Chapter 9
We halted before a building that rose four floors from the street, with rectangular windows and a fanlight over the black door. The building next to it, of similar architecture and size, must hold the gentlemen’s lodgings.
Grenville had told us during the ride that he recognized the club Gibbons had described.
“The lads at White’s call this the Pretenders’ Club,” Grenville said as he opened the carriage door. “Its members, you see, are gentlemen, but not connected to any families considered important. Those at White’s condescendingly say there’s nothing wrong with them, salt of the earth, yes, but one doesn’t take them into one’s circle.” He shook his head. “The fools don’t realize what power such men have.”
“Was Pickett a powerful man?” I asked. “Wouldn’t I have heard of him, if so?”
“Not necessarily.” Grenville leapt lightly from the coach and stood by to assist me if need be. I appreciated that he didn’t simply reach for me as though I were a feeble elderly uncle. “Such things aren’t talked of. But the future is in the upstarts who actually hold all the money these days, even if they’re not invited into White’s, or to Brooks’s, that bastion of radicalism.”
I managed to gain the street without falling or seizing Grenville’s arm for support. “Brooks’s is a bastion of radicalism?” I asked in amusement.
“To those in White’s, yes,” Grenville answered with a straight face.
“The question is, did Pickett have money?” I asked. “Enough to make him enemies? His letter to Denis said he’d recently come into good fortune, but not what that fortune was. The house he’d inherited in Bedfordshire? Though Pomeroy said it was small.”
“Perhaps we’ll learn of it here.” Grenville stepped to the front door of the club and rapped on it.
Brewster, who’d hopped off the back of the hackney, announced he’d keep watch. He regarded the buildings with suspicion, suspecting he wouldn’t be welcome, even below stairs. He leaned against the hackney’s wheel, folding his arms, resembling a boulder too sturdy to notice a few wind gusts.
A footman opened the door, but we were prevented entering by a thin man who hurried out of a vestibule. He wore the bland but polite expression of one ready to turn us away, then shock came over his face when he recognized Grenville.
“Sir.” He bowed with exaggerated respect. “What brings you to our humble club, Mr. Grenville?”
“My friend, Captain Lacey.” Grenville indicated me with a wave of his gloved hand. “We have bad news, I am afraid, Mr. … er …”
“Hawes,” the man supplied. “Gilbert Hawes. I am the manager here. What is this bad news?” He gazed at us with the trepidation of a man expecting his entire world to crumble.
“Mr. Bernard Pickett,” I said. “He has rooms here.”
“Mr. Pickett, yes.” His worry fled, his expression puzzled.
“I must explain that Mr. Pickett is deceased,” I said as gently as I could. “He was killed this morning.”
Mr. Hawes flushed, then his face drained of color. “Deceased? But he’s … He needs to … He cannot be dead, sir.”
“I am sorry, but it is true.” I sent him a sympathetic nod. “I saw his body.”
Mr. Hawes stared at us, then his legs abruptly gave way, and he clutched at the coat stand against the wall. Grenville and I both caught him by the elbows and lowered him onto a nearby bench. The footman gaped at us but with far less distress and no real anguish.
“Needs to what, Mr. Hawes?” Grenville took a seat next to the man, planting his walking stick between his knees. “You said Mr. Pickett needed to do… something?”
“What?” Hawes gulped. I took pity on him and handed him the brandy flask I carried in my coat pocket. Hawes drank deeply then let out a long breath and passed the flask back to me. “Thank you, sir. This is very sudden. Er …” Hawes gathered his thoughts. “I meant Mr. Pickett had an appointment this evening, to dine with his friend, Mr. Cudgeon.”
“Cudgeon?” Grenville asked in surprise. “Adam Cudgeon?”
“Oh, yes, they are great friends.” Hawes flushed anew. “Were, I suppose I should say. They dined together here or met at a pub in Piccadilly. Cudgeon wasn’t a member, you understand. Only a guest. He is in trade.”
Hawes intoned this last as though assuring us that the Arlington was very careful with its membership.
“Would you let us see Pickett’s lodgings?” Grenville asked. “It might be helpful.”
He did not explain how it would be helpful or volunteer that I was acquainted with any Runners. A manager’s loyalty was to the club members, not to the watchmen or the magistrates, and Hawes might refuse us entry if he believed we’d immediately rush to Bow Street once we were finished here.
“Of course,” Hawes agreed without argument.
He then fell silent as he stared straight at Grenville. I wondered at his sudden wordlessness, then realized Hawes was making an odd hand signal, bringing his smallest and ring finger around to touch his thumb.
