Chapter Thirty-One
Brett
Brett placed the two primer books on the kitchen counter and hunted through the pantry for an old newspaper to wrap them in.
It was always more fun getting a gift when one had to unwrap it.
He should have paid the extra pence for the shopkeeper to wrap them himself.
Brett had just been happy the bookstore had been open so early, and decided to keep the extra coin in his pocket.
He heard movement in the kitchen behind him and called out. “Cook? Do you know where the string is kept?”
“No, and it’s not Cook,” a man called.
Brett poked his head out of the pantry. “Oh. Ernest. Lady Mary’s back already from meeting with that attorney?”
“I dropped her at the club and will pick her up later.” The driver fingered the books and raised an eyebrow. “Preparing for children already?”
His mouth went dry. Children. With Marie. He’d never given children much thought before. He’d assumed he’d have them but it hadn’t been a particular desire. Now, the idea of children was tangible. Immediate. What kind of father would he be?
“No.” He cleared his throat. “They’re for a boy I know. Were you looking for me?”
“Yes, I was.” Ernest leaned against the counter. “You know I’ve been asking around the jarveys, looking for anyone who picked up or dropped off a customer the night Trent died.” He grimaced. “And now for Hicks’s murder, too.”
“I do.”
“Well, a driver I talked to said one of his friends knows a man who picked up two fares near Trent’s house that night.”
Brett tried to work out how many people this information had passed through, and how likely it was to be accurate because of its indirectness. “Do you have a name?”
“I do.” The driver nodded. “And where he parks his hackney. Thought maybe you wanted to come along when I go talk to him.”
“You thought right.” He contemplated finding Marie for a goodbye kiss. With some practice, they’d become quite good at those. Then he remembered how long their kisses tended to last and thought better of it. “Let’s go.”
He hopped onto the driver’s seat alongside Ernest and loosened his neckcloth as the sun’s rays beat down on them.
Summer was on the wane according to the calendar, but the weather had other ideas.
The road was dry and dusty, and even though many of the buildings they passed were grand beyond his imagination, they were all covered in a fine layer of soot that made everything appear just a bit dingy.
“Have you told Lady Mary yet?” Ernest asked.
The back of Brett’s neck started to itch. “Not yet. We want to wait until this Trent business is resolved.”
“She’s going to be angry you didn’t tell her,” Ernest warned.
“Yes.” Brett rolled his neck. “So let’s find this arsehole quickly.”
Ernest nodded. “Too right.”
They arrived at a stables, with a large carriage house attached. Ernest asked for the jarvey, and was told he was at the tavern next door. “He don’t start driving for another hour,” they were informed.
“A tavern’s as good a place to talk as anywhere.” Ernest grinned. “I wouldn’t mind a pint myself.”
Brett agreed. After they’d ordered their drinks, Ernest asked the barman if he knew a Bob Coutts.
He rolled up on his toes and pointed to a man near the middle of the room.
They thanked him, picked up their drinks, and headed over.
“Coutts? Bob Coutts?” Brett asked.
“Who’s wanting to know?” The man had overlong hair that he combed over his balding crown. He clutched his own mug of ale closer.
“That’s a yes,” Ernest said and sat.
Brett followed suit. “We’re in service to Lady Mary Cavindish. Did you read about the murder that happened on Charles Street? A Mr. Trent?”
Coutts rubbed his jaw. “Yeeess. What’s that got to do with me?”
“Perhaps nothing.”
Ernest planted his elbows on the table. “Your friend Petey told Mickey who told my friend Willy who told me that you picked up a couple the night it happened. Right near where Trent was killed.”
Coutts blinked.
So did Brett. He didn’t think Ernest needed to be quite so detailed. “Do you remember the fare?”
“Course, I do.” Coutts took a large swallow of ale. “I remember thinking it was an unlucky night for everyone.”
“Why was it unlucky for you?” Ernest asked.
“Cause the blighters didn’t pay me.” Coutts shook his head. “Asked me to take them to Chisook Street, then jumped out of the coach halfway there. The moving coach. Then there were the stains I had to clean.” He stared moodily into his drink.
Ernest and Brett glanced at each other. “What stains?” Brett asked.
“I don’t know, do I. My seats are brown. The stains were dark.” He held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger held two inches apart. “Little streaks, but a bloody lot of them.”
Brett leaned forward. “Could it have been blood?”
Coutts shrugged. “Could have been, I suppose.” His hand froze lifting his mug halfway to his face, his face going slack. “Are you saying they were the killers I picked up?”
“Might have been,” Ernest said.
“Sodding hell.” Coutts rocked back.
This new theory was going to make the rounds, Brett could tell. Coutts would have a story to tell for weeks. “Can you describe your riders?”
The jarvey scratched his jaw. “Not well. The one who hailed me was tall. I think. It’s hard to tell when I’m sitting up high o’er everyone.
Dressed in dark clothes, a scarf wrapped right up his face.
I remember thinking that was odd because the nights are warm.
The other one was just a shadow that hurried into the coach. ”
Dark clothes and a scarf covering the face. Brett’s abdomen hardened. Sounded like the same man who’d attacked Marie. Which made sense. Brett couldn’t wait until his fist could meet the man’s face.
“The other one,” Ernest said. “Could it have been a woman?”
“Mebbe.” Coutts nodded. “I didn’t think it at the time, but I do remember hearing a high-pitched giggle. I’d thought the man was deep in his cups, but, ya, could have been a woman.”
Ernest and the other driver chatted for a bit, Ernest asking if the man had heard of any good bargains on a new carriage.
Brett sipped his ale, thoughtful. Two people. One with a high-pitched giggle. He wondered what Mrs. Trent’s laugh sounded like.
And how anyone, after committing a murder, could laugh at all.