curious sensation that the ranks of blank alabaster eyes saw through her ladylike posturing and disapproved. Then she caught sight of the wine cooler. It stood resplendent on a marble-topped commode, flanked by a pair of blazing candelabra.
So Thomas had been here. Perhaps he was here still. She ran her hands over the sides of the great object, her fingers brushing over dolphins and mermaids’ tresses, and the smooth musculature of Neptune’s arms and the prickle of his triden
t. She was uncertain whether she hoped or feared that Thomas had gone. She was not ready to confront him.
Just then, her eye alighted upon the marks set in a line on the flat rim. There was the leopard, the lion, the letters NB for Nicholas Blanchard, and P for the year. Had these letters been transposed? She recalled the way Thomas had ascertained the tampering on the salver. She breathed on the shining surface around the marks. It remained perfectly smooth; there was no ridge to indicate that the marks had been tampered with. No doubt Thomas had introduced the whole business of duty dodging simply to divert her from the truth.
The footman reemerged. “Sir Bartholomew will spare you a moment of his time in the saloon.” He rang a bell, and a short while later a second footman arrived and carried off her cloak and gloves. Nervously she flattened her collar and smoothed her skirt. When she was ready, she nodded. The first footman threw open the double doors and stood to one side, bowing slightly, arm outstretched. “This way, ma’am.” Heart pumping, Agnes entered.
The room was lit by a chandelier twice as large as the one in the hall, and furnished with carved gilt-wood sofas upholstered in vivid green silk, and mahogany commodes with marble tops. One wall was punctuated with two long windows draped in gold damask. Opposite was a grand marble fireplace, and suspended above was a large dark painting of naked women drinking wine and cavorting with swarthy muscular men, some of whom appeared to have goats’ legs, and horns on their heads.
She was no more than a foot across the carpet when the footman cleared his throat. “Mrs. Agnes Meadowes, sir,” he announced in a ringing tone, before retreating backward and closing the doors behind him. Agnes was overwhelmed by a flood of panic. She saw the folly of this visit and longed to retreat.
But Sir Bartholomew was seated at a card table in the center of the room. Seeing Agnes standing stock still on the carpet, he rose and held out his hand. “Mrs. Meadowes,” he said slowly, with an air of perplexity. “I have heard something of you from Mr. Williams, who left here only an hour since. He never said you would come calling on me in person. You are the family cook, I understand. What brings you out at this time of night?”
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