Chapter Eight

As soon as they were out of sight of Bullock, Ellie removed her hand from Harry's distractingly muscular forearm and turned to him.

"All right, tell me your thoughts."

"About life, love, and the universe in general?" he teased. "Very well. All in all, I'm in favor of—"

"About the case ," she said testily. "Why do you think it was a targeted attack?"

He turned and pretended to admire a large stuffed ostrich, so their backs were to the room. "I think that particular book was stolen because it was rumored to be lucky."

"That's ridiculous."

"No more ridiculous than all the other superstitions people put their faith in on a daily basis. Admit it, I bet even you, a rational, educated woman, do some superstitious things. Do you walk under ladders?"

"No," she said. "But that's just common sense. I don't believe I'll be disturbing evil spirits or ending my days on the gallows if I do. I'd just rather not be hit on the head if the person up the ladder drops something."

He sighed, as if disappointed by her pragmatism. "I bet there's something. Do you toss salt over your shoulder if you spill it? Or think that breaking a mirror brings you seven years' bad luck?"

"I do not."

He sent her a skeptical look, eyebrows raised, and she gave a disgruntled sigh and gave in.

"Fine. I'm polite to single magpies. I always say, ‘Hello, Mr. Magpie, how's your wife and children?' if I see one."

"Ha!"

"But that's only because magpies are known to mate for life, so seeing a single one makes one hope that their partner is somewhere about, or that they'll find a mate soon. Wishing them well is just good manners."

"Of course," he said soothingly. "And nothing to do with the belief that a single magpie brings bad luck: one for sorrow, two for joy, and all that?"

"Not at all."

"Hmm. My point is," he continued, "that the world is full of people believing in things, and not even the most intelligent people are immune. Almost every profession has its own superstitions. In the theater, for example, it's traditional to say ‘break a leg' on opening night, and bad luck to whistle backstage. It's even worse luck to say the word ‘Macbeth' unless one is actually working on the production and the script requires it. At all other times it's referred to as ‘the Scottish play.'"

Ellie smiled ruefully. "To be fair, I do know one barrister who wears the same shirt for the whole length of a trial, and another who refuses to have his hair cut until the verdict is read out."

"There you go. My point is, believing that something is lucky is a powerful motivating force. I think the monetary value of that book was of less importance than the fact that Napoleon himself believed it to be lucky."

"You think the person who stole it wants some of that luck for themselves?"

"I do." Harry tilted his head. "And believe me, as a former criminal, I have an excellent understanding of the power of making people believe in something—even if it isn't true. In three-card monte, for example, the skill lies in making the mark believe they're cleverer than all the other players, making them think they can win easy money because they can follow the money card better than anyone else."

"Hmm," Ellie said, still unconvinced.

"It's the same with holy relics," he continued. "I've lost count of the number of churches I've been to that house the finger bone of saint somebody-or-other. You could make at least twenty full skeletons of Saint Francis of Assisi with all the body parts strewn around the Continent. And I'm sure that in the back of their logical minds, people know this, but they don't care, because they all think their finger bone is the real true finger bone, and that it will cure their goat of scrofula."

Ellie chuckled.

"And because they believe," he said, "they do everything they can to make it happen. They visit the veterinarian and make the goat take its medicine, and feed it better food, and lo and behold, the goat recovers. And they attribute it to the lucky finger bone, instead of their own good sense or actions."

"Are you saying there's no such thing as luck?"

"I'm saying it doesn't matter whether there is or not. What matters is if someone believes in that luck, and it starts to affect their actions."

"So things began to go wrong for Bonaparte when he lost the book because he didn't believe he'd be lucky anymore?"

"Exactly. With it, he imagined himself invincible and destined for greatness. But without it, defeat became almost inevitable. As soon as a man starts questioning his own judgment, and feeling that nothing he does will succeed because good fortune's deserted him, failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"That's quite a theory," Ellie said. "But I fail to see how it's going to help us catch Mr. Bullock's thief. Bonaparte is locked up on Saint Helena, so I don't think we can add him to our list of suspects."

"True." Harry turned back to her, and Ellie was surprised to discover how close they'd been standing. She still couldn't determine the exact color of his eyes: depending on the light they appeared green, blue, or even hazel, and the inability to define them was becoming mildly annoying. Still, she couldn't keep staring up at him like a simpleton.

His own gaze lingered for a moment on her lips, and she felt her blood heat. Why did such a scoundrel have to be so appealing?

Suddenly self-conscious, she slid her spectacles from her nose and folded them neatly into their velvet-lined filigree holder.

"Well, I suppose we'd better be getting back to the office."

They walked side by side through the remaining rooms, and when they finally stood on the street outside, she peered left and right to see where his carriage was waiting.

Harry, however, paused on the steps, staring intently at something across the road.

"What is it?" Ellie squinted with little success in the vague direction he was looking.

"Something else I learned as a criminal, Eleanor, is to take note when something seems out of place."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you see that beggar, in the doorway across the street?"

"No," Ellie said bluntly.

He glanced down at her with a smile. "Oh, put your spectacles back on, you ridiculous thing. You're wrong about thinking they make you look less attractive. You're gorgeous either way."

Ellie's mouth dropped open at the unexpected, offhand compliment. She snapped it shut and willed the blush in her cheeks to subside as she delved back into her reticule. Spectacles back on, she glanced across the street.

"Now I see the beggar. The one with a dog?"

"Yes. Do you notice anything unusual about him?"

Ellie considered the question. The man was sitting in the doorway of a disused shop, his legs stretched out in front of him, a scruffy black mongrel curled up on the step next to him. His face was partly obscured by a military cap, and a large blue overcoat covered the rest of his form.

"He's wearing a military hat. Which might suggest he's a veteran who's fallen on hard times," she ventured.

"True. But his overcoat doesn't make sense. The cut and the cloth are of the highest quality, the collar is velvet, and unlike those trousers of his, and his boots, there's not a hole or a patch anywhere on it. It's pristine. Which means he only recently acquired it."

"Maybe some kind soul gave it to him? Or do you think he stole it?"

"The poor wretch looks too skinny to have been able to steal it. A stiff wind could knock him over. And it's a damned fine coat to give away, even out of pity. So the question must be asked, where did he get the money to buy it?"

Harry took her arm and led her down the steps, then across the busy road, dodging carriages and milk carts as they went. The dog heard their approach and lifted its head, but didn't growl. The man, who had been dozing with his chin on his chest, started awake with a jolt.

Harry touched his hat in greeting, and the man squinted up at him in obvious surprise.

"Good day, sir. Charles King." He nodded at the man's ragged cap. "Do I have the honor of addressing a former member of the rifle brigade?"

The man's face lost its suspicious look and his bearded jaw widened in a smile. "Indeed, you do, sir. Sergeant John Morris, Ninety-fifth Regiment of Foot. At least I was, until a musket ball broke me collarbone and I was invalided home."

He extended his hand and Harry shook it, showing no disdain for the man's grubby fingernails or generally unkempt state.

"Was you in the Rifles too?" Morris asked. He got to his feet a little unsteadily, and Ellie felt a flash of pity. The man was barely a decade older than herself, but he seemed frail and malnourished.

"I'm afraid I didn't have that glory," Harry chuckled. "My contribution to His Majesty's cause was a little more—how shall we say?— clandestine ."

Morris's eyes widened at the inference. "You mean you were a spy?"

"A mere gatherer of gossip." Harry waved his hand in an airy, dismissive gesture. "Now happily returned to England, and doing what I do best, investigating crimes in our fair metropolis."

Morris's face fell. "Oh?"

"Is this your usual spot, Mr. Morris?" Ellie asked gently.

Morris crossed his arms in a defensive gesture. "Maybe it is."

"Then perhaps you might be able to help us. A rather valuable book was stolen from Mr. Bullock's museum over there a few days ago. I don't suppose you happened to notice anyone loitering about or leaving the place in a hurry?"

"I never saw nobody do nothin'," Morris muttered.

"That's a pity." Harry let out a sigh. "Because I pay extremely well for useful information."

Morris bit his lip, looking indecisive, as if he wanted to say more but was holding himself back, but Harry didn't press him. Instead, he bent down to stroke the dog, which was rubbing itself against his shins in a shameless demand for attention.

"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."