“It might be important,” I said in a hard voice. “Whoever Denis met in the Seven Dials house might have stolen his knife and killed Pickett with it.”
“They did not.”
Gibbons abruptly scowled as though he realized he’d just admitted Denis had invited someone into the house. Had he used the word they to indicate more than one person or to hide the gender of the guest?
“How can you be certain they didn’t take the knife?” I asked.
“Would have noticed.” Gibbons spoke in the tone of a man who’d have stopped a thief making off with Denis’s things, no matter how trivial the item.
“It would be very helpful to know who Denis was speaking to,” I persisted. “Whoever it was might have been the killer. If we find him, Denis will go free.”
“It’s nothing to do with Mr. Pickett getting himself stabbed,” Gibbons snapped. “Mr. Denis don’t want you mucking about in his affairs. He told me to show you the letters, nothing more.”
“Did you see who killed Pickett?” I asked him.
Gibbons shook his head. “I didn’t.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “I were downstairs in the kitchen, cooking Mr. Denis’s breakfast. I didn’t know anything was wrong until Stout ran in, shouting at me.”
“Could Stout have witnessed the murder?”
“No,” Gibbons said firmly. “He’d have said right away. We don’t grass to the beaks, but he’d have told me. Whoever fit up Mr. Denis for this murder had better watch out.” The fury in his eyes could have chilled even the most battle-hardened soldier.
“You trust Stout quite a lot,” I observed. “So does Denis. Could not Stout have killed Pickett?”
“No,” Gibbons said at once. “Stout’s not a murderer.”
“You are certain of this?”
Gibbons turned his full anger on me. “Reformers think like you do, that in the criminal classes, as they call them, every man runs about robbing, killing, looting, maybe setting buildings on fire and ravishing women if they have the time. It ain’t like that. A man who steals for a living might still go to chapel and be high-minded about never taking a human life. It’s the same in soldiering, innit? There are some who know their way around cannons, some who can shoot a rifle, and some who can ride a horse and swing a pretty sword. Ye have your task you’re good at, and ye do it. Stout knows about moving goods from one place to another without anyone being the wiser. He don’t need to stab any man in his way, because he knows how not to be caught.”
More information than I’d obtained from Gibbons since I’d met him. “There is a difference between your lot and soldiering,” I observed quietly. “All of us are trained to kill.”
Gibbons’ eyes narrowed. “Ye killed many men in your day, Captain?”
The stench and sounds of the battlefield poured to me from the place I’d buried them, along with the smell of smoke from cannons and carbines, and the acrid odor of blood, horses, death. The screaming of men and animals, the roar of guns, our bellowing cries as we charged.
I forced myself back to the present, where the tick of the case clock in the hall resounded in the silence.
“Quite a number,” I said quietly. “To be sure, they were doing their best to murder me at the time. Very fierce, were Bonaparte’s soldiers, unquestioningly loyal to him. If I’d stopped to apologize to any for what I was commanded to do, I’d have been dead and buried long ago.”
“Hmph.” Gibbons’ gaze held a modicum more respect. “But ye had your own way of soldiering, didn’t ye? Didn’t try to do any sapping or tell the generals how to run the battles.”
“I did want to do the last bit.” I gave him a slight smile, the sharpness of the memories receding. “In this I was deterred. But I take your point. Pomeroy was good at rallying his men into doing their jobs, and I was good at charging wantonly at the enemy, swinging a pretty sword, as you say. Stout is expert at moving goods. Brewster is a thief who knows fisticuffs. Robbie, I suppose, is also good with his fists.”
“He is,” Gibbons said. “None of them are murderers.”
I noted that Gibbons did not volunteer what his speciality was. I could imagine him sliding a knife through a man’s ribs without a qualm. I’d met men as cold as he was in my army life, and they had been used as assassins.
“We are back to wondering who did kill Mr. Pickett and why,” I said. “Did the murderer mean to stitch up Denis for it? Or was it coincidence that Pickett met his end in the street outside Denis’s house?”
“Don’t know, do I?” Gibbons growled.
“Neither do I, unfortunately.” I rose from the desk, leaving the letters where they were. “Why did Pickett miss his appointment, and why journey to Seven Dials? To find Denis? Or to meet someone else?”
Gibbons had resumed being close-mouthed and only stared coolly at my questions.
I hadn’t really expected him to answer. “Thank you for your help, Gibbons.” I made my way past him to the door. “If you remember anything else about last night or this morning that might be helpful, please send word.”
Gibbons stood like a stone while I exited the room. I turned back to find him ramrod stiff in the middle of the chamber, watching me with an iciness that cut.
