“You have a huntsman yourself,” Brewster interrupted to inform me. “In his young lordship’s big house in Hampshire.”
I had known that, but I didn’t consider Peter’s properties under my command.
“But I am a boorish lout, and wish to purchase a shooter of my own,” I appended.
Grenville grinned at me, then he quickly set down the ale he’d raised to his lips. “Hang on. I believe this is our man.”
A large fellow had pushed his way inside, his round belly proceeding him into the room. He had a fringe of lank gray hair under a fashionably tall hat, which covered a large bare spot, I saw when he removed his headgear. A well-tailored greatcoat flowed from broad shoulders to breeches and top boots.
The man had a round face, a bulbous nose, and a wide mouth that stretched into a smile as he loudly greeted the proprietor. The proprietor, seemingly used to him, waved him to a table, a pint of ale already in his hands.
Grenville rose, and as though he had no intention at all of encountering Mr. Cudgeon, sauntered between the close-packed tables. His gait conveyed he might mean to speak to the pretty barmaid or perhaps engage someone he’d spotted in conversation.
As Brewster and I watched, Grenville artfully bumped against Mr. Cudgeon’s broad back.
“I do beg your pardon, sir,” Grenville exclaimed. “Why, good heavens, aren’t you Cudgeon, the gunsmith?”
Cudgeon, who’d turned abruptly when Grenville had run into him, softened into an expression of delight. “Mr. Grenville. What an honor to see you.”
“Hardly an honor to be barreled into by me,” Grenville said with a light laugh. “Terribly sorry, old chap. I always have a hundred things on my mind.” He delivered the apology in the languid tones of one who did as little as possible all day.
“Not at all, not at all.” Cudgeon gave Grenville a small bow. “Please join me, sir. Let me stand you an ale. It would be my pleasure.”
“How kind.” Grenville gave him a gracious nod. “I’m with a friend, however. I couldn’t possibly impose on you.”
“No imposition in the least. Is this the captain I have heard so much about?”
I had risen when I heard the direction of the conversation. Brewster, whom Cudgeon assumed was a servant, remained where he was, watchful.
Grenville indicated me with a leisurely gesture as I approached. “Captain Gabriel Lacey. Lacey, this is Mr. Cudgeon, who makes the finest shooters in all of England.”
Cudgeon flushed and made a gesture of protest, but I could see he thought the epithet his due.
“Well met, Captain Lacey.” Cudgeon stuck out a hand. I shook it, finding his grip firm. “Let us sit.”
Cudgeon indicated a table in the front of the room, where all would be certain to see us. It wouldn’t do Cudgeon’s business any harm for the story that he’d drunk ale with Lucius Grenville to be repeated about Town.
We sat. The proprietor brought more ale, and we sipped companionably. Before I could decide how to bring the conversation around to Mr. Pickett, Cudgeon wiped a dribble of foam from his mouth and saved me the trouble.
“Was to have met a chap here tonight, a client. But the poor fellow was murdered, can you believe it? Stabbed as he walked along a London street. What sad pass have we come to?”
Grenville leaned forward, exuding sympathy and shock. “Oh, dear. How awful. Was he a good friend?”
“Eh? No, no, I barely knew the man. We spoke together, of course, while I was filling his orders. From a village in Bedfordshire, I believe—Something-on-the-Something-or-Other. Stayed in St. James’s, I believe, when he was in town.”
“Do you know, I believe I read of that today,” Grenville said with a guileless air. “Cut down in Seven Dials, I understand. But you know what that district is like. A Mr. … Pickett, his name was? Good Lord. And he was a client of yours. How fortunate you weren’t with him at the time.”
“Would I had been, Mr. Grenville.” Cudgeon shook his head sadly. “Would I had been. I’d have gone at those chaps with a stout stick. I daresay you would have as well, eh, Captain?”
“Indeed.” I patted my walking stick. “I keep a blade at my side at all times. London is sometimes more dangerous than the battlefield.”
Grenville sent me a glance that told me I was laying it on thick, and I lifted my tankard, finished with my speech.
“Ill luck for you too.” Grenville oozed solicitude. “Terrible thing for him, but now you’ve lost a client. Never good for a businessman.”
Cudgeon lifted his large shoulders. “He’d recently given me a down payment for an order—six new birding guns and three pistols. He said the shooting in his area was good, and he was hosting friends to take a brace of pigeons or grouse in the autumn.”
“I suppose you were meeting him here tonight to deliver the weapons?” I asked.
