Of course, the man stopped and walked back.
“Keep going,” she panted. “I am fine.”
He put a hand to his heaving chest. “I don’t like leaving you.”
She patted her reticule. “I’m not without protection. I have a pistol inside as well as a fan with a hidden dagger.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes! Go!” she urged. Finally, he went on without her. When he had disappeared around a bend and she’d caught her breath, she continued on, walking rapidly. About a quarter hour later, she caught up to Pierce and the mail coach.
Pierce was quizzing the coachman, who looked pale and shaken. The passengers were all clustered around a man who leaned on the door of the coach. He was gesturing with both hands, and his fellow passengers drank in his every word. Because Pierce was speaking with the coachman, she approached the group of passengers.
“Is everyone well?” she asked. “Is anyone hurt? We were out walking and heard the shot.”
“It was that blo—blasted highwayman,” the man leaning against the door said. He’d removed his hat and waved it with every word. His face was red and perspiration sheened his bald pate.
“He fired at you?” All reports had indicated the New Sheriff of Nottingham was not violent.
“He did,” a young woman said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He took my reticule, and that was all the money I had in the world.”
“And he took my ear-bobs.” The woman, who clutched the arm of a man Eliza assumed was her husband, spoke in a shaky voice. “They were my grandmother’s. I don’t care about the guineas, but my ear-bobs!”
Her husband patted her shoulder as she burst into tears. For the first time, Eliza was struck by the fact that the acts of this criminal were more than a nuisance for the locals and a chance for her to prove her worth as an agent. There was a human cost as well.
She did what she could to comfort the small group and asked questions as casually as possible. What, exactly, had the highwayman said? Did the man have a regional accent? Where had he stood? Were those his boot prints? Finally, the coachman determined they would go on and had best not allow the horses to stand any longer.
Pierce moved beside her as Mr. Langrick approached on horseback. “What is amiss?”
Pierce gave him the details, and then asked if he would take Eliza back to the inn. “Miss Qwillen is quite overwrought.”
“No, I’m—”
He dropped his hand heavily on her shoulder, and she closed her lips.
“Of course,” Langrick said, removing his hat. “Miss Qwillen is welcome. I’ll have her back before the fire in no time.”
Eliza shot Pierce a look that she hoped would boil his insides, and he leaned close and murmured, “The coachman said he saw no sign the highwayman had a horse. In which case, you should make it back to the inn before he has any chance of doing so. Take note of who is present and who is absent.”
Eliza could see the logic in this request. Mr. Langrick was a perfect gentleman, and he conveyed her quickly back to the inn, where Peg fussed over her and brought her tea with brandy.
Eliza sipped it and noted the patrons present.
Freeland was absent.
A careful inquiry told her Goodman had been back in his rooms for a half hour before the highwayman struck. He might have sneaked out again, but she thought it unlikely.
Mr. Wilson was unaccounted for at present and during the attack. His poor aunt sat beside her at the hearth, coughing quietly.
Dowell had been at the inn during the attack, as had Cardy. That removed the two of them from the list of suspects.
That left Freeland and Wilson.
Of course, Freeland might be at his home. There was no reason to assume that the highwayman, whoever he was, would attack and then come to the inn. He probably had a secret place where he stashed his—what did the thieves in the rooks call it? Cargo? Even if Freeland or Wilson walked in now, it did not prove either was the highwayman.
The door opened, and Eliza wondered if her thoughts had conjured one of the suspects, but it was only Pierce. The poor man had ice on his muffler, and the parts of his face not covered were also covered in icy white. Before she could rise and coo over him—which would not have been wise, considering the speculation already stirring about them after their walk—the maid brought him over to the fire and Wattles produced a glass of fine brandy.
How typical. She received tea with a spoonful of brandy, while he was given it straight. She spent the afternoon trying to speak to him alone, but it was quite impossible. Everyone who came into the inn wanted to know what they’d seen or heard, and the coaches that subsequently passed by were filled with passengers whose eyes grew wide at the story. Fortunately, the Sheriff didn’t attack again. Eliza was trapped in the inn and would have never caught him. From that conversation, she did learn Pierce had been able to obtain a reasonably good description of the criminal. It was most definitely a man, although he hid his face under a tricorn hat and a turned-up collar. He didn’t appear to be on horseback, but he did carry two small pistols, one of which he shot into the air when the guard had been slow to discard his weapon.
He was neither fat nor too slim, of average height, and witnesses reported he had brown hair. It could have easily been Freeland or Wilson. Both men matched that description, though for her part, Eliza suspected Wilson.
She retired early, giving Pierce a look before she started for the stairs. He didn’t respond, but she knew he’d seen. He would come to her later. Tonight she would make sure their interaction dealt only with the
