Page 108 of Thief Taker

Kit couldn’t wait and tried to take it right out of his hands. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Resisting, Hartwell held onto the paper for another beat. “Kit—”

“Let me see.” Snatching it, he scanned the front page, eyes running quickly over the words.

“Top right,” Hartwell said with a sigh.

“I don’t—” Then he found it: Death of Lord Marlborough. His breath left him in a rush. “What the devil…?”

“Just read it.”

Kit did, his eyes tripping over the words in his haste to understand.

On Wednesday, it read, at The George Inn in Hounslow, Lord Marlborough, of Berkeley Square, London, died under violent suspicion of having been murdered, his body bearing the marks of a severe blow to the head. A search of his rooms then revealed evidence that Marlborough, an intimate of the most noble society, had forgot his rank so far as to fall into ignoble company, the infamous silver pistol wielded by the highwayman ‘Wessex’ being found in his possession and identified as such by Mr. Josiah Groves, Principal Officer of the Bow Street magistrate’s court.

Kit stood stock still, reading the report over again to try and make sense of it. “He—I don’t understand. Marlborough had my pistol…?”

“Come on,” Hartwell chided. “Isn’t it obvious? You left the damned thing for Cole to find.”

Kit stared at the newsprint again. “Elias didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean. He wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Hartwell lifted an eyebrow. Kit wasn’t sure whether that was a genuine question. “How would you explain it, then?”

But he couldn’t, not really; he’d left the pistol behind to show Elias that he wouldn’t be using it again, that Wessex was gone. “I just know he wouldn’t murder a man in cold blood.”

“Maybe they fought?”

“Over what? And why would my pistol be there?”

Hartwell was silent, turning his head away to look back over the docks. “I guess it doesn’t really matter,” he said. “Marlborough is dead, Kit. He’s dead. And if this Groves thinks he’s Wessex…?”

“Then we’re safe from suspicion.” The realisation startled him.

“Well, you are,” Hartwell said, sending him a sideways glance. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He hunched into his coat, turning up the collar against a chill breeze. “I knew, if I showed you, it would make you doubt your choice. Give you false hope.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think Cole did this for you, somehow. To help you.”

Kit licked his lips, growing dry in the cold wind. “We don’t know Elias was involved at all.”

“Except for the pistol.”

“It could be a different pistol. This Groves could be mistaken or looking for a scapegoat to claim the reward.”

“Damned convenient,” Hartwell said. His dark eyes came to rest on Kit again. “You left Cole the pistol, Kit. And now it’s shown up again, not three days later, in Marlborough’s hands? Who’s conveniently dead.”

All of which was true. Kit frowned, not sure what to think.

His friend was silent for a moment, then reached out and took the newspaper from Kit’s hand, folded it again, and slipped it back into his pocket. “I think,” he said, “that if Cole wanted to draw you out of hiding, this would be a damned effective way to do it.”

“He’d never—” Kit cut himself off; the truth was that he didn’t know what Elias would do.

“Marlborough is dead,” Hartwell said. “That’s something, at least. The Chronicle could hardly print that if he wasn’t, but as for the rest of it… Don’t let it sway you, Kit. It ain’t safe in England now, not for either of us. Cole knows the truth and he doesn’t sound like the type to let a scent go cold.”