Page 80 of Honor Unbound

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. Themovingcoach. 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.

Chapter Thirty-Two