8. The Little Thief
Eight
The Little Thief
T he first pale light of dawn was barely creeping through the heavy curtains of Mr. Moore’s bedchamber when he stood before his mirror, making the final, delicate adjustments to his appearance.
Each fold of his cravat, each brush stroke through his hair, each careful application of powder; all were performed as part of an old ritual that had been perfected over the years.
The transformation was complete and flawless; not a trace of Gina remained visible in the immaculately dressed gentleman who stared back from the silvered glass.
The reflection showed Jason Moore in all his morning perfection, the epitome of a successful gentleman of commerce, from his knotted cravat to his gleaming boots.
A soft knock interrupted his contemplation. Mary entered, carrying a freshly pressed coat of deep blue wool.
“It’s still so early, sir,” she said.
“I thought it best, given our guest,” Mr. Moore replied, extending his arms so Mary could help him into the garment.
Mary’s hands smoothed the coat’s shoulders, adjusting the fall of the fabric.
“Any signs of the boy stirring?” Mr. Moore asked.
“Not yet. After his journey, I imagine he needs the rest.” Mary stepped back to assess her work, then moved forward to make a minute adjustment to his collar. “Poor child looked half-dead from exhaustion when you brought him in.”
Mr. Moore gave himself one final inspection in the mirror, turning slightly to check the hang of his coat, the alignment of his cufflinks—small details that, to the casual observer, might seem like mere vanity but which he knew were essential to maintaining his false identity.
The coat, thank heaven, draped just enough to blur what curves it needed to.
Hiding Gina’s best attributes at the back had always been a difficult task.
He smiled. “Perfect as always, Mary. Thank you.”
Mary’s reflection smiled back at the compliment. “Let me arrange breakfast before our guest awakes. The poor boy will likely be ravenous.”
The dining room was also modest but still elegant.
The walls were lined with watercolor landscapes, nothing too grand or expensive, but tasteful enough to suggest a gentleman of refined sensibilities and comfortable means.
Mary had already set the table with crisp white linens and the second-best china, the delicate blue and white pattern speaking of quality without ostentation.
She placed a plate of boiled eggs and buttered toast before Mr. Moore as he entered, a pot of tea already steaming on the table, the domestic ritual as familiar and comforting as breathing.
“Your breakfast, sir.”
Mr. Moore settled into his customary chair at the head of the table, unfolding his napkin with ingrained habit.
“Anything on young Vikram just yet?” he asked, cutting into his eggs.
“Not a sound, actually,” Mary replied, pouring tea from the silver pot. “Though I confess I’ve been listening. The house seems so quiet with him here—you’d think a child would make more noise.”
Mr. Moore paused in his buttering of toast, a slight frown creasing his brow. “What time is it now?”
“Nearly past eight, sir.”
The frown deepened. “Rather late for a boy who’s lived on ship schedules. Sailors rise with the dawn, and stowaways would need to be even more vigilant about their movements.”
He took a few bites, chewing thoughtfully as he considered this. Something about the absolute silence from upstairs struck him as unusual. Even a sleeping child typically made some sound. But there had been nothing.
Setting down his fork with a gentle clink against the china, he looked up at Mary. “Perhaps I should check on him. He might be too timid to come down on his own.”
Mary nodded, her expression suggested she was thinking along similar lines. “Maybe he’s following your rules to the letter—you did tell him to remain in his room until morning.”
“That’s probably the case,” Mr. Moore agreed.
The stairs creaked softly under Mr. Moore’s feet as he ascended. The house had that particular quality of morning silence that spoke of a dwelling not yet fully awakened, peaceful, but somehow expectant.
He approached the guest room door and knocked gently, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet hallway.
“Vikram? Are you awake?”
Silence answered him, not the silence of sleep precisely. He waited a moment, listening for any sound of stirring, then knocked again, harder this time.
“Vikram?”
Still nothing. A cold understanding began to settle in his stomach as Mr. Moore reached for the door handle, turning it slowly. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges to reveal a scene that was both exactly what he had feared and somehow worse for being expected.
The bed was empty, its covers thrown back in hasty abandonment. The window was closed and secured—he checked it immediately, but the latches were still firmly in place, eliminating any possibility of escape by that route. The room appeared neat except for the rumpled bedding in the middle.
But it was the very completeness of the boy’s disappearance that struck Mr. Moore most forcefully. Vikram had vanished as thoroughly as if he had never been there at all, leaving behind only the evidence of disturbed bedclothes and the lingering sense of opportunity lost.
“MARYYY!” Mr. Moore called out loudly.
What followed was a systematic search that both of them knew would prove fruitless even as they conducted it.
Mr. Moore checked the kitchen and pantry, looking behind sacks of flour and in the spaces where a small boy might conceivably hide.
Mary descended to the cellar, her candle offering light as she peered into every corner, every nook where someone might conceal themselves.
She emerged shaking her head, the gesture visible to Mr. Moore as he opened the front door and peered out onto the street.
The morning was fully established now, with early merchants beginning their rounds and the first stirrings of London’s daily commerce visible in the distance. But there was no sign of a young Indian boy among the figures beginning to populate the streets.
Mary searched the small back garden with the same thoroughness she had applied to the cellar, checking behind the garden shed and in the spaces between the tended flower beds. But the garden, like every other part of the house, yielded no trace of their vanished guest.
Mr. Moore’s study was a sanctuary of masculine comfort, its walls lined with books and its surfaces covered with the papers and correspondence that marked a successful businessman’s daily concerns.
He entered slowly, his eyes scanning the familiar space. At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed—his papers were still neatly stacked, his books still properly aligned on their shelves. But as his gaze fell on his desk, something made him pause.
He approached the mahogany surface slowly, his footsteps muffled by the Persian carpet beneath his feet.
The desk was exactly as he had left it the day before, except for one detail that only someone intimately familiar with the arrangement would notice: the top drawer was not quite fully closed, protruding perhaps a quarter-inch from its proper position.
Mr. Moore’s hand moved to the brass handle slowly, his expression already beginning to shift as understanding dawned.
He pulled the drawer open, and his suspicions were immediately confirmed.
The small velvet-lined compartment where he kept his most valuable personal items showed a telling gap where his silver pocket watch had once rested.
“Any sign of him?” Mary’s voice came from the doorway, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Mr. Moore continued to stare into the drawer, his expression unreadable. “He’s gone. And so is my silver pocket watch.”
The transformation in Mary’s demeanor was immediate and dramatic. Her earlier concern for the boy’s welfare evaporated, replaced by the righteous indignation of someone who felt her trust had been betrayed.
“That little thief! After all your kindness!” she strode to the window with quick, angry steps, pressing her face to the glass as if she might spot the culprit fleeing through the London streets. “I knew we couldn’t trust him. A street urchin is a street urchin, no matter how pitiful they appear.”
But as Mary’s anger filled the room like a gathering storm, Mr. Moore slowly closed the drawer, and something unexpected happened.
Instead of the fury Mary expected, a bemused smile began to spread across his features, not the bitter smile of someone who has been made a fool of, but something warmer and genuine.
“Do you know, Mary,” he said, with a note of amusement, “I believe that’s the first truly predictable thing the boy has done since I met him.”
Mary whirled around, her eyes flashing with disbelief. “You find this amusing? That watch was your father’s!”
The mention of his father caused Mr. Moore’s smile to deepen, though it took on a slightly sardonic edge.
“A gift from a man who would disown me if he knew who I truly am.” He paused, considering this truth with the detachment of someone who had long since made peace with such ironies.
“Besides, he left the gold cufflinks. Remarkably restrained for a desperate child.”
Mary’s hands moved to her hips, her stance conveying every ounce of her frustration. “I’ll notify the authorities at once. That boy needs to learn that stealing has consequences, especially when he’s bitten the hand that fed him.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Mr. Moore said firmly.
Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Mr. Moore continued, his voice softening. “He’s a boy alone in a strange country, Mary. The watch is a small price for his chance at freedom.”