“I would like to have a long conversation with Mr. Gibbons, as well, if he will bother to speak to me.” I took a bite of my cruller. It was crackling on the outside and soft on the inside, as a cruller should be. I licked crumbs of sugar from my fingers. “The gist of the matter is that someone entered Denis’s house in Seven Dials, stole one letter opener, waited in the street for Mr. Pickett, stabbed him to death, then fled the instant before Denis walked outside to find the body very near his doorstep.”
Brewster nodded. “Timing the murder so the Runner and patrollers saw His Nibs instead of the real killer.”
I heaved a sigh. “An unlikely scenario. Spendlove will tear many holes in that theory.”
“He will that,” Brewster agreed.
“I need to discover who would have had the opportunity to commit the crime so speedily and efficiently. Was it deliberately planned? Or did someone seize the moment? And why on earth kill Mr. Pickett? Who the devil was he?”
“None of us know,” Brewster answered.
“So you said.” I spread my hand, to which sugar crystals still clung. “Denis didn’t know him either. Apparently, Pickett wrote to ask Denis’s assistance on some problem, but what sort of problem? Denis is willing to let me read Pickett’s letter, from which I conclude I’ll find no information there. Pickett wasn’t robbed, so it couldn’t have been a random murder by a footpad of Seven Dials.”
“Maybe it were,” Brewster offered. “And the killer didn’t have time to rob the bloke before he heard Denis come out of his house.”
Denis had posited that opinion as well. “That is possible, but it doesn’t explain how he came by Denis’s knife.”
“There is that.” Brewster didn’t look troubled by our lack of information. His method of catching a criminal was to shake a man until he confessed, but I needed to be more certain before I could present the solution to Spendlove.
“I suppose I had better find out all I can about Mr. Pickett,” I said. “Who were his enemies? Would one want to kill him, and how did this enemy accomplish it? I wish I could believe Denis accidentally dropped his paperknife in the street, and one who wanted Pickett dead came upon it and used it to do his terrible deed. But I can’t.”
“Maybe His Nibs is mistaken, and it ain’t his knife.”
“I doubt that.” I lifted the coffee I’d set aside and took a long sip, and then another bite of the cruller. As distraught as I was about this crime, I’d not let Mrs. Beltan’s baked goods go to waste.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and then came a tap on the door. I recognized Mrs. Beltan’s knock, and when I told her to enter, she craned her head around the door. “Begging your pardon, Captain.”
I came to my feet, and Brewster, belatedly, followed suit. Mrs. Beltan waved for us to sit again.
“I didn’t bring it to mind until after you’d gone upstairs,” she said apologetically as she came all the way into the room. “But a young lady called ’round to see you, Captain, a few days ago now.”
My brows rose. “What young lady?”
The only young women of my acquaintance were my daughter and those few who made polite calls on her in the presence of their mothers or aunts. None of them would seek me out in Grimpen Lane. The fact that Mrs. Beltan said young lady, in a deferential tone, meant it wasn’t any of the game girls who used to follow me about.
“She didn’t leave a name,” Mrs. Beltan said. “I gave her your address at South Audley Street and told her she might write to you about any business. She thanked me and went away, and I never saw her since.”
Chapter 5
My curiosity mounted. “Can you describe her?”
“She was bundled up against the rain, so I can’t tell you much about what she looks like. Well spoken, though. Kind eyes, which I think were brown.”
Not very helpful, but that wasn’t Mrs. Beltan’s fault. It had become known that I sometimes aided people in solving their problems, so the young woman could be a complete stranger to me.
“If she returns, will you send word?” I asked. “She might not be comfortable writing to me in Mayfair.”
“Of course. Now, you enjoy those crullers, Captain. I had quite a number coming out of the oven this morning. Too many to sell before they went stale.”
Mrs. Beltan’s way of assuring me she hadn’t given them to me out of charity. I had once been touchy on that subject.
“You’re a fine baker, missus,” Brewster told her. “You have more going begging, I’ll take them off your hands.”
Mrs. Beltan shook her head at him, though she always accepted praise when it was due. “Good morning, Captain. And to you, Mr. Brewster.”
She retreated, leaving us to finish our treats.
“Shouldn’t mention to your lady wife ye have a young woman seeking you here,” Brewster suggested.
