Although right now, Amelia Summers looked at him expectantly, wondering what had made him seek her out. He had only seen her once since the distressing incident, which he was sure still plagued her dreams.
"I require your advice," he started, feeling uncomfortable in the refined world Miss Summers had built, especially all the soft femininity that was on sale in this establishment. He felt large and clumsy, in a very foreign surrounding.
"I see," she said, dropping a lump of sugar in his tea. He didn't take sugar, but neither did he argue. "I am not sure I can be of much assistance in relation to your world, or is it mine that you are here about?" Prostitutes were certainly exposed to undue risk, and he had always had sympathy for the dangers women in this profession faced, although the women in this establishment were a far cry from the average street walker—Amelia kept them well protected.
"It is actually your client base I wish to discuss," he said, noting Amelia's curiosity.
"Anything to help the course of justice."
"There is a thief targeting fine pieces of jewelry—very specific pieces."
"Go on," she said, crossing her legs and placing her lips on the edge of her tea cup. He wondered if she was teasing him or whether she naturally brought attention to her femininity.
"I wish to know about the persons that are being targeted."
"Then I will endeavor to give my advice," she said. Due to the nature of her profession, she was familiar with the delicate structures of society. She would know the families and their fortunes as many of them lightened their troubles in the rooms of her establishment. "Who are they?"
"Madam Gueyere, Mrs. Marchant, Mrs. Castlemore, Lady Chemsford, Lady Sothing, Mrs. Finnerly and Duchess Vary. There are a few more. What can you tell me of these women? Is there any commonality between them?"
"They are the victims of this thief?"
He nodded.
"The thief had discerning taste. These are very wealthy women."
"Anything else?"
"I don't know if it matters, but I would say a few of them are also very proud—women who don't question their position in society."
"Could it be that someone is targeting these people specifically?"
"Well, their jewelry collections are above the par and they tend to wear wealth around their necks. They are mostly older women, but I suppose they are the ones with established jewelry collections."
"Of which most are kept in strong boxes in banks. The stolen pieces had all been worn recently and the thief appears to strike from the time the pieces are worn to before they are returned." Amelia listened intently and he continued, "I suspect the thief identifies the pieces at these events and decides where to strike."
"That indicates a certain kind of person," she said carefully. "What type of events does this person have access to?"
Rowan drew out his notebook and listed the events where the pieces had last been worn while Amelia listened and stirred her tea with an impossibly delicate silver spoon—one Rowan wasn't sure his fingers could hold.
"These are events open to general society—not the events that are for society's more exclusive members. It indicates that the thief would be a part of the lower levels of society—someone who gets the more widely distributed invitations. However, the women who are targeted hold significantly more elevated positions—haught society if you will."
"And who are these people of more general society?"
"Lesser families—even poor families of good backgrounds. Excluding the political class. Some of the women you mentioned are clearly a part of the aristocracy and there is a clear distinction between the aristocracy and general gentlemen."
Rowan thought back to Lord Stansom, who was definitely part of the political class—the class all the victims were a part of. He wondered for a moment if there were political motivation to these thefts. "How are these persons of lesser society invited to such events?"
"Typically, they make their presence in London known and there is usually someone who facilitates their introduction. The invitation lists are created by word of mouth, and the influence of the person making the introduction. These events are part of the season."
"What season?" Rowan had heard the term, but he didn't know exactly what it entailed.
"The season is a series of events, particularly balls during winter. These lesser families usually attend for a specific reason: to introduce a young member of the family of marriageable age. The season is where their availability is announced. It is an expensive undertaking for an exclusively country-based family, who need to rent a house and acquire an appropriate wardrobe."
"Exclusively country-based?"
"More often than not."
Rowan thought over the implications of what he was learning. Amelia seemed to indicate the thief was of lesser means relatively, and could possibly be in London to present a person of marriageable age. "Have there been any young gentlemen around town, spending unaccounted for wealth?"
"Young men habitually spend wealth they don't have, Mr. Cox, but I will keep an eye out for your culprit."
"That would be much appreciated."
"If you get your hands on the invitation lists for these events, you may be able to narrow the list down somewhat."
Rowan had already thought of that, but the understanding he had garnered here would be helpful. "Thank you for your help," he said, standing.
"You are welcome to stay. My girls would be happy to assist you further."
He knew she was offering him a complementary evening with one of the women in this establishment, but he wasn't in the mind to. These types of women were foreign to him, as was the whole set-up of this establishment. He preferred the familiar touch of Lizzie, the woman who came to his rooms and tended to his needs for coin. Theirs was a simple transaction that suited both. "Perhaps some other time."
"You are always welcome here," Amelia said, and for a moment the ordeal they had shared showed hauntingly in her eyes before she cleared it away.
"One last thing. Who creates these invitation lists?"
"The secretaries, I expect."
With a nod, he left, breathing easier when he was back on the streets, determined that his answer may well lie amongst these invitations—at least he could get a list of suspects. Mr. Alstrom could perhaps be the best person to assist him. It would mean that Lord Stansom would be aware that he still had not given up on the idea that the thief was an attendee to these events, but the man also knew that he exhausted all leads.
London closed down for Christmas. The streets were as quiet as they were ever going to be, while Rowan sat at his table, reviewing the lists that Mr. Alstrom had managed to secure from his professional equals. Utilizing Mr. Alstrom's contacts had been a good idea, but the similarities between the lists were discouraging. There were at least three dozen families across all of the lists, but that was still much better than before.
He didn't bother placing more coal on the fire and instead donned his jacket and hat, making his way out of his rooms and down to the streets. It was eerily quiet as the populace of London was at home with their families, except for a few stragglers.
Rowan walked northward through quiet streets and bought a cup of coffee from a Jewish coffee house next to the cemetery. He'd visited these premises before; they made their coffee a bit stronger and he’d found he quite liked it. There was no paper to read, so all he could do was stare out the window across the cemetery and listen to the Hebrew the men conversed in, or sometimes indistinguishable north-London accents.
He didn't like coming here, but he did, every year. Normally he thought very little of Marni these days. They'd only been married a year and time had lessened his memory. He couldn't really remember clearly what she looked like anymore, except on the surgeon's table, where her body had been examined. He'd been new to Bow Street then and it had taken some time for the surgeon to discover that the victim was his wife. He had seen the stab wound just under her ribs—a robbery, they'd determined.
She hadn't died straight away; she had bled, slowly losing life in a dirty alley, while he had been away. He had been unable to protect her and that had tortured him for a long time. The nature of her death had been a focus of his mind for years. He had been so young at the time, barely nineteen.
For being surrounded by it, he still couldn't understand the nature of crime. What logic was there in killing a creature like Marni? He'd determined that criminals would be stopped and he'd been merciless in the task—sometimes to the point where his methods had been called into question. But the world was different now; the Metropolitan police were much more concerned with order and procedure, forgoing effectiveness.
Making his way across the street and into the cemetery, he found Marni's grave. He had nothing to say to her anymore; he had grown so far from the young, idealistic man she had known; she would not recognize him now, but he placed the flowers he'd bought and cleared the frozen weeds around her grave.
Chapter 7:
* * *
Serephina walked slowly behind Millie and Captain Heresworth as they strolled through Hyde Park. It was a crisp morning and frost still covered the grass as far as the eye could see. There was also a low-lying mist along the depressions of the park. It was a beautiful scene and it would grow into a lovely, sunny day, Serephina was sure.
Being the chaperone, she was far enough behind to give them a semblance of privacy. Strictly, Mrs. Rushmore should do it, but her knees were giving her bother on such a cold day.
Clasping her gloved hands behind her, she let her thoughts wander and they immediately went to the topic she had tried to avoid—the man last night, observing the ball from outside. Her heart sped up just thinking about it. He was hunting her. It was the oddest feeling knowing he was trying to find her. Separate was the thought of what would happen to her when he did—nothing good. Everything would end if he found her. She felt a rush of anger that was familiar—anger that she should have so few choices, and not just her—there were children going hungry in the streets, living in squalor when others had so very much. How could that possibly be right? On its own, she had no issues with wealth, or even displaying it, but when people were suffering so deeply from lack of the very basics of life, it was unconscionable.
Street urchins used to be an annoyance, stealing anything they could get their filthy little hands on, but now she felt differently. Good on them for taking what they needed to support themselves. If this society refused to support them, they should insist. A good Christian would recognize that they were no less valuable than the haughtiest gentleman.
She wouldn't go so far as to say she was proud of what she did, but she was proud that she managed to provide a future for her sister, and although stealing was wrong, she had no other options, and that was not by her choice.
With a groan, she discovered that she'd actually been discussing herself and her activities in her head with this man that was searching for her. She wondered what he would say to her justifications. Perhaps he didn't care. Ruthless, Turner had said. She didn't quite understand what that meant.
Through her distraction, she had lost sight of Millie and Captain Heresworth. She was the most useless chaperone ever, she chided herself and marched off down the lane to catch up. If she had to return home alone, Mrs. Rushmore would rip strips off her for failing in her most basic duties.
Luckily, she found them standing by the duck pond and she sighed with relief.
Silent as a mouse, Serephina made her way along the dark, damp roofline. The moon was bright tonight, perhaps too much for what was ideal, but it also helped her see. Reaching the target house, she crouched down and pulled off her gloves, which were covered with the soot of the roofs of Mayfair.
A chimney was belching black smoke beside her, but she knew the Lady who lived here was not at home, having been invited to the exclusive cards evening at Lady Chaddefrey's that evening. Lady Bellingham would never miss such an important event, leaving the house quiet, particularly as her husband preferred to spend most evening in male company, which might not be surprising considering how disapproving his wife was of absolutely everything.
But last night, the Lady had worn a magnificent emerald necklace that must be worth a small fortune, five large stones the size of gooseberries. Lady Chadderfrey would have cause for disapproval tonight after Serephina's job was done.
Nimbly she brought out the tool Turner had taught her to use, slipping it inside the window edge and accessing the small catch on the round cupola window. It gave on the first try and again, Serephina was amazed how lax house security was at this level.
The servants would be asleep, ready to start the day at the crack of dawn, if not before, working to organize the house while the master and his wife slept deeply.
She slipped down onto the second floor and guessed the ladyship's room. A large jewelry box sat on the dressing table and she opened it. Only the lights of the coal in the grate guided her, but she found the necklace and slipped it into her pocket. It was heavy, weighing down her clothes.
As easily as she'd entered, she slipped out of the very small window, replacing its closed position when she heard movement down on the street, and what might have been whispering. Silently, she made her way to the ledge and peered over, receiving a shock when she saw the runner down on the streets below, giving an order to two uniformed policemen.
They were here. Alarm flashed through her mind. He had been waiting for her. Shifting back quickly so she was out of sight, she tried to calm herself. He'd been there and she'd been none the wiser. Softly, she padded over to the other side and spotted another uniformed policeman at the back of the house.
They didn't know she was there—hadn't expected her to enter through the roof. But the call could come at any moment—she had to leave. Hunching down low, she crawled across to the next building, trying not to be spotted. Her heart still beat wildly and as she got further away, she moved a bit faster, feeling an urgent need to get as far away from the house as possible. Slipping on a loose tile, she crouched down to keep her balance, then dove for the tile that was sliding down the roof, making its way to the ledge where it would alert the runner that something was amiss. Securing the tile, she continued, reaching the end of the row and had nowhere else to go but down. This was where she'd come up, but it seemed exposed now. A policeman could just walk around the corner and catch her.
Hastily climbing down the drain pipe, she made her way down to a wall that led to the mews at the back of the houses. Normally she would make her way along the wall, but tonight there was a chance she could be observed, particularly if they were specifically looking for her. Jumping down to the street, she set off at a sprint as fast as she could go, flying over the cobbled streets in the opposite direction from where she'd seen the runner.
She didn't stop running until she reached her own street, when she had to get hold of her panic and take steps to ensure she wasn't being followed. It would be beyond stupid to carelessly lead them to her house, so she climbed up on a wall and claimed a perch in the shadows to observe the street. The street was quiet, except for a coal merchant moving a cart through.
With a shattering exhalation, she knew she had been incredibly lucky. Her heart had still not calmed and it beat painfully in her chest. Not only had she gotten away, but she had retrieved her prize right under his nose. She couldn't help being a little bit proud of the achievement, although she wasn't sure she would have been able to go through with it if she had known he was there.
How had he known she was there? For some reason, he had known she was coming. The cold of the night seeped into her wet clothes and now that she'd stopped moving, she was losing heat quickly.
Getting down, she returned to the house, using the servant's entrance in the back. Cook was well asleep, as was Mary, so there wasn't any risk of awkward encounters.
Slipping up the stairs and into her room, she quickly discarded her sodden clothes and pulled on the dry nightshift that had been war
ming in front of the fire. Its warmth stung her cold skin.
Kneeling down on the floor in front of the coals, she took the necklace out of its pocket, placing it in front of her. It was stunningly beautiful—large emeralds encased in gold. Looking at it now, it was obvious it would have been something that would catch her eye. It had probably caught his eye too and he had correctly concluded that she would be attracted to this necklace more than anything else worn that night. Anyone looking for the most expensive and audacious jewel that night would have picked this piece.
She had been predictable and she had put herself at risk for it. She had led him straight to her. The idea of it still sent a rush of fear through her body, making her shiver.
He would chase the most obvious jewel, which meant she could not. She had to go for smaller pieces, which also meant she had risk more such evenings. Crouching down further, she put her forehead down on the floor and sighed.
She had to stay one step ahead in this cat and mouse game, or things would go very badly for her. It was only a short time longer. Serephina was sure that Millie would have a proposal by the end of the Season, at least she hoped so. She wasn’t sure she could do this for another year.
Chapter 8:
* * *
Dragging his fingers down his stubble, Rowan considered the small, round cupola window—the only window now unlocked in the house. With rage had he discovered that the thief had snuck past him, struck and left, and he'd been none the wiser. It was mortifyingly embarrassing and it only made him swear yet again that he would catch this thief.
Finding this window meant that the thief was using the roof to gain entry into the house, which only added a new level of skill and risk. Common thieves broke windows and barged through the house like a bull. It should have been obvious, but with this case, little seemed to be.
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