Rutledge said only, “I’ll drive,” and he led the way to his motorcar. As they turned toward Covent Garden, Rutledge asked, “Do the clothes appear to be damaged in any way? Torn? Bloodstains washed out?”

“No, sir, according to the constable they only appeared to be a little soiled from pushing a barrow through wet streets. But that was at a distance.”

They found a place to leave the motorcar and walked the rest of the way. Covent Garden was quiet, the frenetic life of the dawn fruit and produce market in the Piazza had finished for the day, only the sweepers busy cleaning up the last of the debris and gossiping among themselves, their voices loud in the silence after the morning bustle. The opera house looked like a great ship stranded on a foreign shore.

Sergeant Biggin found his constable on a street corner, his back to the doorway of a tobacco shop. He nodded to Biggin and then acknowledged Rutledge just behind the sergeant.

“Morning, sir. That tea shop down the street. The costermonger is in there. That’s his barrow—the one with the red handles—just outside.”

“Has he seen you?” Rutledge asked. The barrow wasn’t evidence. The man’s clothing was.

“I think not, sir. Wait—the shop door is opening—”

They watched as a heavyset man sauntered through the door, but instead of the light-colored suit of clothes that Jenny Teller had told the police her husband had worn to the clinic, and presumably out of it as well, he was wearing a pair of coveralls and Wellingtons, a flat cap on his head.

“Damn!” the constable said grimly. “Beg pardon, sir, but that’s him. The costermonger. But where’s his clothing?”

“He’s just sold it to someone else. Come on!” Rutledge strode swiftly down the street toward the tea shop. The costermonger looked up, and then his gaze sharpened as he recognized that one of the men bearing down on him was a uniformed constable, the other a sergeant, moving fast in the wake of a man in street clothes.

They could see the changing expressions on his face—alarm, the debate over whether to flee or stay where he was. Outnumbered, he chose to stay, bracing himself as Biggin said, “Good morning.”

Their quarry said nothing.

“I’ve been told that you were seen wearing different clothing earlier in the day,” Biggin went on. “We’d like to have a look at it.”

They could see the man weighing any profit he might have made against trouble with the police. He chose a middle course.

“What’s wrong with an honest man making a living out of old clothes that have come into his possession?” he demanded grudgingly.

“Nothing,” Biggin retorted. “Except they aren’t old, and it’s the gentleman who was once wearing those items that we’re interested in hearing about.”

“I know nothing about him. I found the suit of clothes in a neat pile by the river, just below Tower Bridge. I hung about, to see if anyone was to come along and claim them, and when no one did, I thought I ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes.”