“Denis usually has more than one bodyguard with him. What happened to the others?”
“If any others were here, they legged it too.” Brewster spoke with reluctance. “His Nibs would have told them to. If we’re spotted by a Robin Redbreast, we go separate ways and lie low a few days.”
I did not point out his inconsistency in condemning Stout for doing exactly what Denis had trained him to. “I’d like to speak to Stout. Also, to anyone who was in this house at the time. Do you know why Denis was here?”
Brewster relaxed a fraction. “You’re going to help, then?”
“Well, of course I am going to help,” I said in irritation. “I’d be churlish to dust off my hands and walk away, wouldn’t I?”
“I thought maybe you’d be happy to.”
I started to retort to the contrary but conceded Brewster’s point. “When I first met Denis, yes, I would have. I despised him and what he did. However, I’ve learned that he is more honorable than many who are supposed to have said honor, and more honest than they are as well. He became who he is through circumstance, not evilness of heart.”
While Denis didn’t like to show his emotions, I’d become aware that he felt things deeply. He’d learned how to hide such vulnerabilities well, and for good reason.
“Suppose that’s true,” Brewster agreed.
“Besides all that, I refuse to believe he’d be this foolish. Everything Denis does is carefully calculated, often years in advance.”
Brewster gave me a nod. “As you say, guv.”
“Then I have no choice but to find out what really happened.”
Brewster blew out a breath. “Good.”
Gibbons appeared in the doorway in time to hear the last part of our conversation. “Are you going to get on with it, then?” he asked both of us coldly.
I hauled myself to my feet. “Of course, Mr. Gibbons. Please show me the scene of the murder.”
The house was situated in a small cul-de-sac off Tower Street, which itself lay between the X formed by Little Earl and St. Andrews Streets, in the heart of Seven Dials.
Once upon a time, Seven Dials had been a luxurious development, with seven avenues meeting in a neat central square that held a statue and a fountain. However, larger, more sumptuous townhouses in Mayfair soon drew the wealthy from this area, and the neighborhood decayed swiftly. Both fountain and statue were long gone, leaving only broken pavement in their wake.
Seven Dials had already been a maze of small lanes and inlets not found on any map—a mapmaker had to be brave to enter this area and make his notes. Now the neighborhood was a warren of tiny streets holding houses divided into rooms to let, cramming too many into cramped spaces. The formerly elegant main square boasted gin rooms and taverns and had become a well-known meeting place for those who preferred communion with their own sex.
Occasionally there were pockets that weren’t so rundown, such as this lane, and in particular, Denis’s house here. He did not keep it pristine, which would cause it to stand out, but the windows were whole, the shutters attached and working, and the doors fitted with stout locks.
The street was deserted, rain pattering on my hat as I wandered the pavement where Gibbons directed me.
Brewster dogged my steps, ready both to look for any evidence leading to the true killer and beat off any attackers who might spring from the shadows. Gibbons remained under the small portico at the door, gazing at the rain as though it personally offended him.
There was no blood on the street. It had been pelting rain most of the night, and it still fell in a thin but steady stream. The body had lain a few feet from Denis’s door, but either the unfortunate Mr. Pickett hadn’t bled much, or the rain had washed his blood away.
I straightened from where I’d crouched to scan the cobblestones and then the columns flanking Denis’s front door.
I indicated the area with the tip of my walking stick. “No spray.”
Brewster squinted where I gestured and even Gibbons turned his head to look.
“None I can see,” Brewster agreed.
“Means the wound was small,” Gibbons stated. “The killer didn’t slash the man’s throat or disembowel him. Probably a single stab to the heart.”
“A deep one,” I said. “Those can sometimes emit very little blood. The man dies from bleeding inside, or the pierced heart stopping.”
Gibbons nodded. “’Appens.”
I had formed my conclusion based on my experiences on the battlefield. I didn’t like to think about where Gibbons had come by his knowledge.
