“It was probably quick,” I continued. “Fortunate for the victim, though not for Denis.”
Brewster filled in the rest. “Because if the man died messy, and His Nibs had no blood on him, magistrate wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to hold him.”
I surveyed the houses lining the small street. These were not the charming, half-timbered Tudor dwellings found in some of the oldest parts of town—those that hadn’t been gutted by the Great Fire. These had been built from brick maybe a hundred and fifty years ago and stuccoed over. The stucco had crumbled away in many places, and the roofs sagged. The inhabitants on the top floors likely required many buckets to catch the rain on a day like today.
Most shutters were open, but no faces appeared at the windows. If any watched, they knew how to keep themselves hidden.
“Not much left of any evidence,” I said to my two companions and for the benefit of anyone listening. “I will have to speak to Denis and hear his side of the story.”
“You mean you want to go to Newgate,” Brewster said darkly. “I’ve told you before, guv. You go in there, you might not come out again. On your own feet, I mean.”
“I do not require your presence, Brewster,” I assured him. “I can run this errand on my own.”
“You do require it, guv, at least to the front gates. Your lady wife would not be happy if I didn’t watch over your steps from here to there.”
That was true. I straightened my hat. “As you wish. Very well, let us go put ourselves in the lion’s den.”
“Bad thing even to joke about.” Brewster shrugged his jacket closer and began to trudge along the lane, making for the waiting coach that had brought me here.
I expected Gibbons to follow, but he remained on the portico like a stone sentinel, guarding the empty house.
Chapter 3
Denis’s coachman drove us out of Seven Dials to Holborn and thence to Newgate Street and the prison that nestled in the corner between that street and the Old Bailey.
Newgate was a grim building, made grayer and more forbidding by the morning’s rain. Clouds obliterated the sky, and the curtain of rain shut out the rest of the city. The only flashes of color came from the occasional flick of a woman’s bright skirt or man’s knitted scarf, but most people hurried past muffled in drab coats, heads bent.
As I approached the gate in the high wall, I reflected that Brewster was right to avoid this place. He remained in the coach, close enough to defend me if I was attacked in the dozen feet between carriage and gate, but he’d pulled back into shadow. Like the denizens of Seven Dials, he was expert at watching while staying out of sight.
The last time I’d yanked on the bell pull at Newgate Prison was to visit one of Denis’s employees, who’d been accused of stealing valuable artwork from the then Prince Regent. Before that, it had been to speak to my regimental colonel, whose stubborn streak had landed him in serious trouble.
The turnkey who answered the gate was a stranger to me, but his sullen demeanor fled when I told him who I wanted to visit.
“Feather in our cap, havin’ ’im in our little inn.” The man grinned, revealing a mouthful of broken teeth. “Famous, ain’t ’e? Leastways, to those in the know. Runner what brought him here will be a rich man with ’is reward, won’t ’e?” The turnkey’s laughter died, and resentment took its place. “Won’t be sharing it with the likes of us, I’ll wager.”
Spendlove share his reward money? Most assuredly not.
The man ushered me inside, and another guard, also cheerful in nature, took charge of me. I followed this guard, who whistled a merry tune, into the dank, stone building.
The interior passageways held more cold than the brisk wind outside. A chill must have settled in here when the prison was built and never left it.
As I’d expected, Denis hadn’t been put into the main cells, which were large open spaces, with the commoners. If a man was wealthy enough, he could pay for a private room, in which his valet dressed him every morning and his chef brought him his meals.
Denis had commandeered a suite. When the turnkey took me inside—after politely knocking first—I found a spacious sitting room with a bedchamber beyond it, that chamber containing a well-hung bed against a blank wall. A few of Denis’s lackeys were setting up furniture they’d carted in, including a desk and a chair.
Denis stood out of their way, studying a sheaf of papers in his hand. He was younger than me by about a dozen years, had regular features, sleek dark hair, and a trim physique that carried off his well-tailored suit better than did those of many society dandies.
A look into his eyes, however, showed the weight of a past most people would never understand.
I knew a little of Denis’s history—what he’d chosen to tell me—and was aware that he’d struggled mightily as a child simply to remain alive. His cleverness and ability to organize others had been the making of him. He’d become a leader in a world his Mayfair neighbors knew nothing of.
“You have a visitor, sir,” the guard announced.
Denis did not look up. He completely ignored the activity around him and only deigned to notice me once the guard had gone, closing the door behind him.
Only then did Denis turn to me with his usual deadpan calmness. “Captain. What brings you here?”
I stopped short at his question and reined in my temper with effort. “I happened to be passing and thought I’d look you up,” I began in a sarcastic tone then discarded it. “What the devil do you think brings me here? You’ve been arrested for a murder you didn’t commit, and I came to help.”
