Brewster looked back and forth between us, frowning at our politeness.
“A bad business,” Wilks went on. “Perhaps we can speak?”
Brewster and I had come as far as West Street, near the Customs House. In a lane beyond this was a small tavern. I noted that a few gentlemen walking along this street wore small black caps on the crowns of their heads—the Jewish synagogue was near.
Captain Wilks and I agreed to enter the tavern. The regulars lifted their heads and regarded us with suspicion when we walked in, but soon went back to their ale and quiet muttered conversation.
Wilks raised his brows at Brewster, who took a stool against the wall near the table where we seated ourselves.
“He is trusted,” I told Wilks. “Whatever you say to me will not be repeated.” That is, to anyone but Denis, should Brewster believe Denis needed to know it.
Not until we had full tankards in front of us did Wilks come around to what he wished to say.
“I heard the coroner ask you to account for your whereabouts the night—the early morning rather—when Joshua Bickley was killed.”
I nodded. “I was at supper at the Royal Pavilion. With my wife, several friends, many acquaintances, and the Regent himself.”
“Including men of my regiment,” Wilks acknowledged. “Colonel Isherwood and Lord Armitage. Colonel Isherwood is now dead, from a sudden fever, his son says.”
“Lord Armitage is one of the Forty-Seventh?” I asked in surprise.
“Nominally.” Wilks looked disapproving. “He was at Austerlitz, as he no doubt will have told you. After Armitage returned to London with his wife, he bought himself a commission and joined our regiment on the Peninsula just before Ciudad Roderigo.”
Ciudad Roderigo had been a very bad business, and the fact that Armitage had been there startled me. “I was at Salamanca,” I said. “The Forty-Seventh combined forces with my regiment there, but I never met Lord Armitage.”
“Because he stayed in the rear, dining with other aristocrats in Spanish noble houses.” Wilks’s disgust was plain.
“You mean he wanted the credit for fighting Napoleon without actually having to soil his gloves.”
“Indeed,” Wilks said. “Lord Armitage and Colonel Isherwood were friends, I believe, or at least acquaintances. They were often in each other’s company. However, I do not like to gossip about the colonel, especially now that he is deceased.”
“I understand.” I took a sip of ale to indicate I would not press him. I wanted to, very much, but I understood the sort of man Wilks was—one who obeyed the rules of honor. I had quarreled with Colonel Brandon for years, but I would never disparage him in front of a man from another regiment.
“Is this what you wished to ask me about—the supper at the Pavilion?” I inquired.
“No, you misunderstand. You told the coroner that you dined at the Pavilion and then went home and slept after you spoke Mr. Bickley. But you did not. I saw you.”
My heartbeat quickened, and my hand tightened on my tankard. “Did you? Where?”
“In a public house. One very near the Quaker Meeting. It’s a friendly place and I take an ale there on nights I am off duty. You came in alone, sat down in a corner and asked for coffee. I could see you were in a bad way, which is no doubt why you wanted the coffee. You told the coroner you were inebriated.”
“I was,” I said cautiously. “I must have imbibed too well at supper.”
“You were befuddled, yes, but in a strange way. I’ve seen many a drunken man in my time, but you seemed more alert and aware, your speech not slurred.”
I had absolutely no memory of walking into this pub, let alone drinking coffee. “Is that all I did?” I asked, my tone sharp.
Wilks watched me carefully. “You truly do not remember?”
“Of course not. If I had, I’d have told the coroner.”
He held up a hand. “Peace, Captain. I came to you about this because you seem a decent fellow and genuinely puzzled about that night. You sipped your coffee and appeared to calm yourself. Then the publican handed you a paper. You read it and shoved yourself up and away very quickly. I watched you go, wondering, but you disappeared quickly. I assumed you’d received dire news.”
A message? But from whom and about what? “What did I do with the paper?” I demanded.
“Crumpled it in your hand, as far as I can remember.”
“I didn’t throw it into the fire?” I asked in agitation.
