Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  Serephina accepted the broth into her bowl and the piece of bread that went with it, crouched along the wall with Doreen and Rachel.

  "One of the soldiers was saying we will be pushed into domestic service," Rachel said.

  "Really?" Doreen said. "I wouldn't mind that."

  "It would be awful," Rachel countered, "having to run after someone all day long, having to live like a ghost to be neither seen or heard, or unable to hold your own thoughts."

  Serephina thought of Mary, wondering if Mary had ever felt that way. Serephina had always thought of herself as a good and kind employer. She'd never told Mary to not have opinion, but thinking back, it was expected that she didn't have any.

  "Although you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Rachel said to Serephina.

  "I know what's involved."

  "Could you teach me?" Doreen said, and Rachel snorted. "Beats sitting in prison. Or worse, working the fields until your hands are bleedin’ and you face blisters. At least in a fine house, you get a decent meal."

  "That is true. They eat whatever the master is eating most of the time," Serephina said.

  "But you're expected to live like a saint, read the bible every night and go nowhere but church. That isn't a life. I would be a whore over that any day. At least you have control of your own life."

  Even Serephina had to admit it sounded like a dull life, but it might be her future, and she would tolerate it if she had to. Although she would probably rather die than avail her body to men to survive.

  "I can't stand this heat," Rachel said, fanning herself with a scrap of paper. "I hope Australia isn't like this."

  The heat was cloying and most of the women had stripped down to their shifts, which also made teasing the disapproving guardians easier through rude gestures and insinuations. Teasing them really was the most fun the women had.

  The days all blended together with little change from day to day. All they could do was talk amongst themselves about their hopes, dreams and loves. But today the women were in a good mood and one of them was singing a shanty so colorful, Serephina's cheeks burned bright red.

  "Oh, my lord, look at you blushing," Rachel said, grinning. "Don't tell me you've never had a man slip under your skirts."

  Serephina shook her head. "You know well enough I haven't."

  "Yes, well, you wouldn't be blushing quite that red if you hadn't been thinking about it," Rachel teased, and Serephina felt herself blushing even brighter. "What's his name?" Serephina shook her head again, but couldn't stop herself from smiling. "Some fancy lord perhaps?"

  "A policeman," Serephina finally admitted.

  "You're blushing and you didn't even let him touch you."

  "He searched me very thoroughly."

  "Oh, you are a dolt," Rachel said, rolling her eyes. "We're going to have to keep an eye on you. Likely you'd believe anything that spills out of their mouths, you twit."

  Doreen came rushing over. "They've seen land," she said in a rush of excitement. "Australia, they see it. Maybe we can see it from the porthole."

  "Unfortunately we are on the other side," Serephina said.

  "Do you think we'll be there soon?"

  "I think it will take some time yet," Serephina said. "Australia is vast."

  The heat didn't let and the inside of the ship grew stifling at midday. Serephina often found herself sitting with her shift drawn up to her thighs. Even she was now unconcerned with a soldier walking in a seeing her in that state. It was just so hot and in the sea of near naked bodies, she was just one of many. As she stayed away from the soldiers, they paid her little heed.

  These last days were just dragging on—much worse now that the end was in sight. Then there was yelling up top, orders shouted and changing of sails. This was different from the typical tack they did when the wind was against them, they were preparing.

  "I think we're here," Serephina said, feeling Doreen instantly tense.

  It must have been around midday and Serephina hated the idea of dressing, but she would have to before long. Dragging the dress on, sweat dampened the material and in stuck to her body. She combed her hair and collected all her things into her pillow case. She was about to see Australia for the first time—see her new home. She was also going to see the sun for the first time in what she guessed was four months. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent.

  The women had all grown quiet in anticipation and there were cries as the ship seemed to encounter something, giving them all a sharp jerk.

  A soldier came, the one in charge, and opened the barred door. "Ladies," he said. "We have arrived. Behave yourselves. If you behave, we will not chain you—if you don't, you will suffer the consequences. Don't even think of running, there is absolutely nowhere to go."

  They all had to queue up and wait, and finally the soldiers stepped aside and they were urged out. "Orderly now. You're not a bunch of savages."

  Serephina could hear singing as she slowly stepped toward the door, not really believing she had finally arrived. For a while, she'd felt that the ship and their hold in it was the only thing she'd ever know again.

  The sun stung her eyes and she had to cover them to see where she was going. When she finally could, she could see a bay, a busy port full of other vessels and warehouses. There were people all around as they were being led off, women to the left, dressed in black, singing about salvation.

  "Repent your ways," one of them shouted, a Bible clutched to her breast. "God has given you a second chance." Others were shouting similar things. Then there were men standing by, looking at them like they were livestock. Serephina didn't know where to turn or what they wanted; she was just overwhelmed. The sun was harsh and she felt faint. A man in brown leather clothes touched her arm and she cringed away. A soldier urged him away and Serephina was grateful, holding tightly onto Doreen's hand.

  As much as she wanted to escape, they were seemingly stuck in the chaos of the docks, with the women shouting at them to take care of their eternal souls, and the men ogling them, more concerned about their carnal offerings.

  "What do they want?" she asked Rachel, who shrugged.

  "They're looking for wives," one of the other women said.

  Serephina felt her stomach turn with revulsion. Surely they couldn't just come to the docks and pick someone for a wife. That was madness. She felt like fighting for it all to stop, feeling faint. In the end, she just had to close her eyes and hang onto Rachel and Doreen. Finally they started moving again, their group split up into smaller boats where they were crowded into thin benches. Sailors were smiling at them, but none of them seemed to be in the mood to match their cheeriness. Again, Serephina felt one of them ogling her.

  "Where are they taking us?" Doreen asked, the fear in her voice evident. Serephina couldn't answer so she just squeezed her hand harder.

  "At least we're away from those temperance witches," Rachel said tartly.

  Serephina turned her gaze out to the water and watched the scenery. It was quite peaceful now that they'd pulled away from the port, and she could watch the buildings glide by. There were some very nice ones. Sydney wasn't quite as rudimentary as she'd feared. There seemed to be a proper city here, not that she would be an illustrious member of it, but maybe she would serve in one of those houses. She felt a tiny bit of hope unfurl in her chest.

  After hours of sailing, they reached a river, traveling so far up it, Serephina wasn't sure it would end. The vegetation was thick, occasionally interspersed by a water wheel and some kind of factory, or agricultural fields. There were very few people, and the noise of animals and birds grew disturbingly loud. It was almost what she imagined a jungle would sound like.

  It grew dark and the sailors lit lamps to lead their way as they silently moved up the river. No one spoke, seemingly too nervous to chatter.

  And then they came to a small jetty sticking out of the dark river bank, where they were ordered off. There were two men and three women waiting for them. One of the other b
oats was already tied up, empty of all its passenger.

  "This way," one of the women said, holding up a glass-encased lamp. There were some lights shining through the trees quite far away and they were urged down a thin path along the river.

  Serephina clutched her pillow case to her and followed, hearing the noise of the river to her left. It was like they were led into the deepest darkest jungle. Something swooshed ahead of them.

  "What was that?" someone called, panicked with fear.

  "Just a bat," the woman leading them said. "Keep moving."

  "That wasn't a bat—that was as big as a dog."

  "The bats are larger here."

  It had been incredibly large and Serephina turned her eyes toward the dark jungle, wondering whatever else was out there, refusing to let herself fall behind as their party moved along the trail.

  A large, black building loomed head of them and they were brought in and taken up a set of stairs to a room with benches. A woman was sitting at the desk, shuffling a file of papers and writing in a book. They were called up, one by one and asked their names. She said nothing else, but after, they were taken to a room filled with hammocks. This was where they would live, she realized. It had nothing but hammocks hanging between two beams and one candle lighting the whole room, but she was beyond caring, exhausted from worry and fear. Right now a hammock seemed like pure bliss, even if tomorrow proved to be anything but.

  Chapter 29:

  * * *

  Leaning back in his chair, Rowan ran a knuckle along his bottom lip. The little stars on the side of Mr. Allerson's customs ledger still bothered him. Mr. Allerson had marked them as special for some reason, and right now Rowan was interested in anything seen as extraordinary. The new associate had been a dead end, so these little stars were the only thing he had to chase.

  Heading out into the street, he made his way to the docks, intent on asking questions. Customs house had moved on like Mr. Allerson had never existed, and having an inspector asking questions was just bothersome now, but Rowan didn't care. More than ever, he was determined to have his way as law and order was the only thing that made sense to him at the moment.

  He considered taking the omnibus, but he felt in less of a hurry than he probably should be, needing to move and burn tension. Maybe he had just been avoiding the docks, attaching painful memories to the sights and sounds. It had been months since she'd sailed and she would just about be there by now. Hopefully she was still living.

  Stopping at a costermonger stall, he bought a bowl of pea soup, letting the thick soup fill him. Summer was here and the whole city stunk, more so down by the river. A man offered him matches, holding up a battered tin cup with bundles. He was missing a leg and Rowan suspected he was a veteran from the war. He didn't need any matches but bought some, giving the man a tuppence extra, receiving back a smile showing grimy and missing teeth, thanking him before hobbling along on a worn crutch.

  He passed flowers and boxes of summer berries, getting a vision of her in a field surrounded by both in warm sunshine and fresh air. It needled him that she would suffer wherever she was, but judging from how she'd been at Newgate, she was remarkably strong, or just daft.

  Dismissing the thoughts, he continued, dodging hansoms and carts, until the neighborhood grew rougher and the costermongers shabbier. The Customs building was large and Rowan sought out the supervisor, spotting Mr. Allerson's replacement sitting in his spot—a young, bespectacled man who probably had no idea that his job could well have been fatal for his predecessor.

  "Mr. Cox," the supervisor said with tempered annoyance. "How fare your enquiries?"

  "There are some markings in the margins of the ledger and I want to know what they are."

  "Clerks make markings for all sorts of reasons," the supervisions said with exasperation. "How am I possibly to suppose what they meant?"

  "Mr. Allerson didn't normally make markings."

  The supervisor scratched his eyebrow and shrugged. "I still don't know what they mean."

  "It must indicate that he thought there was something amiss with those entries," Rowan pressed. "How can they be audited?"

  "I have enquired with the auditors and it was not a ship they reviewed. There is no way we could know. We trust our shippers unless they give us reason not to." The shippers pertaining to these entries export goods out of Argentine, bringing predominantly salted-meat to England. The supervisor's mouth grew tight. "Perhaps the company offloading the ship have some records. Let me check."

  The man disappeared and Rowan waited until he came back. "Felling and Sons," he said. "They offloaded the ship."

  Leaving the customs house, Rowan knew in his gut that he was onto something. He had to ask around to find the premises of the company, who would be one of the firms hiring men for daily labor, paying next to nothing, but desperate men would do anything to feed their families.

  Their premises were dirty, up a narrow set of stairs lit by a grimy window overlooking the river. "Mr. Cox to see the proprietor," he announced to a middle-aged clerk dressed in black behind a desk.

  He was asked to wait until he was led into a back office, stacked with paper along every wall. "How can I help you, Mr. Cox?" a portly man said from behind his desk, his waistcoat stretched to breaking.

  "Metropolitan Police," Rowan stated. "And I want to know about a ship you unloaded six months ago."

  "I couldn't possibly remember. We do at least fifty ships a day."

  "I need you to go through your records."

  The man glared at him with disbelief and Rowan could feel his dislike and dismay. Judging from the jumble of materials everywhere, it would be a difficult task. Grabbing a note, the man picked up his stylus. "Name?"

  "Cox."

  "I mean the ship."

  "Arabelle."

  The man started sorting through a pile of papers on his desk. "I remember," he said. "I got some correspondence … What was his name?"

  "Allerson?"

  "That's the one," he said more brightly. "But I can't find it. We had a break-in a while ago and I haven't been able to find anything since."

  "In what regard?" Rowan pressed, feeling excitement creep up his spine. His instincts told him he was on the right path and the break-in seemed suspiciously timed as well. Probably the letter from Mr. Allerson, and likely any evidence on their accounts was missing as a consequence, Rowan would guess.

  "Usual thing. Not declaring."

  "And was that true in this case?"

  "As I recall, we spent more time unloading that ship than the stated customs declaration implied."

  "What is the penalty for understating a declaration?"

  "Obviously, you would be cheating Her Majesty out of her due. She takes that as quite an insult," the man said, peering over his glasses. "Vengeful minx, she is. There is a substantial fine, of course, but the most detrimental outcome would be to get barred from London ports. That, my friend, would be disastrous to some."

  Rowan considered the man. A fine would not be enough to kill for, but being barred would, particularly to a company dependent on trade with London. He had his motive—money, pure and simple. Most often it was. "I need you to find that communication and also the records related to the unloading of the Arabelle." Although he suspected it would be a fruitless request.

  Sitting in the fine office of Mr. Sunders, Rowan stared at the man dressed by the finest tailors on London. The large office was covered in cherry wood and oriental carpets, displaying exotic adornments. There was even a stuffed lion in the corner. "I will, of course, look into this serious matter, Mr. Cox," the man promised, but Rowan could see that his act of surprise and disgust was just that—an act. This man knew exactly what had happened, and he had paid some pond-dweller, or even a mercenary to take care of the problem. "Our accounts are open for the Metropolitan Police to review any time you should wish." He smiled congenially.

  Rowan left without saying goodbye, knowing he'd found his instigator, but without finding th
e actual perpetrator to the crime, he wouldn't be unable to reach Mr. Sunder and whoever he represented, unless the man confessed—although he wasn't the kind to be troubled by a conscience.

  Pacing around his office, Rowan thought of ways he could get to the man. The mercenary or whoever had dispatched poor Mr. Allerson was likely long gone or hidden amongst the throng at the docks. There were more than a few who would be willing to conduct such work if the coin was right, probably many for a whole lot less.

  Rowan requested an audience with Lord Stansom and was granted one that afternoon, at which time he ran through his findings.

  Lord Stansom stood by a window, considering what Rowan was telling him. "I suspect you are right," he said. "I will send a request to the customs auditors to have a look at this company, but they have likely covered their tracks well. They'll find nothing. The man you spoke to represents a group of investors. Whether it extends further than this man, we don't know."

  "We could question the company's staff."

  "Mr. Sunders is unlikely to leave himself exposed. You'd be wasting your time. The only thing we can do is to put pressure on this man; let him know we're watching him. Close the case and move on to something else. This one will never resolve."

  Rowan's lips tightened with displeasure. This man was going to get away with murder, unless Rowan found the man who had actually done the deed, who could identify his employer. Lord Stansom was right, it was pointless, but he couldn't quite cut and run as easily as Lord Stansom. Getting up, Rowan felt his skin crawl, hating having to abandon the case, particularly as they knew the party responsible.

  "You've done a good job," Lord Stansom said as Rowan reached the door. "You identified the culprit, but our powers unfortunately don't stretch to those as protected as he is, I'm afraid."