Slumping into a chair, Luke nodded.
Mick shut the door firmly behind Luke and stood for a moment, hands on hips, assessing him. “Yer looks all done in—an’ t’ ’oss looks worse.” He found a bottle and a mug and placed both on the table. “Wet yer whistles then tell us t’ worst.”
“T’ ’orse cast a shoe this side o’ Braintree. Took a whiles ter find a smith ter get a new ’un. Then it were dark, an’ I waited until first light. Got ter Colchester late next day—but t’ Beadle an’ ’is men got there afore me.”
He drained the rum in the glass and let Mick refill it.
“We done our best ter find where they ’id ’em, but no one seed anythin’, ’eard anythin’ nor wanted ter say ought.” He took another drink. “Lucky young Ben escaped. ’E give a description o’ t’ lad wot set ’em up.”
He wiped a hand across
