“It was kind of Mr. Denis to employ you, to help you come home,” I said.
“Ain’t nuffink kind about it,” Stout retorted. “He needed somefink done, and I did it.”
He immediately snapped his mouth shut after he uttered this, as though he hadn’t meant to impart too much.
I pretended not to notice. I’d inferred that Denis hadn’t offered Stout a way back to England out of the softness of his heart. Whatever service Stout provided, Denis had trusted the man enough to do it and also to be alone in this house with him on a rainy Tuesday morning.
“Why did Denis decide to come to Seven Dials at all?” I asked. “From what he tells me, Mr. Pickett was to meet him at the Curzon Street house last evening.”
Stout’s eyes flickered, but he answered readily enough. “To meet someone.”
“Oh? Who?”
“What business is it of mine?” Stout scoffed. “I were below stairs when the visitor came, and below stairs when ’e went. You’ll ’ave to ask ’im who ’e was.”
I noted Stout didn’t actually indicate whether he knew the name of Denis’s evening caller, but I realized he’d never tell me even if he did.
It was interesting, though. That caller might have filched the knife from Denis’s desk—or wherever he kept it—and returned in the morning to stab Mr. Pickett.
Who hadn’t been expected. Why would a killer presume Pickett would be here?
Of course, the assailant could have been following Pickett about, seeking an opportunity to murder him for whatever reason he’d decided upon. Perhaps the killer knew Mr. Pickett had written to Denis for help and then wrangled an appointment with Denis to find out more about it. Had seen the knife and stolen it, then taken up his vigil on Mr. Pickett and killed him when the man had wandered into this back lane of Seven Dials.
I could not decide why anyone would go to all this trouble, or whether the coincidences that would have to happen were plausible, but this entire business was bewildering.
“My only wish is to ensure that Denis isn’t wrongly accused,” I told Stout. “If you remember anything that can help with that at all, please seek me out. A message left at Mrs. Beltan’s bakeshop in Grimpen Lane, Covent Garden, will reach me.”
“Not likely I will, is it?” Stout said. “Told you everything I know.”
I was certain he hadn’t, but I understood that arguing further would be futile.
“I thank you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I will disturb you no further.”
Stout blinked as though he’d expected me to snarl at him for not disgorging more information. He gave me a curt nod. “As ye say, guv.”
Without a goodbye, Stout turned and tramped to the back stairs, where he wrenched open the door, scuttled inside, and banged the door closed behind him.
“Told you he were a hard bloke,” Brewster said darkly.
“He is, but nonetheless, he did tell me a few things Denis did not reveal. That Denis had an appointment here late last night. That he stayed until morning with only Mr. Gibbons and Stout in attendance. Unusual, do you not think?”
Brewster gave me a reluctant nod. “Not His Nibs’ way of doing things, no.”
“I wonder if Gibbons will tell us who the meeting was with. Denis has given Stout a strange amount of trust. Gibbons has been with him for years and privy to most of Denis’s business, but I wonder why Denis is suddenly letting a near stranger in on his secrets.”
Brewster shrugged. “His Nibs keeps his own counsel. He might do a lot of peculiar things that don’t seem natural to you and me, but he has his reasons.”
He spoke with the calm acknowledgment of one who’d look the other way at almost anything as long as his pay packet continued to arrive.
“I am certain that is true,” I said. “But this time, Denis’s own counsel has landed him in Newgate. To get him out of there, I will have to pry into his affairs.”
“He won’t like that, I’m thinking.”
“He has already told me so. But such considerations have never stopped me in the past,” I said with confidence I did not feel. “If I thought Denis had committed this crime, I would agree with you and Stout about minding my own affairs, but I know he did not.” I glanced up the steep staircase. “I’ll have a look in Denis’s office, if I may.”
“None here to stop you,” Brewster pointed out.
Stout had retreated, and the house appeared to be deserted. The downstairs rooms, which I’d seen earlier this morning, were empty of personal effects, likely used only for waiting visitors.
