“Lacey, this is Rudolph Langley,” Grenville said.
“Ah.” I offered my hand to Langley, who shook it with a firm grip. “Mr. Pickett’s friend.”
“Mr. Pickett’s acquaintance, rather,” Langley corrected me. “I did not know him well, but I am so very sorry to hear of his death. He was a decent sort.”
“You’re one of the few I’ve met who knew him at all,” I said. “Forgive me if I ask too many pointed questions, but I have so little information.”
Langley looked surprised at my declaration, but he nodded affably. “Fire away.”
“How did you meet Mr. Pickett?”
“At the races,” Langley said without hesitation. “He liked a flutter, as do I. Any race meeting within a day’s drive was likely to find the both of us there. We’d strike up conversation when we saw each other. We frequent Tattersall’s as well—did anyway.” He broke off awkwardly.
“Do you know if Mr. Pickett has any family?” I asked. “They'd need to be informed of his passing.”
Langley shook his head. “From what I gathered, he was very much alone in the world, though this did not seem to weigh on him very heavily. A distant cousin of his passed away earlier this year—I think he said it was a cousin, but to be honest, I didn’t pay as much attention to his ramblings as I ought. He inherited a house in Bedfordshire. Not a grand estate, he was quick to point out, but a small home. There was a mere hundred and fifty pounds to go with it, I believe, which he already spent furnishing the place. He jested about becoming lord of the manor, only a very small manor.” Langley’s smile wavered.
Perhaps this inheritance truly was the good fortune Pickett had declared he’d come into in his letter to Denis. For a man who lived in two small rooms to suddenly have a house at his disposal and the money for new furniture must have seemed like a windfall.
It also might explain his order of shooters from Cudgeon. The lord of the manor needed fowling pieces. However, it did not tell me why so many, and where he’d obtained the money for a deposit if he’d spent his legacy on furnishings. I recalled that two of the dunning notices I’d found in Pickett’s rooms had been from a furniture maker. Had he overspent on new chairs and tables? How then, had he expected to pay Cudgeon?
“Did he have many friends?” None had come forward, but Langley might be able to confirm whether Pickett did or not.
“Not that I knew of,” Langley answered. “He did tell me he’d become acquainted with a few gentlemen when he went to inspect the house in Bedfordshire. Gentlemen of the area who’d known his cousin, I believe. He was keen to impress them, poor chap.”
“I told Lacey about Mr. Pickett’s bizarre statement that he was linked to the Cato Street conspirators,” Grenville broke in. “Do you think there was anything in that?”
Langley’s laugh was tinged with pity. “I do not see how. Perhaps he met one of them in passing one day, and then became convinced, after the arrests, that the Runners would come looking for him. If you’d met Pickett, you’d understand, Captain. He was full of grandiose statements. Always certain the next race would win him a vast sum, but it never did. He could only wager a pound here, a shilling there, nothing that would do him any good.”
“Did he ever win?” I asked.
“No.” Another laugh. “Well, once or twice he managed to turn his one guinea into two, and he was very pleased. I never win either.” Langley gave me a wry smile. “It was one thing we had in common.”
There was little more Langley could tell us about Pickett. When they’d conversed, the topic had been mostly horses and racing, or which bookmakers were trustworthy and which were to be avoided.
Our conversation then turned to riding, as all three of us were mad for it. Langley was interested in my cavalry experience, and we made a tentative agreement to meet so I could give him some instruction.
When Langley was ready to move to other guests, I thanked him, and Grenville drifted away with me.
The rooms were too crowded for a proper discussion about what I’d learned from Haywood at the opera, but I did tell Grenville I’d spoken to him.
“I am glad,” Grenville said with an air of relief. “Saves me the bother of seeking him out. A rude thing to say, but Enie Haywood has one interest—himself. His coachman, on the other hand, might be the perfect source for who went into and out of Seven Dials that night.”
“I hope so.” I scanned the room, finding Donata in a knot of ladies, all of them speaking at once, it seemed. Langley had become engaged in conversation with several other gentlemen, his gestures subdued, as though he was unhappy about Pickett’s death but determined to show nothing of it. “Langley’s all right, is he?” I asked.
Grenville’s brows went up. “I’ve known the fellow since I was a lad. We dodged bullies together at school. If you are asking if he could have killed Pickett, I suppose he is physically capable of it, but the question would be why. Langley is not hot-tempered, and he has no enmity toward anyone. Apart from our school bullies—he still doesn’t like them.”
“You joke, but I am open to all possibilities. Could Langley have worried about Pickett’s claim of being involved with the Cato Street men?”
“Highly doubtful. Langley is refreshingly uninterested in secret societies and politics, beyond voting for his local candidate.”
I nodded absently. I couldn’t see amiable Mr. Langley meeting in back rooms, plotting the murder of cabinet ministers, but he might be an expert dissembler.
I could not monopolize Grenville’s attention at so well-attended a gathering, and he soon was waylaid by gentlemen keen for his conversation. I noted with amusement their attention on his new cravat.
Lady Aline sought me out, declaring she was tired of the overheated venue and asked that Gabriella accompany her home. I decided to depart with them, leaving word with Jacinthe, Donata’s lady’s maid, that I’d gone. Donata would be well protected by Jacinthe, her coachman, and the burly footman who always tagged along to carry things for her.
We rode in Lady Aline’s carriage to Berkeley Square, where I said good night to both of them—Gabriella would remain at Lady Aline’s, as she often did. That lady’s hours of sleeping and waking suited Gabriella more than Donata’s did.
