“Most likely she needs assistance,” I said. “But no, unless she does write to me, there’s no need to discuss the matter.”
I was married to the most comely woman in London, but Donata had it in her head that there were any number of ladies in the metropolis willing to steal me away from her. Very flattering, but quite untrue.
Brewster chortled. “Ye’ve learned wisdom, guv.”
“Prudence, perhaps. Now then, I must decide how to move forward to prove Spendlove wrong. Is the answer in Seven Dials or in Pickett’s letter?”
“Neither one, if Mr. Spendlove fit up His Nibs for this murder. You need to put Spendlove through it, I think.”
Spendlove had been trying to land Denis in the dock for years. He wouldn’t be the first thief-taker to forge evidence or manipulate events to bring a criminal to trial.
“Spendlove has always struck me as a scrupulous man,” I said. “Scrupulous to a fault. He wants Denis legitimately.”
“Everyone’s got a weakness, guv—that one thing they want so much they’ll do anything to have it.”
Brewster was no doubt right. “I will certainly speak to Spendlove,” I assured him. “The magistrates will be careful with this case, though.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s some as think that if one like Mr. Denis is hanged, all crime will halt in London.” Brewster became morose. “It won’t though. It will leave a gap, and all sorts of bad ’uns will race to fill it. Won’t be safe going out of doors anymore. I wager it’s starting already.”
Whenever a powerful leader was eliminated, what usually followed wasn’t peace and prosperity, but a vacuum there was a battle to fill. I’d seen it in Mysore, and I’d witnessed it with the rest of the world at Bonaparte’s fall. So many wanted to grab the power he’d held, and the squabbling was ongoing.
London could become a hotbed of criminal leaders fighting to take over what Denis had controlled. Any wanting vengeance on Denis and his lieutenants might take this opportunity to seize it.
I realized that as my own name was associated with Denis’s now, those repercussions might come home to me, my friends, and my family. At one time, one of Denis’s enemies had thought to reach him using my stepson. I was still angry about that.
I put aside my empty cup and rose. “Let us uncover this killer, then—even if it is Spendlove himself—and restore Denis to his throne.”
“Hope you don’t think he’ll reward you,” Brewster warned as he joined me. “His Nibs likely won’t thank you for interfering.”
So Denis had already told me. “I don’t seek his favors,” I said. “I never have, as much as he’s thrust them upon me. I want peace and quiet on the streets I walk—if that is possible in this city—and the correct man to be punished for murder. If I can tweak Spendlove’s nose at the same time, then so be it.”
Brewster chuckled as I closed and locked the door. “As long as I can be witness when you’re doing the tweaking, guv. It’s all I ask.”
I returned the cups to Mrs. Beltan, thanked her again for the repast, and struck out with Brewster into the street.
The rain that had pounded us all morning had lightened a bit. I didn’t spy Denis’s coach around the square of Covent Garden, and I assumed the coachman had become fed up with waiting for us and departed. I decided to return to Seven Dials on foot, as it was a near enough walk, and see if I could discover anything to help me.
Brewster trudged beside me up St. Martin’s Lane, not happy with my choice but not hindering me.
Seven Dials was as dismal in the late-morning drizzle as it had been in the earlier pelting rain. Brewster and I made for the lane off Tower Street as quickly as we could, neither of us wanting to become prey to those who roamed these streets even at this benign hour.
Denis’s house was closed, shutters pulled over the windows. Gibbons must have locked it down, taking no chance of a break-in now that its master was gone.
I knocked on the door. If only Gibbons and Mr. Floyd had keys, then we would not be going in if Gibbons had returned to Curzon Street.
We waited for a long time, no echo of footsteps within. I thumped again, the sound ringing hollowly.
Just as I was about to give up, the front door was yanked open by a stocky man about two thirds my height, with dark hair going gray and a face that had once been battered.
He glared at me but subsided a bit when he saw Brewster. “Wot?”
“Let us in, Stout,” Brewster demanded.
I’d suspected this was the elusive Mr. Stout. “Is Mr. Gibbons here?” I asked him.
“Naw. ’E’s gone, ain’t ’e?” His words were delivered in a thick Cockney accent.
Which meant either Stout also had a key, or Gibbons had let him in before he’d departed.
