Page 17 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel

“Who’s this little rascal?”

“That’s Mutton.”

“Hello, Mutton.” Harry glanced up. “Now, my assistant here may be interested in gathering information for the case, but I for one am much more interested in learning where you purchased that exquisite coat.”

Morris glanced down at his chest and stroked his hand down the front, enjoying the texture of the cloth. He opened his mouth to say something, but Harry straightened and indicated his own beautifully crafted outfit before Morris could speak.

“No, no. Don’t tell me! Let me guess!”

He took a step back, and tilted his head to study Morris’s coat with a critical eye.

“Anyone with a keen eye for fashion, such as myself, immediately recognizes the work of one of London’s finest tailors.” He tapped his lips as if deep in thought. “The cut is excellent, equal to that of Weston, but the style is too severe to be his. The straight lines and deep blue color might suggest Stultz, but Stultz favors fabric-covered buttons, and those are gilt.”

Morris was looking at him in a kind of dazed wonder.

Harry retrieved his silver quizzing glass from the pocket of his waistcoat, and leaned in for a closer look.

“Wool broadcloth, but not the work of Gieves and Hawkes, Lord Wellington’s favorites.” He pursed his lips, then let out a whistle. “I have it! That silk velvet trim on the collar can only have come from Schweitzer and Davidson on Cork Street. Am I right?”

Morris’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I couldn’t tell you, sir. I never bought it myself.”

Harry raised his brows. “That doesn’t surprise me at all, Sergeant Morris. That coat was clearly made for a gentleman of far larger proportions than yourself. It practically hangs off you.”

Morris gave an unhappy sniff. “Doesn’t matter. It keeps me warm at night. That’s why I asked him to throw it into the deal. A warm coat, and enough coin to buy Mutton a beef pie.”

“In exchange for stealing a book from the museum.” Harry nodded, his tone gently understanding.

Morris’s eyes grew wide. He shook his head, silently denying the accusation, then seemed to crumble under Harry’s intense gaze. His face fell and his shoulders lowered in a defeated slump.

“How could I refuse an offer like that? Mutton was starving! And I damn-near froze last week, when it snowed. The gent said ’e’d pay me ten guineas, plus this ’ere coat, if I just went in there”—he pointed across the road at Bullock’s place—“an’ brought ’im back some dusty old book.”

Chapter Nine

Ellie tried to hide her shock. Morris was their thief! But how on earth had Harry suspected that he was involved? She’d have bet money on the perpetrator of the crime having long-since fled the scene, not remained encamped less than fifty paces from the front door.

Despite having confessed, Morris seemed to have no intention of trying to escape. He slumped back against the doorframe with a weary, defeated sigh.

“I s’pose you’re going to cart me off to Bow Street now, ain’t you? I’ll be up before the magistrate, and they’ll hang me, for sure. Who’ll look after old Mutton then, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t think we need to complicate things by involving the authorities at this stage,” Harry said easily.

Morris looked up, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Sir?”

“Can you tell me the name of the gentleman who gave you this coat?”

Morris shook his head. “I can’t. We never used names. He approached me here, late on Thursday night, and asked if I ever went in the museum. I told ’im I went inthere almost every day, to stay warm and get out of the rain. When he told me he wanted some fancy book, I almost said no. I felt bad, stealin’ from an honest gent like Mr. Bullock, who’s never been nothin’ but kind to me, but I didn’t ’ave no choice. Mutton ’ere was wastin’ away.”

“I understand,” Harry said soothingly. “Extremis malis, extrema remedia, and all that.”

Morris’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Ellie translated, earning her an impressed, sideways smile from Harry that shouldn’t have made her feel as warm as it did.

“Exactly,” Morris said, relieved.

“Can you describe the man?” Harry asked. “Judging from that coat, he was fairly tall and broad.”

“Never seen ’im ’round these parts before,” Morris admitted. “He was English. Older gent, maybe sixty years, with black hair goin’ gray at the temples. ’ad a fancy pair o’ boots—like yours—and a stick like yours too. Only his ’ad a bird as the ’andle.”