It was interesting, Rutledge observed, that the costermonger knew precisely which clothing the police were after. They would have been a windfall, worth as much as he might earn in a week’s time selling old clothes and boots and men’s hats. There had been no pretense of ignorance, no denials. It was possible he was telling the truth.

“And where would the items in question be now?” Biggin asked. The costermonger reluctantly answered, “I sold them to a gent in the tea shop. He fancied the cut of them, he said.”

The constable was already reaching for the door latch and disappeared inside the shop. He came out shortly thereafter with a known pickpocket, one Sammy Underwood, a well-spoken man of forty-five, who could pass for a gentleman in Teller’s suit of clothes. Rutledge had seen him at flat races, hobnobbing with rich punters and readily accepted in his pressed castoffs. A better sort of purse to pick there than the casual encounter at a street crossing.

Underwood demanded his own apparel back before he would consent to give up Teller’s clothing. The exchange made, he scuttled off before the police took an interest in his activities.

They spoke to the costermonger for another quarter of an hour, but he refused to change his story, although he claimed that he had not found shoes or hat with the trousers, shirt, and coat.

Sergeant Biggin turned to Rutledge. “A man doesn’t leap into the river wearing his hat and shoes.”

“For all we know, they were taken away before the costermonger found the rest of Teller’s belongings.”

Rutledge made a brief examination of the clothing. The labels had been removed.

The costermonger said quickly, “They were that way when I found them.”

“Yes,” Biggin retorted, “and the moon’s the sun’s daughter.”

“It’s true,” the man exclaimed. “I’ll swear to it, if you like.”

Rutledge tended to believe him, although the sergeant remained dubious. But if it wasn’t the costermonger—then who had taken the time to remove them? Someone intent on throwing dust in the eyes of the police? But if it hadn’t been for the vigilance of a constable, the clothing would have disappeared into the backstreets of East London, never to come to light.

“Ye canna’ find a man sae easily in different clothes,” Hamish pointed out.

To buy a little time, perhaps. Or travel.

In the end, the costermonger lost his sale, and Rutledge, after complimenting the constable for his good eye, left with a box under his arm containing what appeared to be Walter Teller’s clothing.

He went directly to Bond Street, and walked up and down, looking in shop windows. And then he saw what he was after. Grantwell & Sons specialized in dressing men who spent much of their time in the country, and displayed over a handsome chair in the window was a man’s suit of similar style and cut.

The shop was not busy at that hour, and Rutledge had the full attention of the owner. Bolts of fine cloth, trays of buttons and collars, and an array of hats indicated a clientele with the resources and taste to dress well. Sammy Underwood had found himself a bargain.