Lady Lightfingers (3 page)

‘If it was accepted by a proper publisher and displayed in a bookseller's window, I'd expect more than one person to buy it.'

‘Ten perhaps?'

‘Easily . . . more . . . one hundred copies perhaps.'

Her eyes widened. ‘That many; would you buy a copy?'

He smiled at her. ‘If it was well written, most certainly I would. Such enterprise would need rewarding.'

‘Then I'll write a book, and it will be a good one. I'll write down my life story.'

‘An autobiography?'

‘Yes, an autobiography.'

He gave her a faint, and rather superior smile. ‘You're rather young to have accumulated enough adventures with which to write an autobiography. Do you know what it is?'

She shrugged as she threw at him, ‘Of course. My mother made me read all the words in the dictionary. I learned their meaning and how to spell them. She promised to buy me
Robinson Crusoe
when I'd learned them all. I thought she'd forgotten, because she didn't keep her promise; but it must have been because she couldn't afford it. She used to be a teacher before she met my pa, you know. He turned out to be a trickster of ill repute. She's frightened that I'll take after him.'

His smile was one of amused indulgence. ‘And will you?'

She laughed at his question and shrugged. If only he knew!

‘You've evaded my question, and now you tell me you can read all the words in the dictionary?'

‘No, I didn't evade it, and yes, I do know what an autobiography is. It's an account of someone's life as written by the subject herself . . . or himself, whichever the case may be.'

‘My goodness, you've been educated in letters with a vengeance. Like a little parrot you repeat back the words you've been fed.'

Her hands went to her hips. ‘There's no need to mock me.'

‘Indeed, I'm not mocking you. I'm lost in admiration that one so young could display such a retentive mind. The dictionary, no less?'

There were little red dents at each side of his nose where his spectacles pinched. ‘It's the only book we have at home.'

‘Samuel Johnson's edition one would hope. Your mother has indeed been industrious on your behalf. Tell me, what are you going to do with all those words now you have them at your disposal?'

‘I'm going to write an autobiography.'

‘Ah yes, my dear,' and his pencil flew over the page. ‘I believe we've already established that. Because it's fact, you must be careful what you put in it, since it could land you in trouble, especially if you'd done something wrong, or blackened somebody else's name.'

‘Like stealing, you mean?'

He nodded. ‘I'm not suggesting that you would have, of course. You look like an honest and open person to me.'

Guilt prodded at her conscience. ‘Perhaps I'll write about the people who live in the district. I can make up poetry and stories about them instead. All I will need is a book like the one you use. Then if I sell it I can keep all the money and will write another one.'

Finished with his task he snapped his notebook shut and pulled a fresh notebook from a satchel he carried. ‘Are you sure you can write? If you can I'll give you this to start off with.'

‘Test me. Ask me a word . . . any word,' she said, unaware that her eyes were as fierce as a bird of prey on the prize.

‘Frequently,' he came back with.

‘Something that happens often.' She spelled it for him.

‘Can you spell the word
enough
?'

She did.

‘
Through
. . .?'

She gave him a bit of a smile. ‘Easy. I can also spell
though
,
tough
. . .
thought
and
cough
.' Her fingers closed around the offered notebook and she prayed it wouldn't be withdrawn. ‘Thank you, Mr Hambert. My first book of fictional stories and poetry will be for you at the cost of four shillings.'

The smile he gave was loaded with amusement. ‘But I paid for the notebook in the first place.'

‘But you didn't pay for the future content. You may deduct the cost when the time comes.'

‘I'm impressed by your business acumen, young lady. In fact, I'm impressed by you altogether.' He raised a peppery eyebrow and gazed at her through eyes so astute that they seemed to skewer her to the spot. ‘Don't forget to keep a copy of your work, and state that it's yours on the title page.' He chuckled. ‘I might steal it and pretend it's mine, otherwise.'

The watch in her pocket began to chime. Damn! She'd forgotten about the timepiece she'd lifted from him the last time they'd met. She'd meant to slip it back into his pocket.

Her heart began to thump erratically as he gave her a puzzled look. His fingers automatically slid into his waistcoat and felt about, then he patted his jacket pockets and mumbled, ‘I thought I'd lost it. It must have slipped into the lining somewhere.'

‘I won't forget to keep a copy; thank you so much,' she said with enough faked graciousness to disguise her mounting panic. While he was distracted Celia edged away to merge with the jostling crowds. She had no choice, because once he realized she had stolen his watch he'd have her arrested and charged with stealing it. She liked Thomas Hambert and had enjoyed their interesting conversation.

But she hoped to talk to him again. First, she'd make sure he got his watch back. After that she wouldn't steal anything but money, until she made her fortune writing enough fictional stories to amaze and delight people. She might even write a play for Mr Wentworth. She had lots of stories inside her head, mostly about the people who lived in the slums. Once she was rich she'd stop stealing altogether, she promised herself.

Thomas Hambert lived in Bedford Square. The three-storey house at the corner of the row was made of dark brick and six oblong windows supported curved recesses. Two attic windows peered from the roof. The double doors were set to one side with a decorative portico, and there was a bridge of steps over the basement area. Over the past week Celia had observed several entrances to the square, through Bayley, Caroline and Charlotte Streets, should she need to make a quick escape.

Her gentleman had one housekeeper, a skinny streak of a woman who looked as though a puff of wind would carry her off. She came in daily and left about four o'clock, just as winter began to cape them in the gruel of twilight. Thomas Hambert usually arrived home about an hour later, after eating a pie and having a pint of ale in a public house.

Celia chose a day when the fog closed in early, muffling the street sound. She knocked first, in case the woman hadn't left. She had. The key fitted in the lock and turned smoothly, giving a well-oiled clunk. She found herself standing in a hallway with a flight of steps to her left.

She had never entered a stranger's house without permission before. It felt strange as though something hovered, watching her every move and breathing tension into her ear. She wondered if it were her own conscience. The house smelled of beeswax mixed with stale tobacco smoke, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was a warm house, not at all like her cold cellar, which lacked a good fire to toast them. The faint smell of stew made her stomach rattle.

A creak came from upstairs and she held her breath, expelling it when a plump tabby cat came racing down to weave around her ankles. When she tickled its chin its purring rattle ceased. It stalked off towards the back of the house, tail up, stopping only to offer her a disapproving look over its shoulder before it disappeared through an open door, as if to say it'd thought she was someone else and the friendly gesture it'd initially offered her was a mistake.

Somewhere, a clock gave a quiet tick, reminding her of why she was here. The empty spaces of the house pressed against her ears as she opened the door to the nearest room.

Where should she leave the watch? When Thomas Hambert found it she wanted him to think it had been there all the time. She found herself in a comfortable drawing room with blue, winged chairs and a chaise longue. The room had a chill to it, as though the fire wasn't often lit. Over the fireplace there was a picture of a woman, unsmiling and stern. Her brown eyes seemed to follow Celia around the room.

‘It's all right, missus, I won't steal anything, I promise,' she whispered.

The next room made her gasp. Here, the fire was ready to light in the grate. Here, were two leather chairs either side of the mantelpiece, an occasional table and a sideboard with a decanter of brandy and glasses on a silver tray. Here, there was a whole wall of books, brown, green and red with gold lettering, and of all different sizes. Envy grew in her. He had books – so many that if she took one he wouldn't even miss it.

On the small, highly polished table there was a statue of a bronze goddess with a bow and arrow in one hand, while the other rested on the head of a dog pressed against her leg. She hung the watch around the woman's neck. Thomas Hambert was bound to see it sooner or later, since the chime would alert him.

Her hand slid along the books, and she smiled when she saw a copy of
Robinson Crusoe
by Daniel Defoe. She pulled it out, opened it and read aloud, ‘
I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family
. . .'

Her mother had been born of a good family too. Celia was about to curl up in the chair and read more when she heard the key slide into the lock at the front door. Startled, she threw the book on to the chair, hurried out of the room and bounded up the stairs.

She should have realized that the fog would have driven Mr Hambert home early. She watched from the landing as he took off his greatcoat and made a fuss of the cat, which had come running to greet him.

‘What have you been up to today, Frederick? Not annoying Mrs Packer, I hope.'

Frederick gave a bit of a trill.

‘Ah, you need some milk, do you? Then we'd better go down to the kitchen,' he said. The cat meowed in agreement, as though the pair of them were having a proper conversation. Celia smiled as they headed away out of sight, Mr Hambert chatting to the cat and the cat looking up at him and talking back. She was lucky that cats didn't really speak, else Frederick might be telling him there was a stranger lurking in the house.

Seizing her chance, she ran lightly down the stairs to the front door. She fumbled with the catch. Footsteps came from the back of the house and she just managed to open it and slip through the crack in time. Pulling the door behind her with some force she leaped on to the pavement and began to run.

Just as she turned the corner she collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. He was almost into middle age, but not quite, for the light-brown hair that winged from under his hat contained no grey. Still, he was handsome. He grabbed her arm, steadying her. Grey eyes stared into hers. ‘What the devil are you in such a rush about? You nearly bowled me over. What are you doing here in Bedford Square, anyway . . . begging?'

She nodded. It was easier to let him draw his own conclusion, and she used her usual excuse. ‘My mother is sick, sir, and she needs some medicine.'

‘Then she must have it.' To her surprise he put his hand in his pocket and brought out a shilling, handing it to her.

It might be worth going door-to-door with a sorry tale in this area, she mused. She could take Lottie with her. A young child in hand always softened the women. Although she was taken aback, she didn't forget her manners. ‘Thank you, sir, that's generous of you. I'm sorry I bumped into you. I must get mama's medicine and find my way home before the fog gets any thicker.'

‘Off you go then, girl.'

‘You still have my arm,' she pointed out.

‘So I have.'

She was gone in the instant when he released her, springing away from him in case Thomas Hambert took it into his head to come out of his house to raise the alarm. The man looked fit, and he would easily catch her before she was swallowed by fog.

It didn't take long to get home despite the drifting fog, though she lost her bearings on a couple of occasions.

Her mother was sewing to the light of a solitary candle. ‘Where have you been for all this time, Celia? I've been worried sick about you.'

‘I took the watch back.'

‘What did the owner say? Did he give you a reward?'

Celia remembered the shilling the young man had given her and handed it to her mother. ‘His housekeeper gave me a shilling.'

‘Well, I hope the constables don't come knocking at the door looking for you.'

‘Don't worry, Ma. The woman didn't ask where I lived and I didn't tell her.'

‘You should inform the police,' James Kent said to his uncle.

‘For what reason? Nothing is missing.'

‘How did they get in? You said all the windows and doors were shut when you got home. Either they picked the lock, or they had a key.'

Thomas gave his nephew a sheepish grin. ‘I've just remembered that there was a spare key on my watch chain, in case I forgot to take my usual door key.'

‘Then you must have the locks changed tomorrow.'

‘I'm sure I heard the watch chime amongst my clothing a few days ago, but when I looked I couldn't find it. I thought that it might have got caught in the lining of my coat. Let me have a good look through the house again tomorrow.'

‘But you said you caught a glimpse of someone closing the door behind them.'

Thomas shrugged. ‘I could have been mistaken. I was home early and perhaps it was Mrs Packer I saw, or I might have left the door open when I came in and it simply banged shut. Then again, it might have been a swirl of fog . . . or . . . or a
ghost
.'