The Thief Taker Read Online Free Page B

footsteps a short distance behind her. Leather soles on cobbled streets, following the same route she had taken.
    She hesitated, clutching her valise and lantern, uncertain whether to turn and look or pretend she had heard nothing and proceed. Perhaps by some misfortune it was the watchman, whom she had hoped to avoid. The bells of St. Paul’s had recently chimed three. On this bitter night, at such an hour, she had expected to find the streets deserted. And she was quite alone, apart from the person behind her.
    Rose peered over her shoulder, holding her lamp aloft. As if to help, just then the clouds cleared and silver moonlight fell across the street. Some twenty yards behind, near the great cathedral, she thought she glimpsed a shape. She was unsure whether it was a man or a woman, but the figure seemed to be of large to middling build, and dressed in a cloak that flapped about like hers. It was not the watchman—the figure carried no lamp or torch. Just at that moment, another cloud scudded over the moon and the figure melted into the dark.
    Rose was, as a rule, immune from fears and fancy. She was headed to a rendezvous in Southwark, and, being conscious of the perils of London streets at night, she had armed herself before setting out. In her right pocket, tucked next to her purse, was a small pocket pistol with a silver-mounted handle.
    When she stowed the weapon in her pocket, she was emboldened by her nerve, but now, she had a presentiment of danger that the pistol did nothing to dispel. Who was it? Please God let it not be one of the other servants from the house come chasing after her to bring her back. Surely that was not possible. When she had risen, the two other maids who shared her attic room had been sleeping peacefully. She had crept down the passage and back stairs, avoiding the basement corridor where the other servants slept. No one was up. No one could have observed her. No one knew her plan. Several hours would pass before any of them rose and began to question where she was.
    What would happen then? Mrs. Tooley might be summoned from her bed, work herself into a state, and have to retire again. At the thought of the housekeeper sniffing her salts and flapping about, Rose couldn’t help smiling. Then a vision of Agnes flitted into her mind. She imagined the cook stirring her sauce or mixing her fricassee, growing flushed with the heat from the fire. Agnes had always maintained her distance, requiring only that Rose perform her duties satisfactorily. But when Rose had been negligent, Agnes had hardly ever chastised her, and once or twice she had asked herself why this was, and grew remorseful. More often, she misbehaved expressly to provoke Agnes. When she never properly succeeded, it had spurred her to worse behavior. She had recounted her misdeeds afterward; Philip and John disapproved, while delighting in the accounts; Doris droned that one of these days she would lose her post. All of them were too dull-witted to see why she took such risks and was so careless of Agnes’s and Mrs. Tooley’s good opinion—she was leaving.
    The footsteps distracted her. Was it her imagination, or were the steps getting closer? Rose increased her pace, gripping the handle of her bag and her lantern, so that the leather bit into her palm and the light wavered about. A few yards on, her anxiety mounting, an idea came to her. She could make a detour and head for the river. At any hour there were certain to be people about, and whatever her stalker’s intentions, he could pose no further threat.
    Invigorated with new purpose, she turned down Distaff Lane, a thoroughfare of overhanging clapboard houses, all the while gathering speed, and soon she was practically running. After several minutes, lungs aching, she stopped and listened. There was no sound. She believed, in that instant, that her scheme had worked, but then she heard the footsteps again, closer than ever.
    Rose Francis transferred her