Art trade one shot from my good old buddy sardine

Casing the house was proving miserable in this weather – the movements of the merchant’s family and their servants were obscured by driving rain. Sal ducked his head into the crook of his arm to wipe the water from his eyes, but no sooner had he done that than the rain soaked his face again. At least Ros only had one eye to be lashed at by the storm. Even under this rhododendron bush, their clothes clung wetly to them.

“Looks like the butler’s wankered about this time daily, then.”

“Aye, seems so,” Sal said. Aye felt foreign on his tongue, but Ros said it, and so the word had wormed its way into Sal’s vocabulary. Wankered was a new one, though. A new variant on pissed to file away. “About 8:21:03. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He ignored the side-on look from Ros, and carried on squinting against the rain. An earthworm wriggled around by his knee. He picked it up between two gloved fingers, and threw it a little distance away. It landed with an unceremonial thwap beside Ros, and Sal snickered at that. The poor worm hit Sal square on the cheek while he was sniggering, sliding down into his moustache. He half-managed to hide a yelp, brushing it from his face and back down into the soil. 

“This is bad enough with the rain – don’t you go chucking worms around, now,” Ros said, all but shaking a finger. The smugness of a thorough finger-shaking still lingered in the air around him. “Bet you wouldn’t even know where to start with this place, you’ve barely been payin’ any attention. Too busy chuckin’ worms around.”

Sal’s pride rankled. “Bet you I do! Bet you I can get in!”

A laugh from Ros. “Well get goin’, then. Bet you don’t have the nerve, lad.”

Sitting on his haunches, Sal wiped the dirt from his knees and leaned forwards. In his mind’s eye, he was a tiger waiting to go in for the kill. Or, you know, a thief about to go in and steal some pretty, shiny things. Jewels seen glittering at the opera house. A sizable emerald obtained in an inheritance, if the gossip was right. A third of that tidy profit would be waiting for him. Maybe more if he was the one to sneak inside and grab it. The silhouette of the mansion across the lawn was recognisable only by the lit windows. Servants in their chambers, the cook in her kitchen with the fire from the range and a drunken butler sleeping in his chair. The heiress and merchant in the drawing room. Part of the darkened space on that looming shape was the window for their bedroom, where the emerald would undoubtedly be.

“Fine. You stay out here and keep watch, and I’ll be back with the whole of her jewellery set. You’ll see,” Sal said, grinning.

A similar grin spread across Ros’ face, and he nodded. With that agreed, he retreated back into the leafy depths of the rhododendron, away from the rain. Sal could just about see the gleam of his eye from underneath the glossy green foliage and fallen pink petals. He raised his hand in half a wave, a be-back-later-with-jewels motion. A yew’s branch dripped cold rainwater down Sal’s back as he stole closer to the lawn. It was a green expanse with few hiding places other than an ornamental fountain spurting out even more water than the sky into an algae-ridden pool. Someone ought to get onto cleaning that. Ferns sprung up on either side of it, coyly half-hiding the naked form of the woman holding the jug from which the water spouted. A goddess? A muse? She too was a little green-looking, hiding behind her leafy fans. Even if she was a goddess, with those ferns obscuring  her body she looked just like a dancer in a bordello testing the bounds of modesty. Sal snickered under his breath and crept towards the fountain. Closer, and it was clear the butler was sleeping in his rocking chair as the cook warmed her hands on the range and sipped a cup of tea.

8:26:17. 8:26:18. Closer and closer, until the leaves of one of the ferns cast a green, wet shadow over Sal. Duller than the emerald, his prize would be. Who did Ros think he was, assuming he’d not been paying attention? Sal grinned under his moustache, imagining Ros’ praise when he brought the jewellery back with him.

From this distance, he could see that there was an empty servant’s room. They’d picked up gossip that a maid had been dismissed for improper relations with the butler. Why he got to stay was a mystery, but Sal wasn’t going to question that when he could use the empty room as a gateway to the merchant’s mansion. He peeked through the curtain of leaves, waiting for the cook to take a seat and rub her back. No wonder it ached, spending all day hunched over a stove. Sal wondered if he would be brave enough to rob from the pantry before shaking his head. Why would he risk the emerald for turnips and a paper bag of sugar? Focused only on the breaking and entering before him, he found an alcove in the wall of the mansion, where grass met gravel. He slipped his muddy shoes off and tied them together to hang from a shoulder. No muddy footprints – he was a professional, after all! The thrill of the theft was soon dulled by water soaking into his socks, but those would come off and into his pockets the moment he’d slipped through the window. The local constabulary didn’t have his footprints.

A ruler stolen from a schoolteacher’s house made quick work of the simple window lock. Slowly, slowly Sal jimmied it open, flinching at the slightest squeak the buckled wood made. A small man, the gap didn’t need to be huge. He rolled in, landing on all fours and almost tangling himself in the threadbare curtain. Now, where had the butcher’s boy said the lady’s dressing room was? Second floor, on the corridor with all the portraits. Why the butcher’s boy knew that had given Ros and Sal a laugh at the time, as they came up with more and more salacious reasons. Sal praised the heiress’ voracious sexual appetite for men stinking of meat as he slunk out into the corridor and up the servants’ back staircase. He slid the ruler back into his pocket and rolled his socks off.

The wood of the steps was worn, sloped in the middle where busy feet had rushed up and down in the past. Sal stuck to the outer edges to avoid creaks, watching the gaps under each door on one of the landings leading to more quarters. Gentle snoring came from one of the doors, and he hid a snicker. Footsteps above had him freeze, but the sound of water let him crawl slyly up the stairs. Just someone going to the toilet. Second floor… the next landing featured an imposing looking door. Hardwood. Mahogany. He leant against it, listening for noises on the other side. Nothing but silence. The door on the opposite side had light pouring out from underneath, and there was the drone of chatter to accompany the patter of rain on glass. The family. Keeping his eyes on that door, and then the wooden steps descending back into the dark, Sal edged back through the door to the rooms of the family once he’d opened it. Well-oiled. Thank goodness this family liked their servants to be seen and not heard! It offered a whisper of moving air as he closed it behind him to look through the doors of this corridor.

Each gave only a sigh as he opened them, lifing the tension out of Sal’s body as each one proved empty. Main bedroom. Guest bedroom. Third time lucky – the dressing room of the heiress. A comb, brush, and perfume bottle were set out on a tray on the table. Sal caught his reflection in the mirror and winked at himself. 8:38:42. A new record as far as speed went! A faceless bust sparkled at him as he reached the table in his bare feet. A tiara graced the wooden head, and his prize – the emeralds – were draped over the carved throat. Diamonds were set on either side of the largest emerald, upstaged by the deep green even in the dark of the room. Sal glanced outside, spotting the hedge in which he’d been hiding with Ros, and returned to the bureau. Kissing the bust on the featureless cheek, he fiddled with the gold closure until it came loose. The necklace slithered into his hands, snakelike. Sal gave himself a moment to admire the handiwork of the jeweller before shoving it into his pocket and snatching the tiara for good measure. His hands were too quick, fumbling in the damp leather of his gloves, and the bust fell back with a clunk.

He froze, catching his face in the mirror. Eyes wide, mouth set in a grimace. Ah, fuckit, as Ros might’ve said if he were watching. As footsteps came down the corridor, he slipped the window open and made a little jump from the sill to a drainpipe. His hands slid in the rain, eyes blinded by water, as he tried to clamber his way down. The metal groaned, even under his slight weight, and he leaned one sockless foot against the wall to find a hold in the rough granite. That seemed to help, and the pipe stopped its protest. From that point it was shuffle, slide. Shuffle, slide. Worried murmurs came from the window above him. Shuffle, slide – shuffle slide – shuffleslideshuffleslide. All the way down past the tall window of the morning room until he could hop from the drainpipe and scurry for the protective leaves (and ample bottom) of the nude statue. From there, he waited for the butler and cook to hurry from the kitchen as a maid dashed through to report the theft to them. Dangerous, but prime time to race back to Ros, the worm, and the rhododendron. He gave the statue a fond pat on the knee before stumbling barefoot back into the shrubbery.

“Said I could do it!” he panted, pulling the necklace and tiara from his pocket to wave them in Ros’ face before he batted them away.

A strong hand gripped the back of his shirt and pulled him back through the hedge, branches lashing at his face like an angry schoolmaster with a switch. “Shut up and let’s go,” Ros snapped, though there was some thrill in his eyes. “Good work, ladeen.”

Sal glowed under the warmth of Ros’ praise, despite the rain.