“I knew officers who were Freemasons, but I never paid much attention. If lordlings want to wear strange clothes and communicate with ridiculous finger movements, I wish them well. I thought these groups were dedicated to philanthropy, not murdering cabinet ministers.”
“Many are,” Grenville said, still untroubled. “It was a la mode years ago to be a bit revolutionary, especially when things were stirring in France against the Ancien Regime. Not that we meant events to turn bloodthirsty here, but we were fired up with the spirit of liberty for all. Young Prince George spoke loudly about being free of monarchs—this was long before he became one, of course. Bonaparte’s rise changed our praise of him to worry he’d overrun us, but some societies continued to believe that Bonaparte had the right of it. He was a great reformer, after all, ridding the Continent of fairly archaic and rather backward systems.”
I grew steadily cooler as I listened to Grenville’s speech. “I spent my entire youth sweating in faraway lands or freezing in closer ones while Napoleon’s soldiers did their best to cut me down,” I stated. “His reforms meant nothing to me while artillery balls were flying past my face.”
The amused tone with which Grenville had given me his explanation fled. “Oh, I do beg your pardon, my dear chap. I realize it’s much different to theorize over sweet wine in warm drawing rooms than to return to your tent every night thanking God you are still alive. All my friends’ pontificating didn’t drive Bonaparte out of Spain and Belgium. You did.”
“Do not assign too much divine power to ordinary soldiers,” I said in annoyance. “We obeyed orders to fight where we were pointed. Our commanders didn’t want Bonaparte stomping his boots all over England, plus Boney threatened the very supply of port you drank in your meetings.”
“I take your point, my friend.” Grenville lifted his hands, conceding. “I should not speak of such things so cavalierly. What I meant to convey is that secret societies abound in London and the rest of England. They did in the past and they do now. Most of them are harmless, with no more power than a broom and a dustbin.”
“The Cato Street one was not,” I pointed out. “Pickett told you he feared he was involved with them. A curious way to put it. He’d know, wouldn’t he, whether he was or not?”
“One would think so.” Grenville returned to his examination of the bureau drawer. “Perhaps he attended one meeting, realized what they were about, and decided against returning to another. Then when they were all arrested, he panicked.”
“Telling everyone who would hear him that he might be entangled with the conspirators?”
“He might have been so upset he didn’t know what to do,” Grenville suggested. “Hoping Langley and I would reassure him or suggest a way out of his dilemma. I’m afraid we were only bewildered and suggested nothing.”
“Which was most likely why he wrote to Denis,” I said. “Perhaps to ask assistance in covering up whatever he’d been doing, or for help in fleeing to the Continent. The second request is more likely. Denis has done such things for others in the past.”
“We’ll never know, will we?” Grenville said with a sigh. “Someone made certain Mr. Pickett never reached Denis at all.” He closed the drawer and opened another. “Not much in here. Linens and unmentionables, which are clean and well-made though not extravagant. A man of decent means but not lavish ones.”
I sat on the edge of the bed, both because my knee was aching and because I wanted to search the bedside table. Its only drawer revealed something more promising—letters and a leather-bound journal.
I drew out the journal and flipped through pages. Pickett hadn’t written much, only dates and initials, probably of his appointments. In the final entries I found one that indicated an appointment with a bootmaker yesterday afternoon. The next one read J.D. 45 Curzon Street, 7 pm. I gathered this indicated his meeting with Denis at seven o’clock last night.
The only entry for today was A.C., Fox Run, 8 pm.
Fox Run was the name of a tavern in Piccadilly, an ordinary place. “A.C.,” I said to Grenville. “Hawes mentioned Pickett was to have dined with a man called Cudgeon tonight. Could he be the A.C. here?” I held up the page to show Grenville. “They’re meeting at the Fox Run.”
Grenville shut the drawer. “I wager he is.”
“You knew the man’s name,” I said. “It surprised you.”
“Because I have had dealings with Mr. Cudgeon myself, as has many a gentleman. His Christian name is Adam, so yes, he must be A.C.” Grenville faced me. “Mr. Cudgeon, you see, is a manufacturer and seller of guns. Some of the finest shooters in the country, in fact.”
Chapter 10
“Guns.” My misgivings rose. “Mr. Pickett is becoming more and more in the thick of things, isn’t he?”
“Cudgeon makes hunting weapons,” Grenville said. “Fowling pieces, mostly, though some pistols and rifles too. Like Purdey, though he’s not as famous. Very well-crafted shooters, I must say. I own several.”
I laid the diary on the bed and stood, my misgivings becoming dark uneasiness. “Pickett believed his name might be connected with the Cato Street men, and he had dealings with a gunmaker. I do not like this at all.”
“I’ve never heard that Cudgeon sympathized with radicals,” Grenville said. “He’s an artist with his fowling pieces and charges a hefty price for them, but he sells to gentlemen to shoot at game birds. Also dueling pistols, so we can shoot at each other from time to time. Hardly the same sort of weapons an army would use.”
“According to you, London is rife with secret societies,” I reminded him. “Perhaps Cudgeon truly is supplying such weapons, or the promise of them, to revolutionaries. He is in position to make them on demand, isn’t he?”
“We could ask him,” Grenville said. “If he’s not aware that Pickett is dead, he might arrive at the meeting. At the Fox Run, you said?”
“It seems so.”
“Then I propose we go there this evening and discover what we can from Mr. Cudgeon. If he comes, that is.”
While I’d be escorting Donata and Gabriella out tonight, Donata rarely left the house before ten. I could meet with Cudgeon at the tavern and have plenty of time afterward for whatever entertainment I’d be attending.
“I think that an excellent plan,” I agreed. “Let us dine at the Fox Run.”
