“But you could see his companion.”
“Some ‘at. ”E was a toff, for sure. Boots called ’im a lord. Lord Caliban, or some such thing.“
Although expecting to hear the familiar name, Lucian felt himself flinch. Caliban was the monster in Shakespeare’s The Tempest and the sobriquet of the ringleader the British Foreign Office had been seeking for months.
“And what did this Lord Caliban say?”
“ ‘E told Boots when the courier would come and what to do-where to lie in wait on the ’ighway. ”E wanted that courier’s bag bad enough to pay big. Boots was to get twenty quid if ‘e could deliver the bag.“
“I wonder if Boots realized what the pouch contained.”
“ ‘Pon me life, I don’t know anything more. Only what I ’eard Boots say.”
“Are you aware your friend Boots was found garroted in an alley two days ago?” Lucian asked even more gently. “The work of your Lord Caliban, I expect.”
Ned’s face went white.
“What can you tell me about this Caliban?” Lucian said finally.
“Not much. ”E wore a mask. And a fancy coat, like yerself.“
“What of hair color or physical build? Was he short or tall?”
“Medium, I guess. Taller than Boots. But ‘is ’air was covered.”
“Any distinguishing marks you can recall? Think, please, Mr. Shanks. It would be of great use to us to have even the slightest hint of Lord Caliban’s identity.”
Ned’s grimy brow furrowed. “No marks, but… come to think of it, ”e had a ring.“
“What sort of ring?”
“Gold. Wore it on ‘is left ’and. I remember it glittered red.”
Philip spoke for the first time. “You told me nothing about a ring before.”
Ned’s wary look held alarm. “I only just now remembered. Boots was going on about it, saying ‘ow it would be worth a fair plum if ’e could lift it.”
“Can you recall anything about the design?” Lucian asked.
“Something like a dragon’s head, Boots said. ”Ad red stones for eyes.“
“Rubies, perhaps?” Lucian asked.
“I guess, maybe. I really didn’t get near enough for a look.”
Contemplating the prisoner, Lucian was certain he had nothing more to offer. “Thank you, Mr. Shanks. You have been a great deal of help.”
“Milord?” Ned’s tone grew anxious as he sent Barton another fearful glance. “What will ye do with me? I ‘ave a wife ’oo will be wondering what’s become of me.”
“So do I,” Lucian murmured softly. “You are free to go, Mr. Shanks.”
“Go?” Ned looked astonished, as did Philip Barton to a lesser extent.
Lucian fished in his pocket and drew out a handful of guineas. “Here. In remuneration for your trouble.”
Accepting the offer reflexively, Ned stared down at the gold pieces in total bewilderment.
“If you should hear of any news,” Lucian added, “anything even remotely connected with Caliban or with your late friend Boots, I would hope you will inform the innkeeper at the Boarshead. He can get word to me.”