“Nothing to indicate why he was in Seven Dials?”
“Nothing at all.”
I pressed my fingertips together. “How many people were you able to ask about him? It hasn’t been many hours since the crime was committed.”
Pomeroy looked smug. “I have me resources. Seven Dials is closed to most, but I know those who will pass me information. None of them recognize the blasted man, though, never heard his name. As I say, my patrollers and Spendlove’s are fanning out through the City, trying to find his place of employment, if he had one.”
“A daunting task, I should think.”
“Never you worry about that. We’ll find our answers. The key, Captain, is diligent pursuit, plus a large team at our disposal. You might sit back in your comfortable chair in your Mayfair home and ponder, but my men act.”
I said nothing as I recalled the maze of ruins I’d recently run through in Pompeii as well as the tunnels under the Colosseum in Rome in pursuit of a killer. Pomeroy might believe my living was soft these days, but I still experienced plenty of uncomfortable moments.
I’d learned long ago, however, that I’d never win an argument against Pomeroy. He took orders well, but one had to be firm with that order and not allow him to undermine it.
“I wish them well in their search,” I said without challenge. “I wonder—would you be willing to let Grenville cast his gaze over Mr. Pickett’s clothes? Even better, Grenville’s valet. They’ll know exactly where the suit came from, down to the tailor’s assistant who sewed it.”
“Unless our gent obtained it secondhand,” Pomeroy pointed out.
“Even so, a tailor will know who owned the suit, and that owner—or his valet—will know to what secondhand shop it went to. That shop owner might recall selling it to Pickett.”
“What will that tell us?” Pomeroy asked. “That a man purchased a suit in a secondhand shop and walked away with it?”
“It might give us an address in Town for Mr. Pickett. We might find a household who is waiting for him, neighbors to ask about him. What do the people in Bedfordshire say?”
“Won’t know until the lads I sent to inquire return.” Pomeroy shrugged. “But if you want to play your game, very well. I’ll bundle up his clothes and send them to you so you and Mr. Grenville can have your gander. As long as I have them back before the magistrate demands them.”
“Of course.” I was grateful for this concession, though Pomeroy obviously thought Mr. Pickett’s personal effects held no importance. He’d never let me examine them otherwise.
“Don’t let Spendlove get wind of it either,” Pomeroy said.
“I would not dream of it,” I promised.
“Knife that killed Pickett belonged to Mr. Denis,” Pomeroy went on. “The accused admitted that himself.”
For opening letters and books, Denis had told me. “Anyone can steal another man’s paperknife.”
“Ah, but would they steal it from a bloke like Mr. Denis?”
“He has many enemies.” My logic was weak on this point—an enemy of Denis who had access to his house wouldn’t stop at stealing one slender knife. He’d ransack the place, or set a trap for him, or some such villainy.
Then again, Denis had been betrayed by a man he’d believed loyal before. I itched to speak to Mr. Stout, the newcomer.
“Are you looking at any other culprit for this murder?” I asked without much hope of it. “I know Spendlove is convinced, but suppose Denis is telling the truth? He bumped into the body, recognized his own knife, and pulled it out before he thought about it.”
Pomeroy shook with silent laughter. “Bumped into the body mighty hard, I’d say. Left the poor cove with a hole in his chest, didn’t he?”
I regarded him coldly. “Does your answer mean that only Denis is being considered for this crime?”
Pomeroy’s gaze was almost pitying. “Stands to reason he did it, Captain. No one else on the street, was there? Spendlove wants Denis, yes, but he does have his principles. He wouldn’t risk the conviction being overturned, so if he’d seen someone else do it, he’d say so. But according to him and his patrollers, there was none to see.”
I thought of how I’d left Denis so calmly perusing correspondence in his prison room, confident he’d soon be home. Pomeroy was telling me the opposite—that no one else could possibly have killed Mr. Pickett besides Denis himself.
I had to face the fact that Denis might have lied to me and truly done the murder. Perhaps he had faith that a judge who owed him favors would let him off, hence his unruffled demeanor.
But this felt wrong to me. Denis was a careful man—if he wanted Pickett dead, he had many better ways to quietly do away with him. The drama of being found over the body was unnecessary.
Denis wasn’t going to help me, and neither was Pomeroy, and least of all, would Spendlove. Pomeroy had promised I could look over the clothes, but only because he saw no point in it.
