The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“I wouldn't bolt. It's a bad idea.” Royce tapped his pocket, made it clear he was armed. “If you'd prefer we could continue this conversation at Bow Street.” It was a bluff, but he suspected it would yield the de­sired results— if B arker's fear was the honest kind.

It was.

“Are you a constable or something?” Barker asked hopefully, visibly heartened by the mention of Bow Street.

“Or something.” Royce's stare bored through him. The man wasn't a criminal. But he was scared. The question was, why? Had he been threatened by whomever bought that statue?

“You're not under suspicion,” he continued, offer­ing just enough information to assure Barker's coop­eration. “Quite the opposite. It's possible you could help me find someone who's, shall we say, shady. What can you tell me?”

By now, Barker looked more than convinced. “I know the porcelain figure you mean. There's actually a whole group of them similar to the one you de­scribed. They're all of two women who look like sis­ters doing different things together—gardening, sewing, picking flowers. The entire set was on display and for sale. But not in my shop, in my cousin's. His store is in Canterbury.”

“You said the figu

res were in your cousin's shop,” Royce repeated, furious with himself for missing the obvious. The arrogant son of a bitch bought the statue in Kent. Right out from under their noses. He'd as­sumed they'd never cheek the local shops, since they'd already cheeked there once, for the dolls.

He'd been right. They hadn't.

“So your cousin sold the statues,” Royce probed, determined to get some facts, however limited. “I'll need the name and address of his shop. How re­cent were the purchases made? How many of the porcelain figures sold? Will he have a record of the sales?”

The shopkeeper waved away Royce's questions. “I can give you Henry's address. But it won't help. He doesn’t have any record of the sales. Normally, he would. He keeps fine records. But the statue you're asking about, along with the other half-dozen from that collection, was stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes. That's why I got nervous when you asked about the statue. I thought you might be a friend of the thief's.”

“Hardly.” Royce's mind was racing. “When were the statues taken?”

A thoughtful look. “About ten days ago, I'd say. Henry went home, locked up as usual first. When he opened up the next morning, the statues were gone. Whoever stole them went to a lot of trouble. Cut a pane of glass from the door and let himself in. Perfect­ly neat pane, too. You'd think he'd smash the glass, climb in and grab all he could, then run before he got caught. No. This thief, whoever he is, cut a square just small enough to fit his hand through. He took nothing but the statues—not even the money Henry keeps in the front drawer.” A-shrug. “Makes no sense to me. Not to the local constables either. They've been at Henry's shop already. They found nothing.”

It makes perfect sense to me, Royce thought silently. This bastard needs to be superior at everything he does.

Aloud all he said was, “Thank you for your help Mr. Barker. I'll still need your cousin's name and the address of his shop, just so I can talk to him and have a look around.”

“Sure.” The shopkeeper scribbled down the infor­mation. “You never said who you were,” he com­mented, eyeing Royce curiously as he handed over the slip of paper.

“An investigator,” Royce replied tersely. “And if I find out anything about your cousin's property, I'll let you know. I'll also let Bow Street know how coopera­tive you were.”

The man stood up a little straighter. “Happy to oblige, sir. I hope you catch the man.”

Royce's jaw clenched. “Don't worry. I intend to.”

Royce's day went from bad to worse.

He arrived at Pearson Manor on schedule, only to see the scarlet coats of two Bow Street runners in the entranceway. The men's backs were to him as they spoke with the dowager's butter. They were nodding, scribbling notes in a pad as the butler mopped at his brow with a handkerchief.

An ominous knot coiled in Royce's gut.

“What's wrong?” he demanded, taking the front steps two at a time.

The men turned. Royce recognized Marks right away, as well as Carson, a younger lad who'd been with Bow Street a little more than a year.

“Chadwick. I'm glad you're here,” Marks greeted him tersely. “We sent a messenger to the inn to find you, but you'd already left. I understand you were scheduled to take Emma Martin to the Viscount Ryder's home today.”

“That’s right”

Marks glanced swiftly at the butler, who looked as if he were about to swoon. “You can go now. I'll send for you if I need you.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man practically bolted.