Page 43 of Thief Taker

“Fair enough,” Elias conceded. “His horse, then? Any distinguishing features?” Highwaymen had been identified by their horses before now.

But again, Pike shook his head. “A hunter, is all I could say. Black.”

Well, that was something. He’d heard the beast described as a Thoroughbred before, but Pike was a coachman and likely knew his horseflesh. Elias was inclined to believe him. A black hunter. “And is there anything else that you—?”

“His pistol. That I saw, and it was silver. Great big bloody thing.”

“Silver?” That sounded like a tale that had grown in the telling last night.

“Aye.” Pike bristled at Elias’s tone. “I know what I saw, Mr. Cole. It was silver, but”—the old man mimicked firing a weapon—“he held it cack-handed.”

“Did he now? Are you sure?”

“’Course I’m bloody sure—he fired it at me!”

Elias’s belly gave a twist. He’d told Groves it was only a matter of time before this so-called gentleman-highwayman took a life. “He shot at you?”

Pike gave a grave nod. “Aye. Well, more over me head, as it were. To stop the coach. Frightened old Bess half to death, poor thing.”

“Bess being the horse?”

Pike hawked and spat onto the cobbles. “Well, it weren’t me bloody wife pulling the coach.”

Elias smiled and inched away from the glob of spittle. “Then I thank you, Mr. Pike, you’ve been most useful.” He stood up and tipped his hat. “There’ll be a jug of ale awaiting you at The King’s Arms tonight, with my gratitude for your time.”

As he made his way out of the stables and back to the street, Elias reflected on what he’d learned. A black hunter. A cack-hander, which made sense. Elias touched the fading bruise on his right cheek; the one Wessex had inflicted in the tunnel beneath The Red Lion. An accent, possibly West Country, possibly Irish. Possibly American.

And finally, the silver pistol.

If he could find such a pistol in Rowsley’s possession, that would be something. That would be evidence indeed.

It was still early afternoon when he left Pike, and he was strongly disinclined to return to Curzon Street. His blood was up now, eager for the chase. Besides, he’d had a thought about Wessex’s accent. If it was American, he had a friend who might confirm it. Or might not—there being honour among thieves.

Even so, Sam Hutchinson had been known to buy goods from Wessex. He was an American and so he’d know one of his fellow countrymen when he heard him. Whether he’d want to share that information with Elias was another matter. Still, it was a good enough reason to visit the Bowl.

He found he was missing the familiarity of his own people. Of being Elias Cole, thief taker, and no man’s servant. It would do no harm to spend an hour in St. Giles and see what he could glean about Wessex from the denizens of London’s least reputable tavern.

Chapter 15

“A nice piece,” Hutchinson conceded, looking up from his examination of the pocket watch.

Kit nodded from where he sat on the other side of Hutchinson’s work bench, in the back room of The St. Giles Bowl. Shelves lined three of the walls, filled with various trinkets and fabrics. Everything Hutchinson had seen fit to buy from those who sought a market for their stolen goods.

Kit felt uneasy every time he came here hawking the profits of his crimes. He couldn’t help it, even though the men who had ruined his brother deserved to pay a price.

Unlike Radcliffe, though, Hutchinson did not seem unsavoury. He was a handsome man, possessed of blond curls worn naturally, and an easy smile. Kit had warmed to him instantly, but that might have had more to do with his colonial manners. Friendly, open, and honest. Perhaps Kit did trust too easily, but he had come to trust Hutchinson. Not enough to drop his disguise, but enough that he was happier conducting business at the heart of the St. Giles rookery than anywhere else.

“The ring is valuable too,” Kit said, gesturing to the dress ring he’d demanded from Osborne’s finger last night. “That’s a ruby, I’m sure.”

Hutchinson smiled. “I’m sure you’re sure,” he said, “but I’ll be the judge.”

Lifting his eyeglass he began to examine the ring, making small noises of concentration. Kit wondered what this man had done before the war in America had driven him out. Perhaps he’d been a jeweller? He’d known many such men when he’d been stationed in New York. Honest, hardworking men who wanted nothing to do with politics or war. Men who just wanted to live their lives in peace, but who’d found their world turned upside down.

“The ring is good,” Hutchinson said at last, setting down his eyeglass. “But it’s inscribed, which makes it identifiable. Harder to sell.”

“You could break it up.”

“I’d have to,” Hutchinson agreed. He leaned forward, across the table. “For the ring, I can offer you fifteen. For the watch ten and for the fob seal, four.”