Tale of a Gentleman Thief (The Cadwaller Chronicles Book 1)

By Kurt Gruber

Shinwell Cadwaller is an acquirer of rare and hard to obtain objects – it’s a shame that the owners of these items fail to see his talent. That has always been the case, and Shinwell’s preference, until a simple misread map, and perhaps the hand of fate stepped in. Shinwell now finds himself entwined in a conspiracy that threatens to unleash a darkness on the world like none that has been seen before. With the help of an astute and recently widowed lady of means, an inspector on the outs, and a supernatural companion of questionable loyalties, Shinwell will take the request to return a stolen statue and find himself thrust into a quest to save the world, or to at least survive the attempt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kurt Gruber
• Release date: Mar 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370132690

Kurt Gruber

Independent author of the bizarre and often absurd. More to come.

Book preview

TALE

OF A

GENTLEMAN

THIEF

Book One of the Cadwaller Chronicles

A story by

Kurt Gruber

Copyright © 2016 by Kurt J. Gruber

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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First Printing, 2016

ISBN 9781729014400

For Jennifer, my real-life Penelope…

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

D

ust filtered through the air, illuminated briefly by the dim light of a gas streetlamp that lay outside the window. It was just after midnight and the house was silent. Silent as a tomb. A tomb full of the choice pickings of the over-privileged. Sitting and collecting dust within the attic, forgotten and practically discarded. What was the harm in liberating a few select knickknacks from these pompous social leaders? Certainly they could be put to better use than their current position of attic dust collectors. Perhaps a quick stop to Fingers Renfry, an exchange of goods for an undisclosed number of pound notes. Then a bit of debt paid off. Perhaps a mid-shelf sherry and a new tweed coat. Most certainly a better use that these items were currently serving. And who would even be the wiser? He would be in and out before the dawn’s first light. Moving like a liquid shadow, procuring items of fiscal importance. Their absence never missed by their soon to be former owners and serving an altogether more noble cause. Providing an economic stimulus to the poor and needy; well, perhaps more to the shady and somewhat dishonest, but still a much needed economic stimulus just the same.

A figure clung to the side of the house, blending into the shadows and holding perfectly still. It was less than an arm’s length from the attic window and balanced precariously on a decorative ledge that stretched the length of the building. The night fog was thick and permeated the air with a moisture so profuse that it was like moving through a thick gazpacho; one that smelt slightly of the soot, grime, and sulphury perfumes of the city streets. Such is the life of a professional pilferer. Not the most proper profession of a well-bred gentleman, but, still, one must make a living as one may.

The figure stood upright, wavered slightly, regained his balance, then began to clumsily rummage through his coat.

Blast, where is it? The figure continued to rifle through his long coat, swayed slightly again, then removed a small, rectangular blade on a handle. Ah, here we are.

The man began etching the glass of the window just above the window latch that held the frame locked from within. After a moment’s work, the man placed the glasscutter back into his coat and began to press on the window. A semi-circular piece of the window pane snapped loose from the window and fell to the floor of the attic with a shattering crash.

Blast!

The man awkwardly ducked down on the ledge, clinging tightly to the building. After a moment of stillness, he slowly rose again, peering into the attic window. The house was still and quiet. The man took a breath and then slowly reached his arm into the newly cut hole and fumbled for the window latch. A moment later, the window was opened and he climbed into the attic and stood in silence, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

There we are, the man said, then turned, slipped, and knocked against a small table that sat near the window. The table toppled over and the vase that once sat atop it crashed to the floor, shattering itself and the silence of the night.

Blast! the man cursed and then quickly dove into the darkness flinging himself blindly to the ground and in doing so, sending the contents of his inner coat pockets scattering across the wooden attic floor. He held his breath and winced as each clink and clatter and thud echoed out into the darkness. Eventually, the noise subsided as the momentum of the items slowed and the noise all but ceased, save for the undulating of a rolled canvas bag that continued slowly and clumsily toward the head of the attic stairs.

No, no, no, no, no… the man breathed, feebly reaching for his toolkit. Being several feet shorter than necessary, he was unable to stop the rolling of his canvas toolkit, but it stopped at the very top of the stairs, balanced precariously on its threshold. Oh thank goodness. The man exhaled and began to rise from the floor when the bag tipped forward, spilling its contents down the attic stairs with a rolling metallic cacophony.

The man lay upon the floor between the folds of a dress that hung from a wooden dressmaker’s mannequin. Finding himself between a series of fabrics above and dusty floorboards below, he pulled the hems of the dress over his head and held his breath, peering with earnest toward the attic stairs. After a time, the man began to breathe again and was about to rise when he noticed the flickering glow of lamplight as someone ascended the stairs into the attic.

Blast…

Footsteps. The metallic rattling and clinking of his tools. Whoever was coming up the stairs was retrieving his tools. Dammit, he had taken those tools on credit and perhaps a bit of misplaced faith; Fingers was not going to be pleased.

The possessor of the lamp was now mounting the top of the stairs, and the distinct barrel of a rifle heralded the owner’s arrival.

Blast. The gentleman proceeded to pull the hem of the dress over his head and curled up as tightly as he could.

Who’s there?

It was the voice of a woman. Perhaps he would be able to overpower her. Surely he could outrun a petticoated damsel.

The room lit up. She must have ignited the wall lights. He tried to fit himself completely under the dressed mannequin. Two black polished women’s boots, covered with white gaiters, stopped directly in front of the man.

I say, who is there? Please get your head out from underneath my dress.

The woman used the tip of the rifle barrel to lift the mannequin’s dress, revealing the prostrate man to the gaslight.

Erm… Hello there.

The woman stepped quickly back, leveling the tip of the rifle with the man’s face.

Who are you? What are you doing in my house?

Two very good questions madam, the man said as he awkwardly crawled from beneath the fabrics and rose clumsily to his feet. I am Lord Shinwell Cadwaller, Esquire, at your service.

You’re a lawyer?

Is that what that means? I really had no idea, but it holds such a regal flair, don’t you think?

And I should very much doubt that you are any kind of proper Lord or a gentleman at that.

My dear lady, I take offense at such accu-

What are you doing in my attic in the middle of the night?

I can explain; you see I was-

What is that on the floor? she asked, peering behind the man at the broken vase and window shards. Did you come in through the window?

As I was saying, Shinwell began.

Is that my grandmum’s Vodrey vase scattered on the floor?

I do apologize madam; such damage was certainly not my intention.

Are you a burglar? Have you come to rob me? she asked, pointing the hunting rifle once more at Shinwell’s chest.

I am no common guttersnipe madam, I am a procurer of rare and expensive items. A liberator of antiquities and forgotten treasures. I am a-

You’re a thief. And by the looks of it, not a particularly good one.

Madam, I take offense at such accusations.

And lime green?

Excuse me madam?

You’re wearing a lime green frock coat to a robbery?

I was assured that the shade was myrtle, most certainly not lime. And why shouldn’t a gentleman dress app-

How ever did you get up here? she asked, eyeing the open window.

Um, I climbed? Shinwell began to straighten his jacket and smooth his pants, prompting the woman