My attempts to persuade Gibbons to enlighten me as the vehicle jolted down South Audley Street went unanswered. He kept his stare on the wall of the carriage behind my head, and I turned to the mist-filmed window to avoid it.
We did not halt in Curzon Street, where Denis lived, but turned to a narrow lane and so into Piccadilly. Carts and wagons filled this wide thoroughfare, and I heard the coachman’s curses as we wove through traffic. Piccadilly took us to Haymarket, and from there we entered the Strand.
At St. Martin’s Lane, the coach turned north, passing the elegant church of St.-Martin-in-the-Fields. My misgivings mounted as the area beyond the church became more insalubrious as we went.
“You really need to tell me where the devil we are going, Gibbons,” I said.
Gibbons did not answer. My fears were confirmed when we entered the dark and vile environs of Seven Dials and creaked along to a tiny street there.
I was in a dangerous neighborhood with a man from an underworld gang, without Brewster to guard me. I’d foolishly hopped into this coach with no regard as to where it would take me, assuming we’d arrive at Denis’s elegant home in Curzon Street. Gibbons had no loyalty to me and no liking for me either.
The man remained stone-faced and silent, his unnerving gaze never wavering.
The coach pulled to a halt near a tall house whose facade wasn’t as crumbling as those around it. It did not look occupied, and I had no idea why we were here.
Gibbons wrenched open the coach’s door and climbed down, motioning me to descend behind him. He hadn’t lowered the step, so I scrambled out without much dignity, nearly falling when my bad knee gave way upon my landing.
I managed to remain upright, swallowing any savage words, and limped behind Gibbons toward the house. The front door opened, and I was relieved to see the broad form of Brewster filling the small foyer.
I relaxed only slightly as I entered the cold interior. Again, I’d been brought here for who knew what reason, and no one in my own home knew where I’d gone.
“It’s bad, Captain,” was Brewster’s greeting. “We’re trying to decide what to do.”
He waved me into the sitting room, which was as gloomy as the March morning. No fire had been built in the hearth, and my breath misted in the dank air.
Gibbons, having delivered me, disappeared without a word into the back of the house. I did not believe he’d gone to prepare tea for his guest.
“Where is Denis?” I asked. “Whose house is this, and where is mine host?”
Brewster’s grim expression told me it was not the time for humor. “Belongs to His Nibs,” came his gruff reply. “His Nibs himself is in Newgate. Was arrested early this morning.”
I gaped as his words penetrated my bewilderment. “Arrested? Denis?”
Denis was the most careful man I knew. He ran a successful criminal organization, and he was very, very cautious. He made certain that the men he employed were scrupulously loyal and that no evidence would ever be found to incriminate him or anyone who worked for him.
I would have believed this some elaborate joke at my expense, but for the involvement of Gibbons, who had no use for me, and the anxiety on Brewster’s face.
“’Tis true, Captain,” Brewster said. “Taken by none other than Timothy Spendlove, Bow Street Runner. Didn’t he rub his hands in delight?” he finished bitterly.
My jaw remained slack. “How the devil did Denis let Spendlove arrest him?”
Timothy Spendlove, the man with red hair and brows so light they faded into his freckled face, had been after Denis for years. He’d tried in every way to pin something on Denis or his men, but Denis had evaded him with efficient ease.
Brewster answered in some despair. “Because Spendlove’s patroller caught His Nibs standing over a dead man, right there in the street.” He pointed out the window with a blunt finger. “The man in question was dead as a stone, and His Nibs was holding a knife with the bloke’s blood on it. Spendlove couldn’t believe his good luck. He carted His Nibs off to Bow Street Nick before Mr. Gibbons could do damn all about it.”
Chapter 2
At some point, I would have to close my mouth, but I was so astounded by this news it took a moment.
“How did Spendlove orchestrate that?” I demanded. “Denis would never let himself be caught over a corpse, brandishing the murder weapon. Was it the murder weapon?”
Brewster shrugged. “I suppose it must have been. Spendlove and his patrollers whisked it to Bow Street along with His Nibs, who was up before the magistrate first thing this morning. No question it’s Mr. Denis’s knife. Magistrate made short work of things. Sent His Nibs to Newgate, where he is now awaiting trial for murder.”
My leg gave a painful throb, and I had to drop into the nearest chair. It was straight-backed and plain, but like everything in Denis’s dwellings, comfortable. “I still don’t believe it. James Denis would not walk into the street in front of his own house and stab a man to death. He’d have one of his lackeys take the unfortunate person someplace very private and do the deed for him. Wouldn’t he?”
“He has in the past, that is true,” Brewster confirmed.
“Even if Denis decided to settle the matter himself, why in the street, where any witness can look out their window and see them? And why wasn’t he surrounded by his own men?” Denis never went anywhere without at least four to guard him.
