The Thief Taker by Janet Gleeson Page B

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.
    â€œJohn,” 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.
    â€œI 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?
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œI gather there was an argument yesterday between Rose and Nancy.”
    John’s mouth tensed. “I witnessed it and cooled them down.”
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œSomething about a letter Nancy had taken that belonged to Rose.”
    â€œFrom 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.”
    â€œDid 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?”
    Â 
    A T THE UPPER SERVANTS’ TEA in Mrs. Tooley’s parlor an hour later, Agnes did not let the subject of Rose Francis rest.