Cudgeon tried and failed to conceal that he thought me a simpleton. “I’d hardly deliver them in a tavern.” He eased the words with an indulgent smile. “Pickett was going to bring me the final payment this evening, then I’d have the guns delivered to his house in Bedfordshire.”
I watched Cudgeon carefully, but he seemed to have nothing more on his mind than sorrow that a man had been killed and regret that the he’d not receive the last payment for an order beforehand. He betrayed little worry about why Pickett had wanted so many weapons.
On the other hand, Cudgeon was good at not letting me look into his eyes. Such a thing could mean he was guilty of providing weapons to a band of conspirators. Or, it could mean he’d learned through years of selling to the aristocracy how to be courteous but remain at arm’s length.
Grenville commiserated with Cudgeon for a bit, both of them appalled at how dangerous it was for a man to simply walk home of an evening.
“But he wasn’t walking home,” I pointed out. “He was in Seven Dials, and he lodges in St. James’s. Why did he go to that part of London, I wonder?”
Cudgeon shrugged. “He might have had another appointment.”
“Why in Seven Dials?” I persisted. “A terribly dangerous area, I’ve heard. He must have known no good could come of that. Though if he wasn’t a London man, I imagine he simply lost his way.”
Cudgeon ’s conviction that I was an empty-headed oaf increased. “Possibly. But where a man walks in London is his business, isn’t it? Or ought to be.” His tone said I should keep further speculation to myself.
“Exactly.” I nodded, as though I thought Cudgeon wise. “He should go where he likes and not be stabbed to death for it.”
Cudgeon lifted his brows. “Quite.”
I subsided. Cudgeon and Grenville left off speaking about Pickett and began a discussion of firearms. Grenville proved he knew much more about weapons and shooting than I had previously been aware. He’d told me that his hunting master was in charge of acquiring his fowling pieces, but apparently, Grenville could take them apart and put them back together himself when he had a mind to.
I realized Grenville had expertise filed away that he didn’t boast of. He brought out these skills when necessary and kept silent when they were not. Very likely another reason so many people admired him.
Cudgeon settled in to enjoy his conversation with Grenville, happy with the company. At half past nine, Grenville, seeing that Cudgeon could likely talk all night, rose with every show of reluctance, and explained that we had more engagements that evening.
“Indeed.” Cudgeon launched himself to his feet with surprising speed. “An important gent such as yourself must have a dozen invitations to answer. So kind of you to share a pint with me, Mr. Grenville.”
“Not at all,” Grenville said. “Perhaps our paths will cross here again one evening.”
“I’d be gratified if they did.” Cudgeon pumped Grenville’s hand in an enthusiastic handshake, then belatedly realized he should shake mine as well. He released me much more quickly than he had Grenville and saluted us with his empty glass.
Grenville and I then exited the Fox Run, Brewster draining the last of his ale before slipping out behind us.
“Well, Lacey, do we believe Cudgeon’s our murderer?” Grenville asked once we were in a hackney, heading back to South Audley Street. “He betrayed little concern about what Pickett intended for the weapons and took his story of wanting them for the grouse season at face value. Likewise, he showed no fear that the man’s death was any way connected to him.”
“Is Cudgeon a good liar?” I mused. “Or simply a businessman shocked at Pickett’s death? What happens to Pickett’s down payment, I wonder? Does Cudgeon return it to the family, or will he consider it his because he fulfilled the order, even if it wasn’t delivered. Is it enough money to kill a man for?”
“Who knows?” Grenville shook his head. “I’m afraid this is a tricky one, Lacey. Pickett’s murder must have been done by a footpad and is nothing more complex. Perhaps this footpad broke into Denis’s house and managed to steal only the knife before he heard someone coming and fled. Pickett, on his way to visit Denis, sees the burglar, they tussle, and Pickett is stabbed. Knife left in the wound in the footpad’s haste to get away.”
“It’s as possible as any other solution,” I said tiredly. “Except I saw Pickett’s body. He did not struggle. He was killed swiftly, was probably dead before he even realized it.”
“That would be a mercy for him. I didn’t know the chap well, but I feel sorry for him. Pickett stepped into something he didn’t intend to and was killed for his pains.”
Grenville’s description of Pickett evoked pathos. Then again, Pickett had conducted himself recklessly, in my opinion, which had done nothing more than get himself killed and send Denis straight into Spendlove’s clutches.
“What do you propose now?” Grenville asked. “I suppose we could go to whatever village Pickett was from in Bedfordshire and find out more about him.”
“I think we can discover things closer to home.” I leaned my hands on my walking stick. “I believe it is time, my friend, that you introduced me to one of your secret societies.”
Chapter 12
Grenville regarded me in vast surprise. “My dear fellow, have you run mad?”
“What better way to discover whether Pickett was truly involved in some sort of conspiracy?” I asked in a reasonable manner. “Let us suppose for a moment that someone did not want him talking about the guns and who he’d purchased them for. Was it the Cato Street men? Or a person connected to them? I must begin somewhere.”
Grenville conceded this. “As I told you, most people belong to several. We will have to attend meetings until we find a group that contains gentlemen who knew Pickett.” He did not seem delighted at the prospect.
“Is it so dangerous?” I grimaced when the hackney hit a solid bump. “The way you describe these societies, they sound rather benign. Perhaps Pickett simply met gentlemen in his who were more serious.”
