He did not move to close the door, and I didn’t bother. I tramped to the stairs and down, saying my good-byes to the painted milkmaid in her vivid blues and yellows along the way.
Grenville and I left the house, Brewster joining us. The wind through the streets had turned blustery. Clouds scuttled overhead, the rain gone, but cold had taken its place. We bent our heads as we trudged up South Audley Street, the sharp breeze making conversation all but impossible.
We’d nearly reached Grosvenor Chapel when a shout of “Captain!” behind us made me turn. I beheld a small and wiry man jogging after us, his stride hampered by a slight limp.
I recognized him as Lewis Downie, who worked for Denis. He’d once been a lightweight pugilist, until a broken hand turned him into a groomsman for Denis’s horses. He did other jobs as well, often sent by Denis as a messenger on various errands.
We waited for Downie to catch up. He gave us a nod and continued around the corner of Grosvenor Chapel, taking the narrow lane that led to the burial ground. The long brick church with its rows of arched windows loomed beside us as we followed him, the wall cutting the wind.
When we reached the gate that separated the churchyard from the lane, Downie stopped and faced us, hunkering into his coat.
“Heard some of the questions you were asking Gibbons,” he said. “He weren’t exactly straight with ye.”
I was not surprised by this. “What did he leave out?”
“If you’re thinking Gibbons lied because he landed Mr. Denis in the nick, you’re wrong,” Downie said. “He’s a cold fish, is Gibbons, but he’d lay down his life for Mr. Denis. He keeps mum from habit, which is usually a good one. But I don’t see why it hurts for you to know. Mr. Denis needs out of that place, don’t he?”
Brewster rumbled with impatience. “Just tell him what ye came to say.”
“I know who Denis went to Seven Dials to meet last night.” Downie glanced about as though worried he’d be overhead, but we were the only ones standing in the narrow street. “It were a toff, weren’t it? One what didn’t want to be seen rolling up to Mr. Denis’s Mayfair home in a carriage with his crest on the door. So, Mr. Denis goes off to Seven Dials to meet him.”
“Do you know the name of this toff?” Grenville asked eagerly.
“I do. Not because His Nibs told me, you understand, but because he’s done the arrangement before. Last time it was me who went with Gibbons to man the place while they met in secret. This time he took Stout.” If Downie resented the substitution, he didn’t show it. “The man in question is the Honorable Mr. Enoch Haywood. A big mouthful for such a small cove.”
“Haywood?” Grenville started.
Downie nodded. “He always wants to meet in the dead of night in some out-of-the-way place, insisting Mr. Denis brings only one or two trusted guards who keep from sight. I don’t know what Mr. Denis did for him, but His Honorableness has been twitchy about it ever since. He should be in transports, shouldn’t he, thinking Mr. Denis is about to be hanged?” Downie trailed off morosely. “We can’t let that happen, Captain. I’m too old to seek a new man to work for, and I’d never find another place as soft.”
“I understand, Mr. Downie,” I said.
“You don’t, and that’s a fact. Life is precarious for gents like me. But never mind. You find out what happened, and I won’t have to worry.”
I imagined it was indeed difficult for a pugilist who was past his prime and couldn’t fight anymore to put bread on his table. Whoever stepped into the hole Denis left might not be interested in employing Downie or any other of Denis’s faithful lackeys.
“Thank you for the information, Mr. Downie,” I said sincerely. “Very helpful. I will put it to good use.”
“Doubt the toff did in the Pickett bloke,” Downie said. “The Honorable Mr. Haywood is very prissy. Probably never lifted a knife in all his days.”
“Even so, it is a step forward,” I assured him.
“Gibbons trusts no one, not that I blame him. He’s had a hell of a life.” Downie rubbed his gloved hands together against the cold. “I’ll be getting back indoors before he misses me.”
Touching his forehead in a half-salute, he trotted along the chapel’s high wall back to South Audley Street and disappeared around the corner.
“Enie Haywood.” Grenville shook his head in disbelief. “Who’d have thought it? I concur with Mr. Downie, that Haywood is more likely to hide behind a tree than attack a man with a knife. He isn’t feeble—he’s a good rider and competent at shooting defenseless waterfowl—but he’s very careful with himself. He’d be more worried about getting his gloves stained than ridding the world of Mr. Pickett.”
“I would be interested in what he has to say about it,” I said grimly.
“We can certainly speak to him. He might not reveal why he wanted to meet with Denis, but perhaps he could tell us whether he saw anyone near the house when he came and went. His coachman might prove useful as well.”
I did want to interview them both, and I’d be grateful for Grenville’s help. At the moment, however, I wished to find Pickett’s lodgings and look over what he’d left behind.
I took the opportunity in the relative shelter of the chapel to tell Grenville and Brewster what I’d learned from Gibbons and the letters. After some debate, we decided it best to visit Pickett’s rooms right away.
We left the chapel for South Audley Street, where Grenville procured a hackney to take us to St. James’s. The hackney was stuffy and rather odorous but as the conveyance spared my knee more soreness, I did not complain too much.
The coach turned down St. James’s Street from Piccadilly and then lurched around a corner after we passed Brooks’s club and entered the narrow lane called Park Place.
