Page 63 of Thief Taker

“And you think quality don’t lie?”

“You know I don’t. But the likes of us need unyielding evidence if we’re to accuse them of it.” His eyes narrowed. “What’s your interest?”

He considered his answer and decided on the truth. “Wessex.”

“Is that so?” Groves’s expression brightened. “You think Wessex is connected to Salter?”

“I do.”

“And what’s your evidence?”

He spread his hands. “Thin, but I’m working to rectify that.”

Groves hummed his understanding and was silent, brow contracting in thought. “Sir John Fielding, God rest him, always said that the sharing of information was necessary to the capture of criminals. So, in that spirit, Elias, I offer you something…”

Opening his satchel, he riffled through the stack of papers inside and withdrew a file. It was marked ‘Wessex’. Elias’s fingers twitched towards it, but Groves shook his head. Opening the file, he pulled out a single paper and handed it over. It was the statement of one Mr. Oatis Jones, gunsmith. “What’s this?”

“You’ve heard about Wessex’s silver pistol?”

“I have. Sounded fanciful until I saw it for myself.”

“You saw it—?”

“I’ll regale you with that tale another time,” Elias said. “Go on.”

After studying him a moment longer, Groves said, “Well, we’ve an observant witness who claimed to recognise the silver pistol, when it was pointed at his face, as the craftsmanship of one Mr. Oatis Jones. So, I paid the man a visit.” He flapped the paper in his hand. “Claimed he recalled the commission of a pair of silver pistols over a year ago—timing fits with Wessex’s first appearance—and made them over to a gentleman fresh from the American colonies.” He spread an acknowledging hand. “Former colonies, I should say.”

“Had he a name?”

“He gave a name,” said Groves with a suppressed sigh. “Mr. George Washington.”

Elias snorted. “Well, telling in its way. I spoke to Pike, the coachman who was stopped in Hyde Park this week. He told me a couple of things. Wessex shot cack-handed and sounded Irish or West Country. I wondered, then, if it was American. Turns out it’s more likely an Englishman disguising his voice—my sources suggest the accent doesn’t fool an American ear.”

“Any gentlemen among Rowsley’s set who’ve spent time in the colonies?” said Groves. “Or who favours his left hand?”

Elias felt a rootless beat of unease. “Favouring his left hand don’t make a man guilty.”

“No, but it’s a circumstance, Elias. A cack-hander from the colonies would be worth looking into.”

Elias frowned, uncomfortable with Groves’s manner of thinking. “I’ve reason to believe Rowsley himself has the most cause to rob. Need or greed, remember? And he certainly has a pressing need for money. He’s friendly with Marlborough, too, who owns plantations in the West Indies. Maybe in the colonies too, before the war. Rowsley might have learned the accent from him.”

“And is Rowsley a cack-hander?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.” And that was undoubtedly a flaw in his theory. “Mind you, don’t they beat it out of nobs when they’re boys? Maybe he hides it?”

“Possible,” Groves conceded.

Elias hesitated, then reluctantly added, “His brother, Mr. Duvall, favours his left hand. He has a bloody powerful left-fisted punch, at least.”

“You think he—?”

“No,” Elias said quickly. “He’s a better man by far than his brother. He would never—Besides, it’s Rowsley who’s over head and ears in debt, not Duvall.”

“But if he favours his left hand…”

“It’s not him.” Irritated, Elias added, “I know where he was the night Wessex last struck. In fact, I was with him for most of it. I only mentioned his hand because, as his brother, Rowsley might be the same. He may hide it when he’s in society and revert to his natural preferences when he’s acting as Wessex. It would be a clever trick to throw us off the scent.”

“Indeed, it would.” Groves sounded unconvinced. “But sometimes, Elias, the most obvious solution is the right one. Be careful, lad. Don’t let your prejudices blind you.”