I mounted the stairs, a thick runner muffling my footsteps. There were four chambers off the landing on the first floor: three bedrooms and one study.
The most comfortable-looking bedroom must be the one used by Denis himself. The bed was an old-fashioned tester with tapestry hangings that could be pulled closed to keep out drafts. Downy pillows had been plumped against the headboard. The bed had been made, the room neat, though Denis must have slept here. No doubt Gibbons had tidied up.
A washbasin with thick towels stood in the corner, and a large wardrobe—empty now—reposed between the windows. A wing chair near the fireplace had a small table next to it, a place where a man could enjoy a book and a brandy.
Other than its pleasant furnishings, the bedchamber told me little. Denis must use it seldom because no personal items were here. Gibbons likely packed him a bag whenever Denis decided to spend the night and took everything back with them the next morning.
I left this room and entered the office. Here was a desk and chair similar to what Denis had in the Curzon Street house, the set drawn near the fireplace. The fire had been banked, dying off earlier today to judge from the new ash there.
The desk’s top was bare—I rarely saw Denis peruse more than one letter at a time. Not for him the piles of dog-eared books and crumpled papers I’d observed on other men’s desks, including my own. Denis was always painfully neat.
The drawers revealed clean sheets of foolscap, several full bottles of ink, and pens sharpened, ready for writing. I did find another letter opener, innocuous, if expensive-looking, and quite clean of blood. I wondered if Denis kept more than one here, or if Gibbons had already replaced the knife Spendlove had taken with a new one.
I sat down at the desk and laid the knife before me.
The blade was thin and sharp, which befitted something made to break wax seals and cut open the pages of new books.
Books were made by folding giant sheets of paper that were printed in a seemingly haphazard manner, but the placement of each block was in truth carefully calculated. When the large sheets were folded, each page came out in the correct order. A sergeant who’d worked for a bookbinder had explained the system to me in an idle hour.
The folds that occurred on the edges of the book needed to be cut open by the book’s purchaser in order to read it. Denis could afford new tomes and must use a paperknife often.
I lifted the knife and studied the blade’s edge. It must be new, because the metal was unscratched, with no nicks from repeated use.
While I recognized that the item was not cheap—the handle silver, the blade fine steel—I found no initials or inscription that made it unique. Not many men could afford such a utensil to cut open books, but hundreds must have been sold in this city.
Why was Denis—and the magistrate—so convinced the knife found in the wound belonged to him?
I put the knife back into the drawer, closed it, and left the chamber.
I descended to find Brewster emerging from the front drawing room, shutting its door behind him.
“Thought I’d have a look ’round meself,” he said to my inquiring glance. “Didn’t find nothing to say who came and went here last night.”
“Denis is too careful for that,” I agreed. “I will tackle Gibbons about it, and if he won’t tell me, I’ll visit Denis and ask him point blank.”
Brewster huffed a laugh. “Good luck to you.”
If Denis didn’t want me to know a fact, he’d never give up the information. This I understood, but I had to try.
“Where to now, guv?” Brewster asked.
“Back to Bow Street. I’d like to have a look at the body itself, if they’ll let me.”
Chapter 6
Brewster was not pleased with my idea. Though he did not refuse to accompany me the relatively short distance on foot toward Bow Street, he kept up a running muttered grumble about my plan as a means to pass the time.
Brewster turned away when we reached the corner where Bow Street intersected with Long Acre, saying he’d return to Mrs. Beltan’s shop for more coffee. I sent him lumbering off and entered the magistrate’s house, quieter now, once more.
Pomeroy was gone, I learned from a patroller who’d spied me enter. Spendlove, however, was there. He came at me from the shadows, an expert on how to keep a person unnerved.
“Captain Lacey.” Spendlove’s thin, reddish-blond hair was damp, showing he’d been out in the weather. His ruddy face bore the hint of a smug smile. “I told you I’d have him. With or without your help.”
“It seems you were correct,” I conceded. “Though I am of the mind that Mr. Denis was not the culprit in this instance.”
Spendlove’s smile didn’t dim. “I know your loyalty to him. Be careful, Captain. Your wife’s family protects you at the moment, but if information comes to light that implicates you in his criminal business, I will have you too.”
I did not respond to his needling. “It is not loyalty, Mr. Spendlove, but simple facts. You are a witness to Mr. Denis standing over a body, but not to the actual stabbing itself. His story that he found the man and pulled out the knife is very likely true.”
